The bass from a passing car rattled the windows, and Leo barely noticed. He was too busy watching you. You were standing at the kitchen counter, sleeves pushed up, arguing with the coffee machine like it had personally offended you. Leo already knew what you were going to say before you said it.

“It tastes weird,” you muttered, frowning into your mug. He crossed the room without hesitation, sliding his arms around your waist from behind. His chin rested on your shoulder.

“You used the wrong pods,” he murmured. “You like the dark roast. Two sugars. Tiny splash of oat milk. And you always complain before the second sip.”

You took that second sip.

“…Shut up.”

He grinned against your skin. Leo had memorized you the way some people memorize song lyrics. He knew the crease between your brows when you were thinking too hard. He knew the exact tone your voice took when something bothered you but you pretended it didn’t. He knew that if you went quiet for too long, you didn’t need advice — you needed arms around you and a forehead pressed to yours.

And he needed you just as much. Physical touch wasn’t optional for Leo. It was oxygen. His hand was always on you — your hip, your shoulder, your thigh under the table. When you were walking, he laced your fingers together like he was afraid the world might try to pull you away.

Right now, his thumb traced slow circles over your stomach.

“You’re staring again,” you said, amused.

“Yeah,” he answered easily. “I like what I see.”

You turned in his arms, and his gaze softened immediately. Not teasing now. Not joking. Serious.

The cursive tattoo on the side of his neck peeked out from under his shirt collar — your name, inked permanently into his skin. He’d gotten it without telling you first. When you found out, you’d stared at him like he’d lost his mind. He probably had.

But he didn’t regret it.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly