Once I’ve mostly stopped leaking, I pat my face dry with toilet paper and do what I do best: compartmentalize.
Hormones. That’s the story. It’s not even a lie, necessarily. I probablyamsomewhere in my cycle where I’d cry at nothing. I’ll lean on that. I’ll joke, deflect. And then I’ll go home, pour this all out into my journal, and figure out how the hell to keep my heart from staging this coup.
When I emerge, he’s propped up against the headboard, sheet hitched around his waist, watching the door like he’s not sure if I’ll come back. The sight makes my chest squeeze all over again.
“Hey,” I say, aiming for casual, still sounding a little rough.
“Hey,” he echoes. He studies my face. “Better?”
“Yeah.” I wave a hand. “Sorry. That was… I don’t normally burst into tears mid-orgasm. That’s a new one.”
“If it helps,” he says tentatively, “you still looked very beautiful while doing it.”
I bark out a laugh. “Always a charmer.”
He pats the bed next to him. “Come here? If you like.”
I hesitate for half a heartbeat.If I don’t move now, I think and feel simultaneously,I’m going to start crying again and then I’ll never stop.
I step back, forcing a grin. “That’s OK, I should go. Sadie will want help with the twins in the morning, and Rhi will never forgive me if I’m not there for breakfast pancakes.”
Surprise flits over his face, quickly masked. “Oh. Right. Of course. I didn’t mean to… keep you.”
“You didn’t,” I rush to reassure him, hating the way his shoulders hunch. “Tonight was …fucking fantastic. Honestly. I’m just…” I gesture vaguely at my face. “Emotional dumpster fire. You don’t need front row seats to that.”
He studies me again, frustration and concern warring in his eyes. “You know I’m quite fond of researching emotional dumpster fires,” he says softly.
I lean in and kiss him, quick and sweet, to stop him saying something that might crack me open completely.
“I know,” I whisper against his lips. “But tonight, let’s just call it hormones and leave it there, yeah?”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is.” I slide off the bed, searching for my scattered clothes. “I’ll text you tomorrow, OK? You can tell me more about your weighted blanket fantasies.”
That gets a real smile. “I don’t think those are supposed to be sexual.”
“Everything’s sexual if you try hard enough.” I wink, hauling my shorts up. “See you later, Professor.”
He walks me to the door, because of course he does, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead before I go.
It almost undoes me again.
When I get back, Leo’s in sweatpants and a faded tee, hair damp from a shower, smelling faintly of citrus shower gel. The living room behind him glows with the flicker of the TV, some crime drama paused mid-autopsy.
“Hey, Tiplet,” he says with an easy grin. “You’re back late. Everything alri-”
I burst into tears.
Not a graceful single tear, either. Full-on, snotty, hiccuping sobs that punch out of me before I can even think about stopping them. My hands come up to cover my face like that’s going to help.
My brother’s expression goes from amused to alarmed in aheartbeat. “Whoah, whoah,” he murmurs, stepping forward and wrapping those big tattooed arms around me without hesitation. “Come here. What happened?”
I fold into him like I’m made of paper. He kicks the door shut with his foot and half-guides, half-carries me to the sofa, sitting us down so I can cry into his chest like I did as a distraught teenager. One of his hands rubs slow circles between my shoulder blades, the other cradles the back of my head.
“Shh,” he says softly. “It’s alright. I’ve got you. Let it out.”
I do.
