The morning sun sliced through the blinds of the master bathroom, illuminating dust motes dancing in the humid air. The shower door was still dripping, and the mirrors were fogged around the edges.
Damon stood at the double vanity, a towel wrapped low around his waist. He leaned in close to the mirror, razor in hand, scraping away the dark stubble on his jawline. The rhythmic shhh-shhh of the blade against his skin was usually meditative, a moment of quiet control before the chaos of the workday began.
Today, however, his mind was loud.
He kept replaying the whisper from the night before. "Goodnight, Damon."
It was just a name. It shouldn't matter. But the way Leo had said it—like it was a secret, a piece of candy he was savoring—had kept Damon awake for an hour longer than usual.
'Get a grip,' Damon scolded his reflection, tilting his chin up to catch the stray hairs on his neck. 'He's twenty-one. He's testing boundaries. It's normal for his age to want to feel like an equal.'
He rinsed the razor under the hot tap.
Suddenly, the bathroom door opened.
Damon jumped, the razor slipping sideways. A sharp sting flared on his jawline.
"Damn it," Damon hissed, dropping the razor into the sink as a bead of bright red blood bloomed on his skin.
He spun around, grabbing a hand towel to press against the cut.
Leo stood in the doorway, holding a wicker laundry basket against his hip. He was dressed for classes—tight black jeans and a striped sweater that looked soft to the touch. He blinked, his green eyes widening as he took in the scene: the steam, the blood, and Damon's shirtless torso.
"Oh! I'm sorry!" Leo gasped, taking a step inside instead of backing out. "Mom asked me to grab the towels. I didn't know you were still in here."
"I'm decent," Damon grunted through the towel pressed to his face. "Just... give me a minute, Leo."
Leo set the basket down on the tiled floor. He didn't leave. He walked toward the vanity, his gaze dropping from Damon's face to his chest, then lower to the towel at his waist, before snapping back up.
"You're bleeding," Leo observed, his voice hushed.
"I noticed," Damon muttered, checking the mirror. The cut wasn't deep, but it was bleeding sluggishly, ruining his clean shave. "Startled me."
"I really am sorry," Leo said. He reached onto the counter, picking up a box of tissues. "Here. Let me see."
"It's fine, I can handle it—"
"Dad, stop moving," Leo chided gently.
He stepped right into Damon's personal space, just like he had with the tie yesterday. The scent of vanilla and rain hit Damon again, overpowering the smell of shaving cream.
Leo reached up, his cool fingers brushing Damon's hand away. He dabbed at the cut with a tissue, his touch feather-light.
Damon froze. He was a large man, over six feet tall and heavy with muscle. Leo was slight, barely reaching Damon's chin. Yet, in this moment, Damon felt pinned in place.
Leo's eyes were focused intently on the small wound. He bit his lip, a look of pure concentration on his face. He wiped away a stray drop of blood that was sliding down Damon's neck.
"You have such thick skin," Leo murmured, almost to himself. "But you bleed just like anyone else."
The comment was strange. Oddly poetic.
Damon cleared his throat, feeling the heat rising in the small room. Being half-naked in front of his stepson felt wrong, especially after last night. "Leo, I need to get dressed."
Leo didn't pull back immediately. His thumb lingered near the cut, tracing the sharp angle of Damon's jaw. "There. It stopped."
He looked Damon in the eyes. For a split second, that same intensity from the hallway returned—the predatory focus that made Damon's stomach flip.
Then, Leo smiled. It was the bright, sunny smile of the perfect stepson.
"You should use that styptic pencil Mom bought you," Leo advised cheerfully, stepping back and breaking the tension. "It stings, but it works."
"Right. Thanks," Damon breathed, reaching for the pencil just to have something to do with his hands.
Leo bent down to pick up the laundry basket. As he did, he paused, grabbing a damp towel Damon had left on the floor. He folded it carefully, pressing it into the basket.
"Are you driving into the city today?" Leo asked, straightening up.
"Yes. Why?"
"My car wouldn't start this morning," Leo lied. He had disconnected the battery cable himself ten minutes ago. "I was wondering if you could drop me off at campus? It's on your way."
Damon hesitated. A thirty-minute car ride. In a confined space. With the boy who kept invading his personal bubble.
'Don't be paranoid,' Damon thought. 'He's a kid who needs a ride to school. Don't punish him for your own weird thoughts.'
"Sure," Damon said, turning back to the mirror to finish shaving. "Be ready in ten minutes. I have a 9:00 AM call."
"Thanks, Dad! You're the best," Leo chirped.
Leo grabbed the basket and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.
Once he was in the hallway, Leo stopped. He looked down at the towel in the basket—the one Damon had used to dry his body after his shower. It was still warm.
Leo reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out the tissue he had used to dab Damon's blood. A small, bright red spot stained the white paper.
He smiled, a dark, possessive curl of his lips.
"Blood," Leo whispered, tucking the tissue safely back into his pocket next to his phone.
He felt a thrill unlike anything he had felt before. Touching Damon was addictive. Seeing him bleed was intoxicating.
"Just a little bit closer every day," Leo promised himself.
He adjusted his grip on the basket and headed downstairs, whistling a happy tune, ready for a long, quiet car ride with his favorite person in the world.