Page 67 of What the Leos Burned

“It would’ve been easier if I had just reached out,” he said gently.“You saw me before anyone else did, when I had nothing. When I was just trying to survive. You loved me when I didn’t even love myself. And even when you walked away, every lyricthat ever mattered . . . came from you. I at least owed that to you.”

She looked at him. Her voice broke. “I never stopped loving you. Even when I tried.”

He held her gaze like he was reading the last line of a story he never wanted to end. He reached up and brushed her hair back. His thumb traced the edge of her jaw.

“You couldn’t,” he whispered. “We don’t know how to stop. Not when it’s real.”

Then he kissed her slow and deep. It wasn’t with hunger but with history. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission because it already belonged. It was fire without smoke. Heat without burn. A reunion, not a reintroduction.

When two Leos loved each other, it was never quiet. It was loud, even in the silence. It was war and worship in the same breath. They clashed like thunder and still chose to stay when the sky cleared. Prideful, stubborn, burning—but loyal. Always loyal.

Their love had been songs and stanzas. Loud bass and plot twists. A bridge between pages and chords. He spoke in rhythm; she wrote in metaphor. And somehow, they met in the middle of both.

Maybe that was the thing about two Leos. When the fire finally softened, what was left was gold.

That wasn’t just love.

That was home.