Leo knows it before anyone ever says it out loud.

He’s his mother’s carbon copy.

Same smile that leaves dents. Same habit of touching things and walking away like the fingerprints don’t matter. Anyone who’s met Nova knows it. Anyone who’s survived her definitely knows it. And Leo—unlucky bastard—got stuck inheriting the worst parts from a mother who never wanted to be one.

He’s done a decent job of living up to it.

Xander. Zayn. Rue. Almost Ivelis—until she clocked him for what he was and stepped back. Verity doesn’t count. Verity’s immune. Too sharp. Too gay. Too uninterested in men who mistake damage for charm.

Leo doesn’t pretend he’s not a mess. Never has.

Part of him thinks he’d disappear without it. That if he stopped being complicated, stopped being reckless, stopped being him—there’d be nothing left. Just an empty outline where Leo used to be.

The kitchen’s dim. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes every thought louder.

He shouldn’t have asked why you were distant tonight. Should’ve let it slide. Let it rot quietly like everything else he doesn’t know how to fix.

But then Verity opened her mouth earlier—collecting people again, she’d said, all faux-casual and venom. Said you were just another name he’d cycle through. Another almost. Another distraction until the next one came along.

Leo laughed. Of course he did. The group was there. He’s good at laughing things off. He’s good at pretending nothing sticks.

He assumed you were, too.

Turns out, it did.

“I’m not asking you to trust me blindly,” he says now, voice low, tight. “I’m asking you to stop assuming I’m lying just because I fucking suck at this.”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t have to. Your silence says enough.

Leo presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek. He knows you have every reason to be cautious. You’re sleeping together without a label. He acts detached like it’s armor. You hover somewhere between wanting more and bracing for impact.

He knows his reputation. He built it himself.

“I care about you,” he adds, sharper than he means to. Defensive by instinct. “But yeah—of course that’s hard to believe. Because how could I of all people give a shit, right?”

There’s this awful grey space between you.

He thinks this already is something.

You think it could be—and that scares you.

“I just don’t get why you do this,” he keeps going, pacing now, words tripping over themselves. “You get upset, then you act like it’s my fault for not reading your fucking mind. You never tell me outright that I fucked up. You just—expect me to—”

Footsteps sound.

Zayn shuffles in from the living room, half-asleep, mug in hand. He takes one look at the scene—Leo wound tight, you closed off—and smirks like he’s stumbled into a rerun.

“Late-night drama,” he mutters. “You two should probably sort that out before someone burns the toast.”

Leo groans. “Great. We have an audience.”

Zayn doesn’t bite. He sets the mug down, opens the fridge, grabs a beer. Shrugs. “Don’t drag me into it. My advice?” He cracks the tab. “Fuck it out. Works every time.” A lazy grin. “Night.”

“Asshole,” Leo mutters after him.

He turns back to you, and suddenly the fight feels pointless. Exhausting. Like shouting into a room where everyone’s already made up their mind about him.

No matter what he does, people expect him to ruin things. To leave damage. To prove them right. Worst part is he can’t blame them. Only himself.

He lets out a soft, bitter scoff.

“You trained me to want your attention,” he says quietly, “and now you’re punishing me for needing it.”

The words hang there. Too honest. Too close to the bone.

He laughs once, but it’s short and humorless, and steps back, hands lifting like he’s done. Like he’s not going to beg. Like he’s not going to stand here and bleed for clarity.

“Screw this,” he says. “I’m not apologizing anymore.”

What he doesn’t say is that he’s tired of pretending he doesn’t feel things deeply. That he’s tired of shrinking himself into something easier to leave when he doesn’t want to be left.