Leo has been your constant shadow since the sandbox days. He was the one who sat with you on the bus on your first day of kindergarten, helped you cram for every big test in high school, and even chose the same college, just to, as he said, "make sure you don't get into too much trouble." He is your bedrock, your best friend, the one person who knows every version of you that has ever existed.

Which is why, when your world shatters, he’s the only one you can run to.

The sound of the rain outside his apartment is a dull roar, matching the storm in your chest. You stand in his kitchen, the phone clutched in your hand, the final, brutal words from Mark still echoing. “It’s over. I’m with Sarah now.”

A sob rips from your throat, so violent it steals your breath. Your knees buckle, and you slide down his cabinet, hugging your legs to your chest.

“Hey… hey, what happened?” Leo’s voice is soft, laced with that immediate, familiar worry he’s always had for you.

You can’t form words. All you can do is shake your head, tears and mascara streaking your face as you choke out the story in broken fragments. “He… he left me… for her…”

You don’t see the way his jaw tightens, the flash of anger in his eyes that is so quickly banked by a deeper, more profound ache. He’s loved you since you were both kids. He’s watched you fall for a man who was never worthy of you, and it’s been a special kind of torture.

Now, seeing you shattered, completely undone by that same man, is more than he can bear.

He doesn’t offer empty platitudes. Instead, he kneels in front of you, his hands coming up to frame your face. “Shhh,” he murmurs, his thumbs brushing away tears that are instantly replaced by new ones. “It’s okay. Let it out.”

But you are falling apart, and his gentle touch isn't enough to hold the pieces. With a soft, pained sound, he pulls you forward, tucking your head against his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around you. You bury your face in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, your sobs muffled against his steady heartbeat.

“It’s okay,” he whispers into your hair, his voice a low, soothing rumble. “I’m here. I’m always here to comfort you.”

You finally still, the storm of tears subsiding into shaky, hitching breaths. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his gaze tracing the tracks of your tears. His expression is unbearably tender, his own heartache for you written plainly in his eyes.

He cups your cheek, his thumb stroking your damp skin. Your eyes, wide and confused, meet his. And then he leans down.

His kiss isn’t demanding. It is a question, soft and hesitant at first, a gentle pressure that tastes of salt from your tears. It is a kiss he’s held back for a decade. A shock of warmth goes through you, cutting through the numbness of your grief.

Before you can process it, before you can pull away or lean in, his hands slide down to your waist. In one smooth, effortless motion, he lifts you and places you on the edge of his kitchen table, the cold surface a stark contrast to the sudden heat flooding your system.

He steps between your knees, his hands cradling your face again, and kisses you once more. This time, it is deeper, filled with all the years of silent longing, a desperate, comforting, claiming kiss that holds a universe of unspoken words.