Page 201 of The Clinch
He closes the door softly behind me. The silence that settles between us is careful. Almost formal.
“You want to sit?” he asks.
I shake my head.
His gaze moves over my face once, quick and controlled, checking for damage the way he always does. Then he stops himself and steps back from even that.
The restraint hurts more than scrutiny would have.
I look at the coffee in his hand. Then at the French press. Then back at him.
“Can I have some coffee?”
His brows lift. “Coffee?”
Under the circumstances, it’s ridiculous.
“Yes.”
He sets his mug down. “Yeah. Sure. I don’t have the oat milk you like.”
“Black is fine.”
Something shifts in his expression, small and unreadable. Then he reaches for another mug, pours, and hands it to me.
I take it. Lift it. Sip.
My eyes go to his.
This is not Blue Mountain. It’s the same roast Nate made this morning.
I take another sip, slower this time, and look at Leo over the rim.
“This is good coffee.”
He watches me, wary now. “Yeah.”
“Really good.”
His forehead creases. “Okay.”
I lower the mug. “This is your favorite?”
“Yeah.”
The word gets through in a place I can’t protect.
“The Kenyan roast,” I say. “Utake.”
His eyes sharpen a fraction. “You know your coffee.”
“You always made Blue Mountain when I was here.” I hold his gaze. “For me.”
Something flickers across his face. Not surprise. Just the truth, finally caught in the light.
“Yes.”
It hits harder than it should. Harder than something this small has any right to. I set the mug down on the island because my hand is no longer steady enough to trust.
