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As a general rule, Helena is neat and tidy by nature, so it's very odd for her to have left all these crumpled balls of paper lying around.
Leo carefully smooths out one of the papers, only to see a brief paragraph crossed out so thoroughly that he doesn't bother trying to figure out what it says. Flattening a second gives the same result, though the third is both longer and less-carefully crossed out. He can probably put together most of what's written there, if he makes the effort.
He doesn't. Whatever it is Helena wrote on these papers, she didn't want anyone to read it, and he's going to respect that. One by one, he gathers them up and throws them away.
And then he finds a paper with his name on it.
He didn't even attempt to read any of the others. But this one isn't crossed out or crumpled up like those were, and it's addressed to him. Maybe it fell on the floor by accident, and he's supposed to read it.
Leo, the note begins.
I think I'm in love with you. And I want you to hold me close. And I dream about kissing you. And I wish you would call me yours more often.
And I hate that I'm too much of a coward to actually tell you any of these things.
…Leo was probably not supposed to read that. But he can't stop himself from reading it again, over and over, until hope is burning like a bonfire in his chest.
He's so absorbed in the words that he almost doesn't notice the creak of the door opening. Still, there's no way he could miss Helena's startled gasp when she sees what he's doing.
Slowly, he stands up and turns to face her. He lets go of the paper, and it drifts to the floor. "Did you mean it?" he asks quietly. There's no need to be more specific; they both know exactly what he's referring to.
Helena's eyes are wide and terrified. She turns around and runs.
He could have reached the door before she did, he knows. Part of him wishes that he had, that he'd slammed it closed with a hand on either side of her head, cutting off her escape route and caging her between his arms to demand that she answer his question because he needs to know—
—it wouldn't have helped. He knows that. He knows that nothing good could possibly come from trapping her, from positioning himself as a threat in order to get what he wants.
Leo doesn't want to be the kind of man who would do something like that.
It doesn't change the fact that he's still desperate for an answer.
Helena stays away for the rest of the afternoon. She attends dinner, but says very little and eats even less. She doesn't look at him the entire time, and disappears immediately after the meal.
Leo's siblings keep shooting him concerned glances, but he waves them off. This isn't something they can help with.
The words of the note are still etched in his mind. Leo, I think I'm in love with you. He wants it to be true so, so badly.
He's not sure what he'll do if it isn't, if some odd scenario has led her to write these words when she doesn't mean them.
…maybe she's avoiding him because she's afraid of telling him that it's a lie.
But why would she write it, if it wasn't true?
It takes every scrap of self-control he has to keep himself from hunting her down and making her answer his questions. The back and forth inside his head is maddening. He needs an explanation. If she would just talk to him—
Patience. He needs to have patience.
Leo stays up late that night, staring at a book as he waits for her to return. (It only takes ten minutes for him to give up on actually reading said book, the words on the page slipping from his mind like water through a sieve.)
Shortly after midnight, he hears her footsteps and makes a split-second decision. By the time she silently opens the door, he's shut his eyes and slumped over as though he'd fallen asleep while waiting.
(There's no way he would accidentally fall asleep at a time like this. Right now, he couldn't sleep if he tried. But if this little act can keep her from running away again…)
He hears her breathe a barely-audible sigh of relief and tiptoe across the room. Right as she passes in front of him, he opens his eyes, closes the book in his lap, and rises to his feet.
Helena flinches away from him, and it feels like he's been stabbed.
Maybe it's not fair of him to ambush her like this. But—it's not like he's trapping her. He's still several feet away from her, and he's not trying to get between her and the door. So it's fine. He's not—
And the hope in his chest is tormenting him. It's agonizing. He can't keep wondering like this.
(Her graceful handwriting: Leo, I think I'm in love with you.)
"Did you mean it?" he asks.
Her eyes are darting around the room, looking at everything but him. She tugs anxiously on the end of her braid, bites her lip, and says nothing.
"Helena, please," Leo begs, taking a single step towards her. "Please. I need to know. Did you mean it?"
"Yes, I mean it!" she bursts out. "Yes, I love you, and I want you to hold me and kiss me and call me yours. So"—she scrubs furiously at the tears forming in her eyes—"so just go ahead and let me down gently, because I know you don't feel the same way, and you don't want me like that, and—"
Leo has heard enough. She's washed away all his fears and made him feel like he's flying; it's time for him to return the favor. "—and who," he cuts in, "told you that?"
She looks up at him, startled. "Huh?"
He puts his arm around her waist, pulling her close like he's been longing to for ages, and is delighted by her little squeak of surprise. He tilts her chin up with his other hand and lightly brushes his thumb along her lower lip, relishing the way her breath catches in her throat.
"Who," he repeats, "told you that, my princess? Because I can assure you, anyone who suggests that I don't want to kiss you"—he leans down to whisper directly in her ear—"has no idea what they're talking about."
And then his lips are on hers, and the rest of the world falls away.
(A few days later, in an echo of their wedding night, Leo sweeps Helena off her feet and carries her to their bed.)
(Unlike their wedding night, though, this time he doesn't turn and walk away.)