Chapter 8 #2
Tears prick at my eyes again. Holy hell, I’m a mess today. But his hand in mine is an anchor, and I hold on tight.
The rest of the morning passes in a soft blur.
Leo doesn’t push me to talk or to do anything at all. We migrate to the couch, where he arranges blankets around me and puts on a movie I can’t follow. The plot drifts past me like clouds, but his solid presence beside me is a comfort I sink into gratefully. At some point I fall asleep against him.
When I wake, he’s still there, watching me. His fingers thread gently through my hair.
His voice is soft, relieved. “How are you now?”
I take stock. The emptiness has receded a little, filled in by sleep and comfort and his steady presence. The strange disconnection from earlier has eased. I’m more present, more solid. “Maybe a five?”
His lips curve, satisfied. “Getting there.”
He makes me eat lunch. It’s soup this time, easy on my unsettled stomach. Makes sure I drink more water, checking in periodically to ask how I’m doing. The questions should feel intrusive, but they don’t. They feel like I’m important enough to watch over.
Late afternoon finds us back on the couch. He reads to me again, and it’s a light and funny story that makes me smile despite everything. His voice is a low rumble, and I let myself drift without trying to follow the story too closely.
The room is cozy. Snow swirls outside, and the Christmas tree blinks. It’s peaceful. The kind of moment I would have killed for back when I was scrambling to find an apartment I could afford, wondering where I’d end up.
Now I’m here. With him. And even though I’m raw and not quite myself, I feel more content than I’ve ever felt.
There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, I realize.
Just here, tucked against his side, listening to his voice, existing in a space where someone notices when I’m a mess and knows exactly what to do about it.
By evening, the fog has mostly lifted. I can think clearly again. The empty feeling has faded, replaced by something more solid. I’m still a little raw, but I feel like myself again.
I’m grateful for Leo—for knowing what I needed before I did. He’s done this before, I realize. Nothing about today surprised him. The thought doesn’t bother me. It makes me feel safer. Somehow I picked the right person to trust, even when I didn’t know what I was getting into.
Leo sets down the book and looks at me. “You’re coming back,” he says. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“I think so.” I face him fully. “Thank you. For all of this. I don’t know what I would have done if…”
“You don’t need to thank me.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “But there is something I want to show you. If you’re up to it.”
Curiosity flickers, cutting through the lingering fog. “What is it?”
He stands and holds out his hand. I take it, letting him pull me up from the couch. My legs are steadier now, and I follow him upstairs without needing to lean on him.
We pass the bedroom where I’ve been staying less than half the time, then his master suite, continuing down a hallway I haven’t explored much. He stops at a door near the end and turns to face me.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” he says, and there’s something almost nervous in his voice—an uncertainty I’ve never heard from him before. “Today seemed like the right time to show you.”
He pushes the door open.
Cool air drifts out, carrying the particular stillness of an unused space. The room is empty except for built-in shelves along one wall and large windows that face the backyard. Through the glass, I can see snow blanketing the lawn, the skeletal trees frosted white.
“What is this?” I ask.
Leo flicks on the light, and I blink at the sudden brightness. The room is bigger than I realized, and its high ceilings make it feel even more spacious. My footsteps echo faintly as I step inside.
“It’s not anything yet.” He leans against the doorframe. “But it could be a studio. If you wanted.”
I stare at him. “A studio?”
“You mentioned wanting painting lessons. That you couldn’t afford them in college.” He shrugs, like this is nothing. Like he’s offering to pick up milk on the way home. “The light in here is good. North-facing windows. We could set up an easel, get supplies. Whatever you need.”
My throat goes tight. This isn’t sex. This isn’t part of the arrangement. He’s not offering me pleasure or dominance.
He’s offering me a future.
“Leo...” My voice comes out strangled. “I don’t—that’s—“
“You don’t have to decide now.” He pushes off the doorframe and crosses to me, tipping my chin up with one finger. “It’s just something to think about.”
But that’s exactly the problem. Because thinking about it means thinking about staying. It means imagining a version of my life where I come home to this house, where I paint in this room with its north-facing light, where the arrangement doesn’t end on New Year’s.
Where I’m his. Not just for a few weeks. For real.
“Thank you,” I manage. It’s not enough—it’s nowhere close to enough—but it’s all I can get out past the lump in my throat.
“You’re welcome, lass.”
He takes my hand and leads me back downstairs, back to the couch. We settle in again, and for a while we just sit there, wrapped up in each other and the comfort of the room.
Later, while Leo reads to me, I can’t stop thinking about yesterday. About the fantasy we didn’t talk about this morning.
Two men. Four hands. Being shared.
I brace for shame or embarrassment. Maybe the realization that it was just subspace and not something I really want.
But I’m wet instead. My pulse races. The desire is still there, just as strong. Stronger, even, without the fog.
This isn’t subspace talking. This is me.
I shift against Leo, and he looks down at me. Can he tell what I’m thinking about?
“Something on your mind, lass?”
My head shakes, not ready to voice it yet. Not until I’m completely steady. “Just grateful. For you. For all of this.”
He smiles and returns to reading, but I catch when the curve becomes more of a smirk. He knows. Of course he knows. He’s been waiting for me to be ready.
We go to bed early, both of us tired from the emotional weight of the day. Leo tucks me against his side, my head on his chest, his arm wrapped securely around me.
“Thank you,” I say into the darkness. “For today.”
His hand strokes down my arm, slow and soothing. “Always, lass. This is part of it—the care after. It matters as much as everything else. Maybe more.”
I think about that. About how different this is from anything I’ve experienced before.
Past boyfriends would have been confused by my tears, uncomfortable, maybe even irritated that I was ruining the afterglow of something they’d thought was great sex.
They wouldn’t have known what was happening, let alone how to help.
But Leo normalized it, held me through it without a single moment of frustration or impatience.
“Leo?”
“Mm?”
“Tomorrow.” I shift to look up at him, though I can barely make out his features in the dim light. “Can we talk about it tomorrow?”
He’s quiet for a moment. His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek in a steady rhythm.
“If you’re better and still want to,” he says finally. “If it wasn’t just the subspace talking.”
“I will.” The certainty in my voice surprises me, but it rings true.
“Then we’ll talk about it after you’ve slept.” His arms tighten around me. “Get some rest, sweet girl. You’ve been through a lot.”
My eyes close, satisfied. Once I’m feeling like myself, I’ll tell him what I want. And everything might change.
“Goodnight, Leo.”
“Sweet dreams, my pet.”
Sleep comes slowly, and the fantasy surfaces again. Complete surrender to two men.
I snuggle into his comfort and something that feels dangerously close to home.