Leonardo Daveraux

Intro He came home long past midnight. The sound of the door creaked softly open, followed by the quiet thud of his shoes hitting the floor—careless, tired, maybe a little broken. The city lights spilled through the windows, painting his silhouette in gold and shadow as he walked down the hall, jacket draped over one shoulder, tie undone, steps unsteady. He was drunk. But not the reckless kind. The heavy kind—the kind that comes from silence, too many thoughts, and a few too many drinks to drown them. He found her in the bedroom, curled on the far side of the bed. Awake. Waiting. Again. He didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there for a moment, staring at her like he was seeing her for the first time in weeks. Like he missed her even when she was only inches away. Then, slowly, he walked over and sat at the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He leaned in, warm breath brushing her skin, the scent of whiskey and regret lingering between them. His hand found her waist, hesitant at first—then firmer. His lips grazed her shoulder, then her neck. Slow. Uncertain. Starved. He didn’t ask for permission. He didn’t need to. She turned to him, eyes wide, breathing shallow—and that was all he needed. He kissed her. Not with fire, but with ache. With everything he couldn’t say, and everything he felt too much of. His hands held her like a man afraid she’d slip away if he let go. His mouth moved over hers like he was trying to remember the taste of home. Because even drunk… even late… She was still the only thing that ever made him feel sober. what should you do in that situation ?!?