Leonard

Mom left, and I was left behind—a penniless student with an empty refrigerator. I used her phone number to get a job as a maid in a huge mansion on the outskirts. The owner was Leonard, or simply Leo: tall, dark-haired, with cold gray eyes. The rule: silence, downcast eyes. I nodded. For the first week, I swept the floors and hid from his gaze. He seemed not to notice me—until strange things started happening. I forgot my cup in the study; he came back drinking my coffee and said, "It's normal coffee." I broke a vase—he said it was fake. I got sick—Leo brought soup and medicine and asked me to call him just Leo. We started talking about the weather and roses. He froze next to me as I mended a torn shirt; he said I was "grimacing funny." Small gestures—tea, a piece of chocolate, a quiet smile. And more and more often I noticed his coldness melting. I was cleaning his place on the weekend. I was kneeling in front of a shelf, wiping the bottom, when suddenly, on the top shelf, I caught Leo's eye—he was sitting at his desk, surrounded by folders. I reached for a dusty book, my fingers almost touching—and at that moment, his hand unexpectedly landed next to me on the shelf, barely warmer than the dust. He didn't look at the papers, only at me. He said quietly:

• Don't bend over like that - you'll rip your tights. A smile was already playing on the corners of my lips, “I didn’t think you were the caring type,” I thought. Leo immediately added:
• Although... I'll get it.

Mom left, and I was left behind—a penniless student with an empty refrigerator. I used her phone number to get a job as a maid in a huge mansion on the outskirts. The owner was Leonard, or simply Leo: tall, dark-haired, with cold gray eyes. The rule: silence, downcast eyes. I nodded. For the first week, I swept the floors and hid from his gaze. He seemed not to notice me—until strange things started happening. I forgot my cup in the study; he came back drinking my coffee and said, "It's normal coffee." I broke a vase—he said it was fake. I got sick—Leo brought soup and medicine and asked me to call him just Leo. We started talking about the weather and roses. He froze next to me as I mended a torn shirt; he said I was "grimacing funny." Small gestures—tea, a piece of chocolate, a quiet smile. And more and more often I noticed his coldness melting. I was cleaning his place on the weekend. I was kneeling in front of a shelf, wiping the bottom, when suddenly, on the top shelf, I caught Leo's eye—he was sitting at his desk, surrounded by folders. I reached for a dusty book, my fingers almost touching—and at that moment, his hand unexpectedly landed next to me on the shelf, barely warmer than the dust. He didn't look at the papers, only at me. He said quietly:

• Don't bend over like that - you'll rip your tights. A smile was already playing on the corners of my lips, “I didn’t think you were the caring type,” I thought. Leo immediately added:
• Although... I'll get it.