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Your mouth forms a perfect ‘O’ as you come, Leigh's fingers moving deftly down your jeans. She is entranced by the sight of you falling apart in her hands, torn between kissing you and watching as you ride the final waves of your orgasm.

The moment she opened the front door and saw you, she couldn't resist. You’re dressed in a loose white button-down shirt, open at the chest to reveal the collarbones she recently discovered she’s so fond of. The sleeves are rolled up to your elbows, and your boot-cut jeans fit perfectly, accentuating all the right places, especially at the back. The subtle scent of your perfume, sweet and intoxicating like chocolate, drifted across the room, pulling her closer. Without a second thought, she grabbed you by the collar, kissing you deeply as she pulled you into the kitchen.

“You're so beautiful,” Leigh whispers, her breath hot against your ear. Her eyes are locked onto your face, mesmerized.

You gasp, your body tensing as you reach the peak. “Leigh, please” you breathe out, shifting uncomfortably. The tight confines of your jeans restrict your movement. Sure, they make your figure look fantastic, but at moments like this, you question if it's really worth it.

Leigh's lips hover just above yours, her fingers still working their magic. “I can't decide,” she murmurs, her voice low and husky.

“Decide what?” you ask, your voice quivering.

“Whether I want to kiss you or keep watching you like this,” she replies, her eyes dark with desire.

Your hands find their way to her shoulders, pulling her closer. “Both,” you whisper. “Do both.”

-

As you both recover, you adjust your clothes, tucking your blouse back into the waistband of your pants. Still catching your breath, you glance at Leigh, who is already rinsing her fingers under the running water of the sink.

“What was that for?” you ask, your voice still a bit breathless.

Leigh grins, glancing over her shoulder at you. “Payback for last week.” 

She moves around the espresso machine, then says, “By the way, I'm really sorry,” as if she hadn’t been driving you to an intense climax just minutes ago. “I can’t believe I overslept.”

You lean casually against the counter, your legs still weak from coming so hard, thoroughly entertained by her stream of apologies and quietly thrilled that she cares so much. The bagels you brought—laden with lox and a thick layer of cream cheese—wait patiently between you.

“It’s really okay,” you say, watching her make a fuss. Catching her hand as she goes for another apology, you squeeze it gently. “You… more than made up for it.”

She has the good grace to blush, a soft smile breaking through her earlier fretfulness. “Thanks for waiting,” he says, her voice still a little hoarse and, somehow, even more beguiling. “I’ve been looking forward to today. I guess last night just took more out of me than I thought.”

“You don’t say,” you tease lightly, observing the casual disarray of her hair and the relaxed hang of her clothes—it’s Leigh unplugged, and you’re increasingly fond of this version. 

Leigh's eyes shift to the side, landing on the two take-out lattes you had bought earlier, now sitting forlornly on the counter. She grimaces slightly as she realizes they've gone cold—leftovers from your long wait outside her house, where it hasn’t stopped raining. 

“Oh, you brought coffee too,” she husks out. “And I made you wait…”

“Yeah, I might have been a bit optimistic about the timing,” you say.

Leigh gives you a long, scrutinizing look, clearly baffled by your patience.

“I don’t get it,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Get what?”

“It’s just—I’m clumsy, you know? I forget things. I’m always late to appointments. I keep expecting you to realize how dysfunctional I am and run off,” she jokes, though her eyes tell a different story. The coffee maker gurgles, signaling that the brew is ready. She moves to pour the coffee, her shoulders tense, hesitating before speaking again. “But you don’t. You just... stay. And I don’t understand why.”

You watch her pour the coffee, the steam rising in soft curls. “I stay because I love you, Leigh,” you say simply. You’ve told her that three—maybe four—times now. Not that you’re counting, but each time it gets a little easier to say. And you hope, for her, it gets a little easier to hear.

She hasn't said it back, and while you’re unsure if she feels the same, you know she cares—maybe not enough to utter those three words yet, but enough to be here now. Her accepting this date, spending this day with you, it’s a concession you wouldn’t trade for the world.

Leigh's gaze flickers, eyes widening a touch, lips parting as though words are on the brink of breaking free. You hold your breath, waiting for whatever she might reveal. But then, she blinks—like she's snapping back from a distant thought—and quietly turns to pour another cup, her glance drifting off as she collects herself. 

She hands you a steaming mug, her fingertips brushing yours. You take it from her carefully, feeling the warmth seep through your fingers, spreading a comforting heat up your arms. 

“Thanks,” you say, your voice low, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth as you take a slow sip.

Leigh watches you over her own cup, her eyelashes casting long shadows on her cheeks as she takes a tentative sip. Words have the power to bring things into being, and for Leigh, speaking things into existence feels like an indelible commitment—a promise carved into stone. 

But maybe some things are beloved even before they ever take shape.

-

After breakfast, you both head to The Beautiful Beast to drop off Logan. Jules is happy to take care of him, as the house is empty with Amy away on a trip with friends. With Logan settled, you and Leigh head to the art exhibit you had tickets for.

Inside the exhibit, you find yourselves packed tightly among the throngs of people. The crowd presses in, and while the vivid artwork is a distraction, the constricted room makes it tough to fully enjoy the pieces. Far from the tech hubs and arts districts, the local community jumps at anything that breaks the monotony of their usual scene. Moreover, today’s rain has chased everyone indoors, turning this rare cultural event into a magnet for locals starved for something different. With the parks soggy and deserted, people had the choice between shopping malls or here.

As you and Leigh wade through the crowded gallery, people jostle for space, elbows occasionally colliding with your sides as they vie for a better view of the vibrant installations. Suddenly, a passerby brushes against you, nearly pulling you away from Leigh. Instinctively, you snatch her hand, holding fast for dear life. In the confusion, unsuspecting of the sudden tug, Leigh loses her footing. Her thick heel comes down hard on your foot, and you yelp in pain. Tears spring to your eyes, and you try to hold back a cry, but the pain is sharp and persistent.

“Sorry, sorry!” Leigh's cheeks flush with mortification as she quickly steps back. “Are you okay?”

Trying to brush it off with a grimace that's more a wince, you manage a weak smile. 

“I'll live,” you say, half-joking, even as you gingerly test your foot. “But I think that was my cue to start wearing steel-toed boots around you.” 

Despite herself, Leigh chuckles. “I'm really sorry,” she laments, reaching out to gently squeeze your arm. “Let's find a place to sit, okay?”

You cautiously try a step, hopeful but hesitant. The sharp pain bites, making you flinch, and you end up limping. Immediately, Leigh slips her arm around your waist to stabilize you.

“Let's find someone to help you get to a first-aid station,” she suggests, eyeing your gait with concern.

“But the exhibit?” you protest weakly, looking longingly back at the art you were both eager to see.

Leigh gives you a wry smile. “I'm more worried they might have to amputate your foot,” she jokes, successfully coaxing a laugh out of you. Yet, as you chuckle, you wince again, putting weight on your foot without thinking.

Noticing your discomfort, Leigh guides you gently towards the front of the gallery. Soon, you're at the information booth, where a helpful attendant offers you an ice pack and points you to a bench near the entrance. As you try to get comfortable on the small bench, you struggle to keep the ice pack properly positioned on your foot, repeatedly bending down in an awkward dance of readjustment. 

“Here, just put your foot on my lap,” she suggests, patting her lap lightly. 

You start to object, not wanting to impose, but before you can finish your sentence, Leigh decisively grabs your leg and guides it onto her lap. She starts massaging the sole of your foot while holding the ice pack firmly against the swollen area. It's a simple, caring gesture, and you can't help but watch Leigh as she focuses on making you feel better. 

When she looks up and catches you staring, she smirks. “Penny for your thoughts?”

You shake your head slightly, a small smile playing on your lips. “I just didn't think we'd end up back here, and we haven't even seen a third of the art yet,” you say.

Leigh laughs softly. “It's okay, the exhibits weren't all that impressive anyway,” she says. “Besides, I was starting to feel claustrophobic there.”

A twinge of disappointment pulls at you. You’d been excited about the exhibit, about sharing something you thought would be cool and sophisticated. With your foot throbbing and Leigh’s less-than-enthused review, the day feels like it’s stumbled right out of the gate.

Leigh notices your sudden quiet and nudges you gently. “What's wrong?”

“I just thought you’d be into this. I was almost entirely sure,” you say, avoiding her gaze.

“I am,” Leigh says, still holding your foot. “I love exhibits, but right now, my top priority is spending time with you.”

You blush at that. “We are spending time—”

She cuts you off with a small laugh. “I mean, like, actually talking. It’s hard to have a conversation when we’re constantly moving and trying to look at everything.”

You mull that over, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, the kind that feels more like understanding than emptiness. Then, out of the blue, Leigh asks, “So, how did you end up being an animal doctor?”

You’re startled by her sudden question, but it’s a welcome distraction from your foot and the disappointing exhibit. 

“It’s a bit of a long story,” you start. 

“I’ve got time,” she says with a smirk.

You take a deep breath and lean back on the bench, feeling more comfortable as your leg rests on Leigh’s lap. Her foot massage is so soothing, it’s almost putting you into a sleepy state. 

“Well, I always loved animals. My parents used to joke that I’d bring home every stray if I could. But it wasn’t until I volunteered at a local shelter in high school that I realized it was what I wanted to do with my life.”

Leigh tilts her head and smiles. “That’s sweet. What was it about the shelter that made you decide?”

“It was this one dog,” you say, your voice catching and your eyes getting misty. “A scrappy little terrier mix named Max. He’d been through so much, but he still had so much love to give. Helping him heal and find a forever home—it just clicked. That’s when I knew I wanted to help as many animals as I could.”

Leigh looks at you with a kind of awe, as if something beautiful is unfolding before her eyes.  “That’s amazing. I love that you found your calling through something so meaningful.”

You shrug, feeling a bit bashful under her stare. “What about you? When did you know you wanted to be a writer?”

She laughs, a light, airy sound that makes you grin from ear to ear. You could listen to it forever. 

“Oh, I’ve always known,” she says. “Actually, I was always writing in my diary as a kid. I'd write about my day, things I enjoyed, pretty much anything that came to mind. I loved reading pocket books, too, and I even tried my hand at writing fiction once or twice.

“But I quickly discovered that fiction wasn't really my thing. I loved writing, though—just the act of putting words on paper, sharing my thoughts and experiences. It felt natural, like breathing.

“And even though I wasn't making up fictional characters and places,” Leigh continues, “I realized I could still tell stories. They were my stories, rooted in the everyday things I observed and experienced. That was my niche, and I just ran with it.”

“Did you have a specific moment, like with Max?” you ask.

“Not really,” she says. “It’s just what I wanted to do, that’s all.”

You nod. “Knowing what you want to do or be saves a lot of time, doesn’t it?”

“I guess?” She smiles at your insight, then adds, “Though maybe in another life, I’d be a serious journalist. If I thought I had the natural knack or talent for it, maybe I would.”

You frown slightly at that, concerned by her self-doubt. “Why do you think you’re not good enough to be a ‘serious’ journalist now?”

Leigh looks surprised by your question, then thoughtful. “I don’t know. I guess I always see those roles as being for people who are more... intense, more investigative. But you’re right. Maybe it’s just a matter of believing I could.”

“You’re an amazing writer, Leigh,” you say earnestly. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

“How can you say that?” she asks, leaning in a bit closer. “Have you read any of my work apart from my tiny blurbs in the gossip column?”

You feel a blush warm your cheeks. “Well, I might have done a bit of Googling,” you confess, rubbing the back of your neck sheepishly. “Your articles popped up, and I... may have read all of them.”

Her eyebrows lift, and she gives your foot a careful pinch. “Is that so?” she teases, her voice dropping lower. The blush spreads down your neck and chest. “And what did you think? Did they pass muster with our impromptu art critic here?”

“Honestly, I was blown away,” you say, looking her straight in the eye. “Your writing is intuitive, engaging. It pulled me right in. You've got this strong, clear voice that really comes through, even in the straightforward pieces.”

Leigh regards you for a moment longer than usual, as if trying to read the pages of a particularly dense novel—searching for the truth in your words. Then, as if finding what she was looking for, her features soften, the guarded lines around her eyes relaxing.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice carrying a tender gravity. “That really means a lot to me.”

You beam up at her, blissfully unaware of the profound impact your praise has had on her appreciation of her own writing. 

Before you can pick up the thread of your laid-back conversation again, a man who could easily double as an Instagram model approaches. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a rogue lock of hair artfully obscuring one icy-blue eye. Both you and Leigh pause, taken aback by his sudden, striking presence, and an instinctive wariness settles in between you.

“Hey there. Are you okay?” he asks, hovering slightly, his focus solely on you, as if Leigh is merely a shadow on the wall.

“It's nothing, just a bit of swelling,” you say. You look up at him briefly and force a smile before focusing your attention back on Leigh.  She's already staring down the stranger, as if trying to laser through his meticulously sculpted side-profile.

He presses on, “I could drive you to the hospital to get that checked out.”

You exchange a quick look with Leigh, catching the flash of irritation that crosses her face before she masks it with a polite smile. 

“That’s very kind of you, but I'll be fine.”

Despite this, he doesn’t give up. “Really, it's no trouble at all. You shouldn't walk on that,” he says, pointing at your foot that’s clearly on someone else’s lap. This time, his gaze lingers a little too long for comfort. 

Leigh gently lowers your foot from her lap and stands up, positioning herself between you and the persistent stranger. There's a considerable height difference between them—Leigh is notably shorter—but she doesn't seem intimidated in the slightest. Instead, she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin like she’s ten feet tall.

“Excuse me,” Leigh clears her throat. “We’re on a date here.” 

The man blinks, surprised. “A date?” he echoes.

“Yes,” Leigh confirms, her smile now a thin line of resolve. “The kind where I kiss her goodnight after.”  

You catch a few curious glances from nearby onlookers and feel a blush creeping up your neck. You duck your head, trying to shield yourself from their stares. More than anything, though, you're struck by Leigh's bold declaration to a near stranger—that she was going to kiss you by the end of this date.

Of course, you’re hoping she would, but hearing her say it out loud sends your stomach into a flutter of somersaults

His face registers the rebuff, and he nods awkwardly, stepping back. “Right, sorry,” he mutters before finally turning and walking away.

Leigh is heaving slightly, visibly tense, her back to you, and you gently take her hand to bring her focus back.

“Hey,” you mumble softly. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Leigh says as she turns back to face you, her eyes now softer. You sense the tension easing from her as your fingers intertwine more firmly. “I’m sorry if—”

“Thank you,” you interrupt gently, wanting her to know her protectiveness was welcome. “I really appreciated that.”

She laughs, a sound of relief. “Okay, good. I didn’t want to come off too strong.”

You want to tell her that she does, that she's always been a force to be reckoned with. But you bite your lip, not wanting it to come across as criticism. You like this quality of hers, and you don’t want her to change anything about herself just because you're a completely different person with a different perspective.

She shuffles her feet, looking a bit unsure, then sits down beside you. “So... where were we?”

You smile at her. “I was saying how amazing you are as a writer.”

Leigh grins, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, right. Please, go on.”

You laugh, and the two of you spend the next hour in the art exhibit, talking about everything and nothing.

-

At 1pm, you and Leigh head out for a scenic drive to Santa Monica Beach.

A week ago, as soon as she agreed to this date, you booked a table at a beachside lobster joint that’s been trending locally for some time now. It seems like the perfect spot, with great reviews and a beautiful setting by the ocean. The drive is relaxed, the windows rolled down and the salty air filling the car, clearing away any last threads of the tension from earlier at the exhibit. 

Leigh is in high spirits, chatting animatedly about books and laughing more freely than she has all day. At one point, you find yourselves discussing The Great Gatsby.

“I just don't get the hype,” you say, shaking your head as you keep your eyes on the road, though you're eager to dive into what promises to be an interesting debate. “I mean, the characters are all so shallow, and the story feels more like a soap opera than a classic.”

Leigh's expression brightens, excited to dispute your claim. “But that’s exactly why it’s a classic,” she counters, turning to face you and resting her head against her arm on the windshield. “Fitzgerald captured the Jazz Age perfectly—the decadence, the disillusionment, the elusive American Dream. It's all critiqued through some really beautiful writing.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “So you think the shallowness is the point?”

“Exactly,” she replies, smirking slightly. “Gatsby's obsession with Daisy, who represents everything he can't have, mirrors the era's obsession with wealth and status. It's tragic and a little ridiculous because it's supposed to be.”

You pretend to mull it over, though you know she has a point. You can feel her gaze on you, and you're starting to relish Leigh's undivided and very welcome attention. You drag out your response, just to see how she reacts. You think you catch her rolling her eyes out of the corner of your eye.

Chuckling, you say, “You’re making it hard to stick to my guns here.”

Her smirk widens into a proud smile. “Good! Maybe it’s time to surrender those guns.”

You flex your arm, showcasing your slim and completely unimpressive biceps. “Speaking of guns, maybe I should keep these instead,” you joke, giving Leigh a playful look.

Leigh makes a face. “Oh, please, keep those guns. They're definitely more persuasive than your take on Fitzgerald!” she teases. 

You pout at her sarcastic comment about your physique, but your smile is good-natured. It's been a long time since you've felt this at ease—not just with Leigh, but with anyone else. You haven't enjoyed company like this in a while, not since... 

Well, not since Matt. 

After a while, you say, “Maybe I need to give it another read. You make it sound like a completely different book.”

Leigh shifts in her seat to face the long, winding road ahead. “We can read it together. Maybe you’ll catch some of the subtleties you missed the first time around,” she suggests.

You sneak a glance at her, catching her eyes just as she looks back at you, your dark brown eyes meeting her green ones. It's a bit ridiculous, but you find yourself wishing this drive would never end. The swelling in your foot stings with every press of the gas pedal, but somehow, it doesn't seem to matter.

“I’d love that.”

-

When you pull into the quaint parking lot of the restaurant, nestled right against the beach, you're greeted by stunning ocean views that truly live up to the hype. Inside, the nautical decor, complete with nets and life rings adorning the walls, is cliché yet undeniably still charming. The rain has subsided, but the beach remains unusually quiet, lacking the usual crowds that gather when the sun is out. 

As you settle into a table with a view of the beach, it feels like the right kind of perfect until you start discussing the menu and Leigh's smile drops a touch. 

“I should’ve mentioned—I’m allergic to shellfish.”

“Oh,” you manage, a twinge of embarrassment settling in your stomach. You feel a bit foolish for jumping ahead without checking first. It's not the first time this has happened with Leigh, and suddenly, her earlier hesitations about your intentions and feelings make more sense. You realize you've constructed a version of her that feels familiar, yet moments like these remind you that there's still so much about her you have yet to understand.

“We can go somewhere else,” you suggest, even though you don’t have the first clue where else to go.

“Really, it's okay. We don’t have to leave. I'll find something else. This place is too gorgeous to skip just because of that,” she says.

You hastily scan the menu for alternatives, but the options are slim. The only non-shellfish item is a fish and chips plate that looks unappealing at best. Then, tucked at the bottom of the menu, you spot a plain cheeseburger with fries on the side.

“Leigh, we should really head somewhere else,” you say, remembering how she mentioned she was starving just before stepping inside the restaurant. The last thing you want is for her to settle for a less-than-satisfying meal simply because the setting is picturesque.

Leigh gives you a reassuring smile, but you can sense the underlying frustration as she says, “You don't need to make such a big deal out of it.”

“But you said you were hungry.”

“I know you mean well, and I really appreciate it. But honestly, it's just lunch,” Leigh says.

You go quiet, not wanting to argue further, but inside, you’re still kicking yourself for not having a backup plan. Sensing your inner turmoil, Leigh sighs, dropping the menu on the table. 

“Hey,” she begins softly, waiting until you meet her eyes before offering a small, apologetic smile. She knows today hasn't gone as smoothly as you hoped—starting with her oversleeping, then arriving late to a gallery you were excited to see, only to find it overcrowded. And on top of that, the incident where she stepped on your foot. You’ve been brushing it off, insisting you’re fine, but she noticed your grimaces every time you pressed the gas pedal during the drive. Clearly, today hasn’t unfolded as you planned.

Leigh’s not trying to downplay the effort you've put into today, but she also doesn't want you to think that a single mishap could turn her away. She hopes you don't set expectations too high just yet, not when you're both still in the early stages of getting to know each other. Beyond the undeniable physical chemistry between you, she's looking forward to discovering how you both handle the less-than-perfect moments just as much as the perfect ones.

Once she has your attention, she continues, “I was married for seven years and had numerous relationships before that.”

Your curiosity prickles—Numerous? How many?—but Leigh keeps talking, pulling you back to the moment.

“I've seen all the grand gestures. They’re fine—they’re romantic, but right now, I just want to do normal stuff with someone I like.”

“Me, too. I—”

“That means not worrying about every little thing on a menu I can’t eat. I don’t need every outing to be perfect.”

You nod, a realization sinking in. Leigh doesn’t want you to treat her as if she’s delicate, like china that could shatter at any moment. She wants you, with all your flawed plans and your corny jokes.

Maybe, you realize, you and Leigh share more than just an intense attraction. You both harbor insecurities about being wanted for something you're not, rather than for who you truly are. Deep down, there's a fear lurking in you that maybe this—whatever this is—could evaporate. You're scared that Leigh might discover something about you that could change her mind, worried that all this might just be a fleeting curiosity or a complicated connection tied to her past.

So you aimed for perfection today—at the expense of not being yourself, perhaps becoming too cautious and too rigid in the process. Leigh's desire for authenticity over perfection makes you rethink your approach.

“Okay,” you finally say, setting the menu down. You signal a waiter and order their bestseller—broiled lobster in butter garlic herb sauce.

Leigh looks up from her menu. “And I'll have the cheeseburger,” she tells him. Then, leaning across the table, she adds in a mock-threatening tone, “But you should know, it’s actually breakfast and dessert where you really can’t go wrong with me.” She exaggerates her expression, widening her eyes for effect.

Perhaps it’s a good lesson to learn that not everything has to be perfect to be right. 

At least, not with Leigh Shaw.

-

After a hearty meal, with you having indulged in the lobster since Leigh couldn't partake, you both feel pleasantly full. Needing to stretch your legs and help settle the big lunch, you suggest a walk along the shore.

You roll up your jeans to your calves, trying to keep them dry, but the relentless little waves have other plans, occasionally splashing over and wetting the fabric. Meanwhile, Leigh, wearing high-waisted cotton shorts, meanders alongside you, unaffected by the water's reach. As the sun dips lower, it paints the horizon in vibrant shades of orange and pink. Endless stretches of beach host a few leisurely strollers, all basking in scenery that seems almost too striking to be real. 

Walking side by side, every now and then your fingers brush against each other—a fleeting touch that sends a subtle thrill through you. Despite the advanced nature of your physical relationship, you and Leigh exchange shy smiles, almost as if you're newly acquainted. It's a curious thing that here, in the open expanse of the beach, there are instances where it feels like you haven't crossed those boundaries at all.

You want to reach out and hold her hand, but Leigh is wrapped up in her own thoughts, her arms crossed as she stares out where the horizon swallows ships whole. Respecting her reverie, you shove your hands into the pockets of your jeans instead.

After a while, Leigh turns to you, her face catching the evening light, transforming her into something almost otherworldly. Her expression is open, inviting, and it makes your heart stumble over itself once more. 

“So, Y/N,” she says, her voice low and a little unsteady, as if she had second thoughts a moment ago about whether to even say the words. “Tell me about the girls and boys you've loved before.”

Once again, you’re unsuspecting of Leigh’s directness.

You scramble for a moment, trying to buy some time. “Well, what exactly do you want to know about them?” you ask, watching her closely. Ex-lovers are bound to come up soon, and you haven't really thought about your own answer. Truth be told, your track record feels lackluster, but somehow you think that might be a good thing.

Leigh bites her lip, seemingly pondering her next move. She kicks at the small ripples lapping at her ankles, sending water splashing in little arcs. After a moment, she looks up at you coyly. “I don't know, you decide what to tell me,” she says, unapologetically leaving the ball squarely in your court.

Her response puts you at ease a little, turning the pressure of the question into more of a gentle invitation to share what you feel comfortable with. 

You take a deep breath, tasting the salt on the breeze. “I didn't actually have a boyfriend until I was twenty-two,” you say, glancing at Leigh to gauge her reaction.

Her eyebrows lift in surprise, an expression that draws a small laugh from you. “Yeah, I was a late bloomer,” you say, a flippant shrug accompanying your words. “I think I was just curious, you know? Everyone around me was pairing off, and I felt like I was missing out.

“It lasted six months. It was more about exploration than anything else. And then, well, it took another two years before I found myself in something serious.”

“With who?” Leigh asks, slowing down a little. The wind picks up, teasing strands of her hair across her face, not bound today in her usual ponytail. She brushes them aside absently, her focus fixed on you.

“Her name was Alex,” you continue, the name rolling off your tongue thoughtfully as bittersweet memories flood your mind. You haven’t thought about her in a long time—she was your first love and your first heartbreak. “She was incredible—taught me what it really means to be with someone, to really be present. We were together for almost three years.”

Leigh suddenly stops and turns to face you. She grabs your hand, guiding you both to a weathered bench a few steps from the lapping waves. 

“How did it end?” she asks quietly.

“We moved in together after a year,” you say, trying to keep your tone light even though you’re about to rehash a painful past. “Things were really good, at least that's what I thought. But then, just a month after our third anniversary, I came home early from work and... I found her in bed with someone else.”

“Oh, Y/N…”

“It was her coworker, someone I'd always just thought of as a colleague of hers,” you conclude, managing a tight-lipped smile. Neither of you speak for a while, allowing the susurration of the sea to fill the gap instead.

“I’m sorry,” Leigh finally says.

You shrug, looking out at the horizon where the sun meets the calm waters. “It's a long time ago. From what I've heard through mutual friends, they're still together. Maybe they were meant for each other, and I was just a stop on her journey to finding that out. I mean, I shouldn't feel so bad for not getting in the way of true love.”

Leigh shakes her head, not buying into your attempt to whitewash what Alex did. “She should've ended it with you properly.”

You’ve pondered that moment countless times, wondering if it would have been easier if she had simply been honest about falling out of love. You picture different scenarios where you come home to Alex waiting to tell you there’s someone else, and each time, you arrive at the same painful conclusion.

“I don't know, it probably would have hurt just the same,” you tell her honestly. 

Leigh scoots closer, looping her arm around you and resting her head on your shoulder. In a whisper, she concurs, “I think so too.”

Then, Leigh starts sharing her story with Matt. It begins at a college house party, where they first met—just a couple of undergrads who had no idea what the future held. As she talks, you rest your cheek against her head, absorbing every detail. You chuckle at her lighthearted anecdotes, feeling the happiness they brought her. But as she talks about the tougher times, particularly the months leading up to his death, your smile fades, replaced by a tightness in your chest.

Soon enough the telling morphs into a session of self-reflection where it becomes unclear whether Leigh’s speaking to you or to herself. She suggests that she blames herself for his death, feeling as if she had somehow caused his demise. She confesses that when he died, it seemed like all the good parts of her died with him, parts she now thinks existed only because of him. 

When she finally breaks down, sobbing into your neck, you pull her closer, wrapping your arms around her as if you could squeeze away all the guilt and pain she’s carrying. Part of you wants to interrupt, to assure her that she’s wrong, that all her good parts were always there, maybe just brightened by her love for him—because isn’t that what love does? It casts everything in a better light. But you resist the urge to speak, understanding that sometimes the best comfort you can offer isn’t words, but simply presence and the quiet acceptance of her sorrow.

-

It starts to rain again a few minutes into your drive back to the city. As the droplets splatter against the windshield and the wipers slide back and forth, you notice Leigh holding up her phone, talking animatedly into it.

“Hey there, we're on our way back and look at this rain, it's really coming down! Oh, and I've got someone very special I want you to meet—this is Y/N.” She angles the phone toward you. You feel your cheeks warm as you give a small, awkward wave. “Aren’t those eyes incredible? Like deep, rich coffee... absolutely gorgeous.”

“What are you doing?” you ask, still a bit embarrassed.

“Something for my eyes only,” Leigh replies nonchalantly, lowering her phone but keeping that roguish smile.

“You didn't have to stop,” you tell her, still a bit amused by her whole vlogging act.

Leigh turns to face you fully. “I kind of want to look at you now without a screen between us,” she murmurs, her voice low and inviting.

You swallow, feeling a thrill at her directness. Leigh's approach is always bold, and it sends an excited shiver down your spine. You wish you weren't trapped in the driver's seat, confined by the slow crawl of traffic, so you could fully engage with her flirtation. Yet, there's a part of you that suspects Leigh enjoys knowing you're somewhat at her mercy, divided between the road and her teasing.

Trying to distract her from whatever she’s up to, you throw out a playful challenge. “Want to guess where we're headed next?”

It seems to work as Leigh glances out at the relentless downpour. “In this weather?”

“Yup,” you respond simply, a mysterious smile on your lips as you focus on the rain-slicked road ahead, keeping the surprise of your next stop just between the two of you for a little longer.

Leigh has this endearing habit of pressing the back of her fingers against her mouth, her thumb brushing her lower lip as she thinks. You've come to recognize this gesture as a sign she's deep in thought or uncertain about something.

“Bowling?”

You snort in amusement.

“At least give me a clue!”

“It involves a membership card,” you hint.

Leigh scrunches up her nose, clearly appalled at her next guess. “The gym?”

“The library, of course,” you reply with a grin, recalling an earlier conversation. “Remember I mentioned having a membership card?”

Leigh narrows her eyes, and in a skittish huff, slaps your arm lightly. “You're totally messing with me,” she accuses.

“Hey, I'm driving here!” you protest, trying to keep the car steady. Undeterred, she pokes at your ribs, discovering a ticklish spot. You can't help but burst into laughter. “Seriously, Leigh, we're going to crash if you keep this up,” you say between giggles, half-joking, half-pleading for mercy.

She pulls back, her laughter tapering off into a series of chuckles that fade into the rhythmic splatter of hefty raindrops on the car roof. Once it’s comfortably quiet again, she leans back in her seat, her expression turning curious and a little conspiratorial. 

“Speaking of books, there's something I almost forgot to tell you,” she says.

“Yeah?” you respond, somewhat distracted as a car swiftly cuts into your lane.

“Matt's comic is going to be published posthumously,” she reveals slowly. “Danny and I have been working together on it.”

You strive to keep your expression blasé at the mention of Danny's name. There's no room for jealousy when it concerns Matt's legacy. If Leigh needs to do this, whether Danny is involved or not, it's her choice and not your place to question.

“That's amazing, Leigh,” you say, trying to sound cheerful and supportive. “Matt would have been thrilled.”

Leigh gives you a curious look. Your focus remains on the road ahead, so you miss the reservation in her green eyes.

“You think so?”

“Yeah,” you respond, nodding. Without much thought, you add, “He used to show me his work, and I was honestly impressed.”

Leigh's expression shifts subtly at your words, and there's a moment of quiet between you. “Matt never showed me his works,” she says softly, almost to herself.

You feel a flush of embarrassment, realizing it might have sounded like you were bragging about being privy to Matt's work—a privilege Leigh, his wife, hadn't shared. You manage only a soft, “Oh,” which hangs awkwardly in the air.

“I found his sketches one day by accident, and he didn't like it—me seeing his work, I mean. He always wanted to keep that part of his life separate.”

You’re still processing this when Leigh speaks again.

“I used to tell him everything, you know? I’d ask for his take on my work, vent about the chaos at mom’s studio, and talk through the tough times we faced as a family when—well, when Jules was dealing with her addiction,” she says, her voice trailing off a bit at the end.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, not knowing what else to say.

Leigh brushes off your sympathy with a gentle flick of her wrist. “No, it's not that he was trying to be secretive. I think... I think I was too critical of him, even about his depression.  I thought I knew everything, knew what was best for him.” She sighs, a shadow of regret crossing her face. “I guess I was kind of overbearing, so he stopped sharing things with me. He chose to keep it all to himself instead of having to constantly argue with me.”

You wince slightly, feeling guilty in some way, but Leigh quickly reassures you. “Hey, I’m not telling you this to make you feel bad that he shared things with you. I’m actually glad he did. His work deserves to be out there.”

You nod, taking in Leigh's reflections quietly. Wanting to steer back to a milder topic, you ask, “So, when is it going to be published?”

Leigh's fingers absently toy with the ends of her hair as she thinks. “It's set to come out early next year,” she finally says, her voice surprisingly devoid of excitement. You can't help but wonder why that is.

“And there's going to be a tour right after—it's promoting the comic along with some other new titles from the publisher. I'm... planning to go.”

“That sounds like an incredible experience,” you say, smiling at her.

Leigh makes a sound of agreement. “It's probably starting in late February,” She takes a deep breath before adding, “It'll take me all over the country. We need to attend conventions and such.”

You fall silent, digesting her words. The realization that this isn't just a short trip starts to sink in. “How long will you be gone?” you ask, trying to catch her gaze but Leigh’s eyes are trained forwards.

“I don't have all the details yet, but it could be anywhere from a few weeks to a couple of months,” she says.

“But you'll come back in between, right?” The hope in your question is palpable.

Leigh shakes her head slowly. “I'm not sure. It might be a good time to travel and go away for a while with this opportunity.”

The conversation drifts between you, muffled like the world outside the fogged-up windows of your car. It's becoming clear, maybe too clear, what this all means.

Leigh's gaze stays fixed on the shimmering road ahead. She's quiet, but you can almost hear her thoughts tumbling over each other. You know she's wrestling with the implications of her future plans, just as you are. She knows the reality of the situation, understands that there are only a few ways this could possibly go.

She can't ask you to wait, and it wouldn't be fair to ask you to drop everything and follow her. That leaves the looming possibility of a farewell that could stretch into something indefinite.

Minutes pass—one, then two—before you both lose count. It feels as though an hourglass has been unwillingly flipped. Watching the city lights blur through the rain, you can't help but feel they reflect the uncertainty of your future with Leigh. You're willing to attempt a long-distance relationship, though you know it might not be ideal. The prospect of being apart just as things are beginning to bloom between you feels akin to a preemptive goodbye.

Then, an idea takes hold—a bold, possibly reckless notion, but it clings to your heart with surprising tenacity. Yes, you have a clinic, a business that needs you, but suddenly, those realities seem negotiable, secondary to what feels more pressing—being with Leigh.

“What if I came with you on the tour?”

Leigh turns to look at you, her eyes wide with surprise and something like worry. She knows your life is deeply rooted here, especially with the veterinary clinic you’ve poured your heart—and savings—into.

“I can’t ask you to do that,” she says.

“Why not?” you ask softly.

Your tone is so earnest, almost childlike in your confusion, that Leigh’s lips part and then close as she grapples with how to articulate her feelings about your rash offer.

“You have your clinic, your responsibilities here. It's too much for me to expect you to just walk away from that,” Leigh argues.

“But what if it’s not about what you’re asking me to give up?” you say, your fingers unconsciously tightening their grip on the steering wheel. “What if it’s about what I’m willing to sacrifice?”

Leigh's frustration shows clearly as she pushes back against your idea. “Sacrifices? It's about being realistic. We can't just make decisions on a whim.”

You turn to look at her, making it a point to focus on her for a second longer than you should while driving. “But I don't see it as a whim. I see it as choosing what matters most to me.”

Leigh sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You're not seeing the whole picture. What about your employees? They depend on you.”

“I can arrange things at the clinic. I can find people to cover for me,” you say confidently. But Leigh is just as relentless with her objections.

“And what if you come back and resent me for taking you away from all that?” Leigh counters, her voice rising a little. 

“I won’t,” you reply quickly, even though you know it's a hefty promise to make in such a heated moment.

Leigh scoffs, shaking her head vehemently. “You can’t possibly know that.”

Before you can bolster your promise with more reassurances, your phone rings. It’s Sara, calling from the clinic. Leigh watches as you answer, her expression a mix of resignation and pointedness, as if to emphasize her earlier concerns about your responsibilities.

You excuse yourself, grab your phone, and answer the call. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“It's an emergency,” Sara's voice is tense. “Foreman needs you. Can you make it?”

You're just minutes from the city now, and your heart sinks as you realize the timing couldn't be worse. “Yes, I'll be there soon,” you mutter, feeling torn.

After hanging up, you turn to Leigh, who's been quietly observing. “There’s an emergency at the clinic, and Foreman needs my help,” you explain. “Can we stop there? It won't take long, and we can still make it to our next stop.”

Leigh gives a resigned nod, her earlier arguments about your responsibilities underscored by this untimely call. “Sure, whatever,” she says, her voice flat. You want to erase that look on her face, but for now, you’re needed elsewhere.

-

You spring from the car the moment it's parked, snagging your white coat from the trunk in one fluid motion. Leigh is right on your heels, her footsteps quick and questioning as you both scurry into the clinic.

You burst through the doors and immediately spot Sara at the reception, giving her a quick nod of acknowledgment. Beside you, Leigh’s steps falter slightly at the sight of Sara, her expression one of mild shock at seeing her there—a detail you realize you've failed to mention.

“What’s happening?” you ask Sara, pulling your hair into a tight bun.

“Room two, now,” she replies, gesturing briskly towards the surgery room.

You nod and break into a jog, with Leigh hesitantly trailing behind. When you reach your destination, you stop short and turn to signal Leigh to wait outside.

“I’m so sorry about this,” you say, your voice full of apology.

“Just go,” she whispers softly. You offer her a grateful smile before your expression shifts to calm determination as you slip into the surgery room.

Left in the waiting area, Leigh stands in a stupor, surrounded by unanswered questions and a sudden solitude, her eyes lingering on the closed doors you've just disappeared through.

-

Leigh has been noticeably quiet since you emerged from the surgery room an hour and a half ago. Right after you came out, she meekly asked for the car keys and walked straight out of the clinic. You didn’t think much of it at the time, busy giving final instructions to Foreman and Sara before heading out to continue your date with her.

Now, as you drive to the bar you planned on taking her to, you can’t seem to come up with a topic that doesn’t seem like you're evading the earlier argument.

“Where are we headed next?”

You breathe a sigh of relief as Leigh breaks the silence. You notice her glance at the watch on her wrist. The small motion feels like a small betrayal—does it signal impatience, or worse, a desire to escape this disjointed evening?

With everything that’s happened, you drop the pretense of surprise. “I had planned for us to catch a live band at a speakeasy downtown,” you say evenly. “But we're running late, and honestly, I'm not even sure it's worth heading there now.”

You risk a glance at Leigh, almost expecting she’d choose this moment to cut the evening short. But she merely hums noncommittally, and just like that, silence settles in once more.

When you arrive, the heavy rain makes the night feel even more somber. A few cars are still scattered around the parking lot, but the place otherwise looks almost deserted. You grab an umbrella from the backseat and offer it to Leigh as you both make your way to the entrance.

As you approach, the doorman stops you from crossing the threshold. “Sorry, folks,” he says, his voice nearly drowned out by the rain. “The performance was canceled, and we're wrapping up early tonight because of the weather.”

Disappointment settles in, heavier now with the official confirmation. You turn to Leigh, trying to salvage what you can of the evening. “Maybe we can have at least one drink?” you suggest, hoping to extend the time you have together.

Leigh pauses, her expression inscrutable for a moment before she shakes her head. “Actually, I think I’d rather not,” she says, throwing you off with her refusal. 

The doorman gives you a sympathetic nod as he pulls the heavy doors shut, sealing off the warm glow of the bar from the cold, wet night. Leigh takes the umbrella from you with a gesture that's both resigned and leading, and starts walking back to the car. Her steps are quick, purposeful, but she slows just enough under the umbrella to ensure you're covered and not getting drenched. But you barely notice the rain; your mind is clouded with thoughts of how the evening has unfolded.

As you walk, you replay the last few hours, how what began as an attempt to reassure Leigh of your willingness to go the distance by offering to join her on the tour quickly spiraled into a demonstration of all the practical reasons why it was a bad idea. And the unexpected revelation about Sara working at your clinic surely hadn't helped.

Leigh slides into the passenger seat, handing you the umbrella which you catch as several raindrops escape onto your arm. You settle into the driver’s seat, carefully folding the umbrella and tossing it behind you. 

“I guess I should drop you home?” you suggest, more as a formality than a question.

Leigh hums in response, her voice low and temporizing. It’s starting to irk you, this silent treatment. Throughout the drive to her house, the only sounds are the steady swish of the windshield wipers and the occasional splash of tires against puddles. You steal glances at her, trying to decipher her thoughts. Her face is angled towards the window, so that each time you pass under a street lamp, there’s a fleeting moment where her face is illuminated, revealing a tightness around her eyes and a slight downturn at the corners of her mouth.

Just before you turn onto her street, something inside you rebels. You can’t let the night end on this note—defeated, disconnected. You pull over under a massive tree beside an empty lot and shut off the engine.

Turning to her, you find your voice again. “Leigh, talk to me. Please.”

She sighs but remains silent.

“Are you upset because of Sara?”

That gets a reaction from her—an unpleasant one, but a reaction nonetheless. 

“Oh, please.” Leigh lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “Really, it's not my business who you hire, even if it's an ex. But considering you just told me you love me this morning, don't you think that's something you should have mentioned?”

You hadn’t intentionally kept Sara's hiring from Leigh; it had slipped through the cracks of a busy week. You never even considered Sara an ex-anything, so it was an honest mistake. If only you could convince Leigh that Sara is truly that insignificant to you.

“I'm sorry, Leigh,” you say, hoping to smooth things over. But she isn't having it. “It was an oversight, not a choice. Sara really doesn't mean anything in that way. I just didn't think it was important.”

Instead of pacifying her, your words have the opposite effect.

“Not important?” Leigh’s face sets like concrete. “When you say you love someone, everything becomes important, especially things like this. How am I supposed to trust you?”

Your own frustration flares. You didn’t expect such a harsh judgment over what seemed so trivial in your mind. A thought then strikes you, fueling your anger. “And what about you? You’re heading away for months, and you’ve barely spoken about it. When were you going to tell me all the details? Right before you left?”

Leigh reels as if you've slapped her. “That’s different. I was going to tell you—”

“When? Last minute at the airport?” You cut her off, your voice rising to match hers.

“It’s not the same, and you know it!” Leigh snaps back, her eyes alight with anger and something like hurt.

“You're right, it's not the same,” you snap back. “It’s much worse. Because you said you’d give us a chance. And now, when I’m telling you I’m willing to fight for a chance to be with you, you’re shutting me down.”

“I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep,” Leigh says tightly.

“You don’t need to promise me anything,” you reply, your voice softening. “All I’m asking for is a real shot at this. I know you want that too.”

Leigh’s eyes glisten, and for a moment, you think you’re getting through to her. But then her expression hardens again. “Not like this,” she says.

You feel like you're climbing an ever-growing wall between the two of you, but you refuse to give up on this—on her.

“It won’t be easy,” you acquiesce, changing tactics. “But nothing worth having ever is. We can figure it out together, Leigh. We can make it work if we both want it enough.”

Leigh’s jaw clenches, and she looks away, the rain streaking down the windows like tears. She can’t help but compare this moment to the beginning with Matt. He had been so eager, so willing to give himself to her completely. He had always assured her that he was happy just to be with her, to follow her wherever her dreams led. He had said yes to every plan she made, every crazy idea she had, always with that same smile, always saying, “As long as I’m with you.”

But then, one day, he wasn’t there anymore.

And Leigh doesn’t know if she can survive another abandonment.

You have no idea that all of this is racing through her mind as you keep making your case. “...just take a leap of faith. Don’t push me away before we’ve even had a chance to—”

You’re mid-sentence, almost convincing yourself that you're breaking through her defenses, when Leigh interrupts with a shout, “Maybe this was a mistake!”

Taken aback and hurt by her outburst, you risk calling her bluff, exclaiming, “Maybe it was!”

An impasse is reached. For a moment, all you can do is stare at each other, each of you gasping for breath as if the air itself has slipped from the car in those tense seconds. 

Is this it, then?

Is this the end?

But before you can retract any of your words, in a move you never see coming, Leigh reaches out. Her hand clasps the back of your neck, pulling you close. She kisses you fiercely, as if trying to settle the argument with just the pressure of her lips.

But she's not trying to win. Leigh doesn't want to come out on top in this argument. Instead, she wants to forget her usual realism and bury herself in the moment. She wants to give in to your optimism, to let you abandon everything you've worked for to be with her in the coming months.

But she knows that’s selfish.

And she finds herself unable to be selfish when it comes to you. 

You're just beginning to melt into the kiss, to lose yourself in the forgiveness it promises, when Leigh abruptly pulls away. She hurls herself back against her seat, her back pressed hard against the door, panting. 

“Sorry,” she gasps, her voice thick with both regret and need.

You look at her, eyes half-lidded and lips feeling bruised from the fervor of her kiss. All you can focus on is how she's starting to pull away—but you're determined not to let her go. Not this time.

“No, no, come here. Come back here, damn it.”

Leigh doesn't need to be told twice. She meets you halfway, the space between you disappearing as quickly as it had expanded. Her mouth finds yours once again, lips slotting together in a way that feels right, necessary—like solving a puzzle that neither of you knew how to complete until now. 

With all inhibitions cast aside, Leigh grabs the collar of your shirt with surprising strength, yanking you towards her so forcefully that half of your body ends up sprawled across the cramped passenger seat. Your hips press painfully against the gear stick, but any discomfort quickly fades as Leigh's tongue teases yours. Instinctively, you open your mouth wider, a low moan escaping as your tongues intertwine. You support your weight with one arm braced against the windshield behind her, careful not to overwhelm her with your weight. Your other hand rises to cradle her neck, feeling the heat of her skin rising by the second under your touch.

Leigh's hands are anything but idle; they're bold and determined as she reaches for the buttons of your jeans. It's the second time today since this morning, and she's all confidence as she pulls down the zipper, slipping her hand inside your soaked underwear. The moment her fingers trace the length of your slit, brushing against your clit with each pass, you nearly lose your balance.

But as much as you're caught up in the temptation of her touch, there’s something else on your mind—something you've been thinking about all week.

“Backseat,” you say breathlessly, the word more of a command than a suggestion. Without waiting for her response, you clamber toward the backseat of the car. Once there, you quickly turn to help Leigh slide in after you.

You gently push at Leigh's shoulders, and she understands immediately, lying back with a soft thud against the door panel. Her upper back curves awkwardly against the hard surface, but she doesn’t mind, consumed by desire and curiosity about what you’re planning to do next. She lies there, expectant and provocatively inviting, as your fingers hover over the waistband of her shorts. 

You lower your voice to a whisper, “May I?” 

She nods quickly and you make short work of her shorts and panties, tugging them down her thighs efficiently. With a firm tap, you signal for her to lift her legs. She complies, bending at the knees as you strip the fabric past her ankles and casually toss it to the front seat.

Your eyes widen at the sight of her waxed bare. “God, you're beautiful,” you whisper, pulling her closer until she's practically lying across your lap. Your hands roam over her creamy thighs, kneading the soft flesh there. You take your time, exploring every inch, your touch deliberately skirting the places she aches for you most. You’re teasing her, and her body responds ardently—her breath catches, her hips tilt seeking more.

Leigh’s skin is hot under your fingertips. She’s ready, practically quivering, but you keep the pace maddeningly slow. Your fingers dance closer, then retreat, building her frustration to a fever pitch.

“Patience,” you murmur with a teasing smile, savoring the way her body arches and responds to your touch.

“Don't be cruel,” she whines, her eyes the darkest you've seen them.

You lean in, your lips brushing against her ear. “I promise, it'll be worth it,” you whisper, letting your fingers finally drift to the spot she needs you most. Your fingers play with her, teasing her folds, drawing circles around her clit to get her wetter and wetter, each touch designed to increase her desire, her body responding with eager, heated movements. Her breathing becomes heavier, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she pushes against your fingers, craving more.

Seeing her so turned on, you adjust your position. You scoot backward until your back presses against the other side of the car, then gently maneuver Leigh's legs to drape over your shoulders, positioning her in a bridge. The pose might be demanding, so you look up at her, your hands supporting her weight by firmly grasping her buttocks. 

“Is this okay?" you ask as you prepare to bring her closer to your eager mouth.

“Just fuck me, please,” Leigh breathes out impatiently. 

That's all the permission you need. You lower your head, your lips finding the delicate, sensitive flesh of her pussy. Her taste is intoxicating, driving you to explore further with your tongue. Her hips rise to meet your mouth, the angle allowing you to take her in deeply. Leigh's response is immediate—her moans fill the car, guttural and unrestrained. The scent of sex begins to saturate the air, mingling with the dampness of the rain outside. You’re thankful for the dark tint of your car windows and the fact that the bad weather has cleared the streets at this hour.

You want to prolong this, to draw out every moment of her pleasure, but you can already feel Leigh tightening around your tongue, telling you she’s close. In a bid to intensify her impending release, you decide to gamble on your strength. With one hand you keep her lifted in the perfect position, while your other hand moves with a different intent.

Pulling your tongue back, you replace it with your lips, sucking her clit into your mouth, letting the slight pressure send ripples through her. Simultaneously, you slide your middle and ring finger deep into her, the slick heat of her welcoming you in. Leigh's response is visceral, a raw, “Oh fuck, fuck, that’s it, don’t stop…!” that she screams out as if it's being torn from her.

Fuelled by her cries, you pump your fingers harder, faster, curling them to stroke that perfect spot inside her. She's loud, unabashedly so, her moans filling the car, steaming up the windows even more, turning this space into your own sordid bubble. She's dripping down your wrist, your chin, but you don’t mind, existing in that moment solely for her pleasure.

“Y/N, I—”

She's right on the edge, her body slick with sweat and shaking from the relentless pleasure you're hammering into her. But as the climax washes over her, her voice breaks into something unexpected. Instead of the anticipated screams or the typical rush of expletives, something deeper bursts forth.

“—I love you!”

You almost lose your rhythm at her declaration.

Her body shakes violently, her screams of ecstasy almost a primal release. You keep going, pushing her through it, savoring every tremble and shudder, tasting every bit of her orgasm, all the while thinking, Leigh loves me.

She fucking loves me.

You’re cautious enough not to hang your entire heart on those three words immediately, but the confession still paints a devilish grin across your face. This wasn’t merely a heat-of-the-moment slip; it felt like Leigh was revealing something she'd been holding back for a while.

Carefully, you ease her legs down from your shoulders, noticing her wince as she adjusts from the stretch. Before you even get the chance to ask if she really meant what she said, Leigh answers by pulling you in close, her hands framing your face. She kisses you, so tenderly, and it’s nothing like the ones you’ve shared before. It’s the kind of kiss that slows time, the one you’ve been dreaming about since you were a little kid, the one you hope to keep until you’re old.