All Chapters of Fighting Hearts: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

The hotel door closed behind them with such a soft click, it was as if it knew that what it was shutting out was a world Lennox Graves no longer trusted. And now, as they stood there on the marble floor, in the half-filled lobby among the suitcases, no one moved for a moment. The press was still raging outside, the hotel security team stood in a quick, disciplined line in front of them, the concierge had disappeared two minutes earlier, and someone had forgotten to silence the elevator's chime, which now signaled its readiness with an irritating regularity. But Sloane stood beside Lennox, her hand still in his. And he... didn't let go. He knew he should have. Long ago. When they got on the bus, when they got off, when they entered the lobby. Because things like this—touch like this—weren't part of their world's rules. And yet somehow, it stayed. Not possessively, not forcefully. Just... present. And Lennox, who used to flinch at every touch, didn't move now. He wasn't used to

Morning reached gently and cautiously through the panoramic windows of the suite. It didn't intrude, didn't wake with force—it was simply present, like a curious guest tiptoeing across the room while everything else still slept. The city lights were already flickering, the pale shadow of high-drifting clouds slipped past the ledge and touched the edge of the living room couch. The couch where Lennox Graves lay. His first thought wasn't sharp. Reality didn't strike. It didn't bring with it an oppressive to-do list or the immediate tension his body had grown so used to over the years. The usual morning defenses... didn't come. Instead, there was just a feeling. A strange, soft pressure on his chest. Something warm, silky, unmoving—unlike anything he'd ever known. He blinked. The ceiling was blank, as always. The air conditioning hummed, as always. The air was slightly cool—just like every other day. But then... in the next moment, he knew: this wasn't like every other mornin

The gym was massive, with walls lined in mirrors and machines that resembled steel rods, clanking and humming softly as morning life awakened them. The lights weren't harsh—they glowed in warm tones, with sunlight pouring through the windows, glinting off the mats and the metallic surfaces of the equipment. The air already swirled with the scent of sweat, tension, and expectation. Today wasn't just another day—it was a day to prove something. Sloane was already standing in the corner of the gym when Lennox walked in. And he saw her instantly. She wasn't wearing a lab coat. She wasn't holding a tablet or carrying folders. There was no stethoscope around her neck. Today, she was a coach. And a woman. In perfect balance. The dark grey outfit he'd seen in the photo—high-waisted leggings and a sports bra—clung tightly to her form. It accentuated her strong yet shapely figure, the long legs, the firm waist, the drive in her shoulders—not just in posture, but in presence. Her

Lennox Graves was no longer the man who flinched from touch. At least not now, not in this moment. The world beyond the shower curtain had gone silent—the gym, the past, the noise, everything that had ever stood between them blurred into the steam. Only his body remained. And hers. Sloane. This woman. This beautiful, strong, devastatingly alive woman standing before him, with wet hair, damp skin, flushed cheeks, and a vulnerability in her eyes that flipped something irrevocably inside Lennox. He couldn't hold himself back any longer. He didn't want to. His gaze slid over her body, pausing for a half beat at every point: her collarbone, the curve of her breasts, the line of her stomach, the bend of her thighs. The years spent fighting—now summoned him to a different battle. Not against pain. But for fulfillment. For discovery. For trust. He slowly leaned toward her neck. His lips first brushed her skin, then his tongue began to circle one spot, until finally he bit down gently.

The warmth of the shower no longer scorched their skin – it soothed it. Their bodies still pulsed with the memory of the moments before, but now something else had crept into their movements: slowness, intention. Intimacy untouched by urgency. Lennox reached into the corner of the shower and pulled out a sponge – soft and slate-blue, large enough to fit snugly in his palm. He dipped it into the body wash and began to lather it gently, his eyes never leaving Sloane. She stood with her back to him, her hair – still wet, heavy in thick strands – falling to her waist. Lennox stepped closer, and with slow, almost reverent movement, he first touched her shoulders, then began to wash her skin with the sponge. The foamy surface glided softly down the curve of Sloane's spine. Lennox used small, circular motions to wash her back, as if afraid to miss a single detail her body offered. His fingers barely brushed her skin beneath the sponge, but the contact was still enough to send a shiver