Leo's room was quiet.
The windows were open, letting in the soft wind of an approaching summer storm. Outside, thunder rolled far away—but inside, everything had stilled.
Kieran sat on the edge of the bed, head low, hands still trembling from the fire, from what he'd nearly become again.
Leo stepped closer. He had changed into a simple shirt and sweats—but the adrenaline hadn't worn off.
"I said I'm not afraid of you," Leo repeated, kneeling in front of him. "Do you believe me now?"
Kieran looked up slowly. "You should be."
Leo leaned in. "But I'm not."
Their foreheads met.
And for a moment, the world paused.
Then Leo's hands moved—slowly, carefully—to Kieran's.
Fingers laced.
Kieran pulled him closer, gently, until Leo was straddling his lap. The air grew hotter. Not rushed—just charged. Their bodies aligned like they'd done this before, in dreams neither admitted having.
Kieran's hands gripped Leo's waist, grounding himself.
Leo's lips brushed his cheek, then jaw, then hovered near his mouth.
"Can I…?" Leo whispered.
Kieran's answer was breathless. "Yes."
The kiss wasn't soft.
It was desperate, aching—relief and heat wrapped together. Their bodies pressed fully, hands exploring ribs, necks, spines. Kieran's lips found Leo's throat, and Leo gasped—a sound that lit Kieran's blood on fire.
But still, Kieran paused. "We don't have to—"
"I want this," Leo said, voice firm. "I want you. Not the fighter. Not the ghost. Just you."
They fell back into the mattress, tangled in blankets and adrenaline and something neither of them dared name yet.
It wasn't about lust.
It was about claiming life again.
And each other.