Page 38 of The Clinch
He decided he’d be waiting at five.
And I didn’t argue. Not once.
What gets me isn’t what he’s doing. It’s how familiar it feels.
The smoothie I didn’t ask for. The ride I didn’t need. The dinner handed to me before I could speak.
I press my forehead to the cool glass. The city light streaks gold past the window, and I keep my breathing even.
Six weeks. I’ve done harder things than this.
What I don’t know yet is whether I’ll recognize the moment before it costs me something I didn’t plan to give.
I already didn’t argue about the smoothie.
9
RANGE (LIZ)
The car glides to the curb on Fifth Avenue, right at the base of the Met steps. The air changes immediately—voices rising, flashes firing, anticipation thickening the summer night.
Leo steps out first. A valet appears out of nowhere. Without breaking stride, he hands over the keys.
The door opens on my side.
His hand appears. The heat of the night hits my skin. His palm slides to the small of my back, steady and deliberate, and I feel myself lock into form—posture, breath, awareness.
We move toward the steps together, pace matched. Flashes go off so fast they stop feeling separate and turn into weather.
Instinct takes over. Chin up. Shoulders down. Core tight. Don’t rush the step. Own the lane. Cameras used to mean starter pistols, not gossip columns, but the body doesn’t care what kind of spotlight it’s under. It only knows when to rise to it.
A voice cuts through the noise.
“Lionheart! Over here!”
Another stacks on top of it. “Leo, who’s the lucky lady?”
He doesn’t pause or look rattled. “This is Liz,” he says calmly, as if we’re being introduced at a dinner party instead of the foot of the Met. His hand stays at my back. “My girlfriend.”
I lift my chin and give the cameras a brief, controlled smile. Not warm enough to invite a follow-up.
Cameras surge closer anyway.
“How long have you been together?”
“When’s the wedding?”
“You people move fast,” I say lightly, without breaking stride.
A few of them laugh. The tension loosens by a fraction. Enough.
“Is this why you snapped the other night?”
Leo angles us slightly as we climb, positioning me where the light hits. I’m framed against his chest, his arm a solid line at my waist.
“Eyes up, Flash,” he murmurs.
My chin lifts automatically.
