Page 38 of The Freeuse Proposal
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Okay.”
“That’s my good girl.”
Tears prick at my eyes again. Holy hell, I’m a mess today. But his hand in mine is an anchor, and I hold on tight.
The rest of the morning passes in a soft blur.
Leo doesn’t push me to talk or to do anything at all. We migrate to the couch, where he arranges blankets around me and puts on a movie I can’t follow. The plot drifts past me like clouds, but his solid presence beside me is a comfort I sink into gratefully. At some point I fall asleep against him.
When I wake, he’s still there, watching me. His fingers thread gently through my hair.
His voice is soft, relieved. “How are you now?”
I take stock. The emptiness has receded a little, filled in by sleep and comfort and his steady presence. The strange disconnection from earlier has eased. I’m more present, more solid. “Maybe a five?”
His lips curve, satisfied. “Getting there.”
He makes me eat lunch. It’s soup this time, easy on my unsettled stomach. Makes sure I drink more water, checking in periodically to ask how I’m doing. The questions should feel intrusive, but they don’t. They feel like I’m important enough to watch over.
Late afternoon finds us back on the couch. He reads to me again, and it’s a light and funny story that makes me smile despite everything. His voice is a low rumble, and I let myself drift without trying to follow the story too closely.
The room is cozy. Snow swirls outside, and the Christmas tree blinks. It’s peaceful. The kind of moment I would have killed forback when I was scrambling to find an apartment I could afford, wondering where I’d end up.
Now I’m here. With him. And even though I’m raw and not quite myself, I feel more content than I’ve ever felt. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, I realize. Just here, tucked against his side, listening to his voice, existing in a space where someone notices when I’m a mess and knows exactly what to do about it.
By evening, the fog has mostly lifted. I can think clearly again. The empty feeling has faded, replaced by something more solid. I’m still a little raw, but I feel like myself again.
I’m grateful for Leo—for knowing what I needed before I did. He’s done this before, I realize. Nothing about today surprised him. The thought doesn’t bother me. It makes me feel safer. Somehow I picked the right person to trust, even when I didn’t know what I was getting into.
Leo sets down the book and looks at me. “You’re coming back,” he says. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“I think so.” I face him fully. “Thank you. For all of this. I don’t know what I would have done if…”
“You don’t need to thank me.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “But there is something I want to show you. If you’re up to it.”
Curiosity flickers, cutting through the lingering fog. “What is it?”
He stands and holds out his hand. I take it, letting him pull me up from the couch. My legs are steadier now, and I follow him upstairs without needing to lean on him.
We pass the bedroom where I’ve been staying less than half the time, then his master suite, continuing down a hallway I haven’t explored much. He stops at a door near the end and turns to face me.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” he says, and there’s something almost nervous in his voice—an uncertainty I’ve never heard from him before. “Today seemed like the right time to show you.”
He pushes the door open.
Cool air drifts out, carrying the particular stillness of an unused space. The room is empty except for built-in shelves along one wall and large windows that face the backyard. Through the glass, I can see snow blanketing the lawn, the skeletal trees frosted white.
“What is this?” I ask.
Leo flicks on the light, and I blink at the sudden brightness. The room is bigger than I realized, and its high ceilings make it feel even more spacious. My footsteps echo faintly as I step inside.
“It’s not anything yet.” He leans against the doorframe. “But it could be a studio. If you wanted.”
I stare at him. “A studio?”
“You mentioned wanting painting lessons. That you couldn’t afford them in college.” He shrugs, like this is nothing. Like he’s offering to pick up milk on the way home. “The light in here is good. North-facing windows. We could set up an easel, get supplies. Whatever you need.”
My throat goes tight. This isn’t sex. This isn’t part of the arrangement. He’s not offering me pleasure or dominance.
