Page 92 of The Clinch
I’ve been to this apartment before. Helping Eden move in. Picking her up for trips. The layout is familiar. The feeling isn’t. High ceilings, tall windows, late-morning light softened by linen curtains. The space smells of bergamot and paper. Underneath is jasmine, citrus, coconut from her hair. The scent that’s been haunting me for weeks.
This time, I’m here for a different reason.
And we both know it.
She stays near the door, one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, holding herself together. The light spills in behind her, outlining her hips, the way her top clings after the run. Her skin is flushed, a sheen of sweat along her collarbone.
She looks at me unguarded, as if daring herself not to back out.
“Are you coming in?”
Her voice is rough. Used up. Done pretending this can be rerouted.
I take a step toward her.
This isn’t the moment to crowd her. Every instinct I have is tuned to holding center, to staying exactly where she left me when she invited me in.
I let my gaze move over her slowly. The tension in her shoulders. Her arms finally loosen and fall to her sides, fingers flexing once, twice.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
I think she might still pull away.
She doesn’t.
I don’t take what isn’t offered. But if she looks at me and chooses, there won’t be anything in me that knows how to be casual about it.
Deliberately slow, I lift my hand, giving her time to stop me if she wants. When my fingers brush her arm, she inhales sharply but doesn’t step back. So I keep going—light, unhurried—until my palm rests at her waist.
I wait.
Her hand comes up, fingers curling into my shirt. She gives me the answer without saying it.
I lean in and touch my lips to hers. It’s the barest of kisses. Soft, coaxing rather than claiming. A question in the shape and pressure of my mouth.
She hesitates just long enough for me to know she understands what this means. And that’s why I don’t push. I stay right there, giving her time, tasting her slowly, again and again, reminding her that I’m safe.
Her body shifts closer.
When she finally opens to me, it’s on a shaky exhale, a sound that goes straight through me. Her tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open my eyes to see hers watching me intently as she goes back for more. The kiss deepens, heat blooming where restraint had been. I glide my palms to her back, firm but careful, keeping her steady, not pinned.
She melts into me then, enough to tell me she’s choosing. Me. Us. Her breath hits my skin again, shoulders no longer pulled tight and ready to break away.
Her arms slide up my chest, fisting in my shirt. When she kisses me again, it’s harder. Impatient.
Not asking.
Taking.
I let her set the pace. Let her pull me closer until there’s no space left between us.
Her breath breaks when I slide my hands lower, following the line of her hip until my fingers hover at her thigh. When she doesn’t tense, I allow myself to touch the edge of the tattoo. The ink is warm under my thumb, the fine lines of the wings dark against her skin.
She looks down, then back up at me, an unguarded emotion flickering across her face. Her fingers curl into my shirt again, anchoring herself, like she’s telling herself to be brave.
I rest my palm on the wings for a beat longer, acknowledging what they are—and what they’re not doing.
They’re not flying.
