Burning Sorrys

Rory POV

I sat on the couch in Leo’s apartment, my knees bouncing, my hands clenched tight. It’d been two days since that mess at the casino—Frankie’s creepy smirk, Leo running off after that crash, me left standing there with my heart pounding and my head spinning. He hadn’t said a word since. No calls, no nothing. The silence was killing me, and I hated it. I kept replaying our kisses—the storage room, the bar—feeling the heat of his hands, but now it felt cold. Like he’d shut me out.

The door banged open, and I jumped, my breath catching. Leo stood there, his hair messy, his shirt wrinkled. His eyes locked on mine, dark and stormy, and my chest tightened. He looked wrecked—bags under his eyes, jaw clenched like he was chewing on something bitter. He kicked the door shut, hard, and stepped toward me.

“Rory,” he said, his voice rough and low. “I’m sorry.”

I opened my mouth to snap at him—two days of nothing deserved a fight—but he moved fast, grabbing my arms and shoving me against the wall. My back hit hard, knocking the air out of me, and his body pressed in, hot and solid. My heart slammed against my ribs, and I stared at him, wide-eyed. His face was close, his breath shaky, and I saw it—fear flickering in his eyes, like he was scared of me, scared of us.

“Leo—” I started, but he cut me off, his lips crashing into mine. The kiss was bruising, all teeth and hunger, and I melted into it, my hands grabbing his shirt. He growled, low and desperate, and I felt his hesitation—just a second where he froze, his hands trembling on my arms. Like he wanted to pull back, to run again. Then he snapped, letting go, and the kiss turned wild.

“You think you can just storm in here and—” I gasped, breathless, as he yanked my shirt up.

“I don’t think,” he said, pinning me harder. “I need.” His voice was ragged, cracking, and it hit me deep.

Clothes ripped as we stumbled toward the bed—my shirt tore at the collar, his buttons popped off, clattering on the floor. I tripped over my own feet, and he caught me, shoving me down onto the mattress. He climbed on top, pinning my wrists above my head, and my whole body shook with want. His mouth found my neck, sucking hard, leaving marks that burned. I arched up, gasping, “Don’t stop,” my voice loud and needy.

He didn’t. His hands were rough, tearing at my jeans, pulling them down just enough. I clawed at his back, my nails digging in, feeling the scars under my fingers—raised lines from fights, maybe worse. He groaned, loud and raw, and shoved his pants down, kicking them off. Then he was on me, inside me, hard and fast, no waiting. I cried out, my head spinning, my legs wrapping around him tight.

It was messy—all teeth and desperation, our bodies slamming together. Sweat dripped off his forehead onto my chest, and I tasted salt on his lips when he kissed me again. My hands yanked at his hair, pulling hard, and he bit my shoulder, growling my name. “Rory,” he panted, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” The words spilled out between thrusts, like he couldn’t hold them back.

“Shut up,” I gasped, clawing him closer. “Just—don’t stop.” I needed this, needed him, even if I was mad, even if he’d hurt me. He nodded, his eyes locked on mine, and kept going, harder, faster, until I couldn’t think straight.

We finished quick, a mess of shouts and shaking. He collapsed on me, sweaty and heavy, his breath hot on my neck. My chest heaved, my body aching in the best way, and I stared at the ceiling, trying to catch my breath. My hands stayed on his back, feeling those scars again, tracing them slow with my fingertips. He flinched at first, like he wasn’t used to soft touches, and I stopped, my heart twisting.

“Leo,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. His head stayed buried in my neck, and I felt his breath hitch, like he was scared to move. I slid my fingers over a jagged scar near his shoulder, gentle now, and he tensed, then relaxed a little. “I’ll wait for you,” I said, soft and sure. “Whatever you’re hiding, I’ll wait.”

He didn’t say anything, just gripped me tighter, his arms wrapping around me like I might disappear. His face pressed harder into my neck, and I felt something wet—tears, maybe?—but I didn’t call it out. My chest hurt, not from the sex, but from how much I wanted him to trust me. He was relieved, I could tell, but terrified too, and it made me ache.

We lay there, tangled up, the room quiet except for our breathing. My hands kept moving, slow and careful, tracing every mark on his back. Some were rough, some smooth, and I wondered what they meant—fights, shame, stuff he wouldn’t tell me. His skin was warm under my fingers, and I pressed my lips to his shoulder, soft, tasting sweat. He shivered, holding me closer, and I felt his heartbeat against my chest, fast and unsteady.

I wanted to ask—about Frankie, about why he’d shut me out—but I didn’t. Not yet. My body was still buzzing, my lips swollen from his kisses, and I just wanted this moment, him here with me. His hand slid up my side, rough but gentle now, and I turned my head, catching his eye. He looked at me, raw and open, like he was seeing me for the first time. My stomach flipped, soft and warm.

“Rory,” he whispered, his voice cracking again. He didn’t finish, just pulled me tighter, his fingers digging into my hip. I nodded, resting my forehead against his, and we stayed like that, breathing together.

Then the phone rang. Loud, sharp, cutting through the quiet. I jumped, my heart racing again, and Leo cursed under his breath, rolling off me. He grabbed it from the nightstand, his hand shaky, and I saw the screen light up his face—Frankie. My stomach dropped, cold and heavy. He stared at it, his jaw clenching, and I sat up, my chest tight.

“Don’t,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Not now.”

He looked at me, his eyes dark and torn, and for a second I thought he’d listen. Then it rang again, louder, and he pulled away, standing up. “I have to,” he said, his voice hard. He yanked on his jeans, still shirtless, and answered it, turning his back to me. “What?” he snapped, low and angry.

I couldn’t hear the other side, but his shoulders stiffened, and his free hand balled into a fist. “Now?” he said, sharper this time. He glanced at me, his face shutting down, and my heart sank. Whatever Frankie said, it was bad.

“Leo,” I said, my voice small, but he held up a hand, stopping me. He hung up, tossing the phone on the bed, and grabbed his shirt, pulling it on fast. “I gotta go,” he said, not looking at me.

“What’s happening?” I asked, my throat tight. I stood, wobbly on my legs, and stepped toward him. “Talk to me.”

He stopped, his back to me, and I saw his shoulders shake—like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. Then he turned, his eyes hard again, and grabbed his keys. “Stay here,” he said, sharp and quick. “Lock the door.”

He was out the door before I could stop him, slamming it behind him. I stood there, naked and cold, my heart pounding with fear and want. The phone buzzed again on the bed, screen flashing—Frankie—and I stared at it, my hands trembling. What was pulling him away? And why did it feel like I was losing him already?