Leander doesn’t look wrecked the way I do. He looks… proud. Like he just conquered something. His chest rises and falls fast, sweat glistening across his skin, lips swollen from how hard I kissed him. He leans over, presses a slow kiss to my jaw, and then—gentler than I expected—he slips off the bed.
“Don’t move,” he says, voice rough but firm.
I blink at him. “Lee, I can?—”
“You can shut the fuck up for once.” He shoots me a look, the kind that’s bossy as hell, but his mouth quirks with something softer underneath. “I’m taking care of you.”
The words land heavy in my chest. No one has ever said that to me like this. Not as an order. Not as a promise.
I lie back, stunned, while he disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running, the cabinet opening, the faint rustle of towels. My throat tightens. This is backwards. It’s always me cleaning him up, patching him when he’s hurt, making sure he’s fed and steady. It’s supposed to be me.
When he comes back, he’s holding a damp washcloth and one of my clean shirts. His hands are steady, his eyes sharp, but the way he looks at me—it’s not playful. It’s not teasing. It’s reverent.
“Sit up,” he murmurs.
I obey, because somehow I can’t do anything else.
He wipes me down first, gentle but thorough, like he’s memorizing me in every swipe of the cloth. Then he tosses it aside and pulls the shirt over my head. It’s soft, worn cotton, but the way he tugs it down over my chest feels like something holy.
When he presses a kiss to my shoulder afterward, it undoes me more than the sex did.
“You didn’t have to—” My voice breaks. I swallow hard, trying again. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yeah, I do.” He settles back beside me, pulling the blanket up over both of us. His hand brushes my hair back from my face, his thumb tracing across my temple like he’s trying to soothe the chaos out of me. “Because you deserve it. And because I wanted to.”
I close my eyes. For a second, I don’t know if I’m going to cry again. My chest aches with the weight of it, with the truth of what he’s giving me. No one has ever made me feel this way. Seen me this way.
“Lee…”
“Shh.” He kisses me, slow and soft, nothing like before. “Just let me have you like this tonight.”
And I do.
I let him curl around me, his arms strong and steady, his warmth sinking into my bones. I let myself be the one held instead of the one holding. I let the silence stretch, safe and heavy, until my breathing finally evens out against him.
And the last thought that slides through me before sleep takes me is terrifying in how sure it feels: If he asked me for everything, I’d give it.
16
LEANDER
Iwake up buzzing.
Like, full-body thrumming, a kind of restless, steady hum under my skin that I don’t usually get in the mornings. Normally, I drag myself out of bed after snoozing the alarm three times, grumbling about the day. But today? My eyes snap open, lungs fill, and my body feels—God—good. Like I could take on the world.
There’s only one reason for that.
I glance to my right.
Phoenix is sprawled out like he’s been mauled by wolves. This is saying something because if anyone could beat the hell out of wolves and still walk away smirking, it’s him. But right now? He’s wrecked.
His dark hair is a mess, curling against the pillow in every direction. His lips are parted, swollen, and bruised from last night—bruised because I kissed him like I was starved and maybe bit him once or twice. His chest rises and falls in deep, even breaths, but he’s twitching occasionally, the way you do when your body’s too tired to relax fully.
The sheets are tangled around his legs, revealing the faint fingerprints along his hips, the ones I left when I held him down. Heat curls low in my stomach.
I did that. I wrecked Phoenix. And he let me.
The thought shouldn’t make me proud, but it does because I’ve seen Phoenix fight tooth and nail against anyone who tries to get the upper hand. He doesn’t give up control. Not to coaches, not to teammates, not to anyone. But last night, in our bed, he relinquished every decision, every moment to me.
