Page 39 of The Freeuse Proposal
He’s offering me a future.
“Leo...” My voice comes out strangled. “I don’t—that’s—“
“You don’t have to decide now.” He pushes off the doorframe and crosses to me, tipping my chin up with one finger. “It’s just something to think about.”
But that’s exactly the problem. Because thinking about it means thinking about staying. It means imagining a version of my life where I come home to this house, where I paint in this room with its north-facing light, where the arrangement doesn’t end on New Year’s.
Where I’m his. Not just for a few weeks. For real.
“Thank you,” I manage. It’s not enough—it’s nowhere close to enough—but it’s all I can get out past the lump in my throat.
“You’re welcome, lass.”
He takes my hand and leads me back downstairs, back to the couch. We settle in again, and for a while we just sit there, wrapped up in each other and the comfort of the room.
Later, while Leo reads to me, I can’t stop thinking about yesterday. About the fantasy we didn’t talk about this morning.
Two men. Four hands. Being shared.
I brace for shame or embarrassment. Maybe the realization that it was just subspace and not something I really want.
But I’m wet instead. My pulse races. The desire is still there, just as strong. Stronger, even, without the fog.
This isn’t subspace talking. This is me.
I shift against Leo, and he looks down at me. Can he tell what I’m thinking about?
“Something on your mind, lass?”
My head shakes, not ready to voice it yet. Not until I’m completely steady. “Just grateful. For you. For all of this.”
He smiles and returns to reading, but I catch when the curve becomes more of a smirk. He knows. Of course he knows. He’s been waiting for me to be ready.
We go to bed early, both of us tired from the emotional weight of the day. Leo tucks me against his side, my head on his chest, his arm wrapped securely around me.
“Thank you,” I say into the darkness. “For today.”
His hand strokes down my arm, slow and soothing. “Always, lass. This is part of it—the care after. It matters as much as everything else. Maybe more.”
I think about that. About how different this is from anything I’ve experienced before. Past boyfriends would have been confused by my tears, uncomfortable, maybe even irritated that I was ruining the afterglow of something they’d thought was great sex. They wouldn’t have known what was happening, let alone how to help.
But Leo normalized it, held me through it without a single moment of frustration or impatience.
“Leo?”
“Mm?”
“Tomorrow.” I shift to look up at him, though I can barely make out his features in the dim light. “Can we talk about it tomorrow?”
He’s quiet for a moment. His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek in a steady rhythm.
“If you’re better and still want to,” he says finally. “If it wasn’t just the subspace talking.”
“I will.” The certainty in my voice surprises me, but it rings true.
“Then we’ll talk about it after you’ve slept.” His arms tighten around me. “Get some rest, sweet girl. You’ve been through a lot.”
My eyes close, satisfied. Once I’m feeling like myself, I’ll tell him what I want. And everything might change.
