Page 167 of The Clinch
I keep packing.
Leo stops in the doorway. He doesn’t come in. That restraint scrapes over my nerves worse than anger would.
“I can have someone bring the rest tomorrow,” he says after a moment, voice rough and controlled. “You don’t need to take everything tonight.”
I fold my laptop charger with careful, useless precision. “I’ll get the rest later.”
“All right.”
Silence fills the room again. Thick. Breathing. A living thing between us.
I can feel him watching. The effort it’s costing him to stay where he is. To let me move through this without stepping in and deciding the efficient version for both of us.
I shove my notes into the bag and zip it shut.
When I finally turn, he’s still in the doorway, one shoulder braced against the frame. He looks wrecked and contained at the same time, which is a particularly Leo kind of devastation.
“I’ll text you when I get home,” I say, because giving him that feels safer than giving him anything real.
I bend for the bag. He moves before I can stop him, crossing the room in two strides and lifting it off the bench.
The old reflex almost undoes me.
“I’ve got it,” I say quickly.
His grip tightens on the strap for half a second. Then he lets go.
“Right.”
I take the bag.
We walk back through the apartment together in a silence so charged it feels louder than a fight. The muted television throws pale light across the living room wall. My coffee mug from this morning is still in the sink. His gloves are on the counter. The normalcy of it turns every step into its own fresh cut.
Leo opens the door before I can.
Of course he does.
I step into the hallway. Cool air. Elevator hum. Carpeted silence.
“Liz.”
I look up.
There’s no argument left in his expression now. Only a man standing inside the consequences of hearing the woman he wants clearly and hating the answer.
“If you need anything—” He stops, catches himself.
I spare him.
“I know.”
I step backward into the hall.
He doesn’t follow.
He doesn’t tell me to stay.
He doesn’t touch me.
