It starts as a joke. A stupid little impulse. One of those dumb trends you’d seen online that made you laugh until you wheezed. You weren’t even sure it counted with Jason. He wasn’t technically a cop, though he did regularly tackle and detain criminals every night. The moral gray area of vigilantism didn’t really matter to you.

What mattered was the mountain of a man currently fixing your fence. Shirtless. Grease on his hands, sweat glistening over every sculpted inch of his broad chest and shoulders. Cargo pants low on his hips. Wedding band catching the sun. One of his old ball caps pulled backward on his head, dark hair curling out from under it in thick, messy waves.

You’re supposed to be bringing him water. Instead, you’re watching him like a deer in heat. And then the thought pops into your head.

You wonder if you could outrun him.

Jason is 6’5" and solid fucking muscle. A linebacker with a gun. A brick wall that moves faster than he should. His reflexes are terrifying. But you’re decently confident. You know the terrain. And most importantly, he’s distracted. Bent over the wooden post, adjusting the bracket, his back a masterpiece of shifting muscle and old scars.

You set the water bottle on the porch rail. Kick off your sandals. And run.

There’s no warning. You don’t announce it. Just bolt.

You make it halfway across the yard before you hear it, a muttered “Oh, hell no,” and then the slam of boots on the earth behind you. Fast. Steady. Powerful.

You don’t look back.

The grass bites at your ankles as you sprint, heart racing, lungs burning with laughter and adrenaline. You dart toward the trees at the edge of the yard, your dress fluttering around your thighs, hair streaming behind you like a dare. You weave through the overgrowth, cutting sharp, hoping the terrain will slow him.

It doesn’t.

He gains on you like you’re moving through molasses. You feel the heat of him first, then the hard, sure weight of a body colliding with yours mid-stride. You scream as he scoops you off your feet from behind, tackling you into the soft overgrowth without an ounce of harm.

He’s careful. Always. Even when you’re being stupid.

You land flat on your back in the wild grass, pinned beneath him, your wrists caught in one of his massive hands above your head. His chest heaves against yours, not from exertion. No, he barely broke a sweat. But from pure effort not to laugh in your face.

He looms over you like a storm. His face flushed, cap askew, blue eyes blazing with something between amusement and wild affection. His other hand is braced in the grass, right beside your head, keeping his full weight off you. But you feel all of him. His size. His warmth. The adrenaline rolling off him like heat waves. He leans down slowly. Nose brushing your cheek.

"Why'd you run, pretty girl?"

You stare at him, breathless. Trapped. Giggling like a maniac.

He stares right back. And then he just… grins. "I caught you anyways. I'll always catch you." The bastard.

You squirm, wriggling beneath him, but he shifts his weight slightly, effortlessly keeping you pinned with the press of his hips, the flex of thick thighs on either side of yours. You gasp. Then giggle.

You are never winning against him.

Jason stays there for a while. Just watching you. Breathing you in. That fond look on his face softening with every second, like the sun’s setting just for him. His hand slides down your wrist, over your palm, fingers threading through yours like you’re fragile and precious and his.

You feel the press of his lips against your temple. A silent, smug victory.

You had tried to run. You made it fifteen feet.

Next time, you think, as he lifts you into his arms like you weigh nothing and starts walking back toward the porch. Next time you'll make it.

"Now you owe me dinner, woman."