He was doomed.

And he knew it.

Because there she went — hips swaying, voice all sugar and sin, looking over her shoulder like she didn’t know exactly what she was doing — which was a damn lie, because she absolutely knew.

Still, Caleb managed a breath. Just one.

Then scrubbed a hand over his face and muttered to no one in particular:

“Full-body wilderness recovery special. No audience. No towels. No time limit. Right. Cool. Normal Thursday.”

He looked up.

She was already halfway down the path, ponytail bouncing like it was taunting him.

“Hey!” he called after her, starting into a jog. “You do remember I actually worked today, right? Built a porch. Lifted lumber. You don’t even have the decency to let me die in peace with dignity?”

Her laugh echoed through the trees — bright, smug, dangerous.

He shook his head, grinning, as he picked up speed. “Unreal. I make pancakes one time and suddenly I’m in a Hallmark movie rated TV-MA.”

Then, louder:

“And don’t think I forgot the cargo shorts slander! I’ve been emotionally wounded!”

No response.

Just more laughter and the flash of her tank top slipping higher as she disappeared around the bend.

Caleb let out a mock sigh, picked up the pace, and mumbled under his breath:

“Definitely wants to be caught. Probably wants a foot rub after. Gonna act surprised when I do both.”

Then he grinned, full and warm and wrecked, and took off after her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because it was.

Spoiled and loved, dramatic and impossible, absolutely feral in the best way —
She was his.

And he?

He was chasing.
Always.

Oh, he worked today?

Lena actually laughed out loud — sharp and delighted — as she jogged just a little farther down the slope, kicking up dust in her wake like a smug little forest sprite in spandex.

“Built a porch?” she called over her shoulder, voice full of syrup and spite. “Baby, you flipped two pancakes, carried one backpack, and spent most of the hike staring at my ass. That’s not manual labor — that’s recreation.”

She didn’t slow down.

Didn’t quite let him catch up either.

Instead, she spun briefly to face him — walking backward now, smug as sin — and added, “You didn’t lift lumber. You lifted a cooler. And you made one of the pancakes heart-shaped, so if anyone's in a Hallmark movie? It’s you, Caleb. I’m just the hot, emotionally unavailable love interest who makes you question your life choices.”

She winked — slow, theatrical — and turned back around.

Took the next bend a little faster, just enough to keep the chase interesting. Just enough to make him work for it.

Because she wasn’t ready to be caught yet.

Not quite.

Not until she was good and ready and he was good and flustered.

But still — her voice floated back, smug as ever:

“Hope your emotionally wounded cargo shorts can handle rejection, mountain man, because I am not that easy.”

A pause.

Then, softer — more dangerous:

“…Unless you beg.”

And God, she could feel the eye roll from behind her, could picture his hands going to his hips like he was rethinking every life decision that led him to this moment.

But she also knew he’d follow.

Because he always did.

And when he finally caught up?

Well.

She might let him catch her.

Eventually.

Maybe.

Probably.

After all — she was spoiled, not stupid.

And Caleb Maren?
Was worth every damn step.

He doubled over, hands on his knees, not because he was winded — okay, maybe a little — but because that woman had just weaponized the phrase “hot, emotionally unavailable love interest” like it was a compliment.

And maybe it was.

Still, he straightened, brushed the dirt off his sweats, and shouted after her like a man halfway to unhinged.

“A HEART-SHAPED PANCAKE IS ROMANTICALLY EFFICIENT, YOU MENACE.”

She didn’t slow down.

Of course she didn’t.

She was doing that evil little jog-hike hybrid now, the one where her ponytail mocked him and her sports bra did irreversible damage to his willpower. He was dangerously close to chucking his emotional cargo shorts into the nearest ravine.

“Also,” he added, catching up just enough to shout at her back, “I didn’t beg for anything — yet — but I did carry the cooler. Which, might I remind you, was full of your specialty ‘hydration but make it bougie’ lemonades, so I think I deserve at least a footnote in the credits of this forest drama you’re directing.”

Still no mercy.

Just her smug little strut and those damn spandex shorts.

God help him.

He jogged a little faster, muttering like a man already planning his rebuttal in the cabin later.

“You think you’re the emotionally unavailable love interest, but I’m the guy sprinting uphill with forty pounds of LaCroix and a broken spatula trying to impress a woman who literally said ‘beg’ with no context or remorse.”

She laughed again.

Loud. Glorious. Probably illegal in a few counties.

And he couldn’t help it — he laughed too.

Because yes, she was chaos in designer hiking gear.

Yes, she was trying to kill him with suggestive cardio and sarcasm.

And yes, he was going to chase her until his lungs gave out and his socks disintegrated from the sheer power of her witchy little smirk.

But eventually — eventually — he’d catch her.

He always did.

And when that happened?

She’d be the one gasping.

Spoiled. Loved.

And wrecked in the best possible way.

Okay.
Yeah.
Her legs were starting to hate her.

Not in a dramatic, I’m-gonna-die-out-here way.
Just… a gentle, pulsing shut up, Lena in the backs of her thighs. The kind of ache that meant she'd maybe pushed the flirt-run a little too hard for someone who skipped leg day to get a pedicure.

But was she about to let Caleb know that?

Absolutely not.

Still, she slowed. Subtly. Casually. Like she’d chosen to admire the view or something, and not because her calves were one sassy one-liner away from staging a mutiny.

“You say ‘menace’ like it’s a bad thing,” she called over her shoulder, still not looking at him — mostly because if she did, she might trip, and she was way too vain to eat dirt in front of Mr. Emotionally Wounded Cargo Shorts.

Instead, she tossed her ponytail, pressed a palm to her lower back in mock exaggeration, and let out a sigh that was just believable enough to flirt with sincerity.

“God, I can’t believe I’m gonna die beautiful in the woods because my emotionally constipated lumberjack boyfriend thinks lemon-infused hydration is a character flaw.”

She slowed another step. Then another.

Then finally — finally — let him catch up.

Not that she said that.

No, she just let her arm brush against his when he reached her side. Didn’t move away. Didn’t rush forward again. Just walked beside him like she’d never been racing him at all.

Her breath was shallow now. Skin flushed. Ponytail damp with sweat.

“Okay,” she muttered, glancing up at the path ahead — the distant, blessed roofline of the A-frame cabin finally peeking through the trees. “I will admit that I may have slightly underestimated the terrain.”

A beat.

Then, teasing, dry as ever:

“But if you mention it, I’m sleeping in flannel tonight. Full coverage. Tucked in.”

She didn’t look at him, but she could feel the noise he made. Somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Somewhere deep in his chest, where her favorite sounds lived.

They crested the last hill.

Cabin in sight. Porch in reach.

And suddenly her steps slowed again — not out of exhaustion this time, but anticipation.

Because she knew exactly what was coming next.

No audience.
No towels.
No time limit.

Just her, Caleb, and a massage that neither of them had any intention of keeping PG.

She stopped at the foot of the porch stairs and looked at him, finally. Lips parted. Eyes soft.

Then, low and syrupy:

“You sure you’re up for this?”
A smirk curved at her mouth.
“Because I don’t beg either, baby. But I do bite.”

She reached for the door, fingers curling around the handle.

And God help him — she meant it.

He didn’t answer right away.

Just watched her — flushed and smug and utterly wrecked in the best way — like his entire damn life had been building toward this exact moment on this exact trail with this exact woman giving him that look.

That smirk.
That bite.

And then she said it — “I don’t beg either, baby. But I do bite.”

He blinked once.

And grinned slow.

Not smug. Not cocky. Just sure. The kind of sure that lived in his bones when it came to her.

“Good,” he said, voice low, gravel-warm. “I bruise easy.”

Then he followed her inside.

No more trail.
No more chase.
Just the quiet click of the door and the promise of what came next.

No audience.
No towels.
No time limit.

Just her.

And him.

And the ache they’d been teasing since sunrise.

Fade to black.
The kind that tastes like sweat and salt and summer skin.

Let the porch cool.

Let the trees stand witness.

Let them have this one —
spoiled, loved, and finally
caught.

She was wrecked.

Deliriously, deliciously wrecked — muscles like honey, jaw slack, skin still flushed and glowing in the dim golden spill of late-afternoon light through the cabin windows.

And God, she was smug about it.

Because of course she was.

Because she'd said bite — and meant it.
Because he'd said bruise easy — and welcomed it.
Because somehow, they had made it exactly twenty-three minutes into that massage before the teasing turned to touching, and the touching turned to something else entirely.

And now?

Now she was tangled in Caleb Maren’s arms, naked and warm and absolutely ruined, with one of his thighs slotted perfectly between hers and his stupid heartbeat thudding steady against her shoulder blade like it wasn’t completely unfair.

No one should be that solid and that soft.

Not legally.

But there he was — tucked around her like a storm shelter, still breathing deep and slow like he hadn’t just let her unravel him in every way that counted.

And Lena?
She was a menace, sure.
But she loved him like it was a skillset.
Like she’d trained for this.

She stretched just a little — a slow, lazy sprawl — and felt the ache settle in her hips, her thighs, her smile.

Then she reached down, blindly tugging the blanket higher with one hand while the other stayed right where it was — flat against the side of his ribs, thumb idly stroking like she was memorizing the shape of peace.

“Happy endings massage,” she mumbled finally, voice half-asleep but smug as hell. “Ten out of ten. Would recommend.”

A pause.
Then, dryly:

“Even if the masseur was kind of emotionally wounded and refused to use the eucalyptus oil I packed.”

Another pause.

Then softer, with the barest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth:

“But I’ll allow it. Since he did carry the cooler.”

She felt his exhale before she heard it.
Felt his arms tighten just slightly.

And that was enough.

Lena closed her eyes again, letting her smile fade into something quieter. More sacred.

Because the firewood was stacked. The trail had been conquered. The pancakes had been made.

And her favorite person in the whole goddamn world was holding her like she wasn’t going anywhere.

Which, of course —
she wasn’t.

Not tonight.
Not ever.

Not unless she wanted him to chase her.

And right now?

She didn’t.

Not when she already had everything she needed.

Right. Here.