Page 19 of The Clinch
“This is your place. Your life. I just walked into it like a wrecking ball.”
“That wasn’t you. That was Drake.”
“I really thought he’d stopped looking for me.” Her voice frays at the edges. “I changed everything. My name. My city. I did everything right.”
“You did.”
She finally turns, leaning her hip against the glass. Up close, I can see the exhaustion threaded through her posture, the way she’s holding herself together by will alone.
“You don’t owe me this,” I say. “But it will help. If he’s smart, he’ll get the memo and move on.”
Her eyes catch mine, searching. Measuring. “And after?”
“After, you go back to your life. Your apartment. Your plans. Nothing about this will stick to you.”
Her face relaxes with relief. “Okay.”
I let the moment settle. “Guest room’s this way. There are fresh towels in the ensuite bathroom, toothbrush, toiletries.”
She follows me down the hall quietly. I open the door and step aside, giving her the first look. The room is spare and calm. White sheets. Soft light. The bridge framed perfectly beyond the glass.
As she steps inside and exhales, I grab a shirt from the hall dresser. “This is… nice. Thank you.”
I hand her one of my T-shirts. “If you need anything,” I tell her, “I’m across the hall. Otherwise, get some sleep.”
She hesitates, then looks back at me. Really looks.
“Leo?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you. For… not making it worse.”
“Never,” I say, and I mean it. “Goodnight.”
She nods and closes the door gently between us. I stand there a moment longer than necessary. Then I turn and head to my room.
I strip off my shirt, rinse the blood from my knuckles, brace my hands on the sink until the adrenaline drains. My ribs throb. My eyebrow pulls where the cut hasn’t quite sealed.
I should be exhausted.
Instead, I’m alert. Tuned. Listening.
Water starts running down the hall.
The guest room shower.
I lean back against the wall and let the sound anchor me—steady, contained, behind a closed door.
This isn’t how I thought my night would end. Usually it’s clean. Easy. Over by morning.
Tonight there’s no release. Just the aftermath—heat still trapped under my skin, my hands pulsing, my ribs beginning to argue with every breath now that the fight is over.
But knowing she’s here—safe, not alone—settles something deeper than adrenaline.
Six weeks.
I can do six weeks.
