Page 202 of The Clinch

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“You never said anything.”

He leans one hip against the counter across from me, keeping that careful distance that now feels brutal.

“You liked the Jamaican.”

That simple. No speech. No credit. No performance. Just quiet attention, repeated so often I mistook it for background noise until it was gone.

A laugh escapes me, thin and unbelieving, and I cover my mouth with my hand.

Of course.

Of course he would know exactly how I take my coffee and never make a thing of it.

Of course he would change his own routine for me and act as if it cost him nothing.

Of course I would only understand what that meant standing in his kitchen, drinking the version he makes for himself.

I look at him.

He says nothing. Doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t help me past it.

He makes me say the thing that matters.

So I do.

“You didn’t come after me.”

The words leave my mouth rougher than I intended.

He doesn’t blink. “No.”

I wait for more.

But he lets the word stand there. My laugh turns thin. “That’s it? No?”

“You were angry.”

“I’m still furious.”

“You have every right.”

I stare at him. His face is calm, but I know him well enough to see what it costs him to stand that still.

“You let me leave.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t call. You didn’t text. You didn’t send anyone.” I stop. “Nothing.”

The only sign is a brief hard set to his mouth. “It wasn’t mine to take from you.”

That lands hard. Because he means all of it. The conversation. My forgiveness. My body in this room. The choice.

I look away first, toward the windows where sunlight lies across the floorboards.

“You should have told me,” I say.

“Yeah.”

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