Chapter 5: The Struggle for Connection
Vil’s world narrowed to the brutal, beautiful physics of the act. His thighs, solid and thick with new weight, burned as he tried to hold himself poised above Leona. The intention was grace, control. The reality was a quivering suspension, a fight against gravity and his own altered mass. He felt the slick head of Leona’s cock nudge against him, seeking entry, but their bodies had created a new geography. His stomach, heavy and full from their feast, met Leona’s own softened middle in a warm, impenetrable press of flesh.
He grunted, frustrated, sinking back onto his heels. “I can’t—“
“You can,” Leona said, his voice a low rumble beneath him. His hands, which had been resting on Vil’s hips, moved. They slid around the full curve of Vil’s backside, fingers digging into the ample, soft flesh. He didn’t just hold him; he reshaped him, pulling the cheeks apart with a firm, deliberate grip.
The angle shifted instantly. The barrier of their stomachs was still there, but now a path was cleared. Leona guided him down, his own hips lifting to meet the descent.
“There,” Leona growled, as Vil sank onto him, a tight, gasping stretch. “Now take it, you gluttonous thing.”
The name, so crude, so specific, shot through Vil like a spark. He was full in two impossible ways—crammed with rich food, and now filled with Leona. The sensations blurred, one feeding the other. He braced his hands on Leona’s chest, finding purchase on the solid, hairy plane. He began to move, a shallow, rocking grind dictated by the new limitations of his body.
It was clumsy. It was inelegant. The wet slap of skin was muffled by the layers of softness between them. His breasts, heavier now, swayed with each motion, brushing Leona’s torso. Leona’s eyes were locked there, watching the jiggle and sway with rapt, hungry focus.
“Look at you,” Leona breathed, his hands moving from Vil’s ass to span the wide, soft shelf of his waist. He pushed up into him, helping him find a rhythm. “Fucking perfect. So much of you.”
Vil’s breath came in short, labored pants. The fullness was a near-pain, a delicious, stretching ache that echoed the one in his gut. He leaned forward, changing the angle, and Leona let out a sharp curse. Deeper. It was deeper this way, the pressure miraculous.
Leona’s thumbs found the soft undercurve of Vil’s breasts, rubbing circles there. “These,” he muttered, almost to himself. “God, I love these.”
The words, paired with the relentless, filling friction, undid him. Vil’s orgasm built not as a sharp peak, but as a slow, rising tide, a warmth spreading from his core outward. It felt connected to the digestive heat in his stomach, a whole-body saturation of pleasure. He cried out, a ragged, broken sound, as it washed through him, leaving him trembling and lax.
Leona held him through it, his grip firm, his thrusts becoming sharper, more urgent. He was close, his face a mask of intense concentration. He suddenly wrapped his arms around Vil, rolling them both in a clumsy, gasping tangle of limbs until Vil was on his back, buried deep in the mattress.
“My turn,” Leona panted, bracketing Vil with his arms.
This was different. This was being taken. Claimed. Leona drove into him, the force of it jostling Vil’s full stomach, a dizzying mix of discomfort and intense pleasure. Vil hooked his legs around Leona’s back, his thick thighs holding him close. He watched Leona’s face—the clenched jaw, the flared nostrils, the utter abandon there. This was because of him. This desperate, driving need was fueled by his body, his softness.
Leona came with a strangled shout, his body seizing, his weight collapsing fully onto Vil. The air was punched from Vil’s lungs in a soft oof. He didn’t mind. The heavy, solid pressure was a anchor, pinning him to the earth, to this moment, to this life.
They lay like that for long minutes, a sticky, breathless heap. Finally, Leona rolled off, his arm immediately dragging Vil back against his side. Vil’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird slowly settling.
“The pork belly was a good call,” Leona said into the silence, his voice drowsy.
A surprised laugh bubbled out of Vil. “That’s what you’re thinking about?”
“Among other things.” Leona’s hand drifted to Vil’s stomach again, palming the distended curve. He gave a soft, considering hum. “You’re really packed in there. I can feel it.”
Vil placed his own hand over Leona’s. He could feel it too—the tight, overfilled sphere of his belly, a stark contrast to the softer, more pliable flesh around it. The pork belly. The dumplings. The beer. All of it was inside him, a settling, weighted proof of his appetite. And Leona was inside him too, in a different way. The two facts were not separate. They were part of the same whole.
“I feel colossal,” Vil whispered, the word hanging in the air.
Leona’s fingers stroked his skin. “You are. A magnificent monument.” He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at Vil. His expression was serious, stripped of its usual lazy mockery. “It doesn’t scare you? Not even a little?”
Vil met his gaze. The old ghosts flickered—the fear of the camera, the phantom pinch of a waistband two sizes too small, the echo of his agent’s voice. But they were faint, distant. What was immediate was the profound, bone-deep satisfaction, the delicious ache, the weight of Leona’s love like a blanket.
“It does,” Vil admitted, the truth a relief. “But it… it also feels right. Like I’ve been trying to wear a coat that was never mine. And now I’ve finally taken it off.”
Leona nodded, as if this made perfect sense. He leaned down and kissed him, a slow, tender press of lips that tasted of salt and something profoundly theirs. “Good,” he said simply.
The next morning, Vil awoke alone in bed. Sunlight streamed in, highlighting the dust motes and the discarded clothes from the night before. He stretched, feeling the pleasant soreness in his muscles, the gentle protest of his still-full stomach. He pulled on a robe—a soft, luxurious thing that now strained across his shoulders and barely closed over his chest—and padded out to the kitchen.
Leona was at the stove, back to him, wearing only low-slung pajama pants. The smell of coffee and browning butter filled the air. Vil paused in the doorway, watching. Leona’s back was a landscape of familiar scars and shifting muscle, but his silhouette had changed. The taper of his waist had softened, blended into a thicker, more solid torso. His shoulders seemed broader in contrast.
He was making pancakes. From scratch. Vil couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that.
“You’re up,” Leona said without turning. “Coffee’s on. These are almost done.”
Vil moved into the room, his bare feet silent on the tile. He came to stand behind Leona, wrapping his arms around his waist, pressing his face between Leona’s shoulder blades. He felt Leona’s back muscles tense, then relax.
“What’s all this?” Vil asked, his voice muffled.
“Fuel,” Leona said, flipping a pancake with a deft flick of his wrist. It landed perfectly. “You depleted the reserves last night. Gotta rebuild.” He patted Vil’s hand where it rested on his stomach. “Besides, I like watching you eat. It’s a good show.”
They ate at the kitchen island, shoulders touching. Leona drowned his stack in syrup; Vil took a modest portion of butter and a sprinkle of berries. The silence was comfortable, filled with the clink of cutlery and the distant sounds of the city.
Halfway through, Vil put his fork down. He looked at Leona, really looked at him. The new lines around his eyes, the grey sprinkled through his tawny hair, the comfortable thickness of his frame. He saw the man who had fought with him, loved him, fathered his children, and now fed him pancakes with a quiet, domestic focus.
“What?” Leona asked, catching his stare.
“Nothing,” Vil said. Then, “Everything.”
Leona understood. He always did. He reached over, his hand covering Vil’s, his thumb rubbing over his knuckles. “Eat your breakfast, Schoenheit. The show’s not over.”
Vil picked up his fork. He took a bite, then another, the sweet, buttery taste blooming on his tongue. He ate without guilt, without fear, without measuring. He ate until he was full, and then, under Leona’s watchful, appreciative gaze, he ate a little more.
The syrup was a sweet, sticky glue on his lips. Vil dabbed them with a napkin, the simple action feeling lavish, decadent. His stomach was a warm, pleasantly taut dome under his robe. Leona watched him over the rim of his coffee mug, a satisfied glint in his eye, like a sculptor admiring a finished piece.
“We should clean up,” Vil said, gesturing at the plates. His voice was soft, still thick with the morning’s peace.
“Later.” Leona set his mug down. The ceramic clicked against the granite, a decisive sound. His gaze traveled over Vil, from his loose hair down to where the robe’s belt strained across his middle. That look was back—the predatory, possessive focus that dissolved every other thought.
Leona came around the island. He didn’t kiss him. He simply took Vil’s face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the line of his jaw. “You’re glowing,” he murmured. “All that good food settling in. Making you softer. Riper.”
Vil’s breath hitched. The peaceful fullness inside him twisted, warmed, became something else entirely. He felt Leona’s hands slide down, gripping his sides through the thick fabric. With a grunt of effort, Leona tried to lift him onto the counter.
He didn’t budge. Not at first.
Leona paused, reassessing. Vil’s face flooded with heat. The unspoken truth of his new weight hung between them, heavy as stone. Then Leona adjusted his stance, his muscles coiling. “Come here,” he breathed, not a plea but a command fueled by sheer want.
He tried again. This time, with a stronger, more determined heave, he lifted Vil. It wasn’t graceful. Vil’s body was a solid, uncooperative mass, his balance off. For a heart-stopping second, Vil felt himself slipping, Leona’s grip the only thing tethering him to the air. Then his backside connected with the cold, hard granite of the countertop. A sharp crack sounded beneath him, the wood groaning in protest under the sudden, substantial load.
“Leona—” Vil began, but the word died in his throat as Leona’s hands yanked at the waistband of his silk pajama pants and the underwear beneath. The fragile material gave way with a soft, ripping sigh, rending open to expose him. The cool air of the kitchen hit his skin, a shocking contrast to the heat blooming there.
Leona didn’t hesitate. He didn’t prepare him. He just angled himself and pushed in, one deep, claiming thrust that stole the air from Vil’s lungs. The countertop creaked alarmingly, a rhythmic, protesting groan that matched Leona’s pace. Vil’s body jolted with each impact, a chaotic, undulating wave of flesh.
His breasts shook. His stomach swayed. The soft, heavy flesh of his thighs trembled against the cold granite. Leona watched it all, his eyes dark and feverish, one hand anchoring Vil’s hip, the other snatching a handful of strawberries from the discarded bowl nearby.
“Open,” Leona growled, his thrusts never faltering. Vil obeyed, a wordless cry escaping as a fat, red berry was pushed past his lips. The sweet, tart burst flooded his mouth, juice trickling down his chin. Another followed, and another, Leona stuffing them in whenever Vil tried to speak, to think, to breathe.
It was too much. The relentless, driving friction inside him, the overfull feeling from breakfast now compounded by a different, piercing fullness, the humiliation of the creaking, protesting wood beneath him. Tears of overwhelmed sensation pricked his eyes. “Leona, stop, please—” he whimpered around a mouthful of fruit, the words mushy and desperate. “It’s too much… the counter… it’ll brea—”
Leona leaned over him, his breath hot against Vil’s ear. His pace became brutal, punishing. “Let it,” he snarled, feral and low. “Let it fucking break.”
The final, splintering crack was deafening. One second Vil was braced on a solid surface, the next there was a violent lurch, a sensation of falling. The world tilted. Granite bit into his back as the supports gave way and the countertop collapsed, slamming down at an angle, held up only by the cabinets on one side.
The shock of it, the sheer seismic violence of the break, tore through Vil’s overloaded nerves. His orgasm ripped through him, uncontrollable and vicious, a convulsion that arched his back off the broken slab. He came with a silent, shattered gasp, his vision whiting out, knowing in some distant part of his mind that he had done this. His weight, their passion, had broken something solid.
Then stillness, save for the harsh sound of their breathing and the faint tink of a stray berry hitting the floor. Vil lay amidst the wreckage, the ruined counter digging into his spine, Leona still buried deep within him. A slow, crimson flush of utter embarrassment spread from his chest up to his hairline. He was exposed, splayed on broken stone in a flooded kitchen, sticky with juice and come and shame.
Leona looked down at him, his own breathing ragged. He gently pulled out, then leaned over, bracing his hands on either side of Vil’s head amid the debris. His expression wasn’t triumphant. It was awestruck.
“Look what we did,” he whispered, his voice thick with something like reverence. He kissed Vil’s forehead, then his tear-damp cheek. “Look what you did.”
He stared up from the wreckage of granite and spilled fruit, his heart hammering against his ribs. Leona’s awe-struck expression was more disorienting than the collapse. A broken counter.A ruined kitchen. Him, naked and splayed in the center of it all. Shame, hot and immediate, tightened his throat.
“We destroyed it,” Vil whispered, his voice cracking. “My god, Leona, my weight–”
“Shut up.” Leona’s interruption was soft, firm. He slid his arms under Vil, heedless of the debris. “You didn’t break it.We broke it. Together.” He grunted, muscles straining, as he lifted Vil from the jagged plane. “That’s what happens.”
He carried Vil through the quiet house, their sticky skin peeling apart with a soft, damp sound. The bathroom was a cool, tiled sanctuary. Leona set him down on the closed toilet lid with a care that felt monumental. Vil watched, silent, as Leona bent to start the shower, testing the water with his hand.
“Can you stand?” Leona asked, not looking back.
“Yes.” The word was small.
Steam began to fog the mirrors. Leona turned, his gaze traveling over Vil’s dust-streaked skin, the pale pink marks left by the granite. He offered a hand. Vil took it, letting Leona pull him into the warm spray. It sluiced over them, washing away the syrup, the salt, the proof.
Leona reached for the soap, working it into a thick lather between his palms. His touch was methodical, not clinical, but purposeful. He started at Vil’s shoulders, his hands moving in slow, kneading circles down the slope of his back. He paid close attention to the curve of Vil’s spine, the new, softer padding at his waist.
“Look at me,” Leona said, his voice barely audible over the water.
Vil turned within the circle of his arms. Leona’s hands slid around to his stomach, suds sliding over the full, rounded plane. He didn’t avoid it. He worshipped it, his palms spreading the lather, his thumbs tracing the faint, silvery lines. “This,” he said, his eyes locked on Vil’s. “This is what did it. This gorgeous, greedy thing. And I love it.”
The confession, crude and tender, unspooled something tight in Vil’s chest. Leona’s hands moved lower, sudsing the thatch of hair, the heavy swell of his thighs, cleaning him with a reverence that felt sacred. Vil leaned his forehead against Leona’s shoulder, water cascading between them.
Leona’s touch changed. The cleaning became exploration. The reverence bled into hunger. His palms smoothed over the slick, rounded hemispheres of Vil’s backside, gripping, massaging. Vil could feel him, hard again, pressing against his hip.
“You see?” Leona murmured into his wet hair, his breath hot against Vil’s ear. “It doesn’t stop. I look at you and I just want to fill you up. Over and over.” His hand slipped between Vil’s thighs from behind, a slick, insistent pressure. “I want to pour myself into you until you’re sloshing with it. Like a greedy, perfect jar.”
The imagery was vulgar, breathtaking. It stripped away the last pretense. Vil pushed back against him, a silent answer. Leona turned him, pressing him gently against the cool, wet tile. The contrast was sharp: the hot water on his back, the cold stone on his chest.
“Hold on,” Leona instructed, his voice rough.
Vil braced his hands flat against the wall. He heard the cap of the conditioner snap open. Leona’s slick fingers found him, preparing him with a hurried, ruthless efficiency that made Vil gasp. There was no finesse, only intent. The first thrust was a blunt, shocking reclamation. Leona’s hands clamped on his hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding him in place as he drove forward.
The tile was unforgiving. The water beat down on them. Leona set a deep, pounding rhythm, each impact jolting Vil forward, his belly pressing against the cold wall. There were no sweet nothings now, just ragged breathing and the wet, rhythmic slap of skin. Leona leaned over him, his chest hot against Vil’s back, his mouth at Vil’s ear.
“You take it so good,” he growled, the words punctuated by his thrusts. “So fucking good.Made for this. Made for taking everything I give you.”
It was true. In the steam, with the water blinding him, Vil felt stripped to his most essential purpose. To be fed.To be fucked. To be filled. His own pleasure was a secondary, inevitable echo to Leona’s driving need. He climaxed silently, a shuddering release that milked a raw, guttural sound from Leona, who followed him over, spilling deep with a final, possessive snap of his hips.
They slumped together, water pounding on their bowed backs. Leona’s forehead rested between Vil’s shoulder blades, his breathing a hot, damp gust on Vil’s skin. Slowly, he pulled out. His arms came around Vil’s waist, hands splayed over his stomach, holding him close as the water began to cool.
“I’m going to call a contractor tomorrow,” Leona said into the quiet, his voice conversational, as if discussing the weather. “Tell them a seismic event happened in the kitchen.”
A weak, watery laugh escaped Vil. He turned in the circle of Leona’s arms. “A seismic event?”
“Yeah.” Leona’s gaze was fierce, affectionate. He skimmed a hand down Vil’s side, over the full curve of his hip. “A perfectly predictable one. I’m thinking we need a stronger foundation.” He kissed Vil’s shoulder, a soft, closed-mouth press. “Hungry again yet?”
Leona’s question hung in the steam, a low thrum of anticipation. Vil just shook his head, pressing his damp face into the crook of Leona’s neck. Hunger was a distant, abstract concept. His body felt liquid, used, profoundly occupied. “No,” he murmured.“Just tired. Solid.”
A week slipped by in a blur of contractors and dust sheets. The new, reinforced countertop was installed, a dark, sturdy slab of quartz that seemed to mock the memory of the shattered stone. Vil found himself avoiding the kitchen. The incident echoed, a silent tremor beneath their days. He’d catch Leona looking at him, not with hunger, but with a quiet, assessing intensity that prickled the back of his neck.
The appointment with Dr. Arden was Leona’s idea. “Just a checkup,” he’d said, smoothing Vil’s hair back from his forehead one morning. “My job’s forcing them. Company-wide thing. Spouse included. Bloodwork, the whole show. Annoying, but we might as well get the free lunch.”
It was a lie, and they both knew it. Leona’s job didn’t mandate spouse physicals. But Vil nodded, the same numbness that had followed the counter’s collapse settling over him. A part of him wanted the external verdict, a number to define the formless unease he carried in his breathlessness, in the way his knees ached going downstairs.
The clinic smelled of antiseptic and anxiety. Vil sat on the crinkling paper of the exam table, the gown ties straining across his back. Leona leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the picture of bored impatience. When the nurse, a cheerful woman with a steely grip, guided him to the digital scale in the corner, Vil’s heart stuttered.
“Just step right back,” she instructed.He did. He stared straight ahead at a poster detailing the food pyramid, its colors too bright. He heard the soft whir of the scale’s mechanism, calculating. A heavy silence followed. The nurse’s cheerful façade slipped for a fraction of a second, her eyebrows lifting almost imperceptibly before she plastered the smile back on. She noted the number on his chart without saying it aloud.
Dr. Arden was a kind man in his sixties with tired eyes. He reviewed Vil’s chart, his expression growing grave. He listened to Vil’s heart, his breath. He measured his waist, the tape disappearing into softness. He had Vil stand, then sit, watching the way he moved with a clinician’s detached pity.
“Three hundred and fifty pounds, Vil,” Dr. Arden finally said, his voice gentle but devoid of cushion. He turned the monitor so Vil could see the graphs, the lines spiking into red zones. Blood pressure.Cholesterol. Triglycerides.A precursor for diabetes. “These numbers aren’t just high. They’re alarming. At your age, with this trajectory…” He trailed off, letting the silence speak of heart attacks, strokes, a slow, grinding decline.
Leona had gone very still. The bored slouch was gone, replaced by a rigid attention. Vil felt the room tilt.Three hundred and fifty. The number didn’t feel real. It was galactic, impossible. It was the weight of a motorcycle.Of a large appliance. It was inside his skin.
“You’re talking about mortality, aren’t you?” Leona’s voice cut through the fog, blunt as a hammer.
“I’m talking about quality of life, and yes, ultimately, length of life,” Dr. Arden replied, folding his hands. “The joint pain, the sleep apnea you mentioned, the shortness of breath—they’re just the opening notes. This isn’t about aesthetics. This is about being here for your children in ten years.”
Vil’s throat closed. He saw the girls’ faces—Epel’s fierce grin, Neige’s quiet smile. He saw Leona, older, alone. The image was a physical blow. This wasn’t about mirrors or old modeling photos. This was about a future simply vanishing.
The drive home was silent. The car felt like a vacuum. Vil stared out the window, the vibrant city blurring into streaks of meaningless color. He felt Leona’s hand reach across the console, his fingers threading through Vil’s and squeezing, hard. It wasn’t a romantic gesture. It was an anchor.
That night, the house was too quiet. The specter of the new counter loomed. They ordered a salad, picked at it. The leafy greens tasted like dust, a cruel parody of all the rich, glorious meals they’d shared.
Vil stood in the bathroom, the harsh light exposing everything. He saw the number now in the swell of his stomach, in the thickness of his neck, in the soft, heavy fullness of his own face in the mirror. He wasn’t just soft. He was medically compromised. A liability.
Leona appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He’d been quiet all evening. Now, he spoke. “I’ve been an idiot.”
Vil didn’t turn from the mirror. “For loving me like this?”
“For not seeing it.” Leona’s voice was rough. “I was so busy worshiping the cathedral, I didn’t notice the foundation was cracking.” He walked in, standing behind Vil. Their reflections were a stark contrast: Leona’s solid, changed frame, and Vil’s, which had crossed a line into something else. “I thought I was giving you freedom. I was just feeding you an early grave.”
The words were brutal.Necessary. Vil’s eyes burned, but no tears came. “What do we do?”
Leona rested his hands on Vil’s shoulders. His touch was different. Not possessive, but resolved. “We fix the foundation.”
The next morning, Leona was gone before dawn. Vil heard the front door shut, a final, decisive sound. A hollow panic seized him. Was this it? The reality, too harsh to face together? He sat at the new, unbreakable counter, staring at his hands, until an hour later the door opened again.
Leona walked back in, dripping with sweat. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his t-shirt dark with perspiration. He dropped a pair of brand-new gym bags on the floor with a thud.
“Where were you?” Vil asked, his voice small.
“Getting a head start,” Leona panted, grabbing a water bottle. He drank deeply, his throat working. “Scouting the territory. The gym three blocks over. It’s decent.Private. They have a pool.” He set the bottle down, his gaze leveling on Vil. “Your appointment with the nutritionist is Thursday. We start with the trainer Monday.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a plan. The sheer, overwhelming practicality of it was a lifeline.Monday came. The gym was a cavern of mirrored steel and grunting effort. Vil felt every eye upon him, a flashing, imagined judgment. Their trainer, Mara, was a compact woman of pure, cheerful muscle. She took one look at Vil’s pale, strained face and Leona’s protective, scowling stance and clapped her hands.
“Right. Today is about learning how to move. No scales.No numbers. Just motion.”
She started them on stationary bikes, setting a slow, manageable resistance. Vil pedaled, his breath becoming ragged almost immediately. His thighs burned. The seat was uncomfortable. Shame washed over him in hot, sickening waves. He glanced at Leona, who was pedaling beside him with a focused, steady rhythm. Sweat was already beading on his temples.
“Keep your eyes on your own path, Vil,” Mara said gently, but firmly. “His journey is not yours. Your only job is to keep the wheels turning.”
He pedaled. The minutes stretched, agonizing. He thought of the number. 350. He thought of the doctor’s tired eyes. He pushed through a sharp stitch in his side.
After ten minutes, Mara had them stop for water. Vil gasped, his shirt soaked through. Leona reached over, not saying a word, and wiped a trickle of sweat from Vil’s cheek with his thumb. The gesture was so tender it made Vil’s chest ache worse than the burn in his lungs.
Next were bodyweight squats. Vil struggled to lower himself, his balance shaky, his knees protesting. On his third attempt, he wobbled badly. Leona was there in an instant, his hands firm on Vil’s hips, steadying him from behind.
“Easy,” Leona murmured into his ear, his voice lost in the gym’s din. “I’ve got you. Just go slow.” His grip was sure, supportive, not demanding. It was the same hands that had gripped him in passion, now holding him upright in this new, brutal kind of intimacy.
Vil lowered himself again, Leona bearing a fraction of his weight. He rose. It was clumsy. It was humbling. But he did it.
Later, in the locker room shower, Vil leaned his forehead against the cool tile, water pounding on his back. The exhaustion was total, cellular. Leona stepped in beside him, silent. He took the soap and began washing Vil’s back, his touch weary but intentional. They didn’t speak. The steam rose around them, different from the steam of their bathroom. This was earned. It held the scent of effort, of salt, of a difficult beginning.
That night, in bed, every muscle screamed. Vil shifted, a groan escaping him. Leona’s arm came around him in the dark, his hand finding the sore small of Vil’s back. He began to knead the tense muscle, his touch firm and knowing.
“Today was hell,” Vil whispered into the pillow.
“Yeah,” Leona agreed, his voice a rumble in the dark. His fingers worked the aching flesh. “Tomorrow will be too.” He paused. “We’ll do it anyway.”
Vil turned toward him, the sheets rustling. In the faint light from the window, he could just make out the determined set of Leona’s jaw. “You really mean ‘we,’ don’t you?”
Leona’s hand stilled. He looked at Vil, his gaze unwavering. “I broke the counter with you. I’ll fix this with you.” He pulled Vil closer, until their foreheads touched. “Every damn step.”
The path ahead was a mountain. Vil could feel its sheer face. But lying there, aching and spent, with Leona’s promise solid in the air between them, he felt the first, faint tremor of something besides dread. It was the faint, gritty sensation of traction. Of starting to climb.