Page 31 of The Clinch
She pulls her earbuds out. “You okay?”
“Liz,” I say, dragging air in, “what the hell was that?”
She wipes sweat from her cheek. “Intervals.”
“Those weren’t intervals. Those were—I don’t even know what those were.”
She tilts her head. “Speed.”
I stare. “No shit.”
Then, finally, she gives it to me. A small, knowing smile. “I used to run track.”
My head snaps toward her as the pieces lock into place. The way she moves. The explosive power. The economy of motion. She’s not just fast—she’s trained to be a weapon.
And I just spent thirty minutes chasing her like prey.
She starts walking again, not realizing she just dropped a grenade at my feet.
“Wait.” I fall into step beside her. “Track as in…?”
“College. Nationals. A while ago.” She shrugs. “It’s nothing.”
Nothing.
Right.
Nothing is why I’m buzzing like I’m about to fight someone.
Nothing is why my lungs haven’t leveled out.
Nothing is why I can’t stop looking at the wings inked on her thigh, shifting with every step.
“Yeah. I figured.”
She glances at me. “When exactly did you figure that out?”
“When you took off like a damn jet,” I say, grinning.
She blinks, thrown for a second. I step a little closer, voice low, still rough from the chase. “You don’t run. You flash.”
Her expression shifts—surprise first, then something warmer. She taps her navel ring with one finger, casual as hell. “Still want to go at my pace?”
I don’t answer. Her grin says she doesn’t need me to.
We head back in comfortable silence, the sticky air pressing around us as the city wakes up. When we reach my building, she hits the door first, holds it for me.
I follow her in.
The elevator ride up is quiet. Eight square feet. Her back three feet away, sweat drying on her spine, hair damp at the ends.
She turns her head slightly. “You good?”
“Fine,” I lie.
When the doors open, she heads straight for her room. “I need to shower. My shift starts at seven.”
“Yeah,” I say.
