Chapter 8 Leander
LEANDER
Iwake slowly.
The first thing I notice is the weight—heavy and warm, pinning me down.
It takes a few seconds to realize it’s Phoenix.
His chest is pressed against my back, one arm is hooked around my waist, and his legs are tangled with mine.
His breath is steady, brushing the back of my neck in hot little puffs that make goosebumps prickle across my skin.
I don’t move. Not yet.
The room is dim, blinds half-drawn, the muffled thrum of last night’s party still clinging to the air—beer, smoke, sweat, and cheap perfume.
My head pounds, dull and insistent, the hangover clawing at me.
But none of it matters compared to the solid weight of Phoenix practically wrapped around me like a blanket he doesn’t want to share.
I glance down at his hand resting on my stomach. His fingers twitch even in sleep, holding me tighter when I shift even the slightest bit. Like he’s afraid I’ll slip out from under him. Like he was guarding me all night.
It’s… strange.
I’ve never woken up like this before. Tangled in a maybe-lover’s embrace. Not with anyone who cared enough to hold on even when nothing was happening.
My heart stutters.
We didn’t have sex. I was drunk, Phoenix was drunk, and part of me expected and feared that he’d push for it anyway.
That he’d take what he wanted because that’s who I thought he was.
Reckless. Unstoppable. Always crossing the line because rules don’t apply to him.
And maybe I would have given it to him if he had said the right thing.
But he didn’t.
We went back to his room when the last people left the party. We made out, messy and desperate, and then he pulled me into his bed and passed out with me still in his arms. No pressure. No pushing. Just this.
And now, lying here, feeling the steady weight of him curled around me, I can’t ignore the way my chest aches with something I can’t quite name.
I’ve never been with a man. I had been too afraid my father would find out, even when Silas dragged us out of that hellhole.
I made out with a few guys in clubs. Slept with a girl in high school to find out that was not what I was into.
I’ve never had a partner. Especially not in bed, half-naked, tangled up in something that feels dangerously close to safe.
Safe. With Phoenix. The thought almost makes me laugh. He’s chaos, a storm that doesn’t end, a wildfire I should know better than to stand too close to. But right now, in the quiet morning, with his arm tight around me, he feels like the safest thing I’ve ever known.
I let out a shaky breath and close my eyes again, just for a moment, letting myself sink into it. His body is hot, his chest rising and falling against my back, and I could almost convince myself this was normal. Like we’ve done this a hundred times. Like this is routine.
My stomach knots.
Because it’s not routine, it’s not normal. This is the first time, and it already feels like too much. Like I’ll get addicted if I let myself stay.
Phoenix shifts behind me, a low sound escaping his throat. His grip tightens reflexively, his face pressing against the back of my neck. I freeze, wondering if he’s awake, but his breathing stays even. Still asleep. Still holding me like I’ll disappear if he lets go.
I don’t know what to do with that.
Every other time I’ve let someone close, it’s felt conditional. Like I had to give something up to get their attention. But Phoenix? He just… took care of me. In his own chaotic way.
Even last week, in the locker room, when he was rough, when he pushed me further than I thought I could go, afterward, he was gentle.
Careful. Making sure I was okay. It didn’t make sense then.
It doesn’t make sense now. Why would someone like him bother with aftercare?
Why would someone like him bother holding me all night?
I’m so used to people leaving when they’ve had their fill.
Phoenix clings like he’s afraid of being left. The thought cuts through me, sharp and unexpected.
I stare at his hand on my stomach, at the long fingers curled against me, veins running sharp beneath tan skin. Strong hands. Hands that can bruise, break, push. But right now, they’re just holding and keeping me close. I swallow hard, my throat dry.
This is dangerous.
I’m supposed to be cautious. I’m supposed to be the one who keeps distance, who doesn’t get caught up in things that can ruin me. Phoenix is reckless, uncontrollable, a walking disaster. And yet I’m lying here in his arms, thinking about how I don’t want him to let go.
The bed shifts suddenly. Phoenix groans low in his chest, stretching against me before pulling back slightly. His arm slips from my waist, dragging across my stomach, leaving a ghost of warmth behind.
I hold still, pretending to sleep, not ready to face him.
But then I feel soft kisses against my hair. His voice comes, rough with sleep, softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Morning, baby.”
My pulse jumps. What did he just call me?
I force myself to turn, meeting his eyes.
His hair is a mess, sticking up in wild tufts, his face creased from the pillow.
Somehow, it makes him look younger. Less like the reckless captain everyone sees and more like a boy who forgot to build his walls before the sun came up.
“Morning,” I say back, my voice hoarse.
He watches me for a long moment, eyes flicking down to my mouth, then back up. A grin tugs at his lips, slow and lazy. “You didn’t sneak out. I was half expecting you to.”
I snort softly, looking away. “I don’t sneak.”
“Better not,” he murmurs, sitting up. His bare torso stretches in the low light, muscles shifting, and I look away quickly, heat crawling up my neck.
He rakes a hand through his hair and swings his legs off the bed. “I’m gonna shower. You want to get coffee?”
The question is casual, but it lands heavy in my chest. Coffee. Like this is normal. Like I stayed over because I wanted to, not because I was too drunk to drive.
“Yeah, that sounds nice,” I mutter.
He lingers a second longer, watching me, then smiles and heads toward the bathroom. The sound of water starts up a moment later, faint through the walls.
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand over my face.
The bed feels emptier without him in it, colder. My body misses the weight of him pressed against me, and I hate myself a little for it.
I can still feel his arms around me. The way he held me like I was something worth keeping.
And the truth I don’t want to admit sits heavy in my chest: I liked it too much.
The sound of water cuts off, and a moment later Phoenix comes out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind him like he’s dragging the shower with him.
His dark hair is damp, messy, curling just enough at the edges that I want to reach out and smooth it down.
He looks good in a simple hoodie and jeans, casual in a way that makes him dangerous. Like he doesn’t have to try.
I’m still sitting on the edge of his bed.
I’ve been here long enough for my leg to start bouncing, but I can’t make myself move.
Last night—God, last night—was messy and blurred, the kind of party I usually avoid.
I remember flashes: people laughing too loud, the burn of liquor down my throat, Phoenix pulling me into his room like I was something he owned.
I remember being pissed at him, at Alison draping herself over him, at his reckless smirk when he let it happen.
I remember him cornering me with words and then kissing me like my anger was just another way of wanting him.
And then—nothing. Just heat, his mouth on mine, his hand in my hair. Until the world tilted and we ended up here.
In his bed.
“Do you want to shower? I have some clothes that might fit you.” He starts digging in his dresser, pulling out some joggers and a green T-shirt.
I get up awkwardly. “Um, yeah. That’d be nice, actually.”
He drops the clothes into my hands, his eyes drifting to my neck. He smiles softly. “Use whatever you need.”
When I’m done cleaning up, I step into the bedroom to see Phoenix on a made bed.
“C’mon,” he says, shaking his keys at me. “I need coffee to cure this hangover.”
I blink at him. “Coffee?”
“Yeah. Around the corner. Best place in the city.”
There’s a spark in his eyes when he says it, like he’s daring me to challenge him. I don’t. I just follow him out the house, pulling my hoodie tighter against the morning chill.
The air outside is crisp, the kind of clean that cuts right through leftover alcohol in my system.
Phoenix’s neighborhood is quieter than I expected.
Small houses with porches and peeling paint, dogs barking somewhere behind a fence, a woman in a robe dragging her trash can to the curb.
It doesn’t scream “hockey star.” It screams ordinary.
Phoenix walks like he owns the cracked sidewalk, long strides, shoulders loose. He doesn’t look at me, but I feel his awareness, sharp and humming, as if he’s cataloging every step I take.
“You always wake up this early after parties?” I ask, mostly to fill the silence.
He smirks. “Early? It’s almost noon, rookie.”
Right. My sense of time’s wrecked. I never drink like I did last night. I shove my hands deeper in my pockets and keep walking.
The coffee shop is tucked into the corner of a brick building, the kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it.
The sign is hand-painted, the glass windows cluttered with flyers for local bands and community events.
When we step inside, the air smells like fresh espresso and warm cinnamon.
Phoenix is different here. The second we walk in, a middle-aged woman behind the counter lights up. “Phoenix! Haven’t seen you all week, honey.”
Phoenix grins, easy and familiar. “Yeah, schedule’s been brutal. You keeping these kids in line, Marcy?”
“Trying,” she says, rolling her eyes toward the two college-age baristas struggling with a broken milk steamer.