Page 129 of The Clinch
“That makes sense.”
I lift my hand between us. “And what the fuck is this, Eden? I haven’t taken the ring off. I don’t want to take it off.”
She looks at it, then back at me. “Leo is very into you,” she says carefully. “I’ve never seen him like this.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, cooling my face with a sip of iced tea. “No pressure.”
“It’s a good thing, Liz.”
I hate that she’s right. I hate more that part of me likes hearing it.
I look down at my plate. “He’s… amazing.”
Eden’s smile softens. “Yeah. He is. And he doesn’t do this lightly.”
I stare out at the hot Brooklyn afternoon. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say finally. “He makes things feel solid. Which sounds nice, except sometimes it scares the shit out of me.”
“I can see that,” Eden says quietly.
There’s no judgment in it. That almost makes it worse.
“I know he’d never…” I stop.
The rest jams where it always does.
Trap me. Hurt me. Decide for me and call it love.
Eden reaches across the table and taps the back of my hand once. “I know. And I know you know.”
When we finish eating, Eden wipes her mouth, too casual. “Come on. Let’s go see Leo.”
I look up. “Really?”
“He should be in afternoon sparring by now.” She’s already reaching for her bag. “And yes, I absolutely planned this.”
“You’re sneaky.”
“I’m a visionary,” she says. Then, over her shoulder, “Also, you need a refresher that your boyfriend is built like a Roman warrior.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
She waves me off, stepping into the sunny afternoon. “Tell yourself a better story.”
By the timethe Uber cuts deeper into Red Hook, Brooklyn has dropped the polished act. Fewer strollers. More trucks. Brick warehouses. Chain-link. Roll-up steel. The city stripped back to bone and grit.
Even the air has more attitude. Salt off the harbor. Hot concrete. Machine oil cooked into old metal.
The gym doesn’t announce itself. It sits low and broad against the street, more warehouse than storefront, with a corrugated garage door, a side entrance, and no interest in charm. The kind of place you only find if somebody brings you.
I grab my shopping bags from the trunk, eyeing the building. “Will he mind?”
“Leo?” Eden asks. “No. Ray? Absolutely.” She hooks a few bags over her arm and grins. “Come on. Let’s go watch men tear themselves up so we can stay employed.”
The moment we step inside, the smell hits—sweat, old canvas, leather, disinfectant, and something metallic woven so deep into the place it feels structural. Not blood exactly. Just impact. Hard contact ground into walls, mats, ropes, and air.
The room is both louder and quieter than I expected. Gloves slamming into pads. Shoes scuffing over mats. Breath forced through effort. No music. No pointless chatter. No wasted softness.
This isn’t a place built to impress anyone. It’s built for work. For damage. For the kind of discipline that leaves bruises.
