Chapter 8

Paul’s apartment was nothing like Leonard had imagined. It wasn’t a cold, sterile bachelor pad. It was warm, lived-in, and surprisingly cozy. Soft light came from a lamp in the living room, illuminating comfortable-looking furniture and more bookshelves. The air smelled like coffee and that faint, familiar sandalwood.

“You can take the guest room,” Paul said, his voice still low and calm. He led Leonard down a short hallway and opened a door. The room was simple but inviting: a bed with a dark blue comforter, a nightstand, a small desk. It was clean and quiet. “The bathroom is just across the hall. There are clean towels in the cabinet.”

Leonard stood awkwardly in the doorway. “Thank you,” he mumbled, feeling like an intruder. “I’m so sorry for… all of this.”

“Don’t be,” Paul said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “This is what I’m here for. To help. Try to get some sleep. I’ll be right out here if you need anything.” He gestured towards the living room.

Leonard just nodded, his throat too tight to speak. Paul gave him one more reassuring look before turning and walking back down the hall, leaving the bedroom door slightly ajar.

Alone, Leonard finally let out a shaky breath. He took off his shoes and hoodie and slid under the comforter. The sheets were cool and crisp against his skin. The pillow smelled faintly of laundry detergent, but underneath it, there was another scent. It was subtle, but unmistakable. It was the scent from Paul’s office, from his car. It was the scent of Paul himself.

His rational mind, exhausted from the night's turmoil, tried one last weak protest. This is wrong. You are in your professor’s bed. This is so far over the line it’s insane.

But his body and his traumatized psyche were having none of it. The scent was like a drug. It was the smell of safety, of understanding, of the only peace he had known in a decade. He buried his face in the pillow and inhaled deeply. The last remnants of the nightmare’s terror finally began to recede, soothed away by the simple, primal comfort of that smell.

He listened. The apartment was silent except for the faint sound of Paul moving around in the living room. A chair creaked. There was the soft rustle of pages turning. Paul was reading. He was staying up. For him.

The thought was overwhelming. No one had ever done anything like this for him. No one had ever chosen his comfort over their own sleep. The guilt and the fear melted away, replaced by a profound, aching gratitude. This man, this brilliant, kind, powerful man, was sitting in his living room in the middle of the night, keeping watch over him so he could sleep.

He closed his eyes. The dark behind his eyelids wasn’t threatening this time. It was just dark. The silence wasn’t oppressive. It was peaceful. The tension that was a constant presence in his shoulders, his jaw, his entire body, began to dissolve. He felt heavy, warm, and safe. Truly safe.

For the first time in three years, Leonard fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The morning light filtering through the window woke him gently. For a few disorienting seconds, he didn’t know where he was. The room was unfamiliar. Then, the memories of the previous night came flooding back: the nightmare, the text, Paul’s car, the apartment.

But instead of panic or shame, a strange sense of calm settled over him. He had slept. Actually slept. No nightmares, no waking up in a cold sweat. He felt rested in a way he had almost forgotten was possible.

He could hear quiet sounds from the kitchen: the clink of a mug, the sizzle of something in a pan. The smell of coffee and cooking food wafted down the hall. His stomach rumbled. He couldn't remember the last time he’d woken up hungry.

He got out of bed, feeling strangely shy, and padded out to the living room. Paul was in the kitchen, his back to him. He was wearing a different t-shirt and sweatpants, and he was humming softly as he worked at the stove.

Paul turned, as if sensing Leonard’s presence. He smiled, a warm, easy smile that reached his eyes. “Morning. You hungry? I’m making eggs.”

Leonard just stood there, taking in the scene. Professor Paul Weston, the intimidatingly smart psychologist, was making him breakfast. In his apartment. After letting him sleep in his guest bed.

“I… yeah. Thank you,” Leonard managed, his voice rough with sleep.

“Sit,” Paul said, nodding towards the small dining table. “It’s almost ready.”

Leonard sat. He watched Paul move around the kitchen with a practiced ease. It was so… domestic. So normal. A dangerous fantasy flickered in his mind: What if this was my life? What if I could wake up to this every day?

He shoved the thought away immediately. It was ridiculous. This was a one-time thing, an emergency. A massive, professional boundary violation that could get Paul fired. This wasn’t real.

But as Paul placed a plate of perfectly cooked scrambled eggs and toast in front of him, and poured him a cup of coffee, it felt real. It felt more real and more right than anything in his life ever had.

“How did you sleep?” Paul asked, sitting across from him with his own coffee.

“Good,” Leonard said, looking down at his plate. “Really good. No dreams.” He hesitated, then added, “Thank you. For… everything.”

Paul’s smile was gentle. “You don’t have to thank me, Leonard. I’m glad I could help.”

They ate in a comfortable silence. Leonard tried to hold onto the feeling of normalcy, but the reality of their situation loomed large. He was a student. Paul was his professor. This cozy breakfast was a secret, a beautiful, forbidden bubble that was about to pop.

He had to go back to the real world. Back to the dorm, to Emily’s questions, to the classes where Paul was just a distant, authoritative figure at the front of a lecture hall. The thought made the eggs taste like ash in his mouth.