And then — as Beth tried to hold her ground, her heart breaking in the space between them — Leon reached out once more.
His hand, trembling, caught hers.
His fingers were cold, too thin. The gesture was both tender and desperate, and before she could pull away—
He lifted her hand and kissed her palm.
"You can," he whispered, voice raw, eyes shining with that terrible, beautiful belief that he always summoned in moments like this.
"You're the medicine to my sickness."
And God, he meant it.
Or at least — in this moment, he believed he meant it.
Beth stood frozen, her breath shallow.
Her palm burned where his lips had touched it — not from warmth, but from the ache of knowing that if she let herself fall again, it would destroy her.
Because it was never just a kiss, or a plea.
It was a chain, and once wrapped around her, Leon Troy would never fully let go.
And the worst part was—he didn't know he was doing it. Not truly. Not tonight.
Beth's throat tightened painfully. Tears blurred her vision again.
"No, Leon," she whispered, her voice breaking in spite of herself.
"I'm not your medicine. You have to heal yourself. I can't be that for you."
She gently, carefully pulled her hand away, though it felt like tearing her own heart out.
Around them, the bar was utterly silent. Even the bros were still now, watching, knowing this was the hardest part — the moment where she had to free herself, or be caught again.
Beth took a shaky breath.
"I love you," she said again, her voice raw and low. "But I have to go."
And this time — she turned.
And she forced herself to walk away.
Each step felt like walking through fire.
But it was hers.
Her choice. Her freedom. Her life.
And behind her —
Leon stood trembling in the lights, holding the empty space where her hand had been.
4 a.m. The next day.
Leon sat slumped on the velvet sofa in the suite they had retreated to, shirt half-buttoned, hair a tousled mess, a glass of untouched water sweating on the table beside him.
His head was pounding, his throat raw, and worst of all—his memory was fractured.
He rubbed at his temples, exhaling shakily. His voice was hoarse, but edged with dread:
"Tell me that I didn't do anything stupid yesterday."
There was a long pause. The air in the room was thick with exhaustion.
Gabe, seated across from him with arms crossed and a brow arched sky-high, didn't miss a beat.
Deadpan:
"You quoted Eileen Chang."
Leon let out a low groan, slumping further into the sofa, dragging a hand down his face. "No... no, no, no. Please tell me I didn't."
"You did," Gabe continued mercilessly. "'You are the medicine to my sickness.' Ring a bell?"
Leon's head thunked softly against the back of the sofa, eyes squeezed shut. "Fuck."
"In front of the whole bar, by the way," Rene chimed in from the other side, voice muffled with a pillow he'd been using as a shield for the second half of the disaster. "Pretty sure at least three people cried. One girl said it was like watching The English Patient live."
Kevin sighed, shaking his head. "And Beth? You kissed her hand. Told her to come to New York."
Leon groaned again, this time deeper, his voice laced with something dangerously close to shame. "Did she... did she say yes?"
Gabe arched both brows this time. "She told you she couldn't save you. And then she walked away. Clean. Strong. Smarter than the rest of us, frankly."
Leon closed his eyes again, a faint shudder running through him.
"Jesus Christ."
"Yeah," Gabe said evenly. "Jesus Christ."
There was a long silence.
Then, voice dry, Gabe added:
"Look on the bright side — at least you didn't get down on one knee this time."
Leon buried his face in his hands. "Yet."
The room exhaled a collective sigh of bitter amusement.
They had seen it all before.
But this time — maybe, just maybe — Leon was beginning to understand just how much he'd broken something that couldn't be stitched back together with words and performance.
And this time — no one was laughing.
Not even Leon.
Beth spent the entire next day telling herself that he wouldn't call.
Of course he wouldn't call.
He would wake up, sober, surrounded by his ever-faithful entourage, and the fog of the night would lift. He would remember the spectacle he had made, the things he'd said, the kiss, the pleading—he would be mortified.
Or worse—he wouldn't remember at all.
And even if he did remember? Beth told herself again and again: he wouldn't call. Because that moment wasn't real. It was the drink, the exhaustion, the sickness in his blood and mind. It was a performance — one that had nearly broken her all over again.
So she waited, heart thudding every time her phone buzzed — and then forced herself to ignore it. To tell herself it would not be him.
And then — at 3:27 p.m. — her phone rang.
LEON TROY.
Beth stared at the screen as if it had turned to fire. Her stomach dropped straight through her feet. Her breath caught.
He called.
For a full five seconds, she couldn't move. She just sat there on the edge of her bed in her small, sunlit room in Oxford, the world outside still and golden, the phone in her hand shaking slightly.
She shouldn't pick up. She knew she shouldn't.
But her thumb was already moving — because despite everything, some part of her still needed to hear if this Leon — sober Leon — would mean it.
She answered.
"Beth."
His voice was low, hoarse. No drama this time. No poetry.
Just tired.
And real.
And more dangerous for it.
"Beth... please. Just talk to me."
And Beth's heart broke all over again — because this, she had not been ready for.
"I can't get you out of my mind," Leon said quietly, the rawness in his voice catching Beth off guard.
"I kept thinking about you."
There was no performance in it now. No trembling hands, no kiss to her palm, no public tears. Just words, stripped down and devastatingly sincere — or at least, they sounded sincere enough to hurt.
Beth gripped the edge of her bed with one hand, phone pressed to her ear with the other.
Her throat felt tight.
"Leon..." she began, but he spoke again, voice low, weary:
"I know what I said last night. I know I was drunk, and I know I'm... a mess. You saw it. Everyone saw it."
A faint breath.
"But none of it was fake. I didn't make any of it up, Beth. I've been thinking about you for months. I thought coming here, seeing the house — it was supposed to be about something else. But the second I saw you... I couldn't stop."
Beth squeezed her eyes shut, tears threatening again despite all her resolve.
"Leon, you say that now. But you'll fly back to New York. You'll be surrounded by everyone and everything that keeps you trapped. And I'll be here. You'll forget again."
A pause. His breath trembled across the line.
"I won't. I swear I won't." His voice broke faintly on the words. "Beth, I'm not asking for a miracle. I just... I just need to know if there's a chance. If you'll even let me try. If you'll believe me when I say I can't stop thinking about you. I haven't stopped since Reine."
Beth's heart was thundering now, the walls she had fought so hard to build trembling again.
Because it was Leon.
And he had always known exactly how to pull her back, even when she swore she was gone.
"Leon..." she whispered, her voice shaking. "I can't answer that right now."
Silence on the line. A soft, almost broken "okay."
Then — quieter still:
"But if you ever change your mind... call me. Please."
And then the line went dead.
Beth lowered the phone slowly into her lap. Her whole body was shaking.
He had meant it. At least, in that moment, he had meant every word.
And that — that was the hardest part to live with.
Because now, no matter how hard she tried... she couldn't get him out of her mind either.
Beth knew it wasn't right.
Not fair. Not kind.
But staying with Jefrey while her mind — her heart, if she was honest — was spiraling around Leon again… that would be even worse.
She had fought so hard to leave that part of her life behind. Fought to love Jefrey fully, with the clean, honest affection he deserved.
And for a time, she had. Truly.
But after that night — after the phone call — her resolve had cracked. And no matter how fiercely she tried to shut it down, Leon's voice kept threading through her thoughts, through her dreams, through the spaces where Jefrey should have been.
She hated herself for it.
But the more she tried to deny it, the more it grew.
She owed Jefrey the truth.
So one soft, gray afternoon, in the little park where they had spent so many quiet hours that spring, Beth met him. Her hands were trembling the whole time.
Jefrey, kind as always, sensed it before she spoke. He had always seen through her.
"Beth?" he asked gently, searching her face. "What's wrong?"
Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out. "I can't do this anymore, Jefrey. I—I'm so sorry. I care about you so much. But I'd be lying to you if I stayed."
He blinked, pain flickering through his eyes, though he tried to mask it with a small, tight smile. "Is it him?"
Beth's tears welled instantly. "I don't even know. But I can't pretend it isn't in my head. And you deserve more than that. You deserve someone who's fully here."
Jefrey was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded, swallowing hard.
"I'd rather you leave me with honesty," he said softly. "Than stay and lie to both of us."
The words shattered her. But it was done. It had to be done.
She left the park with her heart breaking twice over — for Jefrey, who had been so good and undeserving of this, and for herself, because even now, walking away, she didn't know if she was running toward something real — or toward the same tragic, impossible dream she had thought she had already left behind.
One thing was certain though:
She was no longer safe in her own heart.
Not anymore.
"I will break with my family for you," Leon told her softly, voice steady but eyes burning with that same deep, dangerous longing, the day before his scheduled departure back to New York.
Beth stood in the shadow of the old stone wall where they'd met to say goodbye — or so she had thought.
But Leon had different words in mind.
"I'll do it, Beth," he continued, stepping closer, gaze fixed on her as if the sheer force of his will could make the world change. "You can have full dictation over my life. I'm done letting them control me. I'm done being a puppet. If you say come to Oxford, I'll stay. If you say disappear from the screen, I'll vanish. If you say fight, I'll fight."
Beth's heart was thudding so hard it felt painful. Her breath came shallow.
She knew — God, she knew — how wrong this was. How dangerous this was.
No one should make promises like this. No one should give over so much. No one should offer themselves like some tragic prize for someone else's love.
But she was in love.
Hopelessly, stupidly, fatally.
And some part of her — the old, stubborn part that had walked with him through Reine and watched him fall apart in London — still wanted to save him.
Still wanted to believe that this time, maybe the story could turn out differently.
So even though every rational voice in her mind screamed no, her heart — the part that had never stopped bleeding for him — whispered yes.
She nodded slowly, tears thick in her eyes.
"Okay," she whispered. "If you mean it... okay."
And Leon — beautiful, broken Leon — exhaled as if some impossible weight had lifted.
"I mean it," he said, voice trembling now. "For you, I'll do anything."
And in that moment, Beth believed him.
Because love, when you've lost it once, when it comes back with open hands and burning eyes — can make even the smartest heart forget everything it fought so hard to learn.