Leander has no clue the effect he has on me. He thinks I’m the one who owns him, obsesses over him, bends him to my reckless edges. But it’s him anchoring me—him with his stubborn jaw, his sharp little comebacks, his stupidly earnest way of looking at me like I’m worth all the chaos.
I don’t think I’ve slept more than four hours a night since the season started. But last night? He curled against me, his hand on my chest, his breathing evening out as he sank into sleep. And I followed him down like he dragged me there. No nightmares. No jolt awake. Just quiet. Just Lee.
He’s mine. Finally, fully mine.
That’s why, this morning, I went and ordered a bigger bed. My apartment’s queen was fine for me. Barely fine with him in it. We’d spend half the night tangled so tightly one of us woke up sore. But fine isn’t good enough anymore. He deserves more than waking up at the edge of the mattress. He deserves to stretch, to sprawl, to feel like he belongs here the way I’ve already decided he does.
The king gets delivered this week. Black frame, sturdy headboard. Sheets soft enough I’d bleed for them. And while I was at it, I bought him a dresser. Not some spare hand-me-down piece of crap either—oak, clean lines, space enough for his hoodies and all the gym shorts he lives in.
He doesn’t know yet. He’ll probably roll his eyes, tell me I’m overdoing it, mutter something aboutcasual. But the way hisbag sits half-open in the corner of my room every night tells me casual is already out the window. He’s here. With me. And I want him to know that he can stay.
Practice that afternoon feels different.
Leander is buzzing, shoulders looser, his focus razor sharp. It hits me halfway through drills—he’s starting to take after me. Not the reckless parts, not the dangerous late-night self-destruction. The other side. The hunger. The one that lives for the ice, for competition, for being undeniable.
I watch him skate, cutting fast and precise, and I can almost see the shift in the way the guys look at him. He isn’t just the rookie anymore, shiny and untested. He’s theirs. One of the pack. Even the defensemen who grumbled about him last week are starting to nod when he scores, to smack his helmet after drills.
It makes my chest swell.
I want to believe it’s me rubbing off on him—my leadership, my grit—but I know the truth. It’s us. It’s what we do to each other. He’s steadier because I’m obsessed with holding him steady. And I’m calmer because his presence settles something in me I didn’t even know was restless.
I’ve been told my whole life that I can’t be contained. That I don’t know when to quit. That I’m fire and gasoline and too much for anyone to hold. But then there’s Leander—quiet strength, careful anger, discipline like sharpened steel. He doesn’t put me out. He redirects me. Makes the blaze burn clean.
Watching him in practice, seeing him jaw back at Johnny when the guy ribs him about his stick handling, hearing him actually laugh instead of freezing up—fuck, it’s like watching him come alive in real time. And maybe it’s selfish, but I like to think I’ve got a hand in that. That he’s becoming more of himself because of me.
After practice, we linger in the locker room. He’s slower to change now, less guarded. A month ago, he would’ve bolted the second he could, ducking questions, dodging eyes. Now? He leans against his locker, towel slung low on his hips, actually talking with the guys. Laughing, even.
Johnny throws him a grin, says something about the bruise on his collarbone, and for a second my chest tightens with that possessive spark. But Leander just shrugs, mutters something back that makes Johnny laugh, and I let it slide. Because I know where those bruises came from. I know he didn’t cover them up this morning on purpose.
When he finally pulls his shirt over his head, our eyes catch again. His smile is small but sure, like he knows what I’m thinking. Like he knows that all I want is to drag him home, push him onto that bed that’s too small for us, and remind him over and over that he’s mine.
And soon, when the new bed comes, he won’t just be mine in the quiet moments. He’ll be mine in the space we share. The drawers. The sheets. The life that bleeds together until I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
A few days later a knock comes earlier than I expect. I’m still shirtless, sprawled across Leander, tracing the scar near his rib like it’s a secret map only I’m allowed to follow. He grumbles, shifting against me.
“What the hell—” His voice is low, groggy.
I grin, kiss the crown of his head, and slide out from under him. “Stay here. Don’t move.”
He mutters something about bossy captains, but he stays.
Two delivery guys stand outside, sweating under the weight of the oak dresser wrapped in blankets. Behind them waits the mattress, sealed tight in plastic. My chest thrums.
“This way,” I tell them, voice sharper than I intend, nerves buzzing in my veins.
The thud of wood against the walls echoes through the place. My heart won’t slow down, not until I see him.
Leander emerges half-awake, hair messy, shirt twisted, blinking like he’s not sure what planet he’s on. He freezes as soon as his eyes hit the dresser. The mattress. The frame.
He goes still, the kind of still that makes my stomach knot.
“Phoenix…” His voice is low, cautious.
I cross the room quick, my arm brushing his. “We needed more space. For your stuff, I mean.”
His gaze flicks from the dresser to me, and I see it—guilt, sharp and sudden, like I’ve caught him stealing something. He swallows, throat tight.
“Phoenix, this is… a lot.”
