It had been two days since Clara and her father visited the hospital.
Two days since she stood at the edge of Leo Reinhart's bed, silently staring at a boy she didn't know—and yet couldn't get out of her head.
Clara had tried to forget. She put in her earbuds, buried herself in books, and avoided any talk of marriage with her father.
But Leo's face kept surfacing in her mind.
His pale skin.
His silent body lying there, bandaged and still.
The way her father had said those words:
"This is your future husband."
No matter how much she told herself it didn't matter, the weight of that truth began to settle into her chest like a stone.
And so, that morning, Clara stood in front of a simple two-story house with white walls and a garden filled with little potted plants.
The house felt warm even from the outside. Familiar. Like it held stories in its walls.
She took a breath and rang the doorbell.
---
The door opened a moment later, revealing a woman in her early forties with soft brown eyes and shoulder-length hair tied back in a loose bun.
Clara recognized her instantly.
Mrs. Reinhart.
Leo's mother.
There was a flicker of surprise in her eyes when she saw Clara—but it was quickly replaced by warmth.
"Oh my," she said gently. "You must be Clara."
Clara gave a slight nod. "Yes. I… I hope I'm not bothering you."
"Not at all, dear," Mrs. Reinhart said, stepping aside. "Please, come in."
Clara stepped into the house slowly, eyes scanning the interior.
Photos lined the walls—family portraits, birthday cakes, awkward school pictures. She spotted one with a younger Leo, maybe around ten years old, grinning crookedly with missing front teeth.
"He used to hate that photo," Mrs. Reinhart chuckled, noticing her gaze. "Said he looked like a pirate."
Clara's lips twitched into something like a smile, but it faded quickly.
They moved into the living room, where a tray of warm tea was already waiting on the table. As if Mrs. Reinhart had somehow known she would come.
"Sit, dear. Make yourself comfortable."
Clara sat on the couch, hands folded neatly in her lap.
Mrs. Reinhart poured tea for them both, then sat down across from her with a soft sigh.
"I assume you're here about Leo," she said kindly.
Clara hesitated, then nodded. "I… wanted to understand him. Just a little."
Mrs. Reinhart's smile deepened. "That's very thoughtful of you."
Clara looked down at her cup. "He doesn't seem like the kind of guy who… talks much."
Mrs. Reinhart chuckled. "Oh, he talks plenty. Just not when it matters most."
There was a pause before she added, "But Leo isn't a bad boy, Clara. He's just... lost sometimes. Angry at the world. Angry at himself. And afraid."
Clara glanced up, curious. "Afraid?"
Mrs. Reinhart nodded slowly. "Of women."
Clara blinked. "What?"
"I know it sounds funny," she said, sipping her tea. "But it's true. Ever since he was a child, Leo's always had this irrational nervousness around girls. He couldn't even sit next to one in kindergarten without blushing or sweating."
Clara raised an eyebrow.
Mrs. Reinhart smiled wistfully. "When he got older, he masked it with arrogance. With that whole 'bad boy' act. Parties, fights, the leather jacket, the tattoos. But deep down, my son is just… a very gentle, very awkward boy who never knew how to be close to a girl."
Clara sat quietly, absorbing every word.
It was hard to picture Leo—the Leo who watched her so intensely—as someone afraid of women.
But somehow, the puzzle started to make sense.
The distance.
The stolen glances.
The way he'd panicked and drove off the moment she looked at him.
---
Mrs. Reinhart leaned forward, her tone softening. "But I'll tell you something else, Clara. I believe that once Leo falls in love, he'll fall hard. He'll be loyal. Protective. Maybe even clingy."
Clara looked at her.
"Clingy?"
She nodded. "Oh yes. He might act all tough, but I know my boy. He wants to be cared for. He wants to belong to someone. He's just never admitted it out loud."
There was a silence between them. Not awkward—just thoughtful.
Mrs. Reinhart tilted her head. "Why do you want to know about him?"
Clara hesitated.
"I don't know," she admitted honestly. "Maybe because… if he really is going to be my future husband… I wanted to see what kind of person he is."
Mrs. Reinhart smiled at her, a touch of emotion in her eyes. "And what do you think so far?"
Clara didn't answer.
Because honestly, she didn't know.
Mrs. Reinhart leaned back against the couch, her eyes glazing slightly as if her mind was reaching into a drawer full of memories.
"You know," she began softly, "when Leo was little, he used to cry every time he got a paper cut."
Clara blinked. "Really?"
"Oh, absolutely," Mrs. Reinhart laughed. "You'd think someone was cutting off his arm. He was dramatic—sensitive in ways most people wouldn't guess now. He didn't like the sight of blood, hated loud thunder, and used to crawl into my bed in the middle of the night when there was a storm."
Clara couldn't help but smile faintly at the image of a small, scared Leo.
"And yet," his mother continued, "he also had this fierce heart. He would always stand up for the smaller kids. One time, when he was eight, he got into a fight with a twelve-year-old boy who pushed a girl on the playground. Leo came home with a bruised eye, but he didn't even cry that time. He just said, 'She was crying. I couldn't let him win.'"
She smiled to herself, as if the memory gave her both pride and pain.
"That's when I knew," she whispered. "My son may act rough. He may be loud, angry, and wild. But he has a very soft center. He protects what he loves. And once someone enters that heart of his… I don't think he'll ever let them go."
Clara didn't speak. She just stared down into her teacup, her fingers wrapped gently around the ceramic.
She was starting to feel like she was meeting Leo—not through his voice or presence—but through the words of someone who truly knew him.
And strangely, it felt more intimate than a real meeting.
"He's never had a girlfriend?" she asked quietly.
Mrs. Reinhart smiled again. "No. Girls liked him, sure. He had that… rebel charm, you know? But he never let anyone in. Not really. He never brought a girl home, never talked about anyone. I think part of him was waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"For the one girl who wouldn't scare him," she said simply. "The one who'd understand he's not as fearless as he looks."
Clara's throat felt dry for some reason.
She sipped her tea again, more to distract herself than anything else.
"You know," Mrs. Reinhart continued gently, "when your father and I agreed to the arrangement between you and Leo, it wasn't about power or family name. We'd known each other since college. He used to say your mother would've wanted Leo to be with someone like you—someone smart, calm, and strong."
Clara blinked at the mention of her mother, but didn't interrupt.
"I agreed because I believed the same," Mrs. Reinhart added. "You see, Clara, Leo needs someone who doesn't rush him. Someone who doesn't yell louder than his chaos. He needs quiet strength. He needs kindness."
Clara's gaze dropped to the floor.
Was she that person?
She'd never thought of herself as warm or nurturing. She was quiet, yes. Reserved. She liked solitude. She hated noise and unwanted attention.
But maybe, just maybe… that's exactly why Leo had looked at her the way he did.
Not because she was flashy or flirtatious—but because she was the only stillness in his loud, messy world.
---
After a long pause, Clara asked, "Do you really think… he'd be a good husband?"
Mrs. Reinhart didn't hesitate. "I think, if you were the girl he chose… he'd spoil you rotten."
Clara's head tilted. "Spoil me?"
"He'd probably never let you carry your own bag again. He'd buy you things just because you mentioned them once. He'd get jealous if another guy looked at you for more than two seconds."
Clara raised an eyebrow. "Jealous?"
"Oh, incredibly. He has this possessive streak. But not in a bad way. Just in a 'you're mine and I'll protect you from everything' kind of way."
Mrs. Reinhart chuckled softly. "He'd want your attention. Your praise. Your approval. He might even act like a brat when he doesn't get it."
Clara's lips curled ever so slightly at the corners.
She wasn't sure why, but the image of Leo—this tattooed, motorcycle-riding boy—pouting because his wife ignored him… was oddly endearing.
Maybe even a little funny.
And unexpectedly, a little… sweet.
---
The clock on the wall ticked quietly.
Clara looked up at one of the framed photos again. A much younger Leo, grinning with cake on his face, held by a laughing woman—his mother. A version of him she never knew.
A version she might never see again.
"Thank you for the tea," she said finally, rising to her feet. "And… for the stories."
Mrs. Reinhart stood with her, gently touching Clara's hand. "You're welcome any time, dear. Even if it's just to talk."
Clara nodded, then hesitated at the door.
Before stepping out, she looked back.
"If he wakes up… will you tell him I came?"
Mrs. Reinhart smiled warmly. "I think it'll mean more if he hears it from you."
Clara didn't reply.
She simply turned and stepped outside, the door closing quietly behind her.
---
As she walked away from the house, her headphones resting silently around her neck, Clara felt something different inside her chest.
It wasn't love.
Not yet.
But it was no longer indifference, either.
It was curiosity.
Warmth.
Maybe even the tiniest flicker of hope.