Chapter 112: The Afterglow

Lisa’s POV

We finally do make it back for breakfast, though not as quickly as we should have. With every step or two toward the counter, Leo pulls me back for one more kiss, whispers one more “I love you,” like he’s testing how it sounds, like he’s savoring the shape of the words on his tongue.

And each time, I melt a little more, answering in kind, my hands tangling in his hair on the scalp, on the nape, skimming down his chest, over his shoulders, along his arms—any place I can place my hand on him to verify he’s real.

"The toast," I pant finally between kisses, laughing into his mouth. “Leo, the toast is definitely cold now.”

“Don’t care,” he murmurs, his lips moving to the corner of my neck. "You will when you taste it."

“Worth it.” I inch him away lightly with my hands from his chest, still grinning so wide it’s making my cheeks hurt. “Come on. Let's pretend to have a little self-control or some such."

He groans for dramatic effect, but lets me go, and then he immediately pulls his hand back to mine again, lacing his fingers though he seems unable to stop himself from touching me.

"Fine but I’m blaming you when the toast tastes like cardboard."

"Me?" I exclaim for fun. "You're the one who kept distracting me!"

"You're distracting me by just being alive," he says with a charmingly sarcastic tone, and the earnest reaction to the jesting makes my heart jump.

We sat at the tiny table in the kitchen, our plates at last before us. The toast is, as one might expect, warm and a little rubbery, and the coffee is not quite hot enough. Neither of us seems to care.

Leo takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, then gazes at me with total seriousness. “This is the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten.”

I laugh bitterly. "You are such a liar."

"I'm not." He reaches across the table, his thumb running over my knuckles. "Best company, best morning, best everything."

The way he looks at me—warm, open eyes, no walls, no guardedness—tightens my throat.

“You’re going to make me cry on my lousy toast.”

“Please don’t. I would have to comfort you, and then we’d never finish eating.”

“Would that be so bad ?”

His smile turns mischievous. "Not even a fecking bit." "Not even a little bit."

We’re eating slowly and talking about nothing in particular — the weather, a book he’s recently been reading, a show I’m interested in watching. But beneath every boring phrase is this undercurrent, this realization that everything has changed. That we’ve passed some invisible line and we can’t turn back.

I don’t want to go back. When we are done, Leo gets up and begins to clear the plates. I move forwards to help, but he gently pushes me back into my seat.

“Got it,” he says.

“Leo, I can —”

“I know you can. But let me.” His expression softens. “You made breakfast. I will clean up.”

Something about the casual domesticity of it — the way he so effortlessly takes on this little chore — swells up in my chest.

"Okay," I say softly.

"Actually," he says, with a playful glint in his eyes, stopping halfway to the sink. "On second thought, you should assist."

I raise an eyebrow. "I thought you had it?"

"I changed my mind. Come here."

I get up and join him at the sink, unable to tell if I’m more suspicious or fascinated. He's already turned the water on, dipping his fingers to check the temperature. He hands me a plate when I get to his side.

"You wash and I'll dry?" I say.

"It's the perfect division of labor," he says, though his tone suggests he's thinking of something else.

I should’ve known better.

We start out just fine — I lather up a plate, rinse it, pass it to him. He is methodical as he dries it. We fall into a rhythm, our bodies pressed close within the confined space, sometimes our hips collide, and our arms brush.

And then, all of a sudden, he splashes me with water.

A few drops only, falling on to my arm.

I glance down at the water droplets and freeze, then I slowly look up at him.

"Leo."

"Hmm?"

I plunge my fingers into water full of soap and flick it backward, striking him in the chest. His mouth is agape in mock amazement.

"Lisa, did you just start a water fight in my kitchen?"

"’Your’ kitchen? I thought we agreed that this was our kitchen."

"Oh, so now you're claiming it?"

"Absolutely."

His smile is brilliant, and it’s perilous. "Good to know."

Then: mayhem—the best kind. Water splashes between us, soap bubbles riding the air like little clouds. I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe, hiding behind the counter, as he advances with wet hands. He grabbed me at the waist and pulled me back against him and I squealed as icy water trickled down my neck.

“Truce!” I pant. "Truce!"

"Say I win."

"Never!"

He was tickling my ribs gently and I turned into a wild laughing mess."I’m sorry!” “Say it!”

"Okay! Okay, you win!"

He lets me go at once, whirls me to look at him. We’re both drenched – his hair is wet, my shirt sticks to me, we have a puddle on the floor surrounding us. We look utterly ridiculous.

And I never have been happier.

“You’re a danger to people,” I say as I try to breathe.

“You love it,” he says, which brings back what I said earlier.

“I love you,” I say softly, correcting him.

His face changes, the playfulness recedes into something else. He takes my face in his wet hands, and then leans down until our foreheads meet. “I love you, too. So much.”

This time we really do finish washing the dishes together, stopping from time to time to steal kisses or just to stand close with our shoulders touching. When the last dish is dried and put away, when the counters are wiped and the floor is mopped, Leo takes my hand.

“Come with me,” he says.

“Where?”

“Couch. We‘re doing nothing for the rest of the morning.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing at all. We’re going to be insufferably lazy and happy, and neither of us is going to allow the other to feel guilty about it.”

I laugh as he pulls me toward the living room. “That sounds perfect.”

The huge couch is soft and perfectly placed to the morning sun shining through the windows.

He slips his arm around me and pulls me close, his other hand comes to ours and interlaced with mine.

“Comfy?” he mutters.

“Extremely.”

We lapse into silence but it's not barren. It's full – full of satisfaction, and warmth and the simple joy of being near another human who sees you and chooses you, no matter what.“That silence feels like home.

Outside I hear the faint sounds of traffic, life going on as it always does. But here, at this moment, time stays still. Like we made a world of our own where nothing else matters. "What are you thinking?" Leo asks finally, his voice low and gentle.

I said, “How different everything is now. Nothing too badly different. Just…more.”

"More?"

"More certain. More real." I stop, searching for the right words. “Like before, a part of me was always expecting something bad to happen. But now…”

"Now?" he asks more gently.

“Now I think I can just let myself be happy.”

His arm tightens around me. "You deserve to be happy, Lisa. You deserve all of it."

I tilt my head up to look at him. "So do you."

He smiles, soft and private, and presses a kiss to my forehead.

"Well then we’re both pretty lucky," I say.

"I guess we are."

We fall back into the comfort of silence. His fingers dance lazy patterns on my arm now—circles, figure-eights, and shapes I can’t put names to. It’s soothing, hypnotic, grounding. I let my eyes drift closed not sleeping but simply existing in the feeling of being held, being wanted, being loved.

"Lisa?" His voice rumbles through his chest.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

I open my eyes. "For what?”

"For this." He pauses,"For loving me back."

My heart clenches. I lean over slightly so I can get a better look at his face. “Leo, you don’t need to thank me for that. Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

His eyes glisten for a moment and he blinks rapidly, jaw clenching. “Don’t make me cry on our perfect morning.”

“You started it,” I tease softly, leaning up to cup his cheek.

He turns his face into my hand and kisses my palm. "Fair point."

We’re like that for a while — discussing our dreams and fears in edited chunks, and even dumb stuff that makes us giggle. He tells me about how he once attempted to build a treehouse as a child and it came crashing down in less than an hour. I tell him about my catastrophic stab at trying to learn guitar that culminated with a snapped string and a bruised ego.

We trade memories and aspirations and those types of exposed realities that you only reveal to someone you fully trust.

Eventually we change positions — I’m lying down with my head resting in his lap as he runs his fingers through my hair in a pace that makes me feel sleepy. He's talking about a trip he wants to go on, some place with mountains and clean air, and if I would go with him.

"Of course," I murmur, with my eyes half open. "Anywhere."

"Anywhere?" he repeats, with pleasure in his voice.

"Mmhmm. As long as you're there."

His hand lingers in my hair for a moment, then goes on, softer now. “That's a dangerous promise, Lisa. "

"I trust you with it."

The words hang in the air laced with a meaning far beyond that simple statement. Because trust is more than words—it’s this, it’s mornings spent tangled together, it’s laughter over toast gone awry, it’s selecting one another again and once more.

“I’ll handle it,” he is promising softly. “I’ll take care of you.”

“And I’ll look after you,” I add, with all my heart and soul.

Now the sun has risen and the morning has bled into the afternoon, we're still at it. Still wrapped in each other, still talking and laughing and kissing and being.

I couldn't imagine going anywhere else.

Nobody else I want to be with.

This—this feeling of contentment, this sense of peace, this overriding feeling that everything was as it should be—is the thing that I’ve been seeking, now I realise, all along without really knowing that that is what I was seeking.

“Hey?” I say finally.

“Hmm?”

“I’m so glad I didn’t stay in bed.”

He laughs, a deep, rumbling laugh. “Me too. Though waking up alone was briefly traumatic.”

“Poor baby,” I tease as I gently poke his side.

He takes my hand and brings it to his lips. But it was worth it, though. “This morning has been…”

He trails off as he tries to find the right words.

“Perfect?” I ask him.

“Yeah.” He smiles down at me, “Perfect.”