Page 168 of The Clinch

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That’s how I know he heard me.

40

STANDING EIGHT (LEO)

The door closes behind her with a soft click. My body reads it like impact.

I stay where I am, ring locked in my fist, while the apartment goes wrong around me. The TV is on mute. Late light stripes the floor. Her coffee mug is in the sink.

Nothing has moved.

But the balance is gone.

Her side of the bed is unmade. Her book is on the nightstand, bookmark shoved halfway through chapter three. One of her pens is on the dresser beside the stack of med school notes she kept pretending she wasn’t stressed about.

Last night she was in my arms, hair loose, legs wrapped around me, my name in her mouth.

Now the room looks like she got yanked out of it.

The ring bites into my palm. I’m gripping it hard enough to hurt, but I don’t let go.

Breathing turns technical. Pressure, not pain. My body knows what to do with pressure. Brace. Move. Fix it.

Every instinct I have is already at the door.

Go after her. Catch her before the elevator. Take the bag. Put her back in this apartment. Talk until that look leaves her face.

I stay where I am.

Because if I go after her now, I make her right.

That’s exactly what she was running from.

I keep my feet planted and make my lungs work.

In through the nose.

Hold.

Out.

Again.

Same drill as between rounds. Same violence, different source. Get your feet under you. Slow the breathing. Don’t throw something stupid because your body wants a target.

The bedroom door is still open.

Her side of the closet is open too, because she moved too fast to think about closing anything behind her.

My phone lights up on the island.

For one vicious second, I think she’s changed her mind.

I cross the room, pick it up, and look at the screen.

LIZ

I’m at the Cherokee

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