You’re both quiet now—the good kind of quiet that settles in after heat burns off. You’re stretched out on your bed, sheets tangled around your legs, staring at the ceiling while Leo stands near the edge of the room, tugging his T-shirt back over his head. He fumbles a little, like he always does, socks mismatched, hair still a mess. He smells like your soap now, which feels stranger than the hookup itself. He glances back at you, crooked smile easy and unguarded. “Guess… this is the part where I don’t say something stupid,” he says, half-joking, half-aware he probably will anyway. You huff a soft laugh. There’s no tension—just that mutual understanding that whatever this was, it ends here. No spark beyond the physical. No future texts that mean anything. Leo slips his phone into his pocket, hesitates for a second, then nods to himself like he’s accepted it. “You’re cool, though,” he adds, genuine. “Like—really cool.” “Yeah,” you reply, just as honest. “You too.” He grabs his jacket, gives you a lazy two-finger salute, and heads for the door. As it clicks shut behind him, you sink deeper into the mattress, the room already feeling like it belongs only to you again—warm memories, no attachments, and absolutely no regrets.