Page 19

Chapter nineteen

Dane

I grabbed Leo's hand and led him to the couch where he collapsed on top of me. His weight held me down as his breathing came in jagged starts, each inhale unsteady as he was on the edge of tears.

I tightened my arms around him. One of my hands settled at the nape of his neck, where his hair was damp with sweat. He twisted his fingers into my shirt, bunching the fabric. He held on so tightly that I thought he might be worried I'd dissolve if he let go.

"I've got you. You're okay."

He didn't answer. It was unnecessary. The trust exhibited in how he collapsed against me spoke volumes—Leo, or perhaps I should say Riku, who'd spent years building walls so high even he couldn't see over them anymore, had finally handed me a ladder.

The soft glow of a single lamp cast long shadows across the room, and my worn leather couch groaned beneath our weight. "Sorry," he whispered, the word muffled against my shoulder.

"Don't." I cut him off gently. "You don't have to be anything here. Just be. It's only you and me"

He exhaled against my chest, and his breath was warm through the thin cotton of my shirt. Something fierce and protective unfurled in my chest, a visceral sensation that bordered on pain.

Leo pulled back slightly, far enough that I could see his face. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes still damp, but the raw devastation had faded. He dragged the back of his hand across his cheek, catching the remaining tears.

"Shit. That was—"

"Necessary," I finished his thought, shifting my position to let him have space without completely breaking contact. "You've been carrying too much."

"I guess you're not the only guy with the weight of the world on his shoulders."

I pushed myself off the couch. My legs were stiff from how long we'd lay tangled together. "Stay put. I'll get you something to drink."

In the kitchen, I filled a glass with water and spotted a faded Lewiston Forge blanket draped over the back of a chair. I'd bought it during my first season with the team, back when I was still trying to prove I belonged—not only in the league but in the town.

The fabric had softened with age. The team logo faded somewhat, but it was still visible. I grabbed it and returned to the living room, draping it over Leo's legs.

He had slumped deeper into the cushions, head tilted back, eyes closed. Exhaustion had carved new lines around his mouth,.

I handed him the water and pulled the blanket over his middle. "Hydrate. Doctor's orders."

"You're not that kind of doctor," he muttered, taking the glass and drinking deeply.

I settled beside him, closer than before. "True. My medical expertise is limited to diagnosing terrible taste in movies."

He laughed. "I don't believe that. You probably have the entire Criterion Collection alphabetized on a shelf."

"As if." I pressed a hand to my chest in mock offense. "They're organized by the director, obviously."

Leo laughed harder. He nudged my knee with his. "You're such a pretentious asshole."

"And yet, here you are."

He sipped the water again. "Yeah. Here I am."

I reached for the remote, switching on the TV mostly for background noise. "You want to watch something mind-numbing? I've got a documentary on the rise and fall of the Montreal Maroons that'll put you right to sleep."

"God, you really are the worst." Leo groaned, and I laughed. "Put it on anything."

I scrolled through the options until one caught my eye. Pretty Woman . I hesitated for half a second, then clicked play.

Leo cracked one eye open, his head still pressed against my shoulder. "Seriously?" His voice was rough, low. "That's older than me."

I shrugged. "But Richard Gere looks soo good."

Another laugh escaped Leo, this time almost soft and lazy. "And here I thought you'd pick something a little more rough. An action movie. Something Marvel. Not… this."

"You don't like Pretty Woman ? Did you lose your gay card somewhere? This is a classic. Romance, humor, high-stakes shopping montages. What's not to like?"

Leo lifted his head slightly, just enough to glance at the screen where Julia Roberts was flashing that perfect smile. "You're the last person I'd peg for a rom-com guy."

"I guess you peeled back another layer of this onion." I stretched my arm a little, giving him space to settle closer. He didn't hesitate, leaning back into me.

Leo's voice dropped lower. "You just wanted an excuse to say you're the Richard Gere in this situation, didn't you?"

I chuckled, resting my chin lightly against his hair. "I'm just saying—if I ever show up in a white limo, you'd better be ready."

"You're an idiot." There was nothing raw, only affection, behind the words.

"And you're still here."

"Yeah. I'm not going anywhere."

The movie's dialogue faded to white noise as Leo gradually drifted closer until his shoulder pressed warmly against mine. I lifted my arm without thinking, making space for him to tuck himself against my side.

"This okay?"

He nodded, his hair brushing my chin. "Yeah."

My palm found its way to his side, fingers settling into the dip of his waist. The physicality between us wasn't new—we'd shared far more intimate touches—but now it was different. Unguarded.

Leo's fingers idly rubbed my sweatpants. "My great-grandfather played hockey," he said after several minutes of silence, his voice barely audible over the TV. "In a fucking internment camp. Used it to survive being locked up by his own government."

I tightened my arm around him, acknowledging the weight of what he was sharing. "That's where his poetry came from?"

"Yeah. The ice metaphors and his descriptions of movement in his writing—" Leo's voice caught in his throat. "All this time, I thought I was running from my heritage by playing hockey. Turns out I was honoring it in ways I never knew."

"Maybe that's why his words spoke to you so deeply. Something in your blood recognized what he was saying."

Leo rested his hand on my thigh. "It's been a long time since I felt safe enough to be both—Riku and Leo. Japanese Canadian and hockey player. Maybe I never have."

"You are. Here. Both. All of it."

He nestled his face into my shoulder. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Come up with the words that I need to hear."

I shrugged, my chin brushing the top of his head. "Lucky guess."

Leo grew heavier against me as exhaustion pulled him under, his body going slack with sleep. I didn't move to avoid disturbing whatever peace he'd found. Instead, I reached for the remote and reduced the TV's volume, content to sit as his anchor for as long as he needed.

The steady rhythm of his breathing against my chest represented trust I'd somehow earned without trying. I silently promised to be worthy of the man who'd been brave enough to share his broken places.

The following morning, I woke slowly, realizing where I was piece by piece. First, there was a crick in my neck, and then the weight of Leo sprawled half on top of me, with one leg thrown over mine and his face pressed into my chest.

We'd changed positions during the night. The couch wasn't made for two grown men to sleep comfortably, yet somehow, we'd managed. The blanket tangled around our legs, and Leo's arm wrapped possessively across my middle, fingers curled into my side.

I allowed myself a moment to examine him. Sleep had stripped away the sharp edges he wore like armor, softening the lines around his mouth and between his eyebrows. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and a faint shadow of stubble darkened his jaw.

What would it be like to wake up to him regularly? Could I have the privilege of seeing Leo Campbell with his defenses down, day after day? Goosebumps rose on my forearms at the thought.

He stirred, perhaps sensing my attention, dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks before his eyes opened.

"Morning," he mumbled, in a voice rough with sleep. He didn't move away, blinking up at me through strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead.

"Your hair looks like something died in it," I told him, unable to resist running my fingers through the mess.

Leo batted at my hand weakly. "Fuck off." There was no heat in the words, only sleepy affection.

"You drool in your sleep," I added, which wasn't strictly true, but the indignant scowl it provoked was worth the little lie.

"I do not." He pushed himself upright, wincing as stiff muscles protested. His hand came up to rub at the back of his neck. "Christ, your couch is a medieval torture device."

"Next time, we'll use the bed." I froze at the implication.

Leo raised an eyebrow, but instead of mocking me, he nodded once. "Yeah."

I stood and stretched, working out the knots that had formed from the night on the too-small couch. "You hungry? I could make breakfast."

"You cook?" Leo sounded skeptical.

"I'm a grown man with a functional kitchen. Yes, I cook."

He tilted his head, studying me with an appraising look that reminded me of how he sized up opposing defensemen. "Okay. Impress me."

"Prepare to be amazed."

Scents of melted butter and coffee filled the kitchen. Leo perched on a barstool at the island, elbows propped on the granite, watching me with that half-amused, half-suspicious look he'd perfected.

"You're actually not terrible at this," he observed as I flipped a pancake.

"Try not to sound so shocked." I slid the spatula under the golden disk and transferred it to a plate. "Contrary to what you might think, not all rich kids had personal chefs."

"No?" Leo reached over and stole a piece of bacon from the paper towel where I'd been draining it. "I assumed you had servants following you around with silver platters."

I snorted. "Not quite. My mom believed in learning practical life skills. She made Christopher and me take turns cooking dinner once a week from the time I was twelve."

"Let me guess. Christopher made foie gras and beef Wellington, and you burned spaghetti."

"I could turn out a pretty decent chicken piccata by fourteen." I poured more batter onto the griddle, watching bubbles form across the surface. "Christopher was banned from the kitchen after he nearly burned the place down trying to make crème br?lée."

Leo laughed, the sound easier and more genuine than anything I'd heard from him in weeks. He slid off the stool and moved toward me, invading my space to peer at the pancakes. "Move over. You're making them too thick."

"There's a correct pancake thickness?" I shifted to make room for him.

"Obviously." He bumped his hip against mine, taking the spatula from my hands. "Too thick, and they're gummy in the middle. Too thin, and they're basically crepes."

I stepped back, leaning against the counter to watch him take over. "Where'd you learn to cook?" I asked, reaching around him for my coffee mug.

Leo kept his eyes on the pancake, flipping it with a practiced wrist flick. "Family restaurant, remember? Dishwasher at twelve, prep cook by fifteen." He shrugged. "Not exactly the silver spoon upbringing, but it had its perks. Pancakes aren't Japanese, but I made them for Mei and me."

"You know, there are easier ways to avoid eating my cooking than taking over."

"I'm improving it, not avoiding it. Besides, cooking alone is boring."

There was something so casually intimate about the statement—about standing in my kitchen with Leo, watching him make pancakes like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like we'd done this a hundred times before and would do it a hundred times more.

"Fair enough," I said, reaching past him again to refill my coffee. I let my free hand rest briefly at the small of his back—a touch with no purpose except connection.

By the time we sat at the table, we'd assembled a spread that would have impressed my mother's country club friends—golden pancakes, crisp bacon, scrambled eggs with fresh chives, and toast slathered with real butter. Leo dug in with the enthusiasm of someone who'd burned through all his emotional reserves and was only now realizing how hungry it left him.

"Okay, I'll admit it," he said around a mouthful of pancake. "You're not completely useless in a kitchen."

"High praise indeed." I lifted a crispy strip of bacon. "Though you did hijack my pancakes."

"Improved them," he corrected, reaching for the maple syrup. "Your eggs are decent, though. I'll give you that."

"Next time, I'll have to prove I'm the better boyfriend cook." The word slipped out before I could consider its weight.

Leo paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. The silence stretched for three agonizing heartbeats while I internally cursed my lack of filter.

The word slipped out before I could stop it. Maybe it was reckless or too soon, but when I looked at him—sleepy, warm, curled up in my kitchen—I couldn't imagine calling him anything else.

I realized how much I wanted it to be true. And how terrifying it was to think that Leo might not feel the same.

Then, he smiled—a small, private response, nothing like his usual sharp grin. "You can try." He ducked his head slightly. "But I've got years of professional kitchen experience on you."

He hadn't corrected me and hadn't flinched or pulled back. He accepted the label with a quiet certainty.

The moment settled between us, weighty with possibility. Outside, snow had begun to fall, fat flakes drifting past the kitchen window. Inside, surrounded by the remnants of our shared breakfast, I watched Leo's fingers tap an absent rhythm against his coffee mug while something solid and certain took root.

The morning stretched long and lazy around us as we finished breakfast, neither in a hurry to break whatever spell had settled over my apartment. I collected our plates, brushing away Leo's attempt to help.

"You cooked, I'll clean," I insisted, stacking dishes by the sink.

Leo leaned back in his chair, one hand wrapped around his coffee mug. "Since when have you been such a stickler for kitchen etiquette?"

"Since you mastered the perfect pancake flip, and I decided I want to keep you around." The words came easier now, the acknowledgment of what we were becoming less terrifying with each passing hour.

He watched me rinse plates, his expression thoughtful. "What time's practice?"

"Two." I glanced at the clock on the microwave. "We've got time."

After loading the dishwasher, I rejoined him at the table, our knees bumping underneath. "You okay? After last night?"

He considered the question, taking it seriously rather than deflecting. "Yeah. I think I am." He set down his mug, turning it slowly with his fingertips. "It's weird. I spent so long running from that part of my life, but now that it's out there—now that I've confronted it—I feel..."

"Lighter?" I suggested.

"Something like that." He shrugged, the movement causing his borrowed t-shirt to slip slightly, revealing the edge of his collarbone. "I'm not saying everything's fixed. It's complicated with my family. Always will be. But something important changed last night, you know?"

I nodded, understanding more than he realized. "Sometimes the things we run from hardest are the things we need to face most."

"Spoken like a guru in a temple somewhere."

I chuckled. "I've had my share of running." I thought of my father's disappointed face, Christopher's ultimatums, and the future carved out for me before I was old enough to have a say. "Still doing it, in some ways."

Leo's hand found mine across the table, his fingers weaving together with mine. "Yeah, well. Maybe we can stop running together." He paused, grimacing slightly. "That sounded less cheesy in my head."

"You know, you can always stay here, right?" I said, the offer feeling monumental despite its simplicity. "Not only after emotional breakdowns. Whenever you feel like it."

Leo's thumb traced a slow pattern against my palm, the calluses on his skin catching slightly against mine. "Yeah," he said softly. "I know, and thank you."

Outside, snow continued to fall, blanketing Lewiston in pristine white. Inside, warmed by coffee and something far deeper, I held onto Leo's hand while the last of my walls crumbled. Whether I was ready for it or not, I was falling—had already fallen—for the one person who understood the man I was and the man I wanted to become.

"We should probably shower before practice," Leo said eventually, though he made no move to release my hand. "Coach will notice if we show up wearing yesterday's clothes."

"Probably," I agreed. "I've got clean gear you can borrow."

He raised an eyebrow. "Should I be worried that you have spare clothes in my size lying around?"

"TJ crashes here sometimes when he's too drunk to drive," I explained. "But feel free to read into it if that makes you feel special."

Leo laughed. "You're such an asshole."

"An asshole who makes excellent eggs," I reminded him.

"Debatable." He released my hand and stood. "Seriously though, I need a shower."

"Down the hall, first door on the left. Towels are in the cabinet."

He nodded, hesitating for a moment as if wanting to say something more. Instead, he leaned in and quickly kissed my lips—casually, like we'd done it a thousand times before. Before I could react, he was already moving toward the bathroom, leaving me frozen in place, fingers touching my mouth where the ghost of his kiss still lingered.

He'd gotten under my skin in some of the best possible ways. Leo was the man who not only fit into my world but changed the shape of it. He had shown me his broken places, the lines that sustained permanent damage, and trusted me not to break him further. And God, I wanted to be the man who deserved his trust.