“No.”
“Leon—”
“I’m not getting back into that bed.”
We held there, a stand-off that wasn’t about control so much as it was about something neither of us was saying, and then he exhaled and stepped back.
“Fine,” he said. “Then don’t fall over.”
“I won’t.”
I meant it.
He wasn’t convinced.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered.
And when I went into the bathroom, he stayed close, supervising a shower, watching me brush my teeth, and only giving me space when I needed the toilet. He was as obsessed as I was.
That was a very good feeling.
He handed me a towel without a word, then another. “Hold still,” he said, brisk and efficient, except his hands weren’t steady and his eyes kept tracking me as if I might disappear if he looked away for too long.
“Dry off,” he muttered, then stepped in closer anyway, taking over when I slowed, roughing the towel over my shoulders, my back, careful around the bandaging but not gentle enough to be called soft.
I let him.
When he was done, he didn’t step back.
He held me in instead.
Close.
Arms around me, one hand braced at the back of my neck, the other at my side.
“You could have died, idiot,” he said into my shoulder, voice low, rough. “Don’t do that again.”
“Clearly I didn’t die.”
“Well, you could have.”
“But I didn’t.”
He huffed and checked on me, frustration and something sharper underneath it cutting through. “Look—” he started, then stopped, dragging a hand over his face. “Fuck. I’m trying to say something here.”
I waited.
“I love you,” he said.
He held my shirt, breath hitching as if the words cost him.
“A life without you would be wrong,” I replied. “I think that’s love, right?”
His lips twitched into a smile, then he huffed. “Jesus, yes, that’s love, asshole,” he said. “So, no dying on my watch,” he added, quieter now but no less certain. “No more jumping on me like that. No heroics that are gonna get you hurt.”
These weren’t reasonable conditions given I’d do anything to get between him and danger.
But I understood what he was asking.
