The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed two a.m., a deep, mournful sound that echoed through the silent house.
Upstairs, Damon Blackwood stared at the ceiling. The sheets were tangled around his legs, a testament to hours of tossing and turning. Usually, he could compartmentalize his stress—leave the office at the office, leave the family issues at the door—but tonight, his mind was a looped recording of his own behavior.
He kept seeing the terrified look on Kyle's face.
'I bullied a college student,' Damon thought, rubbing a hand over his face. 'I walked into the living room and practically growled at him like a territorial dog. What is wrong with me?'
He told himself it was just paternal instinct. He was protecting Leo from bad influences. Kyle seemed flighty. Unfocused.
But deep down, in the part of his brain he refused to acknowledge, Damon knew it wasn't about Kyle's focus. It was about Kyle's hand on Leo's back. It was about the vanilla latte. It was about the way Leo had smiled at someone else.
"Ridiculous," Damon muttered into the dark.
He kicked off the covers. Sleep was a lost cause. He needed water, maybe a splash of scotch, to drown out the noise in his head.
He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, walking barefoot out into the hallway. The house was still, wrapped in shadows. He moved silently down the grand staircase, guiding himself by the moonlight spilling through the high windows.
When he reached the bottom landing, he saw the flicker of blue light coming from the living room.
Damon frowned. He walked toward the archway.
The TV was on, volume muted, playing an old black-and-white movie. On the oversized beige sofa, a figure was curled up under a thin throw blanket.
Leo.
He was fast asleep. One arm was dangling off the edge of the couch, his fingers brushing the carpet. His face was pressed into a throw pillow, his mouth slightly open, looking impossibly young and vulnerable.
Damon's chest tightened. He walked closer, his footsteps soundless on the rug.
He stood over the boy, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. Without the "perfect son" mask, without the smiles or the calculating glances, Leo looked fragile. He looked like the kid Damon had promised to take care of when he married Helen ten years ago.
'I was a jerk today,' Damon realized, the guilt settling heavy in his stomach. 'He just wanted to study. And I ruined it.'
He noticed the blanket had slipped off Leo's shoulder. The house was drafty at night.
Instinctively, Damon reached down. He took the edge of the blanket and pulled it up, tucking it gently around Leo's chin.
Leo stirred. His eyelashes fluttered, and he let out a soft, sleepy sound. Green eyes blinked open, unfocused and hazy.
"Dad?" Leo croaked, his voice thick with sleep.
"It's okay," Damon whispered, stepping back slightly. "Go back to sleep. I was just getting some water."
Leo rubbed his eyes, pushing himself up to a sitting position. The blanket pooled around his waist. "What time is it?"
"Two. Why are you down here?"
"Couldn't sleep," Leo murmured. He hugged his knees to his chest, looking small. "I was thinking about the midterms. And... today."
Damon sighed. He sat down on the armchair adjacent to the sofa, resting his elbows on his knees. "Leo, about today. With Kyle."
"He's nice," Leo said quietly, looking at his hands. "He's not smart like you, but he's nice."
"I know," Damon admitted. "I was... harsh. I've been under a lot of pressure with the merger, and I took it out on him. I shouldn't have chased him off. If you want to invite him back, you can."
Leo looked up. He studied Damon's face in the blue light of the TV.
"I don't want to invite him back," Leo said.
"You don't?"
"No." Leo shook his head. He uncurled his legs and shifted to the edge of the sofa, closer to Damon's chair. "You were right. He was distracting. I get more done when I'm here. With you."
"You need friends your own age, Leo," Damon said weakly.
"I have friends," Leo shrugged. "But none of them get me. They're all so... loud. And obsessed with stupid things. You're the only one who actually listens."
He reached out, his hand hovering in the air before landing tentatively on Damon's knee. It was a light touch, barely there.
"You're not just my stepdad, Damon," Leo whispered. "You're my best friend."
The confession hung in the air, sweet and suffocating. Damon looked at the hand on his knee. He should move it. He should stand up and go to the kitchen.
He didn't move.
"I'm glad," Damon said hoarsely. "I try to be."
"Can you stay?" Leo asked suddenly. "Just for a bit? The house makes weird noises at night. I hate being down here alone."
"You're twenty-one, Leo," Damon chuckled, though the sound was fond. "You're scared of ghosts?"
"Maybe," Leo smiled, a sleepy, lopsided grin. "Please?"
Damon sighed, conceding defeat. "Fine. Ten minutes. Then back to bed."
"Okay."
Leo didn't stay on his side of the sofa. He slid down to the floor, sitting on the rug right in front of Damon's chair. He leaned back, resting his head against Damon's shin, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders like a cape.
It was a casual, childlike position. Watching TV at Dad's feet.
But for Damon, the contact burned. He could feel the weight of Leo's head against his leg. He could smell the shampoo in Leo's hair—that vanilla scent again.
Damon stiffened, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair. He stared at the TV screen, watching silent actors mouth words he couldn't hear.
'Just ten minutes,' he told himself. 'He's lonely. He's tired. Be a father.'
Slowly, hesitantly, Damon relaxed. He unclenched his hands. Without thinking, he let his right hand drop, his fingers brushing against Leo's hair.
Leo hummed—a soft, vibrating sound of contentment—and leaned into the touch.
They stayed like that for a long time. The grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour, then the half hour. Damon didn't move. He sat in the dark, stroking his stepson's hair, listening to the rain start up again outside.
Eventually, Leo's breathing evened out. He grew heavy against Damon's leg.
"Leo?" Damon whispered.
No answer. Asleep.
Damon stared at the back of the boy's head. He felt a fierce, overwhelming urge to protect him. To keep him safe from Kyles and the world and everything else.
"Goodnight, kid," Damon breathed.
He carefully extracted himself, lifting Leo just enough to slide a cushion behind his back so he wouldn't wake up on the hard chair leg. He covered him again with the blanket.
Damon lingered for one last second, then turned and walked to the kitchen, abandoning the idea of sleep entirely.
On the floor, Leo waited until the footsteps faded into the kitchen tiles.
His eyes opened. They weren't sleepy. They were sharp and clear.
He reached up, touching the spot on his head where Damon's hand had rested.
"He stayed," Leo whispered to the flickering TV screen. A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face.
He hadn't been asleep when Damon came down. He had been waiting for two hours, listening to the creak of the floorboards upstairs, knowing Damon wouldn't be able to stay away.
"You feel guilty," Leo murmured, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, inhaling the scent of the house that was slowly becoming his hunting ground. "Good. Guilt is just love with a bad conscience."
He closed his eyes, this time actually drifting off, lulled to sleep by the knowledge that Damon Blackwood was thinking about him.