“And she told me,” Leo says. “All of it. About how unhappy she’d been. About reconnecting with him. About when it changed from talking to meeting up for coffee to fucking behind my back.”
He pauses, fist to his brow, eyes closed. “Then she looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘I love Aaron. And I want a divorce.’” He laughs once, humorless. “That was the only direct sentence she gave me in who knows how many years.”
I don’t realize I’ve moved until the inside of my thigh brushes the heat of his torso and my hand is no longer simply grazing his shoulders. I’ve spun him toward me, both arms now wound around his neck, pulling him into my body before I can think better of it.
He stands there, frozen, like he’s trying to process why I’ve suddenly turned into a koala. But when I whisper, “I’m so, so sorry,” he understands what kind of sorry it is—the deep kind, not the cheap kind—and he steps into my embrace, arms wrapping tightly around me.
We stay that way, wordless, for a long minute. His hand moves slow and steady up and down my back; I press my face into the warm curve of his neck. Hugging my girlfriends is one thing, but being held like this—by him—feels entirely different.
He’s warm. And safe.
He makes me laugh. He understands my pain in a way nobody else does right now. Leo sees me because he’s lived this—walked through the fire, the chaos, the pain, and survived it. And without me even asking, he’s helping me survive it, too. Not because he wants anything. Just because that’s who he is.
“Truly, I’m sorry,” I whisper again into his neck. The kind of sorry that means I’ll sit in the ruins with you, even if I can’t rebuild them. “And I’m so proud of you.”
He nods. “Thank you.” He doesn’t let go, but he does ease back enough to look me in the eye. He’s standing between my knees now, his hands sliding from my back, down my thighs, untilthey rest on my knees. My palms settle against his chest like they’ve been waiting there.
“That’s the greatest hits,” he says with a shrug. “Divorce paperwork. A house. A series of terrible choices on my part that added up to… a lot of noise. Hookups, mostly.” His smile is crooked, not quite reaching his eyes. “You’ve met the ghost of that man.”
“I’ve met you,” I say. Simple. True.
His smile softens. It’s real.
This. This moment is real.
I can feel his heartbeat under my palm. A whisper of cotton under my fingers. I trace up, slowly—his sternum, collarbone, the angle of his jaw. His not-quite-beard is rough along his jawline, and my thumb catches on the scruff in a way that makes my stomach drop like a ride just started.
His eyes flick to my mouth, then back to my eyes, and he doesn’t move an inch. Not until I do.
I lean in, carefully, gently, pressing my lips to his. It’s just a peck. A question. But I linger, not pulling back. Not just yet. He exhales against my lips and the sound goes straight through me.
I break the kiss for a breath, close enough to feel him smile. “Is this okay?” I whisper, because, rules.
His hands slide up and tighten on my hips, just enough to answer the question twice. “This is more than fucking okay.”
He pulls me in and the kiss goes from sweet to something that feels like stepping into warm water: deeper, all-encompassing, inevitable. He tastes like spearmint and granola and something that is just—him. I slide closer and he presses his body into me, fitting himself between my knees like his body has known this geometry longer than his brain. My fingers curl at the back of his neck. His thumb settles at my waist, not possessive—anchored. I’m very aware of the incline, of the way my sweater has gone too warm, of the small, embarrassing noise I make when he tilts his head and changes the angle.
This kiss doesn’t turn frantic. It doesn’t need to. It’s a steady climb, an easy yes. There’s the slow press of our bodies, the rhythm of two people figuring out exactly how they like to fit, a barely-there grind that pulls a swear out of him against my mouth and a shiver out of me that has nothing to do with the wind.
When I finally ease back, my breath is wrecked in the best way, and his forehead finds mine like we’re both surprised the physics of standing still still apply. His eyes are dark and soft at the same time, and for a heartbeat I forget why anything ever felt complicated.
He brushes his nose against mine and I have to fight not to lean in and claim his lips once more.
“I get that your life is complicated right now,” he says, low. “I’m not expecting you to want more. Or less. Or to even understand why you wanted to kiss me.” His mouth curves, something tender and wrecking. “But, Jesus, Tori, I’m damn glad you did. If for no other reason than because you’re so fucking beautiful and you deserve to be kissed.”
My laugh comes out shaky, like my insides are still readjusting to gravity. “That was… a lot of words to say you liked it.”
“I did,” he says, solemn as a vow. “Extensively.”
“Extensively is not a feeling,” I say, pushing him back a step.
“It is in calculus.” He grins. “We just integrated for a while.”
I palm my forehead. “Oh my God.”
“Don’t worry,” he adds, mock-serious. “We stayed within bounds.”
I drop my head back and groan at the sky. “You promised no math.”
