He steps forward, frowning as he does, still puzzled by my effect on him. “You decimate me, Reese.”

I play innocent. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You say it with these.” He touches my eyes, and then he kisses my eyelids. “Hey, I still love you.”

“And I still love you.”

He still doesn’t know that he had me at the penny.

He draws me close now and kisses my neck, and he lifts my head to kiss me on the mouth, and he tastes so right and so hard and so strong, so powerful, my world narrows down to all six-feet-plus inches of my avenger.

On a shuddering breath, my lips part and my eyes flutter shut as he begins kissing my jaw, my lips again. He sometimes smears my lipstick all over his mouth but I don’t care. He likes devouring me and I let him. Wild, primitive, his mouth ravages mine, like it does in bed every night.

He tilts my head at the best angle and sometimes he says my lips taste of cherries.

His father’s gloves are gone. He has a roomful of fighting gear, everything new, everything his. He’s still finding out who he is, but he knows who he isn’t.

I’m still finding out who I am, and whoever that is, I know that I’m with him.

He has a portrait of that final match with Remy, of that moment—the moment where Remy embraces him like a proud father—and he has it in the hall to our bedroom.

He says he never wants to forget what it feels like to fight someone better than him.

He says he never wants to forget that he’s not Scorpion’s legacy.

And he’ll never forget that night despite all the others that have followed.

He’s still fighting.

And we’re still in love.

Heading out of our home, Maverick pulls on his hoodie and we take to the damp street to run on the wet pavement, where the path feels endless, where we have forever awaiting us.

But we both know nothing is forever, except legends. And except us.