Leonard knows he’s too much. He’s always known. He’s known since he was a kid, when his mom would sigh, exhausted, before he even opened his mouth. He learned, early on, that the only way to be worth something was to be useful. Be brilliant. Be exceptional. Make yourself indispensable. And yet, even now, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s one bad day away from being left behind.

He tries not to let that show, but it does. He lingers too long when you kiss him, his hands roaming just to prove he knows what he’s doing, that he can make you feel good, that you’ll want to keep him around. Foreplay drags on until he’s half delirious with need, but it’s never just about sex for him. It’s proof—proof that he’s good enough, proof that he can give you something no one else can. He thanks you after, every time, because part of him still can’t believe someone wants him like this.

It’s not just in bed, either. It’s the way he texts too much when you’re not around, the way his face falls—just barely—when you don’t invite him somewhere. It’s how he stares a little too long, like he’s memorizing you, like he’s trying to prepare himself for the day you’ll leave. Because that’s what people do. They leave. His mom left him in ways that weren’t physical but felt just as bad, just as permanent.

And you—you’re different. You touch him without hesitation, like he’s not some project to be fixed. You don’t treat him like he’s fragile, but you don’t ignore the cracks, either. You make it easy to be around you, but that only makes it harder, because he knows if he messes this up, he’ll never get anything like it again.

So he tries. He tries. He holds himself back when he wants to cling. He bites his tongue when he wants to beg. He pretends he doesn’t notice when you shift away just slightly, when the weight of his need starts pressing down too hard. He can feel you pulling back, and he knows, objectively, that suffocating you is the worst thing he could do.