Not Chase’s girl. Not the dutiful daughter. Not the peacemaker friend. Just me, flesh and bone and nerve endings, giving and taking in equal measure.
Well, until he ruined it.
One careless line, one reminder that even with all his intelligence, Leo Euler has a way of turning vulnerability into a weapon.
And just like that, the high of it—the connection, the electricity, the power I felt—slipped through my fingers.
But I took it back. Because no one, not even a grieving man who deserves a pass because he's hurting, is ever going to make me feel small or undeserving again.
Not even for a second. Not even as a joke.
And I made damn sure he knew that when I spit his own release back in his face and walked out. (I’m fully aware the swallowing joke just fell flat. Leave it.)
I laugh to myself at the memory.
I did that. I fucking did that.flips hair
And then... I think about what Skye and I walked in on. Stephanie, leaning into Leo. His arms wrapped around her. Her lips trembling, voice low. Skye’s jaw clenched so tight she nearly cracked a tooth.
Was Leo comforting a woman who had lost her father? Maybe. Probably. But the picture was messy—faces too close together, sadness that looked more like longing.
Grief rearranges people. It remaps the borders between right and wrong, between comfort and something more reckless. It makes hands roam and words clumsy and touch feel like the only honest thing left.
Skye refuses to see nuance right now. That’s fine. She’s furious and she can be furious for a while. I don’t blame her for how protective she is—that’s Skye.
She loves hard and loud and she sees complications as a threat. She wants clear answers and tidy justice and Leo did something that night that made her want to punch a hole through the world.
I don’t know what happened behind those closed doors.
I only know what I felt when I had him quiet and soft and broken against me a few hours later in that copy room—needed, in the most bone-deep way. I felt useful.
That’s not noble. It’s not holy. It’s human.
And when he used his smart mouth like a scalpel, when he turned our moment into selfishness, it stung. Hard.
But here’s the thing—I don’t need him to be flawless to want him.
Wanting someone and sanctifying them are separate things. I can want him and still stand up for myself. I can take the good and set boundaries on the bad.
That’s growth talking, loud and unfiltered.
And while part of me still wants to storm into his house and read him the riot act line by line, another part—the one that’s quieter and less indulgent—knows he needs space.
So do I.
He needs to be with his family. He needs to spend the holiday break, this next week, with Linda, Stephanie, their family, and whatever grief looks like when it wakes you up at 3 a.m. and won’t let you sleep again.
He needs to grieve without me making it about us. He needs to grieve without me taking it as evidence that he’s choosing someone else. He needs to be their son and brother first, and whatever he and I are second.
Because no matter what history lies between the two of them, the reality is that Leo and Stephanie shared George as a father, and Linda is still their mother.
They willalwaysbe family.
I promised Skye I’d be okay here by myself. More than that—I promised myself I’d use this time to be honest about who I am and what I need.
Part of being honest looks like writing things I can’t say out loud without devolving into an argument or crying or both.
So I grab a notebook. A pen that writes well and won’t smear. Skye’s bookstore candle because everything feels more official with a little dramatic light. And I sit at the kitchen table and write to Chase.
