Page 87 of The Clinch
The staying stopped.
22
HEAT STROKE (LIZ)
Leo’s at the stove when I walk into the kitchen. Same as always. But different.
That’s been the problem since the Fourth of July weekend—not that he’s here, but that he’s been offering space. All that it’s done is make me feel exactly what I ran from.
He doesn’t look up right away. Which is rude because I brushed my hair this morning. Then he glances over, and his attention drops from my face to my bare legs and back up again, unhurried enough that my skin prickles.
Barefoot. Gray T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. Sweatpants slung low on his hips.
I’ve been alone in my room for a week thinking about exactly this view.
Except in those thoughts, I’m not wearing clothes and neither is he.
And in my thoughts, he doesn’t stop.
It annoys me more that he’s been infuriatingly careful since Fire Island. Measured in a way that leaves me nothing obvious to push against.
“There she is,” he says easily. “You slept in.”
“It’s seven thirty,” I mutter, heading for the French press. “This is still the middle of the night for most people my age.”
He has scrambled eggs in a pan, sourdough in the toaster, berries in a bowl. Easy competence. Calm. Unavoidable.
It annoys me.
“Not working today?”
“I’m off.” I pour a cup of my favorite coffee and try not to notice the mug has already been set out for me. Right ratio, right beans, like he’s been paying attention for months. I resent how much that lands. “I’m going into the city. I need clothes and… a couple other things.”
Things I should have grabbed weeks ago. Things I would rather die than let him see me packing.
Nate and Eden brought me the basics. They didn’t go digging through my nightstand.
After Fire Island, after he gave me a taste and then pulled back like fucking me required a confessional and a rosary, my body has been a problem.
Tight. Wired. Awake in all the wrong ways.
He flips the eggs once, then looks at me. “Do you want me to come?”
I pause with the mug halfway to my mouth. The question lands harder than if he’d just decided for me.
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t love you going there alone. But I’m asking.”
Absolutely not. He’s not watching me pack the things I use when I’m thinking about him.
“No need. I can go by myself. You stay here and do whatever it is you do when you’re not being… helpful.”
He arches a brow.
“You know,” I continue, waving vaguely. “Quietly competent. Lurking nearby. Making it very hard to remember how to exist like a normal person.”
Amused, he shakes his head and plates the eggs and two slices of toast. He slides one plate toward me.
