You’re Getting Slow Old Man
You’re Getting Slow Old Man
Lola
Rafael was waiting by the ropes when she came out of the locker room, towel looped around her neck, knuckles raw but her grin still feral. Most of the gym had cleared out, just a few stragglers pretending not to watch.
He studied her for a beat, head tilted. “You done making examples out of my fighters?”
She smirked, rolling her shoulder. “For today. I wasn’t counting this as training anyway.”
That earned him a low, curious chuckle. “No?”
“Nah.” She wiped a bead of sweat from her temple. “Today was just to make the boys cry.”
He barked a laugh, loud enough to draw looks. “Mission accomplished.”
“Obviously.” She slung her bag over her shoulder, already heading toward the door. “Tomorrow, we actually work.”
“Tomorrow?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah. And from now on, we’re doing four days a week.”
That caught him off guard. His smile turned slow, interested. “Four?”
She glanced back, half-smiling. “Unless you can’t keep up.”
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “You don’t make requests, do you? You just issue threats laced with taunts.”
“Exactly.” She flashed him a wink. “See you tomorrow, coach.”
Rafael watched her leave, still grinning. “Goddamn,” he muttered. “Enzo’s either the luckiest man alive or already halfway to his grave.”
Enzo
He’d been getting photos for hours.
Thing 1 and Thing 2, Lola so graciously named them, had taken their orders far too literally blowing up his phone with shot after shot of his woman turning a gym full of fighters into her personal playground.
Lola mid-punch.
Lola laughing.
Lola bleeding.
By the time the last video came in, Enzo was half feral from pride and panic.
He didn’t even hear the elevator at first, just the sound of the door shutting and her voice, light as air.
“Hi, baby.”
She walked in all heat and adrenaline, hair damp, tank clinging, knuckles bruised—like sin had found a new religion. She dropped her bag, smiled at him like she hadn’t just detonated his blood pressure, and went straight for the fridge.
He didn’t move until she twisted the cap off a bottle of water. “You want to explain why my morning looked like a highlight reel from the UFC?”
She took a sip, eyes glinting. “Because your fiancée’s productive.”
He arched a brow, closing the distance between them. “Productive?”
“Mm-hm.” She grinned, lazy and smug. “Worked out some frustration. Boosted morale. Terrified half the gym. That’s what I call a successful morning.”
He flicked the bruise on her forehead; she hissed. “That looks like success?”
“Ow.” She rubbed it, pouty. “That’s rude.”
“Lola—”
“Enzo,” she interrupted, drawing out his name like a threat and a purr all at once. “You’re acting like I walked into a firing squad.” She tilted her head, smile turning dangerous. “Relax. The only thing at risk was a few male egos.”
She stepped closer, voice lowering. “You, on the other hand…” Her eyes dragged down his chest, then back up. “You’re all worked up. Why don’t you—” her smirk bloomed slow “—cool off?”
Then she tipped the bottle and poured the water straight over his head.
Cold cascaded down his hair, over his chest, soaking his shirt. He froze. The floor caught the first drop off his jaw.
Lola beamed, proud and unbothered. “Hmm,” she said, cocking her head, “I bet that feels much better.”
Then, as if she hadn’t just drenched a man who could break bones with a glance, she leaned in and kissed his cheek; sweet, soft, and taunting all at once.
“Love you,” she chirped. And ran.
For a heartbeat, Enzo just stood there, dripping. Then he started to laugh low, incredulous, completely undone.
This woman.
This fucking woman.
She’d fought half a gym, walked in glowing with chaos, and now she was daring him to chase her through his own penthouse.
And God help him, he adored her for it.
He peeled off the soaked shirt and tossed it aside, water still tracing the lines of his abs. The smile that crept over his mouth was pure sin.
“Alright, diavoletta\[little devil\],” he murmured, rolling his shoulders loose. “You wanted the fire? You’ve got it.”
He started down the hall, slow, deliberate, predatory. Somewhere ahead of him, her laughter echoed wild, bright, unafraid.
And for the first time in weeks, Enzo didn’t feel the weight of loss or war pressing on his chest. Just her.
The only thing he wanted to chase, to catch, to keep.
He was going to be rooted in this woman every chance he got—body, soul, breath. He wanted her laughter stitched into the walls, her scent in his skin, her name in every damn heartbeat.
Not tomorrow. Not someday. Now.
But first, he had to catch his demon.
“Five seconds, gattina\[kitten\],” he called, voice dark silk. “Then I hunt.”
Her laugh rang out like a dare. “You’ll have to earn it, Marchesi!”
Enzo grinned, slow and wolfish. “Challenge accepted.”
She’d vanished somewhere between the kitchen and the west hall. A door creaked somewhere above him; air shifted. He moved slow, every step measured, grin carved in shadow.
“Come out, gattina,” he called, voice low enough to vibrate against the walls. “You know I always find you.”
Silence. Then the faintest sound, bare feet against metal. He looked up just in time to see her drop from the railing like a damn assassin.
She hit him square in the chest. The impact knocked them both to the mat of the hallway rug; his back hit first, her laugh exploding right above him wild, feral, delighted.
“Gotcha!”
He reached for her. She rolled, slippery and fast, laughter ricocheting off the walls. “Not even close, amore!”
“Lola—”
“Too slow!”
She darted around the corner, braid snapping like a whip behind her. Enzo sat up, half laughing, half growling. “You’re gonna regret that, diavoletta.”
“Promises, promises!” came her sing-song reply, somewhere near the living room.
He got up, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. This was new; the chase, the chaos, the sheer audacity of her turning their home into a battleground. He’d expected an argument, maybe a scolding. Not this. Not her laughter pulling him through the penthouse like a compass needle.
And damn if he didn’t love her more for it.
He kicked off his socks and shoes, moving quieter now, hunting her by sound the muffled giggle, the creak of a vent, the rustle of curtains.
“Lola,” he warned, voice rough silk, “if I have to drag you out—”
A whisper behind him: “You’ll what?”
He spun. Empty hall. Then hands, hers, ghosted across his back, gone before he could catch her.
“Oh, I’m gonna enjoy catching you,” he muttered, already smiling.
He was halfway through the hall when the sound came; bare feet against marble, quick and light. He turned just in time to see her dart past the hall’s edge, hair flying, laughter echoing like a promise.
“Lola.”
No answer, just another laugh and the flash of her shoulder as she vanished into the next room.
He followed. Slow at first.
Predators don’t rush.
Then he heard the faint squeak of her boots on the wood floor, the sharp inhale when she realized how close he was, and that was it, he pounced.
She squealed, sprinting around the dining table, then over a chair like a damn cat. “You’re getting slow, old man!”
“Old man?” He rounded the corner just in time for her to duck behind the couch. “Careful, gattina \[kitten\], you’ll regret that.”
“Doubt it,” she called, laughing, breathless.
He vaulted the couch in one clean motion, caught her mid-turn, and took them both to the floor. Her laughter broke into a shriek that turned right back into a grin.
“Caught you,” he breathed, pinning her wrists above her head.
She wriggled beneath him, eyes blazing. “You sure about that?”
He smiled, slow, wicked. “Positive.”
Her chest rose and fell fast against his. “You gonna lecture me now?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted just enough to free one hand, reached for his belt, and tugged it loose in a single, fluid motion.
Lola’s breath hitched. “You wouldn’t.”
He looped the belt around her wrists, leather whispering against skin, and pulled it snug, not cruel, just enough to make her gasp. “You keep forgetting who you’re playing with.”
Her eyes went molten. “Oh, I remember,” she said, voice low, teasing. “I just like making you prove it.”
He laughed under his breath, the sound dark, amused, aroused. “You enjoy poking the wolf, huh?”
“I enjoy surviving it.”
His mouth hovered over hers, barely a breath apart. “Then don’t beg for mercy now.”
“Who said I’d beg?”
That did it. The smile that curved his mouth was pure sin. He kissed her, deep and punishing, all teeth and breath and laughter tangled in heat.
She arched up against him, belt tugging taut, every move testing the hold just to feel him tighten it again.
“Still think you can run?” he murmured against her lips.
She met his gaze, wild and grinning, wrists still caught in the belt. “I think we both like it better when I do.”
For a heartbeat, he just stared at her—wicked smile, that challenge—before he laughed low and dark, kissing her again like she’d just handed him his favorite sin.
Lola arched beneath him, the belt biting lightly against her skin as she tested the restraint. It wasn’t fear. It was the thrill of being seen, completely, dangerously seen. Every slow roll of his hips pressed her deeper into the floor, stealing thought, leaving only sensation.
He whispered her name between kisses, voice wrecked and reverent, like a prayer he didn’t believe in but couldn’t stop saying. She answered with sound instead of words, half-laugh, half-plea, every breath tangling with his.
The world narrowed to skin and pulse and the rasp of his breath in her ear. The pace shifted, sometimes slow enough to hurt, sometimes fierce enough to make her gasp his name like confession. She pulled against the belt again, not to escape but to feel the pull, the weight, the surrender she trusted only him with.
When he finally loosened the leather and freed her wrists, she didn’t move. Couldn’t. He kissed the faint red lines there, each one a silent apology, a promise, a brand of its own.
Her voice was gone to whispers, her body trembling, their heartbeats syncing until there was no telling whose was whose.
He rested his forehead against hers, still catching breath. “You drive me insane,” he murmured, lips brushing her skin.
Lola smiled, eyes heavy, voice frayed but sure. “Then we’re even.”
They hadn’t made it far, just the living room, the floor half-wrecked from their chaos.
The belt still dangled from his hand, her hair a wild halo across the rug.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
It was enough just to hear her laugh again.
Really laugh.
Enzo leaned over her, chest still heaving, a grin fighting its way through exhaustion.
“Christ, gattina \[kitten\]… look at you.”
Lola tilted her head, eyes bright and wicked. “What? A masterpiece?”
He shook his head, smiling as he brushed his thumb along her jaw. “Yes, but also alive. That’s the word I was looking for.”
Her teasing softened at that. The grin faltered into something smaller, truer. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Feels like it.”
He kissed her temple, lingering there until her breath evened out against his throat.
“Don’t do that to me again,” he murmured. “One of these days this old man’s heart is gonna quit.”
She laughed quietly, the sound vibrating against his skin. “Old man, huh? You sure didn’t move like one.”
He smiled against her hair. “Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m fine, Enzo.”
“I know.” He exhaled slowly, jaw tight. “That’s what scares me. You keep walking into the fire like it can’t touch you.”
“Maybe it can’t.”
He looked at her—really looked—and his voice dropped lower, rougher. “Maybe. But I feel it every damn time you do.”
That stole the words right out of her throat. The fight in her eyes flickered, then softened.
“I don’t want you worrying,” she murmured.
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Not worrying about you isn’t an option. You’re it for me, gattina. That means I burn when you do.”
Something in her chest eased at that—warm, fierce, a little undone.
“Then try not to let it kill you,” she whispered.
He brushed his thumb along her jaw, gaze softening. “Can’t promise that,” he said, voice low. “But I can promise I’ll always come back for you.”
Her smile came slow, tired but real. “You better.”
“I always do.” He leaned in, kissed her forehead, and added with a small grin, “Impossible woman, you make life interesting in all the wrong ways.”
She laughed quietly, the sound curling between them like smoke. “And you love me for it.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, forehead resting against hers. “I really do.”
She smiled again—tired, gorgeous, real.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t see grief when he looked at her.
He saw the spark that had drawn him in from the start the reckless, laughing wildfire that refused to die.
Enzo exhaled slowly and pulled her closer, his chin resting against her hair. “God, I missed that,” he murmured.
Her voice was soft. “Missed what?”
“You,” he said. “Smiling like the world’s not sitting on your shoulders.”
Lola pressed a kiss to his collarbone, her words barely a whisper. “Something’s different. Something inside me finally let go.”
He brushed his thumb along her jaw, tender and rough all at once. “Good,” he said quietly. “You deserve happiness, amore mio \[my love\].”
She hummed, small and content, settling against his chest. The room fell still except for their breathing—steady, synced, alive.
And for the first time in too long, neither of them was running from the weight of the world. They just were—whole, unbroken, and still choosing each other.