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Even if he doesn’t deserve it.

Even if he hurt her.

The gesture hits me harder than any words could. After everything—the bet, the lies, the catastrophic way I destroyed us—she’s choosing to run beside me. Not ahead, not behind, but with me. Matching my pace step for step. It’s the biggest act of respect and care anyone has ever shown me.

I want to say something. Thank her again, though that’s still pathetically insufficient. Or maybe apologize again. Or tellher that seeing her organize this entire event for my sister has only confirmed what I already knew: that I’m desperately, completely, irrevocably in love with her.

But I don’t say anything. Because this isn’t the time for my words, my apologies, or my declarations. I haven’t earned the right to say a damn thing to her, and if I ever get that right again, it’ll be on her terms. I’ll wait until the end of time for the chance, but it’s her place to decide if I get the chance.

The chance to love her.

So in the meantime, I just run and accept her gift—not just the race, not just the money for Chloe, but this moment, running beside me when she has every reason to stay away. Helping me when I need it, but was too pigheaded and proud to ask for it.

Being there for me, even if she doesn’t want me there for her anymore.

Even if she doesn’t need me anymore.

We match each other stride for stride, breath for breath. The sound of our footfalls creates a rhythm, a partnership in motion that reminds me of other rhythms we’ve shared—dancing at the club, moving together in bed, the easy back-and-forth of our conversations before I ruined everything.

Around us, hundreds of people run for Chloe, but in this moment, it feels like we’re alone. Like this is our own private race toward something I can’t quite see yet but desperately want to reach. Not forgiveness, maybe—I know I haven’t earned that—but perhaps a starting line for something new.

Something built on truth this time, not lies.

Every cell in my body wants to reach out, to take her hand, to pull her against me and never let go. But I keep my arms at my sides, maintain the space between us that she’s chosen, and just let myself exist in this moment where Maya Hayes is running beside me even though I don’t deserve it.

My chest burns, but I’m not sure if it’s from the running or from having her this close after weeks of distance. And the route marker ahead shows we’re at mile two. One more mile of this gift, this grace I haven’t earned. One more mile of breathing the same air as her, of pretending that maybe there’s still hope for us.

One more mile of running together toward something that might heal more than just Chloe.

thirty-nine

MAYA

I have to run.

From my command post near the registration table, I’ve been watching him. Not obviously—I’m too good for that—but in those stolen glances between checking volunteer assignments and coordinating water stations, Maine stands in the middle of this beautiful, chaotic thing I’ve built.

And he looks… lost.

Like a man drowning in gratitude he doesn’t think he deserves.

Because, even for me, the last few weeks have been their own kind of marathon. After our fight outside O’Neil’s, I threw myself into organizing this run. Every sponsor I secured, every volunteer I recruited, every social media post I crafted—it was all a way to channel the vibrating energy of my heartbreak.

Into something useful.

Something good.

The distance has been necessary. Like letting a burn heal without constantly picking at the scab. And through it all, Sophie has been dropping breadcrumbs of information she thinks I need to hear.

He forfeited the bet.

He told the whole team about Chloe.

He’s been sleeping on Mike’s couch.

He misses you.

Maya, he looks like shit.