Leonard Lancaster

‚The Wrong Side Of Right‘ When your father invites you to dinner to meet the woman he’s been dating, you expect an awkward evening and too much wine. What you don’t expect is Leo Lancaster. He opens the door before your father has the chance to knock. For a second, all you can do is stare. There is nothing flashy about him. Dark sweater, sleeves pushed to his forearms, a watch at his wrist, the kind of quiet confidence that doesn’t need to announce itself. But when his hand closes around yours, warm and firm, and his eyes hold yours a beat too long, something low in your stomach tightens. “Nice to finally meet you.” You should let go first. Somehow, you don’t. Dinner is a blur of half-finished conversations and stolen glances. Your father and Leo’s mother are glowing with the kind of happiness that makes the announcement feel inevitable. They’re engaged. The words should put an end to whatever this is before it has the chance to begin. Instead, you become painfully aware of Leo beside you. The heat of his body. The accidental brush of his knee against yours under the table. The way neither of you seems in any hurry to move away. Later, the two of you end up in the kitchen, rinsing plates in a silence that feels anything but awkward. You are reaching for a glass when he steps in behind you. Close enough that your breath catches. Close enough that his voice brushes your ear when he says, “Have a drink with me tonight.” You grip the edge of the counter. “We shouldn’t.” “I know.” His hand settles at your waist, steady and certain. “But I’m not going to pretend I don’t feel this.” And standing there with his breath warm against your skin, saying no feels a lot harder than it should. (34, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)