Damon woke to the sound of silence. The rhythmic hum of the highway was gone, replaced by the stillness of the private driveway. He blinked, his eyelids feeling like sandpaper, and found himself staring at the dashboard of his Mercedes.
"We're home," a soft voice whispered.
Damon turned his head. Leo was watching him. The car was parked in front of the garage, the engine off, but the heater still ticking as it cooled.
For a disorienting second, Damon didn't know where he was. The grey light of the morning filtered through the tinted windows, casting shadows across Leo's face. The boy looked serene, his hand resting on the center console now, just inches from Damon's knee.
"How long have we been sitting here?" Damon rasped, his voice thick with sleep.
"Only a few minutes," Leo lied smoothly. They had been sitting there for twenty. Leo had just been watching him breathe. "I didn't want to wake you. You looked... peaceful."
Damon rubbed his face, trying to scrub away the exhaustion. "I must have passed out the second we hit the exit ramp."
"You did," Leo smiled. "You were snoring a little. It was cute."
Damon groaned, unbuckling his seatbelt. "I don't snore. And I'm definitely not cute."
"If you say so, Boss."
Leo opened his door, letting in a blast of cold, damp air. Damon shivered, the chill cutting through his suit jacket—the jacket that still held the polaroid in its breast pocket.
Panic flared in Damon's chest. He instinctively pressed a hand over his heart, feeling the stiff square of paper through the wool. He had to get inside. He had to hide it before Helen saw it.
He scrambled out of the car, his legs stiff from the flight. Leo was already at the trunk, wrestling with the heavy leather suitcase.
"Leave it, Leo. It's too heavy," Damon commanded, walking around to the back.
"I got it," Leo grunted, hauling the bag out with surprising strength. He set it down on the pavement with a thud. "See? I've been working out. Gotta stay fit for the internship."
He flashed a grin that was all teeth and charm, picking up the bag again to carry it to the front door. Damon followed, watching the way Leo's shoulder muscles shifted under the oatmeal turtleneck.
The front door opened before they reached the steps.
Helen stood in the entryway, wrapped in a silk robe that looked expensive but offered little warmth. Her hair was pulled back in a loose, messy bun, and she held a mug of tea with both hands. She looked pale, the tell-tale signs of a hangover etched around her eyes.
"You're back," Helen said, offering a tired smile.
"Hey, honey," Damon said, walking up the steps. He leaned in to kiss her.
It was a perfunctory kiss—dry lips against dry lips. She smelled faintly of peppermint tea and the lingering, sour scent of last night's wine. It was a stark contrast to the vanilla and rain scent that clung to Leo.
"Did you have a good flight?" Helen asked, pulling back.
"It was long," Damon sighed. "I just need a shower and about ten hours of sleep."
"I made sure the house was quiet for you," Leo interjected, stepping up beside them with the suitcase. "And I did the laundry, Mom. Like I promised."
Helen looked at her son, her expression softening. "You're a saint, Leo. I don't know what got into you, waking up at 4:00 AM to wash sheets, but thank you. I slept like the dead."
Damon stiffened. 'He washed the sheets so she wouldn't smell him.'
The duplicity of the statement hung in the air, invisible to Helen but suffocating to Damon.
"I just wanted everything perfect for Dad's return," Leo said innocently.
"Well, come inside before you catch a cold," Helen ushered them in. "Damon, give me your jacket. I'll take it to the dry cleaners later. You look like you slept in it."
She reached out for his lapel.
Damon recoiled as if she had branded him. He took a sharp step back, nearly bumping into Leo.
"No," Damon barked.
Helen froze, her hand hovering in mid-air. She looked at him, confused and slightly hurt. "Damon?"
"I... I have my passport in here," Damon stammered, his heart hammering against his ribs. "And some receipts. Merger stuff. I need to sort it out first."
"Okay," Helen said slowly, lowering her hand. "You don't have to snap at me. I was just trying to help."
"I know. I'm sorry," Damon rubbed his forehead. "It's just the jet lag. I'm not myself."
"Clearly," Helen muttered, turning and walking toward the kitchen. "I'm making toast. Do you want anything?"
"No. Just the shower."
Damon watched her go, guilt gnawing at his gut. He turned to grab his suitcase, but Leo was already there, holding the handle.
Leo wasn't looking at the kitchen. He was looking at Damon's chest pocket.
A slow, knowing smirk spread across Leo's face. He leaned in close, his voice a whisper meant only for Damon.
"Close call, Daddy."
Damon glared at him. "Don't."
"Don't what?" Leo widened his eyes innocently. "I'm just glad you didn't lose your... receipts."
He turned and hauled the suitcase up the grand staircase. Damon followed, feeling like a criminal in his own home.
The master bedroom was pristine. The bed was made perfectly—Leo's handiwork, no doubt. The air smelled of fresh linen and lavender detergent. There was no trace of the boy who had video-called him from that very bed just hours ago.
Leo set the suitcase down on the bench at the foot of the bed.
"Do you need anything else, Damon?" Leo asked, standing by the door. "Water? A towel?"
"I need sleep, Leo," Damon said, taking off the jacket. He was careful to keep the pocket facing away from the boy. "Thank you for the ride. Go... do your homework. Or whatever you do on Saturdays."
"I usually hang out with my best friend," Leo said softly. "But he's tired today."
Damon paused, jacket in hand. He looked at Leo. The boy looked lonely standing in the doorway, framed by the dark wood.
"We can... watch the game later," Damon offered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "If I wake up in time."
Leo's face lit up. "I'll make nachos. The spicy kind you like."
"Sure. Nachos."
"Sleep tight, Damon."
Leo closed the door.
Damon stood in the center of the room, listening to the silence. He waited until he heard Leo's footsteps fade down the hall.
He walked into the massive walk-in closet. He moved to the very back, where he kept his winter coats and the safe. He didn't put the jacket in the dry cleaning pile.
He reached into the pocket and pulled out the polaroid.
In the harsh light of the closet, the photo looked even more illicit. The image of himself sleeping, vulnerable and unguarded, felt like evidence of a crime he hadn't committed yet.
Sweet Dreams, Daddy.
Damon ran his thumb over the handwriting. He should burn it. He should shred it.
Instead, he opened the small safe where he kept his watches and emergency cash. He tucked the photo into the velvet lining of a watch box, closing the heavy steel door and spinning the lock.
Hidden. Safe.
He walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower, cranking the heat up as high as it would go. He stepped under the spray, letting the scalding water beat against his skin, trying to wash away the travel grime and the lingering sensation of Leo's hand on his thigh.
But as the steam filled the room, Damon realized something terrifying.
He wasn't thinking about the merger. He wasn't thinking about his wife making toast downstairs.
He was thinking about nachos. He was counting down the hours until he could wake up and see Leo again.
He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, the water running down his back.
"I'm in so much trouble," Damon whispered to the steam.