The afternoon sun had long since dipped below the horizon when Damon finally opened his eyes. The digital clock on his bedside table read 6:45 PM. He had slept for nearly eight hours—a deep, dreamless coma induced by jet lag and the emotional exhaustion of the last few days.
He sat up, groaning as his spine cracked. The house was quiet again, but this silence felt different. It wasn't empty; it was waiting.
Damon rubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw. He felt grimy, despite the shower he'd taken earlier. He needed to be human again. He swung his legs out of bed and padded to the closet, bypassing the suits and stiff collars. He pulled on a pair of worn grey sweatpants and a navy t-shirt that had seen better days. It was his "off-duty" uniform, the armor he wore when he just wanted to be a man, not a CEO.
As he walked down the grand staircase, a scent hit him.
It was rich, spicy, and mouth-watering. Melting cheese, roasted jalapeños, and seasoned ground beef.
Damon's stomach gave a violent growl. He hadn't eaten since the stale croissant on the plane.
He followed the smell to the living room. The massive 85-inch TV was already on, tuned to the pre-game commentary. The coffee table had been transformed into a buffet. There was a mountain of nachos on a ceramic platter, a bowl of guacamole that looked freshly mashed, and two condensation-slicked bottles of beer.
Leo was sitting cross-legged on the floor, arranging napkins with unnecessary precision. He looked up as Damon entered, his face lighting up like a solar flare.
"You're alive!" Leo cheered. "I was starting to worry you'd sleep through kickoff."
Damon managed a tired smile, walking over to the sofa. "I almost did. That looks... incredible, Leo."
"Spicy beef, extra jalapeños, black beans, and the expensive cheddar," Leo listed off proudly. "Just how you like it."
"Where's your mother?" Damon asked, sinking into the leather cushions. He reached for a beer, twisting off the cap.
"In the sunroom," Leo said, his voice dipping slightly. "She said the smell of the peppers was making her headache worse. She's sticking to herbal tea and toast tonight."
Damon took a long pull of the beer, the cold liquid shocking his system. "She's still hungover?"
"I think she's just... delicate today," Leo shrugged. He grabbed a chip, scooped up a massive amount of cheese, and popped it into his mouth. "More for us."
Damon watched him chew. There was something domestic and easy about this—just the two of them, the game on, the food hot. It felt like a routine they had been doing for years, rather than a dangerous new dynamic.
"Come sit on the couch," Damon offered, patting the cushion beside him. "You're going to get a crick in your neck sitting on the floor."
Leo hesitated. He looked at the spot next to Damon, then at the doorway leading to the rest of the house.
"I'm okay down here," Leo said. "I like being close to the food."
It was a lie. Damon knew it. Leo stayed on the floor because it was safer. Or maybe... maybe because it put him at Damon's knees again.
The game started. It was a rivalry match, fast-paced and aggressive. Usually, Damon would be yelling at the screen, critiquing the plays. But tonight, his attention kept drifting downward.
Leo was cheering. He was animated, throwing his hands up when a pass was intercepted, groaning when a flag was thrown. He was vibrant.
"Are you even watching, Dad?" Leo laughed, catching Damon staring at the back of his head during a commercial break.
"I'm watching," Damon lied. "I just... zoned out. Still waking up."
"Here." Leo turned around, picking up a fully loaded chip from the platter. He held it up toward Damon. "Fuel up. You need your strength."
Damon looked at the chip. Then at Leo's fingers holding it. Then at Leo's eyes.
It was an intimate gesture. Feeding someone.
Damon leaned forward. Instead of taking the chip with his hand, he opened his mouth.
Leo didn't flinch. He guided the food in, his thumb brushing against Damon's lower lip. The spice exploded on Damon's tongue—hot peppers and salty cheese—but the heat that flooded his veins had nothing to do with the jalapeños.
Damon chewed, swallowing hard. "Good."
"I know," Leo whispered. He licked a smudge of cheese off his own thumb, maintaining eye contact.
"Damon! Leo!"
Helen's voice rang out from the hallway, shattering the moment.
Leo spun around instantly, facing the TV. Damon sat back, grabbing his beer and taking a frantic swig.
Helen walked in, holding a steaming mug. She looked better than she had this morning, but still pale. She was wearing a cashmere wrap over her pajamas.
"Who's winning?" she asked, hovering by the door.
"Tied up. First quarter," Damon said, his voice sounding strained to his own ears. "Do you want to join us? There's plenty of food."
Helen wrinkled her nose at the platter. "God, no. I can smell the grease from here. I don't know how you two can eat that junk. It's a heart attack on a plate."
"It's comfort food, Mom," Leo said without looking back. "Damon had a long week. He deserves a treat."
"Well, don't stay up too late," Helen sighed. "I'm going to take a bath and go to bed early. This migraine is stubborn."
"Feel better," Damon said.
"Night, Mom," Leo added.
She left.
The silence that followed was heavy. The TV blared the noise of the crowd, but the room felt small and airless.
"She hates spicy food," Leo said quietly, staring at the screen.
"I know," Damon said.
"She hates football too."
"I know."
Leo turned around again. He rested his chin on his arms, which were folded on the coffee table. He looked up at Damon with a solemn expression.
"She doesn't know you like I do," Leo said.
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.
Damon looked at the boy. He thought about the tie Leo had fixed. The coffee Leo had made. The laundry. The silence in the car. And now, the nachos—made exactly to his taste, with the expensive cheddar he liked but never bought for himself.
"You're very observant, Leo," Damon said hoarsely.
"I just pay attention," Leo corrected. "I pay attention to what matters."
He reached out, tapping Damon's knee.
"Eat your nachos, Dad. Before they get cold."
Damon reached for the platter. He ate. He drank the beer. And for the next two hours, he sat in the dark living room with his stepson, feeling a sense of belonging that he hadn't felt in his own marriage for a decade.
He was full. He was warm. He was home.
And he was terrified of how easy it was to let Leo take care of him.