Page 24 of Double Standard

Levi brushes hair away from my sticky forehead to press a kiss to my temple. “That was... to be honest, I don’t have words for what that was.”

“Yeah, that was...” I let the sentence linger unfinished. I understand exactly what he’s not saying, because I’m not saying it either. That wasn’t first-time, one-night-stand sex.

That wasI care about yousex.

I know yousex.

His patience and attentiveness. How he responded to my discomfort. The teasing before. How safe I felt. It might have been, in another universe or on another timeline,I love yousex.

And so we don’t try to find the words. Instead, Levi cleans himself up and throws the condom away. I gather my makeshift pajamas and put them back on. At some point, I fall asleep with the comforting weight of his arm around me and the belief that maybe I can learn to trust again. Buried under years of fear, it’s a desire that’s suddenly asking to be excavated.

Light pours in through cracks in the closed blinds, highlighting the curve of Levi’s shoulders as they rise and fall with his breath. An arm draped across my stomach keeps me captive beneath the white fluff of the comforter. I claim the opportunity to study him while he sleeps: brown lashes resting on his cheeks, the strong line of his nose, a growing shadow of a beard, and the hint of his dimple—just a barely noticeable divot now, but one that holds promise for those who know how it transforms when he smiles. He’s a beautiful man. Through and through, I’m learning.

“How long have you been staring at me?” He pops one eye open, his mouth still half-hidden by the pillow, the words muffled.

“How long haveyoubeen awake?”

He rolls to his side to face me, never moving his arm from my waist. “Long enough. Like what you see?” He gives a hopeful raise of a shoulder and a small tilt of his head. His grin deepens as he waits.

My eyes roll—one large, leisurely circle—and his smile grows. “Tell me about this.” I bring a fingertip below his collarbone, to a scar about three inches long.

“That’s from one of my very first projects. It was an indie film, low budget, but I figured any experience is good experience, right? I was too green to know they weren’t following proper protocols.”

I trace my finger across the smooth skin, back and forth from end to end. It flashes white for a second when I press on it.

“I was doubling for a fight scene.” He’s unbothered by my fingertip mapping the scar. “It started with hand-to-hand combat, throwing each other around, but ended with the guy opposite me pulling a knife.”

I gasp, and he shakes his head.

“Oh, no—that was all part of the plan. We’d rehearsed how I’d dodge left to avoid his first strike. But when it came time to film, my momentum was off, and I didn’t move quickly enough. He swiped me with the edge of the blade, and that’s how I learned he wasn’t using a prop knife or one that had been appropriately dulled. Eighteen stitches. Five years later, I think of the scar as a reminder—to work with teams who know what they’re doing, people who honor protocols—and also to respect that this work is inherently dangerous.”

He brings his hand from the dip of my waist to drape his palm over mine on his chest. Our fingers tangle inches above his heart, and it beats faster as we lie there for a moment with our eyes locked.

“Personally, I’m glad to be the one who sits out the hardcore stuff so people like you can jump in.”

He taps his pointer finger three times against my skin before absentmindedly tracing small circles over my knuckles.

“Do you ever worry about it?” I ask. “About gettingseriously hurt, or not being able to do this long-term as your body ages, or messing something up that’ll affect your quality of life forever?” It’s an easy question to ask, but I know it’s a big one to answer.

“Sometimes. It’s hard not to worry, I think, especially when you hear stories about people getting injured, or worse, on set.” His eyes scan the room as he collects his thoughts. “But at the end of the day, this is my one life. I’d rather spend it taking risks than playing it safe. You know better than anyone that a working body isn’t guaranteed, no matter what a person does. I want to use my body in this way while I can, and what happens down the line is down the line. That’s my thought process, I guess.”

I reply with a slow nod, but my mind races to follow the thread: Levi prioritizes his job, risks and all. We both do. That’s what this arrangement is about. Last night was... I’m still not really sure what last night was.

His breath feels cold on my skin when it hits the layer of nervous sweat that’s sprung up on my neck.

“Areyouworried about it?” he asks, with searching eyes and a tighter grip on the hand nestled with his.

“You’ve got enough people to worry about you.” I dodge the question entirely becauseamI worried? Yes, but not about his stunt work or his safety—I’ve seen him perform. I’m worried about how comfortable our relationship has gotten and how real my feelings for him are becoming.

Sensing my hesitation, he slides his foot between my shins and wraps his ankle around my calf like a snake,pulling me closer. It brings our chests and hips flush. God, he feels good. Warm and strong and safe. But I feel myself tense anyway.

“Hey, no, no, no. No retreating into your head.” He brings a hand to my face and presses his thumb into my chin, preventing me from turning my eyes from his. “That’s outside world business, and we’re not messing with the outside world right now, right? We’re still in sleepover mode. So tell me, what happens the morning after a sleepover? Should I make eggs?”

The thought of Levi bringing me breakfast in bed, shirtless, with a dish towel draped over his shoulder? I pull my lip between my teeth with a nod.

His eyes dart down to my mouth. He leans forward and presses his lips to mine in a slow, intentional, lingering kiss. With a smile, he asks, “Or should I have you for breakfast?”

My brain says,No, we should take a step back.