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"I'm fucking with you, Lenny."

I finally relax, taking in a full breath. "Well, don't," I quip. "I'm still—I'm still trying to wrap my head around all this."

Jace sticks out his bottom lip and shakes his head. "Nothing to wrap your head around," he says easily. "It's just a run."

He holds our stare, waiting—challenging me, maybe—as if, just like me, he wants to talk about last night but doesn't want to be the one to bring it up.

"No, you're right." I step up beside him, close enough to smell his scent—close enough that I know he can smell mine, then pull one arm across my chest. "It's just a run."

Jace takes me in, my hair half-pulled back, my tight zip-up top, my favorite black leggings with the mesh that runs along the side of my legs. He sucks his teeth as he makes his way back from my shoes to my eyes, pausing just slightly longer on my lips.

"Let's do it then."

He takes off before I can acknowledge the lack of warm-up I know he used to prefer and before I can really appreciate the huskiness in his voice.

"Get any sleep last night?" I ask, after just a few strides, my mind looking for anything else to do besides replay our kiss.

Jace lifts one shoulder. "A little."

"And is that more or less than what you usually get?"

He peers over quickly before looking back at the path as it unravels in front of us. "More, I guess."

I laugh quietly. "So, was it the magnesium or the chamomile that helped most? Or did you finally crack open that candle you're so fond of?"

His lips don't curl. Instead, he looks over again, this time staring so long I think one of us is bound to run into something if we don't look away soon. "I don't think it was any of that," he finally says, his voice thick as he looks straight ahead.

Heat crawls up my neck despite the breeze that's blowing against us.

I don't respond. And since I don't know how to navigate this conversation, I find the ground again and steer my way around the leaves.

"You still do that?" Jace asks a few strides later.

I hop over a large leaf with a bright red center, but dry, tan edges. "Do what?"

"Avoid the crunchy ones."

My breath catches. "I'm not—"

"You are," he cuts in, grinning. "You used to say it felt like ending something that wasn't ready yet."

My chest tightens at the memory. At the fact that he remembers.

"Like how you used to make me watch the credits at the end of every movie."

"Some things deserve more time," I mutter.

His gaze lifts slowly back to mine.

"Yeah," he says, sweat just starting to bead along his perfect skin. "They do."

And the way he says it—light and full of possibility—I know it's not about the leaves.

Jace picks up the pace after, moving faster. Relentless.

We run like that, side-by-side, arms pumping, legs stomping in stride with each other for the next mile? Two? I lose track once we pass our starting point for the third time.

We're racing at this point without meaning to.