I have a huge decision to make. And I need Maximoff’s help.

But as I watch him stubbornly try to workout, I find myself delaying what I need to surface. I’m certain that my mere presence almost always distracts him, but he’s definitely hooked me in today.

On gray gym mats, Maximoff tries to bite his shoelace and use his left hand to tie his Nikes. My smile is killing me. I stare at him while I easily tie my own shoes.

I already see how this is ending: me, helping him. But I let him try a little bit longer.

Mostly because it makes him feel better.

Partially because his tenacity is fucking attractive.

I usually work out at Akara’s gym, but around the time that SFO gained fame, a celebrity gossip blog started posting about Studio 9. Citing how it’s a hotbed of “bodyguard activity” for the famous families and how Omega can easily be spotted there.

Cut to the third week of May, and the gym has turned into a zoo. People will flock to the windows like it’s Superheroes & Scones. Hoping to catch sight of Omega. Namely, Quinn.

And I’m certain that if I arrived with Maximoff, it’d incite a larger crowd.

Simple solution: skip the gym.

Maximoff has only worn a sling for six days, and he’s not even allowed to stretch until the eight-week mark. I figured Studio 9’s crowds would be an easy excuse to bench him.

My boyfriend’s solution: find another gym.

More specifically, a home gym that belongs to his uncle.

An afternoon rain shower drips down three glass walls and blurs the view of a landscaped backyard and wooden treehouse, along with the Meadows’ quaint cottage. The gym looks like a garden house from the outside, and the inside is equipped with two treadmills, gym mats, a weight bench, and a small-scale rock wall.

Since we’re in the famous one’s gated neighborhood and in a cul-de-sac, it’s private and quiet and I’m considered off-duty. He invited his little brother to join us, and Xander turned him down. I’d say it’s out of the ordinary, but Maximoff usually always tries to invite him to things, especially the gym. Xander’s response is nothing new.

“Race me,” Maximoff says with the shoelace between his teeth. He motions with his head to the side-by-side treadmills.

Race him.

Honestly, I thought he’d do a few one-handed push-ups and then call it a day. But I’ve hopped on this batshit crazy ride, and I’m not hitting the brakes. If he derails, I’ll catch him.

I finish knotting my shoelaces. “How long are you planning to pretend you didn’t just have surgery six days ago?”

“Tomorrow,” he mumbles through the shoelace, “because then it’ll be seven days.”

I roll my eyes and end up shaking my head, smiling. I lean back on my palms and watch him do a halfway decent job at tying his right shoe.

Marvel stickers and Elfish words decorate his red sling. Handiwork of his brother and sisters. His right arm is still braced to his upper abdomen. We’re both shirtless and in gym shorts, but he’s the only one with lingering bruises.

Fuck, I’ve never liked seeing him bruised, and while I’m a few feet away, I skim the yellowish-green marks on his ribs…

I smell rain on metal. I glance at the windows. Rain softly pelts the glass. I almost feel wet cement beneath my hands, gravel digging into my palms.

My smile fades. I’m still on a gym mat, and I try to train my focus on Maximoff.

“Goddammit,” he growls, his laces coming completely loose. On both shoes.

I push myself to a stance and tower over him. “Let me help, wolf scout.”

He nods after a short pause. As he rises to his feet, his gaze scales my six-foot-three frame, fixating on my chiseled abs and chest tattoos. His carriage rises in a heady breath.

Fuck, Maximoff.

My muscles contract. I slowly lower to my knees and my carnal gaze drips down his swimmer’s build on my descent.

He’s watching my fingers as I tie his left Nike, and before I mention how he’s obsessed with my hands, Maximoff says, “Let’s place a bet on the race.” His deep voice comes out raspy.

“The race,” I repeat with raised brows. “You really want to place a bet on that?” I knot his lace and work on the right shoe.

“Yeah.” He nods. “I can run a faster mile than you, man.”

I laugh. “The fact that you think you can run a mile right now is truly something else.”

Maximoff tries hard not to smile. “Maybe I can…maybe I can’t, but we’ll see. And if you beat me, I’ll give you head.”

I can’t fucking tear my eyes off him. “You must really want to give me head. Because there’s no chance in hell you’re beating me.”

“There’s a chance,” he refutes, his hand on my head while I kneel at his feet. His fuck me eyes and bobbing Adam’s apple just about drive me nuts.

“Wolf scout,” I say while I finish tying his other shoe, “we can easily skip the part where you bust your ass on a treadmill, and I’ll let you suck me off.”

His muscles noticeably flex. “Or I could outrun you, and then I’ll drive my cock in your mouth.”

Damn.

I breathe through my nose, my blood cranking to a red-hot simmer. I clutch his waist, my hand moving towards his ass. “Or we could pretend you outran me, and I’ll gladly put your cock in my mouth.” It’s an out so he won’t have to hurt himself.

“Maybe,” he says without a pause.

I stand up, an inch taller, and my hand dives down his shorts. I grip his bare ass and watch his eyes devour me whole.

“Maybe?” I ask deeply.

Maximoff tilts his head back, almost bathing in mounting arousal and want. His daggered eyes are groaning fuck me fuck me.

I hold his jaw and close my lips over his bare neck. Sucking harder and harder—he rocks his hips against mine, our bodies tensed. Blistering veins pulsing.

Pulsing.

And then he says, “No.”

I frown and instantly retract my hands.

He breathes heavily. Pent-up. Neither of us came this morning since he had an early doctor’s appointment for a post-op checkup. But we were teasing the hell out of each other in bed with no release.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, concerned.

“I need to run first.” He tears away from me and goes to the treadmill.

I really don’t understand why he’s so adamant.

Sure, he’s been managing the pain better. His uncle and dad have been sharing tips since they’ve both been in similar spots as Maximoff. But trying to run, of all things, will flare up his injury and hurt him.

I reach the other machine. “You realize running requires shoulder movement?”

“Pretty much everything under the sun requires shoulder movement. I’m aware.” He climbs onto the unmoving belt.

I do the same on my treadmill, but I lean casually on the handlebar. Watching him push buttons to change his machine’s settings. “What’s so special about running?”

He ups the incline and the speed but doesn’t press start yet. “I planned to train for the ultra marathon this summer, and before you say I can’t run anymore, I’m not letting Sulli down. I have to fucking try.”

Sulli and Maximoff signed up for the ultra marathon almost an entire year in advance of the August race day. Things change.

Shit happens.

Like a car crash.

But he’s lost a lot recently. The H.M.C. board was furious when Maximoff decided to cancel the night with a celebrity. The charity sent out a scathing press release a few days ago, and Ernest nailed Maximoff’s career in a coffin:

He has no job for the first time in years. He can’t swim, his greatest stress reliever gone. And he still has no license. When he drove, he had this compulsive need to push faster. And faster. Speeding, even on the days when he shouldn’t or didn’t need to.

It’d be easy for Maximoff to put all of his energy into the one thing he has left.

The ultra.

And that need to push and push won’t be a foot on a pedal. It’ll be on his body.

I hold his gaze that doesn’t ask for comfort this time. “Okay, but you can’t run, and as much as I love fucking with you, I take no enjoyment in telling you that there’s no chance you’ll be able to compete. The ultra is in Chile, Maximoff. It’s rocky terrain that’ll move your shoulder.”

This morning, I drove at a snail’s pace over a small speed bump, and he winced between his teeth.

Maximoff clicks into a Cross Training program. “I can try.”

I roll my eyes, and the corner of my mouth gradually rises. Fuck, I adore this guy, even when he’s so hardheaded. But no matter how far he pushes, I’ll be right by his side. Ensuring he’s not killing himself.

I glance at his machine’s screen. He’s on a speed setting that shouldn’t overexert him right now.

And as our eyes lock, I tell him, “Prove it.” See, I’d much rather Maximoff realize he’s not healed up yet at this pace than a speed that’ll just annihilate him.

Make no mistake: I’m watching his body very fucking closely in case I need to rip the emergency stop cord.

We both press start at the same time, same speed.

Maximoff starts walking briskly. No pain yet.

I jog. Looking over at him.

He glances at me. And then he picks up his pace, jogging—pain suddenly cinches his eyes. We’re stride-for-stride for exactly two strides.

His jaw sharpens and he steps onto the stationary track, legs spread. It always hurts seeing him hurt, a rock wedging in my ribs.

He snaps his eyes shut for a longer second.

I lower my machine’s speed to a walk. “What do you need?” I ask.

He blows out a measured breath, opening his eyes on me. “Your honesty.”

I stay walking on the moving belt next to his powered off treadmill. “I honestly believe you’re too hard on yourself and you’re too afraid of disappointing Sulli.”

Maximoff listens intently. He’s thinking hard, and then rests his weight against the machine’s handlebar and monitor. Not starting the treadmill back up.

I’m about to stop mine—

“Don’t,” he says. “You wanted to workout. You should.”

I can do a lot of things, but I can’t sprint in front of my boyfriend while he’s dying to run. It’s not even my workout of choice. It’s one of his, and if I stay on this track, it’s just being callous towards someone who’s extremely kind.

I turn off my machine. “I’m doing abs on the mats.”

Maximoff adjusts his sling. “You sure?”

I hang on my handlebar and careen towards him. “I’m always sure.” Shit, that’s not entirely true. There is something I’m unsure about…but before I retract my statement, Maximoff gestures to me.

“You know,” he says, “watching you run wouldn’t upset me. It’d probably just make me hornier.”

My smile reaches cheek-to-cheek.

He blinks into a glare. “I take it back. You didn’t hear that.”

“I heard that,” I say matter-of-factly, leaning over my handlebar towards his treadmill. “Watching me run does it for you. So does when I walk, talk, smile, breathe—”

“Thank you for listing my turn-offs.”

“Anytime.” I remember what I needed to talk about again, and my smile vanishes faster.

Maximoff notices, and questions flash in his eyes. “I’d been meaning to ask—at the appointment earlier, you didn’t like my doctor, did you?”

Now I really can’t stop staring at him, a surprised breath in my throat. He hit the topic almost dead center, and it’d take someone who truly understands me to put these small pieces together.

My affection for Maximoff overflows me, swelling up inside my chest. This is the overwhelming effect of spending almost every minute with each other. To the point where being with him has felt like years stacked on top of years. And my only fear is it ending.

I comb a hand through my white hair. “No, I didn’t like that doctor.” I step off my treadmill. “Did you?”

Maximoff follows me to the gym mats near the rock wall. “He seemed fine to me. He was polite, professional, and it’s not like he’s my primary care physician.” Because he still doesn’t have one.

“He was professional,” I agree, watching Maximoff lower to the mat, his back up against the multi-colored anchors and bolts. I add, “My dislike has more to do with me than him.”

His brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

Taking a seat in front of my boyfriend, I hang my arm on my bent knee. “I was jealous.” It’s not a small statement. It’s the start of something much larger and more consequential.

His strong-willed eyes never drift off mine. Maximoff exudes quiet compassion that feels louder than thunder. “Is your jealousy from wanting to be my doctor?” he asks. “Or because you aren’t practicing medicine at all?”

I tilt my head back-and-forth. “Both.” I nod, certain. Both. “It wasn’t just this morning at the doctor’s office. It was when you were rushed into Philly General on a stretcher.” I pause. Remembering that night, and I explain how when I finally made the choice to leave medicine four years ago, I had no reservations.

There was no longing to return.

Only a peace to let go and never look back.

“I always thought I’d go through those hospital doors and feel nostalgic. Not bitter or envious,” I tell him while he listens carefully. “I was pushed aside trying to help you in the ER, and I chalked up my emotion to being protective of you and being frustrated that I couldn’t do more.” I pause again.

Maximoff takes my hand into his, hard calluses on his palm against similar ones on mine. “It wasn’t that then?” he asks.

“It was that, but it was definitely something else, too.” I’m conflicted. I tell him that I am, and I explain how that same night I ran into a doctor who’d been in my first-year residency. Tristan MacNair. We talked for a few minutes in the hallway, and then he was paged.

My first thought should’ve been, I’m glad that’s not my call. But all I could think and feel was, I wish that were me. I watched him sprint away to aid a patient. Instinct told me, follow, go help.

And my hunger for medicine just pummeled me.

It’s been eating at me on-and-off since, and then seeing the doctor this morning, that hunger returned. I stop rehashing my story and feelings here, a pit in my stomach.

My actions will affect Maximoff. More than anyone. Even considering what I’m considering eviscerates me. Hacks up my organs and slices me in fucking two.

You selfish bastard.

I love him.

Fuck, I love him more than is comprehensible, more than anyone can possibly see, and I’ve always run towards what calls me.

Maximoff. He calls out to me every second of every minute of every day, and to willingly turn my back and race away from him is unfathomable. Because it’d tear me apart. I’d sooner drop to my knees and scream, and then I’d dig my way back into his arms.

If losing him is a consequence of what I choose to do next, I physically can’t do it. It’d hurt less to ignore this pull than to lose him.

My eyes burn. “I need to know what you think.” I tighten my hand in his. “I’m not sure what to do yet.”

I expected this conversation to surprise Maximoff. But he doesn’t look shocked.

He rests the back of his head on the rock wall, his eyes swimming through my eyes. “Choose the path where you’re not fighting yourself, don’t be afraid of change, don’t live for less than what you love—those are your words, Farrow. To me, it’s obvious what you need to do.”

I rub my jawline. “It’s not.”

“You love medicine—”

“I love you,” I tell Maximoff. “You are who I love, who I live for, and if I finish my residency to be a concierge doctor, it means quitting security. It means working in a hospital for three years before I can even be your family’s physician.” There’s no shortcut to being board-certified; I have to complete my three-year residency.

Maximoff is quietly thinking.

I’ve already drawn closer to him, my legs broken apart. His are spread open too, nearer. Fit together.

Our elbows balance on my kneecap like we’re about to arm wrestle, but our hands aren’t closed in a fist. In the silence, he threads our fingers, unthreads them, and then traces the ink on my hand. Like the tiny blue sparrow along my thumb.

“Maybe we were wrong,” Maximoff says, brows scrunched in deep contemplation. “When we thought we only worked because you were my bodyguard—maybe we were wrong. Maybe it’s just what brought us together. Because I wanted you way before that damn day.”

I watch him watch our interlacing hands. I’ve recalled my past with him, every moment, a hundred-and-five times and more. “I can believe that,” I say, voice husky.

He licks his lips. “Because you knew I may’ve been somewhat-attracted to you for a while?”

“Somewhat-attracted,” I repeat with a small burgeoning smile. “That’s where you’re shelving your sixteen-year-old fantasies of me? In the ‘somewhat-attracted’ category?”

“The holy-fuck-I’m-coming category was full.”

I give him a look. “Of who?”

“Some guy.” He’s lying. It was definitely full of me. He tries to hook our fingers, but I pull back slightly, teasingly.

He glares.

“I’m just some guy,” I remind him.

“No,” Maximoff says, firm and final. “You’re the guy.”

It hits me hard, and I inhale.

Damn. I let him hook our fingers, and I have to tell him this… “I can believe that me being your bodyguard is just what brought us together, not why we’re good together, because I wanted you before that day too.”

His mouth parts, and his elbow almost slips off my knee.

I clasp his hand. “Maximoff—”

“You never said a fucking thing.” He looks a little bit hurt.

My chest ignites on fire. “Because I didn’t think it mattered, and I’m going to be honest here, I didn’t even realize the extent of how much I wanted you back then until after we got together.” It’s only in hindsight.

Just like for him, it’s in hindsight. He never let himself dream about love or what he was looking for in a relationship until he seized it for the first time. Until me.

And yeah, he had a crush on me. Because he allowed himself to fantasize about me. Sex is uncomplicated to him. Love is messy.

I didn’t know these private things about him back then, not completely, but I knew that he had one-night stands. I knew that I didn’t. I knew that I needed the prospect of more if I sleep with a guy.

And I always, always believed he’d never act on anything. Moral, good-natured Maximoff Hale would never get with a friend of the family’s and definitely not his mom’s bodyguard.

I look at Maximoff now and try to wrangle these thoughts.

“I don’t dwell on what I can’t have,” I clarify, “and in my mind, I couldn’t have you for the longest time. I went on with my life, but whenever I saw you, I wanted to be around you. So it’s only in hindsight that I realize how fucking much I was hooked on you.”

Maximoff tries his absolute worst not to smile. “You liked me.”

I smile wider and tilt my head. “You going to write this in your diary tonight? Edit out all the parts about your unrequited teenage love?”

He holds my hand in a tight fist. “You’ve been reading someone else’s diary, man. Mine just talks about fucking you.”

I laugh. “Let me read it.”

“Let me read yours.” His tone is serious.

I nod a few times, understanding that he wants more. “In retrospect, if I could pinpoint a day that I’d say I felt an…” I suck in a breath, searching for the word “…intense chemistry, I’d say it was when I went to Harvard and sutured your leg. I couldn’t stop looking at you, and I fucking craved to know you even better. If you had asked me to spend the entire day there with you, I would’ve said yes.”

He dazes off.

Where’d you go, wolf scout? I snap my fingers until his focus is back on me. I’m smiling. “You can masturbate to that later,” I tease.

“No thanks,” he says dryly, and then he takes a breath. “I was just thinking about which day that I felt we’d be good together. In hindsight.”

“What day?” I ask, curious.

He releases my hand from our stronghold and then outlines the inked letters k.n.o.t. on my fingers. “The day on the yacht,” he says, assured. “The summer bash when I was nineteen. You threw me your shirt after I fought with Charlie, and you made one of the worst days of my life easier. Better. Just being around you…” He threads our fingers again, thinking for a short beat. “You had a boyfriend that day, didn’t you?”

I nod. “Yeah. But it was close to being over by then.”

I replay that memory in my head where Maximoff was frozen next to a cooler on the yacht deck. When I caught his attention, he revived. And he looked up at me.

My lips lift because I’ve remembered that moment before. That one part where he reawakens always floods back and breaks my face into a smile. I remember the salt in the air and how his dark brown hair blew in the wind.

And those tough forest-greens that said I can handle everything.

Now years later, I’m at a crossroads with him. I’ve been vacillating between security and finishing my residency because neither feels one-hundred percent right. If I could speed through residency and just be his doctor right now, it’d be an easier choice. But there’ll be three years where I’m not around him that much.

I do believe what Maximoff said. Being his bodyguard isn’t what binds us.

It never has been.

And hell, if anything feels right, it’s him and me. We’re better than good together. Better than perfect. Gradually, I start envisioning what’ll happen if I choose medicine. “If I’m not your bodyguard,” I tell him, “that means some other prick is on your detail.”

“Yeah,” Maximoff says. “You’ll have to be okay with that.”

My eyes almost roll around the world because I’m not that excited about it. Somewhat for territorial reasons. Mostly because this’ll upheave his life. He hates big change, and he’s been bulldozed with it recently.

I shake my head. “I can’t do this to you right now. I’ll wait—”

“No,” he cuts me off. “I can take a lot. And a new bodyguard isn’t even that hard to handle. Unless you have an annoying clone, I’ll live.”

I could easily make a joke back, but I contemplate something else. And then I watch him skim his palm down my palm, our hands almost the same exact size.

His fondness for my hands ropes me in. And warms me.

I lift my gaze to his. “You said that I need to do what I love, but I love security, wolf scout. That hasn’t changed. So why do you think that I want medicine more?”

He sees the path that I can’t see yet.

Maximoff clasps my hand tighter. “Medicine is a part of you, and unlike security, that’ll never change. Christ, I know you hate believing that medicine is who you are, but I don’t think it ever left you even when you left it.”

He lists off all that I’ve done just while I’ve been on his security detail.

Including treating his sister’s infected tongue piercing to setting his dislocated shoulder and triaging an entire car crash. I could do more if I were a concierge doctor.

I’d have a license to prescribe medicine. I’d be on-call for all emergencies.

But I waver.

Maximoff sees. “If you’re only fighting yourself on this because you love me,” he says, “I’m telling you to go. It’ll eat at you for the rest of your life if you don’t. So I need you to go.” His voice almost breaks. “Fucking Christ.” He knocks his head back to the rock wall. He’s conditioned himself to bottle up a certain kind of emotion.

He could marbleize his face. But he’s actually wrestling to let go and be more vulnerable.

Quickly, I pull my hand out of his. Only so I can hold his face between my palms. “You don’t need to pretend that it won’t be hard. Not being your bodyguard will be just as hard on me.” I keep swallowing a lump lodged in my throat.

His eyes redden, and he clutches the back of my neck. “You know, the hardest things are usually the right things.”

I nod a couple times, my thumb stroking his cheek. “A philosopher talking to you again?”

Maximoff starts to smile, and it’s drop-dead gorgeous. “If you want to call my dad and uncle philosophers, then yeah. A couple philosopher kings told me that.”

I wrack my brain. Should’ve known. I’ve heard Lo and Ryke say that phrase before.

“Farrow.” Maximoff captures my gaze. “You better choose medicine. Because if you don’t, I’m going to kick your ass.”

I almost let out a laugh, but I breathe deeper with him. And in the tender quiet, my fingers skate through his hair, down the angles of his cheekbone and jaw. To his neck that aches to unwind, and up again. Maximoff closes his eyes, relaxing into my touch.

I pull him closer, a breath apart, and when his eyes melt into me, he whispers, “You know what’s strange? I have zero job options, and you suddenly have two.”

I push back his hair, my fingers trailing down the back of his head. “Can’t be that strange, wolf scout,” I breathe. “I am better than you at everything.”

His grip strengthens on my neck like he’s hanging onto what hasn’t changed. That. In years of time, that back-and-forth has never changed.

He breathes easier. “Tell me the plan for medicine.”

I’ve tried to explain what I’ve done in terms of medicine, but it’s confused him a little bit. I’ve graduated from medical school, and I’ve completed a month of my residency.

“I need to finish my three-year residency at Philadelphia General. I also need to pass my USMLE exam and boards.”

He nods, confident. “You’ll do it.”

There’s something else. I haven’t thought about what returning to medicine means in terms of my family.

I didn’t want it to influence my choice.

But now it slings back at me.

“And I need to talk to my father.”