By the next morning, the tension feels baked into the air. Leo’s up early again, moving quietly through the kitchen. I can hear the faint creak of the couch as he stretches, the soft clink of his mug against the counter. He’s not loud—he’s never loud—but somehow I feel every movement.
When I step out, hair still damp from my shower, he looks like a man running on fumes. Shoulders stiff, jaw tight, a faint wince when he rolls one arm. The couch hasn’t been kind.
“Rough night?” I ask, trying to sound neutral.
He glances over. “Fine.”
“Fine,” I echo. “You sound like you wrestled the couch cushions and lost.”
One corner of his mouth quirks. “Could use a little more support. I’m not twenty anymore.”
That flicker of guilt tightens my chest, my breath catching as my fingers fidget against the edge of the counter from yesterday twists in my chest. I shove it down. “You could’ve told me you were uncomfortable.”
“I’m not here to make work for you.”
“That’s not the point.” I step closer before I can stop myself. “Sit. I’ll fix the cushions.”
He raises an eyebrow but obeys, settling onto the couch with the cautious stiffness of a man twice his age. I tug and fluff until the fabric looks more forgiving, then hand him a pillow from my bed.
“Better?”
He tests it, then nods. “Yeah. Thanks.”
The quiet that follows is… different. Softer, almost. His sleeve brushes mine when he reaches for the mug, fabric warm against my skin, and the awareness that he’sright therehums through me. Softer, almost. The way his voice roughens onthanksdoes something traitorous to my pulse.
I move to the counter, desperate for a distraction. “Turmeric tea helps with soreness. I’ve got ginger too.”
“I’ll live,” he says.
“I didn’t ask.” I fill the kettle, pour boiling water over the herbs, and slide the mug toward him. “Drink.”
He eyes it suspiciously, then takes a sip. “Tastes like dirt.”
“Expensive dirt,” I say, fighting a grin. “You’re welcome.”
His shoulders relax a little, and for a second, we’re almost easy again—until he says, “You’re stubborn, you know that?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t let anyone help,” he says, each word clipped, deliberate. The rhythm sharpens the air between us. “You guard that studio like a dragon.”
I stiffen, the warmth evaporating. “That studioismy life. I built it from scratch. Nobody handed me a team or a paycheck to chase my dream.”
His eyes narrow. “You think money solves everything for me?”
“If the shoe fits,” I bite back. “You literally tried to buy a bed to fix an inconvenience.”
He stands, slow and deliberate, mug still in hand. “I was trying to be practical, not entitled.”
“Same difference when you’re used to the world rearranging for you,” I fire back, heart pounding.
We stare at each other, the space between us tight and charged again. His chest rises, falls, steady, while mine feels like a runaway metronome.
Then his voice drops—low, even. “You really think I’ve never had to fight for anything?" The words land like a punch. Heat climbs my throat, shame and something sharper tangling until I can’t tell which one stings more.
The quiet that follows is heavy enough to bruise. I open my mouth, then close it. No answer feels right.
Finally, he sets the mug down. “Thanks for the tea.”
