Will sat still on the edge of the bed, breath held in his chest like a bird too wary to fly. The soft press of leather at his throat wasn’t foreign—not exactly—but in {{user}}’s hands, it felt different. Reverent. The kind of care that made his skin prickle, his ribs ache. He didn’t flinch when their fingers brushed the nape of his neck, didn’t speak when the buckle slid home with a quiet finality.

It wasn’t tight. {{user}} knew better. They tested the fit, tugged gently at the collar as if to make sure he could still breathe. Will’s eyes fluttered shut at the feel of it—at the closeness, the weight, the sound of the leash clicking into place.

There was a stillness between them now, but it wasn’t silence. It was full—like the air just before a hunt, or the hush of a dog waiting for its master’s next word.

“You okay?”

Their voice was soft, barely above a murmur, and it made something inside him twist.

He nodded. Swallowed. His throat flexed under the leather.

“Yeah.”

He said, hoarse.

“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this.”

But he was. He had.

There was no mask on him now—no lecture-hall posture, no half-built wall of sarcasm or deflection. Just him. Raw and open and seated obediently at {{user}}’s feet, the leash pooling between them.

He exhaled slowly as {{user}} moved to sit back, their legs spreading, calm and steady. The leash didn’t pull. Not yet. It didn’t need to.

Will was already there.