Page 90 of The Clinch
We stop at the buzzer. I key us in. The gate clicks.
When we cross the courtyard and step inside my building, the air wraps around us. Thick. Old. The stairwell yawns ahead, painfully familiar—the narrow steps, the chipped paint, the smell of dust and floor cleaner.
I can feel the panic trying to settle in. I need to outrun it before it does.
“Last one to my floor buys coffee.”
He watches me for half a second. I see the understanding land.
“Alright,” he agrees evenly. “If you beat me, I shut up and do exactly what you say for the rest of the day.”
I glance back. “And if you win?”
He doesn’t smile.
“If I catch you before you reach your floor,” he says, “you stop running.”
That lands harder than any claim ever could. Warmth curls in my belly.
“You realize I’m really fast?” I taunt. “It’s like taking candy from a toddler.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “We’ll see.”
“Suit yourself. Because when I win, you don’t get to look at me like that for the rest of the day.”
“That’s not fair.” He steps beside me. Close, but not touching. “On three.”
“One. Two?—”
I bolt on two.
The first flight feels amazing. My legs remember this. Muscle memory kicks in, that sweet rush of acceleration. The tank top, the sticky morning, the tension all burn away in the simple fact of moving fast.
I take the steps two at a time. Arms pumping.
Behind me, I hear him swear once—quiet, surprised. His feet hit the floor half a second later, heavier than mine, controlled, relentless.
By the second flight, my quads are already filing complaints. Stairs are not a track. The air in the stairwell goes hot and stale fast.
His footsteps are closer now.
I push anyway, dragging air into my lungs like I’m stealing it. Third flight. The banister blurs. Sweat slicks my spine.
“Running away?” I hate that he doesn’t sound winded.
Fourth flight. Home stretch. My legs are shaking now. Every step feels like lifting concrete. My brain starts shouting at me to slow down. I ignore it.
I’m not letting him win. I’m not letting him turn this into something I have to feel.
I take the next step, and he’s there, one step ahead, blocking the landing.
I stop short.
Words won’t come. I bend forward, hands on my knees. I can’t catch my breath. Sweat drips down my temples, my ribs aching with every inhale.
He doesn’t touch me or crowd me.
He waits.
