Page 44 of The Clinch
“Yeah.” His voice is rough. “The photos.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. One hand stays fixed on the wheel like he needs the grip.
The light changes. He pulls forward.
We stop in front of his building. He cuts the engine but doesn’t move right away, gaze fixed ahead, jaw set like he’s considering something he hasn’t fully decided how to phrase yet.
“Liz.”
I turn.
“While Drake’s still in the city,” he says evenly, “it makes sense if I drive you to work and back.”
The answer puts me on guard immediately. “That’s not necessary.”
“Maybe not,” he agrees. “But I’m in recovery, and I’m around. And it sends a clear message.”
I turn toward the window. “So you’re assigning yourself as protection duty.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to,” I say quietly.
“I want to.”
Those words again.
We ride the elevator in silence. Walk down the hall. Stop at my door.
“Goodnight, Leo.”
“Goodnight.”
I step inside and close the door.
I’m still in the dress. Still aware of the echo of his hand on my waist. Still feeling the imprint of his mouth long after it should have faded.
I catch my reflection in the mirror—flushed, eyes too bright, something unsettled under the surface.
This was supposed to be simple.
Temporary. Strategic. Contained.
But nothing about the way he kissed me felt rehearsed. Nothing about the way he stepped in tonight felt performative. He didn’t ask how I wanted it handled. He didn’t check the optics first.
He just acted.
That’s what stays with me. Not the kiss. Not the cameras. The speed of his certainty.
I sit on the edge of the bed, dress still on, heels discarded behind me.
The unease keeps moving under my skin. As if I’m taking the first step toward something I promised myself I’d never do again.
10
PRESSURE (LEO)
My gym sits on a side street in Red Hook, tucked between a shuttered warehouse and a loading dock. It’s quiet this early, the neighborhood not quite awake yet.
