Page 96 of The Clinch
I took her by the hand, led her straight into my room, and kept my voice even because if I sounded like I needed it, she’d bolt.
“Stay,” I said.
She blinked, and for one suspended breath, I thought she wouldn’t. Then she let it pass and let herself be pulled under all over again.
And again.
Now the room is dim, curtains half drawn, the city outside still deciding whether it wants to be morning. The A/C hums low. My phone is face down on the dresser. No outside world yet.
Only Liz.
Her hair is loose, dark waves spilling across my pillow. In sleep she looks softer. Less guarded. The tension she carries through her shoulders during daylight has slipped.
Last night broke something open.
It wasn’t reckless. It was inevitable.
In the stairwell, I expected the pivot at the last second—fear wrapped in reason. Instead, she let me catch her. Now she’s in my bed.
I shift carefully, sliding my legs out. I stand without looking at her too long. If I stare, I’ll crawl back in and take more than she’s ready to give.
I don’t take what isn’t offered.
Not from her. Not ever.
In the kitchen, I scan the cupboards. Fruit. Oat milk. Blue Mountain coffee. Leftover rice and chicken from a meal I prepped because camp is coming and my diet doesn’t care what my heart is doing.
I brew a pot and prep a smoothie, but I don’t turn on the blender yet.
I’m halfway through pouring a cup when a soft sound comes from the bedroom. “Leo?” Her voice is thick with sleep. “Come back to bed.”
It’s as close to tenderness as she lets herself get without naming it, and it hits like a hook under the ribs.
I carry the coffee in and find her propped on one elbow, hair wild, eyes half open. She’s wearing my shirt from last night, the hem skimming her thigh. The tattoo at the curve of her leg peeks out, wings built from motion.
“Morning,” I say.
She makes a small sound and reaches for the water on the nightstand. She drinks, then looks at me over the rim.
I hand her the mug. “You’re being helpful,” she says, like it’s a complaint. Then, softer, “As always.”
I sit on the edge of the bed. My hand settles on the sheet near her knee.
“Should I stop?”
“No.” She studies me, eyes clearer now. Still sleepy, but here.
I could ruin it by saying too much, so I keep my voice even. “What time do you start today?”
“Seven.” Her brow furrows. “Why?”
“So we have time.”
Her eyes narrow. “For what?”
I don’t answer. I let my hand slide along her thigh. “Are you sore?”
“A little.”
