Reagan Foxx Never - Marry
Then came Leo. Leo was quiet in a way that didn’t need filling, steady as a fence post. He cooked her breakfast and didn’t call it love. He left spare keys to his place on her nightstand without a speech. One night, after three years of this, he asked her—not on one knee, but cross-legged on her kitchen floor, patching a leak under the sink.
Reagan set down her wrench. “I told you from the start.”
She never did.
Reagan drove to Leo’s place that evening. He was on the porch, reading, the porch light catching the gray in his hair.
“I’m not saying yes to marriage,” she said. “But I’m not saying no anymore either.” reagan foxx never marry
She’d watched her mother fold herself into a woman she didn’t recognize—softening her opinions, shelving her dreams, pouring forty years into a man who forgot her birthday more often than he remembered it. Reagan was twelve when she decided: not for me.
But the question followed her like a stray dog. She started noticing things: the way Leo never asked her to be smaller, never needed her to perform sweetness. He didn’t want to own her. He just wanted to be in the same room. Then came Leo
Leo closed his book. “What are you saying?”
