Chapter 105: The Comfort

Lisa's POV

There’s a subtle magic to waking up with Leo next to me, the slow, even rhythm of his breathing.

I now realise how mistaken I was.

Familiarity is comfort when founded in choice and care. It’s peace. You can even wake up and not question where you are.

Still, Leo and I have been taught one other lesson: comfort doesn’t mean stagnation.

By the time it’s late in the morning, we’re already dressed and out the door half way, keys in hand when Leo suddenly stops and looks at me with that particular glint – the one that spell trouble or adventure.

"What?" I ask amused.

“What if we don’t go to where we think we should?”

I arched a brow. “You mean to cancel it?”

“No,” he said. “Redirect.”

I laugh. “That sounds suspiciously like chaos.”

He grins. “The good kind.”

And just like that, our quiet Saturday turns into something else. We end up in a part of the city neither of us visits very often—a district of cramped streets, aging brick structures, and cafés that seem to have been there long before we arrived and are sure to be there long after they are gone. Leo parks the car and as we walk, lacing I his fingers through mine, it’s second nature now. Easy.

It’s incredible how natural it is—to be seen with him, to be with him. There's nothing pulling at my shoulders, no urge to protect myself from judging stares or whispers. Just us, moving together.

We find a little restaurant between a bookstore and an art supply store. No window, no door, only a chalkboard menu pinned to the wall.

“Looks promising,” Leo says. “Every place with horrible lighting, handwritten menus and shit food.”

“And I’m usually right.”

The scent of garlic, herbs and something decadent and soothing welcome us as we enter. It’s a small venue, seats are tightly packed, the walls are covered with browned photographs of towns I don’t know. We order without hesitation and overthinking, sharing plates, just the way we’ve learned we want to.

“Not bad,” I say in awe after the first bite.

Leo smiles, pleased. “See? Trust the chaos.”

We talk as we chew – nothing and absolutely everything. A childhood story of his. A memory of mine. Even out there plans we didn’t make yet. Plans that are more than just the name of our future plans. Ideas we are still shaping up.

There’s no need to define anything — there’s no rush. We don’t need to show how strong we are.

We already know.

After a late lunch we drift into the bookstore next door. It’s the smell of aged paper and silence. Leo goes right to the history section, and I make a beeline for fiction, running my hand across the spines and softly reading the titles to myself.

“You always do that,” Leo says, popping up beside me.

“Do what?”

“Stroke the books as if they were going to vanish if you don’t.”

I smile. “Books are living things to me..”

“So do you,” he says as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

The words land gently, but they stay with me.

We each buy a book—just one—and leave with the tacit agreement that we’ll read them side by side later, even if they prove to be completely different worlds.

By mid-afternoon we’re back at home with our shoes off and the windows open to the breeze. It’s a lazy sort of ease, the way we occupy the same space and come in and out of each other’s lives—Leo making coffee, me leafing through my sketchbook, both of us occasionally brushing past and coming into contact, unthinking, unafraid of the spark.

It’s domestic in a very good way.

Later, Leo proposes something unanticipated.

“What do you say to getting new skills together?” he suggests.

“Like what?” I ask, uneasy but intrigued.

“Cooking classes. Or dancing. Or—” He shrugs. “Anyting that makes us both terrible at something.”

“Absolutely,” he says, unashamed. “But I also want in the bad column for something with you. Equal footing.”

The thought is warmer in my chest than I'd expect. “Okay. But if we take dance lessons and you step on my foot—”

“I’ll apologize profusely.”

“And get me dessert.”

“Deal.”

That night, we go for something small first-something safe but new. We are making a recipe neither of us has ever made before. The kitchen is awash in laughter and mild panic, Leo dramatically declaring the sauce “too far gone” and me rescuing it with one tiny tweak.

“You’re so frustratingly talented,” he mutters.

For your next line: “You’re so charmingly dramatic.”

And we’re eating on bar stools at the kitchen counter, legs touching, feeding each other god knows what and making gods laugh and sons of gods comments. It’s not fancy. It’s not perfect.

It’s ours.

Later: We snuggle on the couch with the movie trailing quietly in the background. I’m not paying close enough attention to the screen. There’s nothing on the screen as compelling as Leo’s arm, his thumb at work with slow patterns on my side.

“You know,” he says after a moment, “I like this version of us.”

I tilt my head at him. “Which version?”

“The one that knows how to rest,” he says. “And more,” all the urges, feelings, and possessions he claims were stolen from him by his brother.

I nod slowly. “Me too.”

I’ve been thinking about the past – on how we used to coexist and not connect. How silence was heavy instead of soothing. How normal was a jailer, not a cornerstone.

This feels different. This feels intentional.

As the night wears on, we dream and talk about places we might like to go one day. Cities neither of us has been to. Things we’ve always said we’d do “one of these days.

“Let’s not make someday be too long from now,” I say quietly.

Leo presses a kiss to my temple. "Then we won't."

I lay my head on his chest, and listen to his heart beating, feeling both grounded and alive.

That’s the balance, I have to remember.

It’s like breathing togetherThe comfort of knowing someone so intimately you can breathe in sync.

The thrill of deciding, every day, to learn something new together.

And as I drift off to sleep, wrapped in the quiet certainty of us, I understand this rhythm—this mix of familiarity and wonder—is something worth protecting.

It’s something you can build a future on.