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series notes:

Tags are up to date for the work as a whole so you know what you're getting into. I plan to write an epilogue, which will be chapter 13, but we'll see when that happens :) Leon starts in his main outfit, but for the majority of this work, he's in the romantic costume from RE4R with his normal hair. Kingdom is inspired by castles in Ireland (RE4 castle works fine as a basis, minus the country/nature surrounding it). The king will come into play, don’t imagine him as your dad unless you despise that man lol. Reader is… mentally unwell given the circumstances lol, but I left the physical descriptions very vague & hopefully very inclusive to all races/ethnicities/hair textures/etc. Please excuse any grammar mistakes/plot holes/inconsistencies. I may edit somewhat after posting, but there won't be any major story changes if I do.

other notes:

★ᵎᵎ I subconsciously took inspo from this fic for the chapel/meadow. I intentionally didn't read any knight/princess AUs as I wrote this series & I hadn't for a long time before, but I organized my bookmarked fics a couple weeks after finishing it, and when I saw that one I was like... shit, oops. please check out their work since they cooked so hard with that scene that it fully embedded itself in my brain!! :)<3

alt/working titles: Bride In A Cage (this was very nearly the title, inspired by the eight of swords tarot card, it's a theme that's very close to my heart irl), Married Alive, Dark Horse, Knight Guard

SPOILER WARNING BELOW

inspiration for the king/virus came from irish/celtic folklore, namely sea legends like merrows. If I went with "dark horse" as the title/overarching theme I would've went with the puca, but it made more sense to be simpler/canon-typical. so the virus to have a "trigger host" in the king/prince and ties in themes of the "divine right of kings". The virus is implied to draw power from its spread, similar to how some religions believe gods draw power from how many people believe in them, and how medieval kings were believed to be ordained by god to rule. I would've liked to go deeper into this, and if I write an epilogue it would be to tie up these loose ends (and have more smut hehe). But with all that said it's clearly inspired by Las Plagas too haha. I figured it'd be easier for readers to envision it in their heads if it were similar but with semi-aquatic comparisons added.

Movement.

Two villagers shuffle across the path ahead, their steps uneven, their bodies jerking like marionettes strung up by invisible hands. Their eyes are hollow, not vacant, but filled with something worse: obedience to the parasite that puppeteers them.

Your grip tightens on the knife. Guns are loud, and sound travels too well in these narrow streets. So you stalk. One breath, one step, one strike. The blade slides beneath the first villager’s ribs, silencing him with nothing more than a guttural choke before you lower him soundlessly to the dirt. The second turns too late. A flash of steel, a hot spray against your cheek, and he crumples at your feet.

You wipe the blade against your thigh, though the gesture feels pointless, no amount of cleaning will ever wash this country off your skin.

For a moment, there’s stillness again. You force yourself to breathe, to listen. Every nerve screams at you to move, to stay ahead before the bodies are found. You dart deeper into the cluster of stone buildings, boots splashing through puddles of stagnant rainwater.

You pull out your map, a flimsy, blood-stained, rain-warped scrap that looks as exhausted as you feel. The edges are torn, entire corners missing, but it’s enough to remind you how close you are to the castle. Too close. The thought of what waits inside coils like ice in your stomach.

You fold it back with trembling fingers and shove it deep into your pocket. A pause, just long enough to reload: the metallic clack of a magazine sliding home, the satisfying click of a safety checked, the careful assembly of makeshift first aid sprays from herbs you’ve hoarded like treasure. It’s a ritual, something you can control in a place where nothing else bends to your will.

And then you hear it.

Not the shuffle of infected villagers. Not the frantic, mindless scurrying of rats. But slow, measured footsteps. Deliberate. Predatory.

The sound echoes down the narrow stone alley, steady as a heartbeat that isn’t yours.

Your breath lodges in your throat.

You raise your gun, two hands locked around the grip, every muscle strung tight. The footsteps approach, deliberate, calculated, a hunter’s rhythm. You flatten against the cobblestone wall, boots sinking into the soft hay to mask your movements, heart rattling in your ribs.

The glint of steel, a gun muzzle, slides into view around the corner. Training kicks in before thought does.

You lash out, boot connecting hard with the stranger’s wrist. A grunt echoes sharp in the alley as their weapon skitters across the stones, vanishing into shadow.

You don’t hesitate. The knife is in your hand, the weight familiar, steadying. But before you can press the advantage, there’s an answering rasp of steel leaving leather. Another blade.

Then they’re on you.

The first clash is violent, steel strikes steel, ringing in your ears. You push forward, slashing high toward their ribs, but they twist, catching your wrist and shoving you back against the wall. Your shoulder slams stone, teeth clenching against the impact. You duck low, kicking out at their knee, but they shift just in time, answering with a downward slash that you barely deflect with the flat of your blade. Sparks spit into the dark.

You twist your arm free and shove upward, forcing them back a step. You feint left, then pivot right, blade carving for their abdomen, but they spin with you, wrist locking yours in midair. For a moment your arms are tangled, blades trembling inches from skin, muscles straining as neither of you gives ground.

They shove you off, swift and brutal. You stumble, roll, and come up crouched, knife raised underhand. They match the stance. Exactly.

Another surge, they slash for your throat, you duck beneath and drive a knee toward their gut, but they catch it with their thigh, twisting you around, knife arcing for your back. You catch the wrist, drop low, and wrench free, spinning to face them again. The rhythm is relentless, slash, block, counter, strike, until it’s less a fight than a mirror, every move reflected, anticipated.

Your lungs burn, sweat stings your eyes. Boots scrape against wet stone, blades whisper and shriek as they collide. You drive forward with a furious shove, twisting your knife up toward their jaw. At the same instant, they hook your wrist, dragging you down, knife pressing into the hollow of your throat.

Stalemate.

You’ve got your blade jammed hard against their neck, close enough you can feel the faint tremor of their pulse. But the exact same pressure bites into your skin, their knife nestled under your jaw. Neither of you dares move.

Breath mingles in the scant inches between you.

Your knife wavers. Breath tangles in your throat as the stranger’s face sharpens in the moonlight.

And then you see them.

Eyes you know. Eyes you trusted when the world was ending. Blue, once bright as firelight against the dark, now dulled, hardened into steel.

It should feel like salvation. Instead, it feels like betrayal.

The rookie who smiled at you through the ash of Raccoon City is gone. What stares back at you now is a weapon shaped like him, colder, sharper, stripped of everything that once made him human.

Your lips stumble over his name, breaking on it like a wound:

“…Leon?”

For a flicker, his grip hesitates, and you almost believe. Almost.

Leon.

It’s him, but not.

Your memory betrays you with flashes of Raccoon City: the boyish rookie in a too-clean uniform, hair falling messily into eyes that were still warm despite the nightmare closing in. He’d smiled then, even in the dark, offering steady words that made the terror feel bearable. His hands had trembled, but his heart had never faltered. That Leon carried a softness, a stubborn hope that survival meant more than just killing your way through the night.

The man in front of you now is nothing like that.

His uniform is gone, replaced by worn tactical gear that hugs his frame like armor. The hair you remember, once loose, almost boyish, is longer now, deliberately pushed back, streaked with dirt and sweat. His jaw is sharper, set with a constant tension, like he hasn’t allowed himself rest in years.

But it’s his eyes that steal the air from your lungs.

They were blue before, but softer, touched by something human, alive. These eyes are steel. Cold. The kind you’ve only seen in men who’ve buried too many ghosts to count. He looks at you not like a friend, not even like an ally, but like a threat he’s calculating how to eliminate.

There’s no tremor in his grip, no hesitation in the blade pressed against your throat. Only precision. Only control.

And yet, in that tiny flicker of recognition, the smallest crack ripples across the mask.

For just a heartbeat, you see him. The boy in Raccoon City. The one who saved you, the one who smiled.

Then it’s gone.

Leon doesn’t flinch when you breathe his name. He doesn’t soften, doesn’t loosen the knife pressing against your throat. If anything, the blade digs a fraction deeper, just enough to remind you he’s in control.

His jaw tightens. The lines around his mouth and eyes are harsher now, carved deep by years of battles you weren’t there to see. He studies you like you’re a puzzle, like he’s weighing whether you’re real,  or just another trick this cursed country has thrown at him.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and gravel-edged, nothing like the earnest rookie who once stumbled through fire with you.

“...You shouldn’t be here.”

The words are flat, stripped of warmth, but beneath them, barely there, almost lost, you catch the faintest tremor. Recognition.

He exhales hard through his nose, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to drag a wall back into place before you can see past it.

“What are you doing here?” His words cut like the edge at your throat, sharp, demanding, designed to keep you on the defensive.

You swallow, the press of his blade cold against your skin, but you don’t back down. His gaze pins you in place, blue eyes unrelenting, scouring every flicker of your expression as if the truth is something he can drag out of you by force.

The Leon you knew would have said your name with relief. This Leon spits the question like an accusation.

His grip tightens on the hilt, knuckles white, voice low and strained:

“Tell me. Now.”

But that tremor is still there, buried under the command, a crack in his armor. He’s not just asking. He’s pleading in his own way, desperate to understand why fate has dragged you back into his line of fire.

For a heartbeat, the silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid.

Your pulse hammers in your throat, just beneath the blade, but you force your chin up anyway. If he expects you to cower, he’s forgotten who you are.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you snap, though your voice wavers at the edges. “I didn’t exactly plan to run into you in the middle of this hell.”

His eyes narrow further, searching, testing. You push against the silence, refusing to let him see how much the coldness stings.

“I’m here on orders,” you bite out, each word steadier than you feel. “Ramon Salazar. That’s my mission. That’s what I’m doing here.”

For a second, something shifts in his expression, a shadow of concern. But it vanishes as quickly as it comes.

“And don’t look at me like I’m some liability.” Your grip tightens on your knife, pressing harder into his neck, matching his pressure exactly. “I’ve survived just as much as you have, Leon. Don’t you dare pretend otherwise.”

The words hang between you, trembling with anger and something deeper, something you can’t swallow down.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moves. The knives glint in the moonlight, pressed to skin, breaths ragged in the narrow silence.

Then Leon exhales, a sharp, frustrated sound. His wrist shifts, knife lowering an inch, then another, until the cold bite against your throat is gone.

But his shoulders don’t relax.

They’re rigid, drawn tight like bowstrings. His stance remains squared, ready. Every muscle in him screams restraint, like lowering the weapon cost him more than plunging it into you ever would have.

He takes half a step back, blue eyes locked on yours, and his own knife hovers low at his side. Not sheathed, not away, just not aimed at your life anymore.

The stiffness in his jaw doesn’t soften, his mouth a hard, thin line. You can see the fight in him, not against you, but against himself. Against whatever cracks are splitting open at the sight of you here, real, alive.

Finally, his voice scrapes out, quieter but no less rough:

“You don’t belong in this place.”

Your grip tightens on your knife, and your reply is out before you can stop yourself.

“You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do,” you snap, sharp as broken glass. The words cut the silence between you, brittle with defiance.

Leon doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression stays unreadable, a mask chiseled into stone. Only his eyes shift, narrowing slightly as if weighing whether it’s worth arguing with you.

“Where are you headed?” he finally deadpans, voice flat as the steel in his hand.

You hesitate, then tug the battered map from your pocket, unfolding the ruined creases with stiff fingers. You jab a finger toward the crude drawing of the looming structure dominating the area.

“The castle.”

For a second, something flickers across his face, surprise, then calculation. He studies the map, then you, his jaw working.

“That’s where the president’s daughter is,” he says at last, tone clipped but carrying a weight you can’t ignore. His eyes harden, colder than the night air. “That’s my mission.”

The tension between you lingers, but it bends into something else, necessity. For a moment, the knives, the bitterness, the years don’t matter. Survival does.

You fold the map back into your pocket, meeting his stare. “Then we’re headed in the same direction.”

Leon doesn’t agree with words. He just exhales through his nose, shoulders still tense, and steps past you, scanning the shadows as if every corner hides another fight.

But he doesn’t tell you to leave again. He doesn’t stop you from following.

And in this place, in this nightmare, that’s as close to agreement as you’ll ever get.

The air between you is thick with everything unsaid as you fall into step behind him. Leon moves like a shadow, every stride purposeful, weapon angled low but ready. He scans every corner, every rooftop, every crack in the walls, like he expects the night itself to reach out and drag him under.

You match his pace, boots crunching against gravel and wet hay, the map’s weight heavy in your pocket. Neither of you speaks at first. The silence is suffocating, but you refuse to be the one to break it. Not when his words still burn, you don’t belong here.

The streets coil and twist, narrow alleys bleeding into wider paths lined with skeletal trees. The villagers are quieter here, their presence more of a shadow at the edges than a direct threat. The quiet is almost worse.

Your eyes keep pulling to him despite yourself.

The Leon you knew in Raccoon City was green but brave, his movements uncertain yet fueled by sheer determination. Now, every motion is precise, stripped of hesitation. He’s efficient in a way that makes your chest ache; it’s the efficiency of someone who’s learned survival by losing too much.

There’s a faint scar at his jaw you don’t remember, another slicing through the brow above his left eye. His hair, longer now, clings damply to his forehead when the wind shifts. The light from the moon catches on the line of his profile, and for a moment you almost see him as he was back then, until he turns, and his eyes slice right through you, cold and unrelenting.

You look away, heart hammering.

“Stay close,” he mutters finally, voice low, rough. The command is automatic, but there’s a flicker of something else buried deep in it.

You almost laugh, bitter. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he adjusts the strap of his holster and presses on, shoulders stiff, as though keeping you at arm’s length is the only thing holding him together.

The silence falls again, heavier than before. And yet, for all his words, for all the coldness in his tone, Leon doesn’t leave you behind. He doesn’t tell you to turn back. He lets you walk at his side.

And in the dark, ruined streets of Spain, that fragile allowance feels like a confession all its own.

The silence breaks not with words, but with guttural cries tearing through the night. Villagers emerge from the shadows, eyes glowing with unnatural fury, the shuffle of boots on stone punctuated by the metallic rasp of sickles dragged along walls. They pour in from both ends of the alley, sealing you inside a kill box.

Leon’s head snaps up, gaze cutting sharp as he counts the enemies. He doesn’t waste time speaking, he just shifts, sliding instinctively until his back brushes yours. His weight grounds you, the familiar anchor in chaos.

It’s automatic. Seamless. Like Raccoon City all over again.

The first villager lunges. You don’t think, you just fire, the muzzle flash lights the alley as the man crumples into the dirt. Behind you, Leon pivots at the same instant, his handgun barking once, then twice, each bullet placed with surgical precision. The stench of blood and gunpowder thickens, filling your lungs.

A roar to your right, an axe cleaves downward. You duck, twisting beneath the swing, knife flashing up as you drive the blade into the attacker’s ribs. Hot blood sprays your arm. Before you can finish the kill, Leon’s elbow cracks back against another villager’s face, bone crunching wetly. His boot brushes yours as he plants it forward and kicks the man hard enough to send him crashing into the wall. Not a stumble. Not a misstep. Just rhythm.

Another surge, a pitchfork aimed for your chest. You twist aside, parrying with the edge of your knife, and slash down the attacker’s arm until the weapon clatters away. Before you can strike again, a bullet whistles past your shoulder, straight into their skull. The body drops at your feet.

“Reloading,” you bark, slamming a fresh magazine home.

“I’ve got it.” His answer is clipped, but solid, steady as bedrock at your back.

You trust it.

They come faster now. You move together, pivoting in unison, a seamless machine of survival. When you duck, Leon rises. When you thrust forward, he covers your flank. A villager swings wild at your side, Leon catches the wrist mid-air, twists, and shoves the blade back into the man’s chest. Another charges you head-on, you roll beneath their swing, slice the tendon at their knee, and Leon is already there above you, finishing with a brutal downward stab.

Back to back, you spin as one.

He kicks low at an enemy’s shin; you catch the stagger with a slash across the throat. You leap up the wall for leverage, boot pushing off stone to drive your knife down into a skull; Leon drops into a crouch beneath you, sweeping another enemy’s legs out before finishing them with a clean, merciless shot.

Your shoulders knock once, twice, in the chaos, not from clumsiness, but from sheer synchronicity, the kind that comes from surviving hell together once before. Every strike, every pivot, every kill feels like muscle memory burned into your bones.

For a moment, it feels like nothing’s changed. Like you’re back in that cursed city, rookies drowning in fire and blood, clinging to each other just to see the sunrise.

But then the last villager collapses, body folding into silence on the wet stone.

The night quiets.

You’re both breathing hard, blades dripping, sweat sticking your clothes to your skin. Back pressed to back, you hold the stance a moment longer, chests heaving in sync, hearts thundering against one another through armour and cloth.

Leon is the first to move. He steps forward, breaking the connection as if the closeness itself is more dangerous than the horde you just cut down. He reloads with mechanical precision, holstering his knife without a word. His shoulders stay rigid, his face unreadable, his silence a wall as high as the castle looming in the distance.

As if he can erase what just happened, the rhythm, the trust, the way your bodies still fit together perfectly.

But you can feel it thrumming in your veins, humming in your bones. The rhythm of him. The way the world seemed to make sense with him at your back.

And you hate how much you miss it.

Leon breaks the silence first, his voice low, clipped, almost like he’s annoyed with himself for speaking at all.

“I see your aim improved,” he mutters, sliding a fresh magazine into his handgun with a practiced snap.

Your lips twitch, not quite a smile, more a grimace. You refuse to let him have the last word.

“I see your footwork improved,” you shoot back, flicking blood from your blade before sliding it into its sheath. “You don’t stumble around like a rookie anymore.”

He glances at you sidelong, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth before it hardens again, vanishing as quickly as it came.

“Guess some of us had to grow up,” he says, voice flat, carrying more weight than the words themselves.

The air thickens again, that brief flicker of old rhythm buried under the heaviness of who he is now, and who you used to be to him.

The words hang between you, sharp and bitter. Guess some of us had to grow up.

You let out a dry laugh, though it’s softer, more fragile than you intend. “Yeah… you definitely grew up. Just not in the way I thought you would.”

Leon doesn’t answer immediately. He reloads with deliberate care, the metallic click of the magazine louder than his silence. His shoulders are still stiff, like the weight of his own words is pressing down on them.

“Raccoon City feels like a lifetime ago,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the bloodied stones under your boots. “Back then, you still had hope. You still looked at people like they were worth saving.”

His jaw works, but he keeps his gaze ahead, scanning the shadows. “Hope gets you killed.”

You take a step closer, unable to stop yourself. “No. Losing it does.”

That makes him glance at you, just a flick of his eyes, sharp and electric. For a moment, you swear you see it: the younger man beneath the hardened exterior, the rookie who smiled at you even when the city burned. But then he looks away again, wall slamming back into place.

“Don’t romanticize the past,” he mutters. “We survived. That’s all that matters.”

“Is it?” you press, voice low, dangerously close to cracking. “Because standing here with you… it feels like the man I knew didn’t survive at all.”

His lips part, like he wants to argue, but nothing comes out. His silence is heavier than any fight.

For a long moment, the only sounds are your ragged breaths and the distant croak of night insects in the fields. And though he doesn’t say it, you can feel it in the space between you.

“We have to rest,” Leon says at last, voice clipped, flat. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, his eyes are already scanning the broken stone courtyard around you, weighing shadows, corners, exits. “If we push any further tonight, we’ll be dead before we reach the castle.”

You shake your head immediately, sharp, defiant. “There’s no time. You know that as well as I do.”

His jaw flexes, that telltale tension twitching along the muscle. “I’m not asking.”

“Good. Because I’m not listening.” You shove past him, boots crunching on gravel. “Rest if you want, Leon. I’ll go on my own.”

The words taste bitter, and maybe you hope he’ll let you go, call your bluff. But he doesn’t.

Because the second you step forward, his hand closes around your wrist. Hard.

You freeze. His grip is iron, not the desperate hold of someone begging you to stay, but the unyielding restraint of a man who’s lived too long on the edge of survival to let anyone slip out of his control.

“Don’t,” he says. Just that one word, low, cold, cutting.

You twist, trying to yank free, but his fingers only dig tighter, tendons standing out stark beneath his skin. You can feel the heat of his palm, the tremor buried under the strength. He’s steady, always steady, but something in that grip betrays him.

“Let go,” you hiss, glaring up at him. “I don’t need you.”

His eyes finally meet yours, and the look in them nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. Blue, burning, but not warm, not anymore. There’s no rookie softness left, no spark of hope. Just a storm, sharp and unrelenting.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice scrapes raw, a whisper dragged through glass. “You’ve survived plenty without me.” His grip tightens until your pulse hammers against his palm. “But you’re not walking into that castle alone.”

Your breath falters. The words should feel protective. They don’t. They feel like chains.

“Why?” you bite back. “Because it’s your mission? Because I’ll get in your way?”

His expression flickers, something cracks, quick and sharp, before he slams it back into place.

But not fast enough.

His mouth parts, voice low, rough, dragged up from somewhere he’s kept locked down for years.

“Please, ______. Just do this for me.”

The word doesn’t sound right in his mouth. It scrapes out jagged, raw, like he’s forgotten how to ask for anything instead of ordering it. And it’s not the word of a soldier, not even the warning of a man trying to command control, it’s a fracture. A plea.

The word rattles inside you long after it leaves his mouth. Please. You hate how it lingers, how it pulls at something you thought you’d buried.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Instead, the two of you move through the courtyard in brittle silence until an old, half-collapsed stone house looms out of the dark. Its roof sags inward, moss and rot clinging to the broken beams, but the walls are still standing, enough to pass for shelter.

Leon stops at the threshold, weapon raised, scanning every corner with that precise, mechanical rhythm of his. He doesn’t even breathe wrong as he checks the shattered windows, the leaning doorframe, the piles of debris that could hide more than rats.

While he sweeps the perimeter, you slip inside, boots crunching over broken glass. The air is stale, heavy with mildew and old wood. In the corner, a chair leans drunkenly against the wall, one leg splintered. You drag it across the warped floorboards anyway, jamming it under the cracked door handle until the wood creaks against the strain.

It won’t hold much, but it feels like doing something. Like control.

When you turn back, Leon is there in the doorway, watching. His eyes flick from the chair to you, unreadable, and then he steps past, pulling the door shut until the chair groans under the weight.

No words of approval. No reassurance. Just silence.

He moves to the far side of the room, crouching to sweep dust and old straw into a small, clear space. Every motion is efficient, practiced, ritual more than rest. He sets his knife down within easy reach, back against the wall, gaze locked on the single cracked window as though daring the night itself to try him.

The silence presses down, thick enough to choke on.

You sink onto a beam near the blocked door, arms braced on your knees. The shadows stretch long between you, broken only by the pale sliver of moonlight cutting through the cracks in the boards.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

Then, without looking away from the window, Leon mutters, voice low and flat but carrying something heavy beneath it:

“You can take the first watch. I’ll cover after.”

The words are practical, stripped down to survival, but you hear what he doesn’t say: I don’t trust myself to sleep while you’re awake. Not yet.

Your throat tightens. You should argue. Should tell him you don’t need his approval, his permission, his please. But all you can do is stare at the scarred line of his profile in the dim light, and wonder how the same man can feel both like home and like a stranger all at once.

You don’t answer him. Not with words.

Instead, you reach into your pack, fingers brushing past the bruised herbs and warped map until they close around your flask of water. The metal is cold against your palm, condensation slicking your fingers as you pull it free.

You cross the room in slow, deliberate steps. He doesn’t look at you at first, still watching the window, jaw set, posture coiled like a trap. But when you hold the canteen out, his eyes flick to yours, blue cutting through the shadows.

For a heartbeat, he just stares at it. At you. Like he can’t decide whether to accept, or whether taking even this would be a weakness he can’t afford.

“Go on,” you murmur, softer than you mean to. “You look like hell.”

His mouth tightens, but after a moment he takes it, fingers brushing against yours as he does. The contact is brief, fleeting, but it burns, heat sparking where his hand touches yours, lingering even after he pulls back.

He unscrews the cap with quiet efficiency, gulps once, twice. His throat works as he swallows, and for some reason you can’t tear your eyes away from the motion. He drinks just enough to take the edge off before screwing the cap back on, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove.

When he passes the flask back, you notice it immediately: he’s angled it so the mouthpiece never touched his lips directly. Even here, even now, he’s keeping distance, building walls with small, thoughtless habits.

But his voice, low, gruff, gravel-edged, betrays him.

“Thanks.”

The word is almost nothing. A ghost of gratitude. But hearing it from him feels heavier than any knife, because it’s too raw, too human, too much like the Leon you used to know bleeding through the cracks.

You clutch the canteen tighter than you need to, sinking back toward the chair wedged against the door. The silence thickens again, heavier now, thick with things you’ll never say.

Across the room, Leon adjusts his grip on the knife at his side, gaze still fixed on the window. But his shoulders are taut, his breathing just a fraction too shallow.

At some point, exhaustion drags you under despite yourself. Your head tips against the wall, breath evening out, the steady rhythm of Leon’s silence lulling you into uneasy half-sleep.

But it doesn’t last.

A sound cuts through the dark, sharp, low, and pained. A hiss, bitten back between clenched teeth.

Your eyes snap open.

The room is still swallowed in shadow, but a strip of moonlight cuts across the floorboards, spilling over Leon where he sits near the window. He’s hunched forward, one hand locked in a tight fist on his thigh, the other dragging a filthy scrap of cloth across his stomach.

And that’s when you see it.

His shirt is pushed up just enough to expose the wound, a jagged, raw slice cutting deep into the muscle of his abdomen, seeping dark red even as he presses the cloth harder, too hard. The grit in the fabric scrapes the injury, and his jaw is locked so tight you’re surprised his teeth don’t crack.

You’re on your feet before you can think. The weight of your pack crashes against your shoulder as you grab it and drop hard to your knees beside him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Your voice comes out sharp, rough, cracking around the edges.

His head jerks toward you, blue eyes flashing under the dim light. He doesn’t answer immediately, just glares, as if your sudden nearness is more dangerous than the bleeding hole in his gut.

You don’t give him the chance to push you away. You rip the bag open, hands already sifting through the crushed herbs, bandages, the last precious supplies you’ve hoarded.

“You should’ve told me the second you were hit,” you snap, voice trembling as you yank out a roll of gauze. “You think bleeding out quietly in some rotting house is noble? That hiding it makes you strong?”

He exhales sharply through his nose, gaze dropping back to the wound as if he can will it shut by ignoring you. His knuckles are white where his fist still grips his thigh.

“I’ve had worse,” he mutters, voice low, frayed with pain but stripped of complaint.

The words light a fire in your chest.

“That doesn’t make it better, Leon!” You tear the filthy cloth from his hand, tossing it aside. The wound is worse up close, ragged, angry, like whatever cut him had been meant to gut, not just wound. The sight twists your stomach, but you steady your hands anyway.

He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t move. Just sits rigid, jaw clenched, as you press clean bandage against torn flesh.

But his silence — that stubborn, suffocating silence — feels louder than any scream.

Your fingers work with steady precision, even though your chest is tight with fury and fear. You thread the needle, sterilize it in the brief flame of a match, then lean in close.

“This is going to hurt,” you mutter.

Leon doesn’t reply. Just braces his fist harder against his thigh and sets his jaw like stone.

The first stitch pierces flesh, and his body jolts despite him trying to hold still. A low hiss escapes through his teeth.

You glance up at him, rolling your eyes. “Oh, please. You’ve been stabbed, shot, mauled by god-knows-what, and you’re going to complain about this?”

“I’m not complaining,” he grits out. “Just… reacting.”

“Uh-huh.” You pull the thread taut, tying it off before moving to the next. “For the record, you were a pretty good medic back in Raccoon City. Remember? Patching people up in that busted squad car like you actually knew what you were doing.”

For the first time tonight, the edge in his expression softens — barely, but enough that you notice. His eyes flick toward you, something almost like memory sparking behind the steel.

“You were the one who stopped me from stitching that officer’s arm shut without anesthetic,” he murmurs, voice low, roughened by more than pain. “Said I’d do more damage than good.”

You smirk faintly, concentrating on sliding the needle through another torn edge of skin. “Well, I was right.”

“Yeah.” His lips twitch, not quite a smile, more a ghost of one. “You usually were.”

The words settle between you, warmer than they should be.

You finish the last stitch, snip the thread, and reach for the small tin of antiseptic cream. Scooping some onto your fingers, you press it gently along the wound.

Leon hisses again, breath shuddering out as his hand fists tighter on his thigh.

“Oh, quit being dramatic,” you chide softly, though your tone is lighter now, almost fond.

When you glance up, he’s watching you, not the wound, not your hands, but you. His eyes aren’t steel in that moment. They’re tired, bruised with years of weight, but softened at the edges by something you can’t quite name.

You clear your throat, looking back down as you smooth the cream over the last raw edge. “Feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it? Raccoon City.”

Leon exhales through his nose, leaning back against the wall, gaze distant. “Sometimes it feels like yesterday. Other times… like it happened to someone else.”

You sit back on your heels, hands still trembling faintly from the work. “It happened to both of us. No one else would understand.”

His eyes flick to you again, and this time the silence between you doesn’t feel like a wall. It feels like a thread — fragile, thin, but tying you both to something that mattered.

For a moment, the ruined house, the wound, the mission — all of it fades. There’s only the memory of fire and ash, of two rookies stumbling through hell and keeping each other alive when no one else could.

And for the first time since you saw him in Spain, sitting here beside him doesn’t feel like standing next to a stranger.

You finish tying off the last bit of gauze and sit back, exhaling slowly. Your hands are still trembling, though you try to hide it by wiping the needle clean, tucking the supplies away.

Leon leans against the wall, breathing steadier now. His shirt is still loose around the stitched wound, but the bleeding has stopped. The moonlight slips across his face, softening the edges just enough to make him look younger, almost like the man you remember.

He’s quiet for a long time. Too long. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy, searching, and you almost wish he’d stay silent.

Then, softly, so softly you almost don’t catch it. He says:

“Do you remember that night? After we made it out of the station… before we went our separate ways?”

Your chest tightens. You know exactly what he means. The burned-out rooftop, the silence between the sirens, the strange fragile hope that maybe you’d both live to see morning.

The words leave your mouth harsher than you intend, cutting through the quiet like glass.

“No. I don’t.”

You don’t wait to see his face, don’t let yourself look at the way those blue eyes must flicker when the words hit. You push to your feet, crossing the creaking floorboards with quick, sharp steps.

Your pack drops beside the blocked door with a dull thud, and you lower yourself onto the makeshift bedding without another glance at him. Turning your back feels like armor, the only defense you have left.

The silence that follows is thick, suffocating.

For a moment, you almost expect him to argue. To push. To force the memory back into the open where you can’t escape it. But he doesn’t.

Behind you, there’s only the sound of his breathing, rough and uneven, and the faint rustle of fabric as he pulls his shirt down over the fresh stitches.

Then nothing.

You stare into the dark, fists tight in the thin blanket, heart pounding like you’ve just survived another fight.

You told yourself the words would protect you, that denying him would make it easier, but all they do is echo, hollow and jagged, until you almost believe them yourself.

Across the room, Leon shifts once against the wall. His voice doesn’t follow.

And maybe that’s worse.

Because in the silence, you know he remembers. You know he still carries it, even if you’ve tried to bury it.

And no matter how tightly you shut your eyes, you can still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your back, steady, unrelenting, like a wound you don’t have the strength to stitch shut.

You wake to the pale light of dawn bleeding through the cracked boards, gray and cold. The night has left your body stiff, your clothes damp with the chill that clings to this rotting country.

The chair still holds against the door, though the wood has splintered under the strain. You push yourself upright slowly, every muscle tight with the weight of memory.

Leon is already awake. Of course he is.

He sits where you left him, back against the wall, knife in hand, gaze fixed on the window as if he never closed his eyes. The fresh bandages at his stomach are stained through, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. His expression is unreadable, jaw set, eyes colder than the morning air.

You almost wish he’d look at you. Almost. But he doesn’t.

You start gathering your gear in silence, shoving herbs and rags back into your pack with sharp, unnecessary force. The sound fills the room, brittle and ugly, but it’s better than the suffocating quiet between you.

When you sling the strap over your shoulder, Leon finally speaks.

“Castle’s two miles east.” His tone is clipped, flat, businesslike. Not even a trace of last night’s softness remains. “If we move now, we’ll make it before sundown.”

You nod once, not trusting your voice, and shove the chair aside from the door. It scrapes across the floorboards with a shriek, breaking the fragile stillness.

Leon stands, holstering his weapon, movements precise, efficient, the mask firmly back in place. He doesn’t look at you when he passes, just pushes the door open and steps into the weak daylight.

For a moment, you stand in the ruin of the house alone, staring at the space he left behind, the air still heavy with what neither of you said.

The road east winds through damp fields and half-collapsed walls, the silence between you louder than the crunch of boots on gravel. Leon walks a half-step ahead, scanning every shadow with that clinical precision of his, and you let him, partly because it’s easier than trying to match his rhythm, partly because you’re still stinging from the way you cut him off.

When the ruined outline of a fork in the road comes into view, you stop. One path angles up into the hills, the other dips low through the remains of a village.

“We should take the high ground,” you say, breaking the silence at last. Your voice comes out sharper than you intended. “Less chance of an ambush if we can see what’s coming.”

Leon doesn’t slow, doesn’t even glance back. “It’ll expose us. The village has cover.”

“Cover that can hide twenty villagers waiting to tear us apart,” you snap, moving to block his step. “High ground means visibility.”

“High ground means open sky and nowhere to run if we’re spotted.” He stops then, blue eyes locking onto yours. Cold, controlled. “Trust me. We go through the village.”

The words sting more than they should. Trust me.

You fold your arms, glaring back. “Funny. You used to actually listen before deciding what’s best.”

His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking. “Listening got people killed. I won’t make that mistake again.”

It lands like a blade to the gut. He’s not talking about the mission anymore, and you know it.

For a heartbeat, the silence thickens between you, both of you refusing to break eye contact.

Finally you huff, stepping aside with a sharp shake of your head. “Fine. But when we’re knee-deep in blood because you couldn’t handle being wrong, don’t expect me to say I told you so.”

Leon exhales through his nose, moving past you with that same soldier’s stride. His boots crunch over gravel, shoulders squared, mask nailed firmly back into place. But just before he overtakes you, his voice slips out — low, almost too quiet, but cutting all the same:

“Some things never change.”

You stop dead. Your head snaps toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t slow, doesn’t look back. “You always have to be right. Always have to argue.” His tone is flat, practiced, but there’s an edge underneath, sharp and bitter, meant to wound. “Even when it puts you in more danger than it saves you from.”

Your stomach twists, heat rushing to your face. “You think I argue for the fun of it?” Your voice rises, sharper now. “I argue because I know what I’m doing. Because I don’t just blindly follow orders.”

You stalk a step closer, closing the space between you, refusing to be dismissed. “Not everyone can live their life marching to someone else’s command, Leon.”

That makes him stop. His boots grind against the gravel as he halts mid-stride. Slowly, he turns, blue eyes narrowing, fire sparking beneath the ice.

“And how’s that worked out for you?” he asks, voice razor-sharp. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s examining a flaw under a microscope. “Running off on your own. Shutting people out. Pretending you don’t need anyone. Tell me—” he steps closer, his shadow almost brushing yours now, “—is that really what’s kept you alive all this time? Or has it just kept you alone?”

The words hit like a blow to the gut. For a moment, you can’t breathe. Rage and hurt knot together in your chest until it feels like your ribs might crack.

“Better alone,” you fire back, voice shaking but unrelenting, “than shackled to someone who thinks they know what’s best for me.”

Leon’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding, muscle ticking hard in his cheek. His shadow swallows yours as he steps closer again, the space between you taut and sparking.

“You think that’s what this is? Me trying to control you?” His voice drops low, rough, dangerous in a way that’s not about combat, about truth. “I’m trying to keep you alive. Because like it or not—” his hand twitches at his side, as if he wants to reach for you but doesn’t — “that still matters to me.”

The admission hangs there, raw despite the venom it’s wrapped in.

You scoff, shaking your head hard, as if the motion itself will keep his words from digging deeper. “No, what matters to you is control. Keeping everything neat, ordered, safe. You’d rather suffocate the people around you than admit you can’t save them.”

His eyes flash, a sharp crack in the steel mask. He leans in, voice biting. “And you’d rather push everyone away than admit you want someone to fight for you.”

That slices deep. Your breath stutters, your chest aching, but you snap back before he can see the crack in your armor.

“Don’t put this on me,” you hiss, fists curling tight at your sides. “You’re the one who chose this life. You let them turn you into a weapon and now you expect me to just—what? Follow behind you? Fall in line like I’m one of your missions?”

Leon’s nostrils flare as he exhales sharply, the sound almost a laugh, bitter and hollow. “God, you think you know me so well.” His voice scrapes low, dangerous. “You think because you saw me in Raccoon City — the rookie, the idiot kid in a clean uniform — that you know the man I am now?”

Your heart twists. You take a step closer, eyes locked with his. “I don’t think. I know. And that’s what scares you.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, too close, the air between you trembling with everything unsaid. His breath brushes yours, shallow and sharp, his blue eyes burning, storming.

Neither of you steps back. Neither of you looks away.

The air between you feels scorched, every word still hanging, sharp and unfinished. Your chest heaves, blood hot in your veins, but you’ve run out of words. Or maybe you’ve just run out of the strength to keep flinging them at each other.

Leon doesn’t say anything else either. His jaw is tight, lips pressed into a hard line, blue eyes dark with things he won’t let spill. For a heartbeat you think he might push again, might twist the knife deeper. But instead he just exhales through his nose, sharp, controlled, and turns back toward the road.

Silence swallows what’s left.

You fall into step behind him, boots crunching over gravel, every sound too loud in the quiet. The fork in the road closes behind you, but the sting of the argument clings like smoke. Neither of you looks at the other. Neither of you dares to break the stillness again.

The path to the castle forks at a broken courtyard, where the grass is long dead and the stones are slick with damp moss. The fortress looms above you both, black towers jagged against the gray sky, windows like hollow eyes staring down. The air is heavy, thick with the stench of mildew and rot, every breath like swallowing earth.

You stop at the fork. One way spirals west, where the stones are older, crumbling into themselves, Salazar’s domain. The other arches east toward the looming main gates, where Ashley Graham is rumored to be held.

It feels like a line carved through more than stone.

“This is where we part ways,” you say at last. Your voice is flat, clipped, though you can feel the tremor pressing at the back of your throat. You keep your eyes forward, fixed on the path ahead. If you look at him, you’ll break.

Leon doesn’t answer right away. You hear the faint scrape of leather as his hand flexes at his side, like he’s fighting to still it. When he speaks, his tone is as cold and steady as the castle walls, “Yeah. Guess it is.”

The words cut sharper than any goodbye.

You force yourself to shift the strap of your pack higher on your shoulder, something to do with your hands. “I’ll find Salazar. End this parasite at the root.” You say it like it’s just orders. Like it’s easy.

He nods once, eyes narrowing on the opposite path. “Ashley’s my mission.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it, as if keeping his gaze away makes the split less real.

The silence between you thickens, pressing heavy against your ribs. For a moment you both just stand there, side by side but already divided.

You can’t help yourself, you glance at him. The blue eyes that once felt like safety now look like frozen steel. His face is set in that hard, unreadable mask he’s perfected, but you catch it, the flicker, the almost. The tension in his jaw, the way his throat works like words are crawling up it, desperate to be spoken.

He swallows them down.

“Don’t slow me down,” you say, harsher than you intend. You mean it to sound sharp, dismissive, but it comes out cracked at the edges, a weak shield against the truth clawing at your chest.

Leon finally looks at you then, just long enough for your heart to stumble. His eyes are tired, bruised with too many ghosts, but beneath the steel there’s something buried, something he won’t let rise.

“Stay alive.” His voice is low, rough, stripped bare of everything except the command. But underneath it, buried so deep you almost miss it, is the plea he refuses to let surface.

The words hang there, heavy, final.

You nod once. Nothing more.

Then you turn. Your boots scrape against the stones as you step onto your path, the castle swallowing you into shadow.

Behind you, Leon stands rooted for a moment longer, eyes locked on the place where you vanished. His hand flexes once at his side, then fists tight, the knuckles white.

The words burn in his chest, don’t go. Not again. I can’t lose you too. They crawl up his throat, scrape against his teeth, aching to break free.

But he forces them down.

When he finally turns toward his own path, his face is stone again, his steps as measured and precise as ever. A soldier. A survivor. Nothing more.

The courtyard empties, leaving only the echo of two sets of footsteps fading into opposite halls.

And though the castle swallows you whole, the silence you leave behind follows him like a ghost, louder than any scream.

The castle doors groan open behind you as you stagger out into the courtyard, the night air crashing over your skin like ice water.

You brace yourself against the stone archway for a moment, catching your breath. Every inhale rattles, your ribs tight, your chest burning from smoke and exertion. Your leg throbs with every step, not broken, but twisted, strained in the fight. The dull ache sharpens when you shift your weight, forcing you into a limp.

Salazar is dead.

The thought should feel like victory. It doesn’t.

The battle replays in shards behind your eyes, the grotesque contortion of his body, the way the parasite twisted him until he was nothing human anymore, the screaming collapse of the chamber as your last shot found its mark. You’d expected triumph. All you feel is the sour tang of bile in your throat and the echo of his shriek still rattling your bones.

The night air doesn’t wash the blood away. It clings, sticky on your arms, caked along your thigh where the wound had split open. Your pack is lighter now, herbs and ammo spent, the map little more than tattered scraps.

You drag yourself down the stairs into the moonlit courtyard. The grass here crunches brittle underfoot, the earth dead long before your fight ended it.

The silence is unbearable.

You lean against a crumbling pillar, pressing a trembling hand against your thigh where the pain stings sharpest. Each pulse is a reminder that you made it out, barely. The kind of survival that doesn’t feel like winning.

The cold seeps into your bones as you stare back at the looming silhouette of the castle. Its towers rise jagged into the night, black against the stars, its windows burning faint with torchlight.

You tell yourself it’s over. Mission complete. Orders fulfilled.

But the words feel empty.

Because all you can think of is the other path, the one that led east, where Leon disappeared into the dark.

You don’t know if he’s alive. You don’t know if you’ll ever see him again.

The ache in your leg is sharp, but the ache in your chest is worse.

The island path is narrow, carved from stone and dirt, the sea clawing at the cliffs far below. Every step sends a dull ache shooting up your leg, each movement heavier than the last. The taste of smoke still lingers at the back of your throat, and every bruise across your ribs throbs in rhythm with your heartbeat.

You keep walking. One foot. Then the other. The promise of extraction, of leaving this cursed land behind, dangles just far enough ahead to keep you moving.

Until it hits you.

The memory.

You’re both bruised and bloodied, bodies aching from hours of running and fighting, lungs burning from smoke that thickens the air. Behind you, the city groans with death, fires chewing through buildings, smoke rising in black, suffocating plumes that blot out the stars. Sirens wail somewhere distant, half-swallowed by the roar of collapse.

You stumble against a wall, sucking in a ragged breath, and he’s there, Leon, younger, rawer, his uniform torn and stained but still somehow clinging to the crisp edges of what it once was. His face is smeared with soot and blood, a fresh cut along his cheekbone, but his eyes…

God, his eyes are still alive. Bright. Unshaken.

Despite everything, he looks at you with a steadiness that anchors you to the ground. A rookie, barely trained, standing in hell with you, and somehow still carrying hope.

He closes the distance, one hand bracing against the wall near your shoulder, the other hovering uncertainly before pressing gently against your side where blood has seeped through your shirt. His touch is clumsy but careful, his brows knit tight with worry.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice rough from smoke but threaded with so much concern it nearly undoes you.

You huff a laugh, sharp and brittle, because the truth is obvious, neither of you is okay. “No,” you rasp, shaking your head. “Pretty sure I’m falling apart.”

For a second he just stares, startled, then a crooked grin tugs at his mouth despite the ash and blood caked there. The expression looks absurd in this place, this nightmare, but it’s real.

“Well,” he says, breathless, trying to match your tone, “guess we’re in the same boat then.”

You bark out another laugh, short and pained, leaning heavier into the wall. “Some first day on the job, huh?”

Leon lets out a low, disbelieving chuckle, running a bloody hand through hair that keeps falling into his eyes. “Yeah. Not exactly what I signed up for.” His smile falters, then steadies again as his gaze locks with yours. “But… at least I didn’t end up facing it alone.”

And there it is. The steadiness in him, raw and foolish and unbroken, a warmth that cuts through the smoke and flames more than the fire ever could.

But then his expression shifts. The grin fades, the boyish spark in his eyes hardening into something sharper, almost frantic. His voice cuts in, rough with blunt desperation:

“Come with me.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, confusion breaking through the exhaustion. “What?”

He leans closer, smoke curling between you, his hand still braced against the wall near your shoulder. There’s no hesitation now, no careful rookie second-guessing himself. His voice drops, urgent, insistent.

“Come with me — join the government.” His words tumble out fast, like if he doesn’t say them now he never will. “We can work together, you and me. We could actually do something. Put an end to this before it happens again.”

The desperation in him is naked, almost jarring, but it’s real. He believes it. His jaw is set, his blue eyes blazing in a way that pins you in place, that makes it sound less like a suggestion and more like a plea.

“You’ve seen what I’ve seen,” he pushes, breath ragged, chest heaving with smoke and exhaustion. “We survived this together.

You swallow hard, throat tight, staring into his desperate, pleading eyes. Every fiber in you aches to say yes, the words press against your teeth, raw and almost painful in how badly they want to break free.

But you know you can’t.

“Leon…” your voice cracks, barely audible over the roar of fire behind you. You force the words out anyway, each one cutting like glass. “I can’t.”

His face falters, just a flicker, but enough to gut you. The firelight licks across his features, carving the sharp planes of his jaw, the cut on his cheek, the tremor in his mouth as if he’s biting down on all the things he wants to say.

“Why not?” His voice comes rough, breaking with frustration, with the rawness of someone too young to understand that sometimes survival isn’t enough to bind two people forever. “We could do this. Together. Don’t you see that?”

You shake your head, harder this time, though your chest feels like it’s splitting open.

“You’d become sick of me,” you whisper, forcing the words past the knot in your throat. “Day after day, mission after mission. You’d start to see all the cracks, all the things that don’t fit. And one day, you’d—”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Leon cuts in, firm, desperate, the words tripping out like a promise he doesn’t know how to stop making. His blue eyes blaze against the firelight, unwavering.

“You’d grow to hate me,” you push, voice shaking, trying to drive the knife in deep enough that he’ll finally let go.

“No.” His reply is sharp, immediate, the rookie’s stubbornness sharpened into something like defiance. He takes half a step closer, close enough that the smoke curls between you both. “I could never hate you.”

The way he says it almost undoes you. Not as a reassurance, not even as an argument, but as a truth, carved raw out of his chest, stripped of every layer of hesitation.

You bite down hard, teeth clenching, because if you let yourself believe it, if you let yourself want it, you’ll never be able to walk away.

The realization settles into his face all at once, dimming that stubborn fire in his eyes. His lips part, trembling faintly, before he forces the words out, quiet, uneven, like he already knows the answer.

“I’m never going to see you again… am I?”

The plea in his voice cuts deeper than any blade, but you can’t bring yourself to lie. Your throat locks, burning with everything you want to say but can’t. Because you know the truth — and so does he.

You can’t say no. You can’t say yes. You can’t say I’m sorry.

So you say nothing.

The silence is worse than any refusal.

His jaw tightens, his eyes flicking away, blinking against the smoke curling through the street. His hand lifts, just for a second, like he might reach for you, but it falls before it closes the distance.

“I thought…” His voice cracks, just once, before he steadies it. “…I thought maybe after everything, you’d—” He swallows hard, snapping the words off like he’s biting through glass. “Doesn’t matter.”

You want to tell him it does. That it always will. But you can’t.

So you just stand there, frozen, the roar of fire closing in around you while the one person who’s ever truly seen you stares at you like you’ve already become a ghost.

He looks back at you one last time. Blue eyes, raw and burning, searching for something he’ll never hear from you. Then he exhales sharply through his nose, shoulders stiffening, and the mask begins to fall, the first bricks of the wall that, years later, will become unbreakable.

When he finally turns away, it feels like the city itself collapses in his wake.

The memory collapses in on itself, flames and smoke giving way to the crash of waves against jagged rock. You stumble mid-step, boots skidding on the narrow path, your hand shooting out to catch the rough stone wall before you fall.

Your chest heaves. The night air bites sharp, but it does nothing to steady you.

You didn’t even notice the tear until it slid down your cheek, warm against the cold wind. You swipe it away with the back of your hand, quick, angry, like denying it will make it vanish, but the ache it leaves behind is worse than the sting in your leg.

It hits you all at once, the memory you’ve buried for years, the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes when you walked away. It slams into you like a truck, merciless, unstoppable, dragging up everything you’ve tried to forget.

You squeeze your eyes shut, breath ragged. You survived the castle. You killed Salazar. You’re walking off this cursed island alive.

And yet, somehow, this feels like the moment that breaks you.

Your hand shakes as you dig into your pack, fingers closing around the cracked satellite phone. The screen flickers weakly to life, the signal barely cutting through the static. You bring it to your ear, voice rough as you force out the words for pickup coordinates.

But before you can finish, another voice slices through the silence.

“Going so soon?”

You freeze.

The phone nearly slips from your grip as you whip around, heart slamming into your ribs.

He’s there.

Leon. Standing a few paces back on the jagged stone path, framed by the pale wash of moonlight. His tactical gear is torn, streaked with blood and dirt, but he’s upright. Alive. The steel blue eyes you’ve seen in nightmares and memories fix on you now, steady despite the exhaustion etched into his face.

For a heartbeat, you can’t move. The sight of him feels impossible, surreal, like conjuring a ghost.

“Leon…” The name breaks out of you on a breath, cracked and fragile, like saying it will make him vanish.

But he doesn’t vanish. He’s real. Solid. Safe.

Your throat tightens as the phone slips lower in your hand, forgotten. Every ache, every bruise, every buried memory crashes down on you all at once.

You’d convinced yourself you’d never see him again. That the last thing you’d carry was that look in his eyes as you walked away in Raccoon City.

The wind off the sea cuts cold against your skin, but you barely feel it. The only thing you register is the weight of his stare, unwavering, pulling you apart piece by piece.

Then his eyes shift lower to the tear you hadn’t even realized was still clinging to your cheek.

For an instant, neither of you moves. The silence between you is taut, as fragile as glass.

His shoulders drop. Just slightly, but enough. The rigid soldier’s frame, always squared, always braced for impact, eases as though someone has stolen the fight from him. It’s not relief, not exactly. It’s something deeper. Something heavier.

It’s the look of a man who’s been carrying armor so long that the sight of your tears cracks it without warning.

Your chest tightens. You want to speak, to force words through the knot in your throat, but nothing comes. Your voice has abandoned you.

Leon swallows hard, his jaw clenching once before he exhales. That breath carries years of silence, years of ghosts, years of everything he never said. His hand twitches at his side, not quite reaching for you, not quite steady, like he’s fighting himself even now.

For the first time since you saw him in Spain, his eyes don’t look like steel. They look human. Haunted.

The silence stretches until it’s unbearable, pressing against your ribs like a vice. The crash of waves below becomes the only sound, relentless, echoing the pounding of your heartbeat.

Then, finally, Leon speaks.

“I told myself…” His voice is low, gravel-scraped, almost unrecognizable. He stares past you for half a second, like pulling the words out costs him more than any wound. Then his gaze locks back onto yours, sharp and unwavering. “If I ever saw you again…” His throat works, the next words rasping out like a confession torn from his chest. “…I wouldn’t let you go.”

Your breath hitches. The words hit too deep, sinking past every wall you’ve tried to keep standing. Your chest aches, a sharp, hollow ache, like his vow has cracked something you didn’t realize was still breakable.

Leon doesn’t blink. His eyes are fixed on you, not the cold steel you saw in Spain, not the soldier’s mask he’s worn for years, but something stripped bare. Human. Raw.

“Do you know what it’s like,” he continues, voice rough, heavy with something he’s held back for too long, “carrying that thought? Through every mission, every night that doesn’t end? Thinking I’d already lost you, and knowing it was my fault for letting you walk away?”

The words tumble out, sharper now, as if he’s afraid if he doesn’t say them now, he never will.

Your throat burns, but you can’t answer. You can’t even breathe.

He draws in a ragged breath, shoulders heaving. His hand curls into a fist at his side, knuckles blanching, nails biting into skin like it’s the only way to ground himself.

“I tried to bury it,” he admits, voice breaking for just a second. “Tried to be what they needed me to be the soldier, the weapon, the man who could shut it all out. But it never worked.” His eyes flicker, haunted. “Because every time I closed my eyes, I remembered. Raccoon City. The fire. The blood. And you.”

Your heart stutters. His voice is low but relentless, every word a blade carving you open.

“I remembered the way you looked at me when the city was burning. The way you walked away when I asked you to stay.” He swallows, hard, jaw clenched as though the memory still tastes like ash in his mouth. “I carried that with me, every damn day. Every time I thought I couldn’t keep going, I saw you leaving. And it cut deeper than any bullet ever could.”

You shake your head faintly, desperate to stop him, desperate to keep yourself from breaking under the weight of what he’s saying. “Leon…”

But he doesn’t stop. He can’t.

“I wouldn’t let it happen again.” His voice sharpens, intensity cutting through exhaustion, a vow forced out through clenched teeth. “Not this time. If I saw you again, I wouldn’t—” His breath catches, chest heaving, as though the words themselves wound him. “I couldn’t let you slip away.”

The air between you feels electric, vibrating with everything unsaid, everything lost and clawing to the surface. His eyes burn into yours, unflinching, stripped of every layer of discipline and armor. What’s left is raw need, a vow made in the ashes of Raccoon City, carried like shrapnel in his chest for years.

And standing in the moonlight, you realize he isn’t just speaking about now. He’s confessing the promise that’s haunted him since the night you left him behind.

A vow he never stopped keeping, even when you weren’t there to hear it.

The vow hangs there between you, jagged and heavy, too sharp to ignore. The waves crash against the cliffs below, the spray rising in bursts of white mist, but you barely hear it. All you can hear is his voice, the rawness of it, the way the words cut open the silence like they’d been clawing at his throat for years.

Your lips part, but nothing comes at first. The knot in your chest tightens until it’s almost unbearable, your breath catching like you’ve been struck.

“Leon…” His name slips out again, this time softer, breaking at the edges. You shake your head, eyes burning. “You can’t say things like that to me.”

His jaw tightens, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s the truth.”

You bite down hard, trembling, fighting the war in your chest. “And what do you want me to do with that truth? Pretend the years didn’t happen? Pretend we didn’t—” Your voice falters, catches, then steadies with a shaky breath. “You don’t understand what it did to me. Walking away from you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

His eyes flicker, widening just slightly, like your words gut him more than any bullet. But still, he holds.

“I thought if I stayed, I’d ruin you,” you force out, words spilling now, sharp and aching. “That one day you’d see every crack in me and realize I was never enough. That you’d hate me for it. That’s why I left.”

For a moment, the only sound is the wind tearing at the cliffs, whipping your hair into your face.

Leon shakes his head slowly, blue eyes burning. “I told you then, and I’ll tell you now — I could never hate you.” His voice drops, rough with something that feels close to breaking. “I don’t care how many cracks there are. I don’t care how much hell we’ve seen. You were the only thing that ever felt real in all of this.”

The words tear through every wall you’ve tried to hold, every excuse, every fear. Your breath stumbles out of you in a sound you don’t recognize, half a sob, half a laugh. It feels fragile, jagged, like you’re breaking apart and being stitched together in the same moment.

“Leon…” You press a trembling hand over your mouth for a second before letting it fall, the words slipping free in a rush you can’t hold back. “You always say things like this… things that make it impossible for me not to fall in love with you. Over and over again.”

The confession leaves you trembling, but lighter too, like it was tearing itself out whether you wanted it to or not. Your chest aches with it, the truth burning as it hangs between you, raw and unguarded.

For a heartbeat, Leon just stares, every line of his face tight with shock, with the weight of what you’ve just given him. Then his shoulders sag, his lips parting in a breath that sounds almost broken, as though he’s been waiting years to hear it and never thought he would.

For a heartbeat, Leon doesn’t move. He just stares at you, blue eyes wide and unguarded, your confession echoing in the space between you like it’s the only thing keeping the world from falling apart.

Then something in him breaks.

He steps forward, boots crunching against the gravel, closing the space in two sharp strides. His hand comes up first, tentative, almost trembling, before it settles against your jaw, his thumb brushing away the tear track on your cheek. The warmth of his touch is enough to undo you all over again.

“God…” he breathes, voice rough, low, almost reverent. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that?”

You can’t answer. You don’t need to. Because in the next breath, he leans in, closing the final inches.

The kiss is not soft, it’s desperate, aching, years of ghosts and silence finally giving way. His lips crash against yours with a force that speaks of everything he’s swallowed down, every vow unspoken, every moment of regret. You grip at his vest with shaking hands, dragging him closer, afraid that if you let go even for a second he’ll disappear back into smoke and memory.

He tastes like salt and iron, like sweat and blood and the sea air, but beneath it all is something achingly familiar. Something you thought you’d lost in the fire of Raccoon City.

Leon groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your mouth, one hand sliding back into your hair while the other anchors hard against your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers again.

When you finally break for breath, your foreheads press together, both of you panting, trembling. His eyes search yours in the pale moonlight, still haunted, still scarred, but softer now, cracked open.

“You’re not walking away this time,” he whispers, the words a vow pressed against your lips.

And for the first time in years, you don’t want to.

Speaking of which…

Coming to, Leon glanced at his surroundings, taking stock like a well-trained bartender. Some kind of storeroom? The various farming tools on the wall, combined with the surgical trolleys littered with bloodstained instruments, made it a little hard to tell. Chains jangled above him as he tried to move, his hands bound in iron clasps. With a little more force, he yanked them down, only to receive an irritated hiss from a voice he just barely recognised from before he was catapulted through a wall. Or whatever it was that clergyman threw him through.

"Oi, sleeping beauty, stop it!" The man from before muttered lowly, tugging back on the restraints to exaggerate the situation they were in.

"What the fuck…?" Leon huffed, as if this were simply an unlucky day. Which, he supposed, it was. The mission was supposed to be somewhat simple. Get in, get the girl, get out. No questions asked. Everything that's happened so far in between the get in and get the girl segments of this plan had been purely bad luck. Or the result of yet another corrupt organisation trying to harness bio-weapons for yet another money-making scheme. Hard to say.

"Aye, you got a name?" Leon was half-tempted to ignore the man as he rose to his feet, dusting off his combats with bound hands. But if this guy had been here longer than him, maybe he would know a little more about what the fuck was going on here.

"Leon," he responded, already mildly irritated by this guy. What the hell was he doing here? Was he one of the people who were kidnapped? One of the unlucky few his escorts were talking about? Something heavy twisted in his chest, as if just thinking of their fate was enough to ground him in determination; another two he couldn't save.

The silence lingered for a moment, only the chains rattling above breaking it, and the faint sound of screaming from beyond the walls. Which seemed to be the village ambience. The stranger perceived him for a moment, as if waiting for him to elaborate a little further, before metaphorically brushing his stoic response off.

"Ah, the quiet type, eh? I'm Luis. Luis Serra," he introduced himself with as elaborate a bow as one could with one's hands tied. "Guess we picked the wrong vacation spot, eh? You—me?" He tried, and something in Leon felt almost bad for not responding. A few years ago, he would have taken the joke and run with it. Before, well, everything.

Without much care for anything he said, Leon continued looking for a way out of this conundrum. Because there was always some way out. Some loose hinge or spare crank somewhere he could exploit. But his movements only agitated his new companion further.

"Would you stop that? You move, I move. I'm beat up enough as it is. That clergyman— his hands aren't as soft as, well, other hands that've held me like that," once again, Luis tried to lighten the moment with something comedic, and Leon started to wonder if his tired attempts were a coping mechanism of some kind. None of which mattered, not when he'd spotted the spool at the top hanging loose. And not when he could hear that screaming getting louder and almost discernible. Tugging on the chain a few times, something loosened in his body as the spool jangled further from the bolts in the beam above.

"I can see you're thinking. Must've been in spots like the before, eh?" Luis prodded slightly, gripping onto the chain with both hands as Leon braced it over his shoulder, the metal biting against his skin in a way he grit his teeth to ignore. With a grunt of effort, he took a heaving step forward, pulling the chain with him as Luis held it fast on his end. "My guess," he continued, "Is that you're here looking for someone."

Leon didn't stop his efforts; he only started actively listening rather than trying to tune out the man's voice. Those screeches were getting louder, and they really didn't have much time to spare now. He deliberately didn't give any indication that what Luis had said piqued his interest.

"Okay, one more guess. Maybe… some missing señorita?"

Now that got his attention. How the fuck did this guy know why he was here? Whipping his head back to stare at the man, Leon gave him roughly two seconds of grace time before wrapping the chain around his fist and pulling. Hard. Hard enough that Luis was forced closer, arms strung up above his head. He was lighter than Leon expected.

"Talk. Now." He didn't have time for niceties, nor did he have the mental space for being polite. He needed as much information as he could get. Essentially, he'd been thrown into the ocean and told to swim. He had no fucking clue what was going on here, and if this guy knew where Ashley was, there was very little he wouldn't do to make him talk.

A commotion beyond the walls only added to the urgency, and if he wasn't so intent on listening to Luis, he probably could make out various words.

"All right, all right. Caught word, they moving the señorita," he began, which was enough for Leon to loosen the proverbial leash and let Luis down a little.

"Where?" He pressed, his attention flickering from the conversation to the now very human screaming. What the fuck was going on? Honestly, he didn't particularly fancy finding out, and so whilst listening to Luis talk, he started working on the loose spool again, this time with the man's help.

"Eh, who knows? But, I may've seen some of those men dragging someone to the old church. Could be your señorita, aye?"

With a particularly hard tug, the spool finally broke free from the wooden beam, chain clattering to the ground along with Luis, who'd fallen backwards with the lack of counterweight. Hissing a word Leon didn't quite catch, he couldn't help noticing the karma.

"The fu— he— t'me? Motherf— ers! I— fucking k— you!"

That voice was definitely human. Though whoever it was didn't sound like one of the villagers. For one, the accent wasn't Spanish. Though they sounded just as wild. As Luis clambered to his feet, Leon watched as he seemed to freeze in place, the colour draining from his tanned face.

"Oh no…"

"Oh no? The fuck is oh no?" Leon urged, grappling with the chain in his hands.

"There is ah, more than one señorita in this village…" Luis shrugged, as if that could in any way explain the clamouring heading straight for the room. And before Leon could respond, something was tossed through the hanging plastic along the doorway, landing with an unceremonious clatter. However, it was less of a something and more of a someone. A woman, to be exact. The clattering had come from the smashed glass bottle in her hand, the jagged edges tipped crimson.

And moments after her, a man wielding a hatchet came stumbling in, blood leaking from one eye where the glass had clearly made a home. She staggered to her feet, spitting a crimson globule onto the concrete floor, looking like she'd just lost a fight with a hedgerow; alive through sheer spite and undiluted rage alone. A feral thing, cornered and snarling. Wounded and fighting nonetheless.

"I ain't askin' you again. The fuck did he do to me?" The woman spat, bearing bloodstained teeth. Luis backed away from the exchange, clearly uninterested in getting involved. Hatchet man, however, simply roared in response, swinging wildly in her direction.

"Watch out!" Leon called instinctively, and the woman stumbled back against a crate to evade, a pained cry flying from her lips as she braced against the wood, the bottle neck falling from her hand and shattering onto the floor. A crack echoed off the walls as Leon used the chain to whip at the man's head, his nose crunching like wet cereal as he staggered back a few steps.

Taking advantage of the precious few moments that bought them, both he and Luis wrapped the chain around the man's neck, pulling it taut. Though Leon's attention was briefly caught by the woman dragging herself to her feet, a fire in her eyes that he hadn't seen in anyone for a long, long time. Though he got the distinct feeling she was about to do something extremely stupid. Nipping the thought in the bud, Leon turned his attention back to the villager and his wild swinging, ducking to avoid a wide slice before deciding enough was enough.

Dragging the chain low, he hooked it under his kneecap and brought it down with enough force to snap the villager's neck. His arms went limp, the hatchet falling from his hand before his entire body crumpled to the floor, bringing Luis stumbling forward with him. The man really wasn't used to any of this, was he?

With the threat eliminated, the woman stared at the body, wide-eyed. But not with fear. With rage. With an almost divine fury. Her chest heaving with adrenaline-fuelled breaths, a hand braced against her side as if splayed fingers could do anything against the steady flow of blood oozing through a nasty wound. Something must have caught her face, too, blood leaking from what must have been a small wound by her eye. It looked like she was crying crimson.

Slowly, like the tension was ebbing away with the blood flow, her expression relaxed, and her eyes rose to meet his. And it wasn't often that Leon was met with a stare as intense as his own. One that could be seen more as a scorching challenge than a greeting. As if she was wondering if he was the next poor sod she'd have to take down to meet her end goal. Sizing him up. But something in her assessment must have changed as she looked at him. Something softer creased her brows. Curiosity, perhaps? Intrigue? Her head cocked to the side as she struggled to place him. Until her eyes moved from him to Luis, and that expression of fury was back in full force.

"You?!" She seethed, taking a stumbling step forward towards the man, which somehow still seemed to look threatening despite the fact that she was barely standing. "Motherfucker you left me for dead."

So that was why Luis was so shaken when he heard her voice. If Leon was being completely honest with himself, he would want to be on the receiving end of that look, either.

"Looks like you got better," Luis shrugged with a guilty smile, slowly standing from where he'd been crouched. Leon hadn't noticed until he tossed the key by the woman's feet. "Later, amigos." That guilty smile shifted into a cocky grin as he turned and fled.

"We're not done here!" The woman's voice joined his own as they shouted in unison, but she didn't seem to have it in her to acknowledge the moment. Taking a few stumbling steps to the side, a hiss flew from her lips as she braced a hand heavily against the wall, leaving a smear of blood behind.

"Fuck…" she breathed, looking down at the gash in her side. The one that wouldn't stop bleeding. Her head tipped back, almost as if she were accepting her fate as Leon stepped towards the key, kneeling to unlock his chains.

"You alright?" He asked hesitantly, before realising how fucking stupid a question that was. But instead of biting his head off, like he was sort of expecting, she looked at him from the corner of her eye and smiled.

"Never better." The words were strained, and Leon had just enough time to throw the chains from his wrists as her knees buckled. He lunged forward to catch her before her skull cracked against the ground, his arms bracing around her back.

"I gotcha, you're okay, I gotcha," he found himself muttering, bringing her down slowly. He rested her head on his thigh, swiping blood-matted hair from her face. She was still conscious. For now.

He couldn't resist.

"Not even a first date and you're already falling for me, huh?"

She huffed something that could have been interpreted as a laugh. Or dismissal. It was difficult to tell.

"God, you're one've those," she smiled slightly, and Leon took her earlier reaction as a laugh. Though it had dimmed somewhat, he could still see that spark of defiance in her eyes as she cracked them open. "Hopin' you're trained in something other than cheesy pickup lines." She was trying to sound casual, but the strain in her voice was anything but, and blood was still pooling from the wound onto the floor.

"Guess it's your lucky day," he responded, readjusting her slightly to analyse just how much pain she was in right now. The blood loss should be numbing her system, and when he could move her without her screaming, he wouldn't have long to find his gear and patch her up.

Her features scrunched slightly. "Yeah, you an' I have very different definitions of luck," the woman hissed as he tucked his arm beneath her knees. Hissed, but didn't scream. And she didn't so much as make a sound as he lifted her against his chest. "Well… aren't you romantic," she managed to rasp, though her energy was quickly fading. He needed to move. Now.

"Yeah? Meet me when you're not bleedin' out," he responded with a half smile, one he tailored specifically to shadow the growing urgency.

"Ha… that a promise?" She responded wearily, her head dipping against his shoulder where she'd lost the strength to hold it up. And glancing down, he could see her eyes fluttering as she fought tooth and nail to stay conscious. Wounded and still fighting…

Turning sideways to shoulder through the doorway, he jolted her softly with his arm. "Hey, gotta stay with me. You got a name?" He asked, eyes scanning for any sign of his gear or where they would have stashed it. When she didn't respond, he jolted her again, ignoring the pain in his chest at the idea of losing anyone else. "C'mon, don't make me talk to myself. What's your name?"

She mumbled something against his shoulder that he just about caught, turning again to open a grated door, only to find it didn't budge. But through the iron bars, he could see his knife, his gun, and a collection of other weapons he didn't recognise. They hadn't even bothered to hide it. Just thrown it on a crate with the confidence of people who didn't think he'd escape.

Kicking against the door once in barely disguised frustration, he turned to find another way around. "Alecto? Huh... quite the name you got there. Can't die now you've told me," he tried, honestly just talking to keep her awake.

And to his surprise, Alecto stirred in his arms. "Dunno— if that's a r— a rule," she managed, breath hitching as she moved her head slightly against his shoulder. Was she trying to reassure him she was still alive? Well, shit, that just made him want to save her life even more.

Fuck, he wished he had his torch. Then at least he could see whether or not death was approaching them. At this point, he was just following the humming of barely flickering lights and hoping for the best. Only pausing when he almost walked headfirst into a wheel-mounted mechanism next to yet another locked door. Seriously, who the fuck was locking all of these doors behind them?

But he found himself on the other side of the same room with his gear. He'd been around long enough to guess how this was supposed to happen. And after clambering through the ruined remains of windows with a barely conscious woman in his arms, he knew roughly the route he needed to take.

"Hey, still with me?" He asked, surprising himself with how soft he sounded. His heart stopped for a moment when she didn't respond, only to resume beating a moment later when she nodded faintly. "Good. Gonna set you down, okay? Gotta grab my gear. I'll be right through that door, yeah?" Her breath stuttered again, faintly this time, as he slowly set her down onto the ground, mindful of the wound. "You're gonna be okay, you hear me? You're gonna be fine." It was hard to tell who he was trying to reassure at this point, as he smoothed over her hair, watching her brows crease slightly in fatigued discomfort.

And it was surprisingly difficult to tear himself away from her, even if it was to save her life. But, just as he thought, the moment he stepped around her and turned that wheel, the door on the opposite side started to open with each turn incrementally. And, as he also predicted, the moment he let go, the mechanism started slowly closing. With one final glance at the woman on the ground, he paused as slivers of her irises met his. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed with some effort, but the trust in those eyes, the blind trust of someone who didn't have another choice, did something to him.

So, holding the wheel at its peak for a moment, Leon took a breath—

And ran like hell.

It must have been mere moments. Seconds, at the longest, before he was racing flat out towards the rapidly closing door. Sinking to his knees and keeping his momentum, Leon slid beneath the spiked base, ducking back to narrowly avoid getting his throat slashed open, before rolling to his feet.

"Alecto? Still here?" He called out, just about making out her body on the ground on the other side of the door. But the deafening silence in response had his blood running cold. "Hey, hey! You still with me?" He called out again, fixing his harness back around his shoulders and chest and clipping the utility belt around his waist before ducking into the back pouch, unlocking the door with his other hand. "Shit— shit. C'mon, you, no ducking out now," he muttered, setting down the first-aid spray and herbs before placing two fingers to her neck. A pulse. Weak, faint, but unmistakable.

Using his knife, Leon sliced through the fabric of her black shirt. There was no possible way she'd biked through the same beaten tracks he'd been taken down to get here, yet if he was to judge from the heavy-looking boots, fitted cargo pants and skin-tight turtleneck, he could only assume. But what stunned him was what he saw beneath the slick layers of blood and grime. Scars. More scars than any civilian had any right to have. "Who are you…?" He muttered absently before turning his attention to the much more pressing matter of the gaping wound in her side. Ripping leaves from the plant, he shoved them into his mouth, chewing rapidly as he simultaneously retrieved a roll of bandages from that same pouch and shook the spray in his other hand. Eucalyptus and mint enveloped the smell of blood and dirt as the plant turned to a rough paste in his mouth. With what little clean water he had, he used to clean the wound.

A part of him was thankful she wasn't awake for this. Because as nice as these plants tasted and smelled, they fucking hurt when placed onto open wounds. He always assumed that when medicines like this stung, it just meant it was working. The pain meant it was healing. Though he wasn't entirely sure where this line of thinking came from.

Spitting the green paste into his palm, Leon used his thumb to gently work it into the wound, hissing to himself as he felt the phantom burn in his own side. He'd had similar wounds on similar parts of his body treated in similar ways. Though he realised as he smeared more of the makeshift salve onto the gash, that so had she. This clearly wasn't her first rodeo, if the faint scars were anything to go by.

Checking her pulse every few minutes, Leon wanted to make sure she didn't die on him whilst he worked, as he convinced himself he would for anyone. Which he would! Just… perhaps not to a level that bordered on the obsessive. He didn't know why. Maybe it was because his closet was already full of the skeletons of people he couldn't save, and he really didn't want to add another. Maybe it was because he saw a defiant flame in her that reminded him of a younger version of himself. Maybe it was just the way she forced a smile through what must have been agony.

Whatever the case, he took extra care when coating the freshly treated wound in numbing, first-aid spray, even coating a strip of bandage to act as a slow-release anaesthetic to patch over the wound before binding it properly. All the while glancing at her face. At her neck. Her pulse still weak beneath his fingers. He had so many questions. Who was she? What was she doing here? Did she have any relation to Baby Eagle? She didn't look like special forces, so what's with the scars?

She was hot. In the ways of appearance, yes, but what concerned him more was her temperature. She was warm to the touch. Every time his fingers pressed into her pulse, they would come away tingling. Leon was no stranger to running warm; he himself could stave off cold better than most, but this was something else. Was she running a fever? It was possible, though not really with blood loss. An infection already? She didn't seem to have sustained this wound long enough for an infection to set in.

All he could do was wait. Time was of the essence, with both this woman and Baby Eagle. He just had to trust that whoever took the president's daughter had plans to keep her alive long enough for Leon to find her.

And yet, he stayed by the woman's side, keeping her head cushioned in his lap as he waited. Back against the wall, hand smoothing through her hair.

He waited.

Everything hurt. Well… not exactly. Everything echoed with a dull ache. Head, side, neck. Like pain was trying to break through a barrier made of solid cotton, thumping against it rhythmically, as if waiting for a gap in the defences.

That was the first thing you noticed. The second was how fucking cold your back felt against what you assumed was the ground. And how warm your head was by comparison.

The third? A thumb kept smoothing across your hairline in a way that made you question whether or not you were actually dead, and some kind of spiritual guardian was slowly waking you up to take you across to the other side. Although if you were dead, surely it wouldn't feel like you'd been hit by a heavily padded bus. As if the thought alone made you curious, you tried to move. Only to be punished for your curiosity with a sharp stab through the side of your abdomen. A hiss flew from your lips, and the thumb in your hair disappeared. You mourned it for a moment before trying to crack your eyes open.

"Easy." A voice you vaguely recognised from feverish memory eased you back to the land of the living. Though with the overhead lighting giving the man above you a somewhat blonde-ish halo, you started to second-guess yourself.

"Dead?" You managed to croak, instantly regretting using your voice without any water first. The man huffed something that could have been interpreted as a laugh. Or dismissal. It was difficult to tell.

"Not quite. Gave it your best shot, though," he responded, and you decided it was, indeed, a laugh. Steadily, your awareness returned. Though the lights were still too bright, and the breeze was still too cold, you started to register your surroundings. Wind blowing through loose plastic and hole-speckled walls. The slight gravelly texture of the ground beneath you. The taut pull at your side, the one that punished you for trying to move too quickly.

"I aim to please," you managed, eyes finally adjusting to the shift in lighting to settle on the face of either your saviour or your ruin. You couldn't quite tell yet. But something in his features did register. A hazy memory. "Oh, hey, cheesy pick-up line guy. I remember you," you weakly punched at the thigh your head was resting on, earning yourself another amused huff.

"I tend to go by Leon, nowadays—hey, easy, you're just recovering," he braced a hand on your shoulder as you fought to rise into a sit, pushing up on a shaky elbow. His concern was endearing; nonetheless, you waved him off, just about rising to slump over your own knee, breathing slowly through your nose and out your mouth to manage the dull pain.

"Leon. Gotcha. I'm—"

"I know."

You paused, blinking for a moment before settling on a wry smile. "What? You a telepath as well as paramedic and professional lady-killer?" You asked, hoping the comedy would mask how uneasy you felt about this man knowing your name and having no memory of telling him. That unease, however, was soothed ever so slightly by the way his hair shifted as he laughed, something so distinctly human in the reaction.

"Among other things," he retorted, before softening slightly. Reading people was part of his training, and although he was struggling to get a good read on who, or what exactly you were, he could tell you were shaken more than you were letting on. "I asked. When you were out of it. You told me. No voodoo involved," he held up his hands in earnest surrender, and something in you wanted to trust him. Which was objectively stupid. You'd learned young that trust wasn't an option for you.

So you nodded, waving another lazy hand over your shoulder because in truth, it was all you could manage right now. "Got it," you breathed, jumping slightly as a hand settled on your shoulder.

Leon was, for lack of a better word, baffled. This woman leapt into his situation, quite literally kicking and screaming. With no signs of any weaponry, combat skills, or experience in this kind of thing, the only thing you really had going for you was your apparent nerves of fucking steel and impressive acting chops.

"Quite the entrance you made back there. Dunno many people who'd choose the bottle shiv over a knife," he didn't know why he rested his hand atop your shoulder. Maybe it was a security thing. If you tried anything, he'd likely feel the tension in your muscles before anything else.

You peered at him from the corner of your eye. If only he knew. "Yeah? Find me a knife that doesn't shatter in a light breeze, then we'll talk." A subdued mirth danced in his surprisingly pretty irises, and you couldn't help feeling a sliver of disobedient pride.

Gritting your teeth stubbornly, you slowly pushed up onto your feet, taking full advantage of Leon's assistance and using him to stabilise yourself. He seemed less likely to crumble than the closest wall. That and you weren't mad about the feeling of his hand at your waist, nor yours on his shoulder.

"Thanks," you smiled again, as easy as a summer breeze. Almost uncanny. Maybe if you both weren't in a life-or-death situation, Leon would think differently, but you were smiling like this was just another Tuesday for you. "So, you come here often?"

"And you called me the lady-killer?" He asked wryly, making sure you were steady on your feet before crouching down to retrieve what remnants of his first-aid he could salvage. "Actually, I was gonna ask you the same thing. Can't be for the locals."

"But they're so welcoming and friendly!" You gaped in faux shock before looking down at the mess on your front in dismay. Shirt half ripped, half sliced open, bandages stained slightly crimson, neatly wrapped around your abdomen. You'd be surprised if you survived this without an infection, but then again, you didn't know what Leon had at his disposal. "Heard about the cuisine through TripAdvisor. Couldn't help myself. I'd give the whole experience a solid three stars. Definitely room for improvement." Once again, you smiled like this was nothing to you, trying to figure out what to do with the torn strips of your shirt.

Leon watched with confused resignation as you tied your ruined shirt into a knot at the front. He couldn't figure you out. He really couldn't. But when you beamed in triumph at your shirt-related achievement, he realised that you really didn't belong here.

"Okay, real talk," you continued, folding your arms across your chest, but not without a snarl of pain from your side. "A friend of mine went missing here. We're friends from Uni—" that made Leon narrow his eyes slightly, "and when she never made it to our seminar, I got some cryptic text about her going to this weird little village in Spain. This was a few days ago. Something just felt super weird, so I followed her here. Bumped into that little shit Luis running from whatever the fuck is going on here. Asshole left me for dead whilst he bolted, and that freaky guy with the hat injected me with something. Findin' it hard to believe they're just really hot on immunity shots here."

Leon felt like he didn't need clarification on who you were looking for, but he thought to ask anyway. "The friend you're looking for. Her name Ashley?" And the way your eyes lit up was confirmation enough.

"Holy shit, yes! It is! You here for her, too?" You asked, hoping you weren't coming across as too eager. But when Leon nodded once, something in you relaxed. Only slightly, but relaxed nonetheless. "Well, you might be better at this than I am. Are you like, police or something?"

"Wouldn't say that. You did a number on that other guy with a bottle," he responded smoothly, before pausing when you asked what he was. "In a way. Government special agent."

"I'm gonna pretend like I know what that means," you responded deliberately blankly, growing suspicion rising in your chest. You'd keep this up. For now.

With only a half-smile to explain further, Leon stepped away from you for a moment, pressing a finger to his earpiece until the tone stopped ringing.

"Condor One to Roost, do you read me?" He asked, glancing back to where you were watching with intrigue.

"Go for Roost Condor One, what's your sit rep?" Ingrid responded over his coms.

"Got a lead on Baby Eagle. Something about keeping her at an old church? Need you to do a sweep of the area, see what you can find."

"Copy that. I'll let you know if anything comes up." A soft clacking over the reception told him she was already pulling up village schematics.

"And I need you to run a couple of background checks. Student named Alecto, university friend of Baby Eagle," he felt bad for even asking, but he'd rather be safe than sorry when it came to strange, out-of-place women met on missions like these

Distracted, you looked up from where you'd been inspecting his handiwork across your abdomen at the mention of your name. "Mhm? Oh, you're still on the phone. Sorry," you tossed him an apologetic wave before heading off around the corner.

"I can pull up the university records now if you've got a moment?" Ingrid offered, and as much as Leon hated doing this, he needed to. Just to be sure.

"Yeah, great, thanks. The other is for a guy named Luis Serra. Just met him. Tipped me off about the church, but I don't trust him further than I can throw him." He nodded, even though Cunningham couldn't see him. Glancing around the corner, he watched you looking around with mild disgust, a hand braced against your side. He left you to it, pacing back around the corner. Thinking about why you were here, he wondered what it was like to have such a blindingly loyal friend. One that would cross the country to come looking after receiving a slightly odd text. Plane tickets were expensive as it was. He wondered how you could afford it. And in that wondering, another question formed in his head. If Ashley had sent a text, how was this the first time he was hearing about it? Surely, intelligence would have recovered something as crucial as that.

And just like that, doubts started to creep in. This was some remote, widely unknown village in Spain. Leon doubted even Ashley knew where she was. And she was kidnapped on her way home from her university, not in her university.

"Leon…?" Ingrid's voice cut through his thoughts, and Leon hoped it was to put his worries to bed. "There's no record of that name here. At least, not in recent years. Whoever this woman is… she doesn't study here."

And Leon had just let you out of his sight. Fuck. He briefly wondered if there was a time in his life where he didn't get played by gorgeous women. If there was a version of him that saw through their acts and just cut the bullshit. He didn't regret saving your life. But he did regret letting you roam around without him.

"Of course she doesn't," he muttered to himself, as if Hunnigan wasn't still connected. "Be in touch." He ended the call before Roost could question what was going on, and instead withdrew his knife from the sheath on his chest, gripping it in reverse as he peered down the hallway. And, predictably, you were nowhere to be seen. So he kept his steps light and his senses sharp, creeping through the dimly lit ruins inch by inch, registering every stray flap of tarp, every squeaking scurry of a rat.

Keeping his blade drawn and eyes high, Leon edged into another abandoned room, this one much like the others. Red emergency lighting, crates, farming tools, lockers, the works. And after everything he'd been through since Raccoon City, all the missions, the gruelling training with Krauser, he was hard pressed to find anyone faster than him who didn't have some kind of bio-weapon in their bloodstream. And yet he barely saw your movements.

You'd been waiting. After overhearing some of his conversation with whoever was over his earpiece, you knew it wouldn't be too long until he figured it out, especially if whoever he was working with could pull up university records. So you'd slipped around the corner and waited.

You moved. Fast. Ducking beneath his instinctive swipe arc, your hand caught his wrist with strength you knew would catch him off guard. To his credit, he only seemed to be surprised for a fraction of a second before he tossed the blade into his other hand, something you hadn't predicted. So you lunged forward whilst pulling him toward you, throwing off his momentum and forcing his arm up away from you as you hooked your elbow around the side of his neck, securing it by gripping your own wrist at the base of his skull.

So much for lack of combat skills. Leon barely had time to react before you'd kicked his outer leg up from under him, your grip holding fast and sending both of you to the floor. A grunt of pain barked through his gritted teeth as he tossed the knife in favour of trying to pry your elbow from around his throat. This wasn't the desperate tussle of somebody cornered. This was a genuine technique. A knee at his hip stopped him from pivoting and flipping the tables, and the angle gave you a lot more leverage to choke him out; your wound seemingly forgotten.

"Let's start over, shall we?" You hissed, releasing the pressure just enough to make sure you didn't kill him. At least, not too quickly. Honestly, you could do this with or without him, but he did save your life. "Cut the shit. Who are you?"

Leon's eyes met yours as you pulled back a fraction, your own irises shadowed in loose, damp strands of your hair. "Told you," he managed through the constriction around his neck. "Work for the Government. President sent me. For his daughter," the fewer words he used, the better. Especially since you didn't seem satisfied with that answer, and your arm tightened around his neck once again.

"Bullshit. One've 'em would've told me they were sending an agent, so this shit didn't happen. Not fuckin' around, Leon. Tell me who you are, or I snap your neck. Wouldn't take much, just a little more pressure, right here," as if you exaggerate your point, you applied exactly that to his throat, trying to ignore the hiss sliding between his teeth. You pulled back again to ask one more time. "Who. The fuck. Are you?"

"So im—polite," he choked as you tightened your grip, his fingers struggling to worm their way in between your elbow and his throat.

"Tell me who you are, or I snap your neck, please," you hissed in return.

"'m not lying," he managed, and your conviction wavered as you looked into his eyes again. You could tell the measure of a man in a single look. Half of it came from training, the other half from simply being a woman in the world. So when you couldn't find any hint of a lie in his irises, you lessened the pressure slightly, moving your knee from the side of his hip.

"Shit, you're serious?" You asked, and Leon felt the pressure ease from his neck, as if it were slowly dawning on you. "Someone's gettin' fuckin' fired, I swear to—" you automatically tensed as a slight crackle returned to your right ear, loud enough that when Leon turned, he could see a perfectly hidden earpiece, identical to your skin tone. "Oh, now you wanna chime in? Where the fuck've you been?"

With you now distracted, Leon seized his opportunity. Swiping the knife from where he'd dropped it, he shoved your elbow from around his neck and surged forward, barrelling into you. Placing a knee against your sternum, his other caged at your waist, Leon pinned you to the ground, your wrists held in a single palm.

Cold steel touched your throat as his expression, once twisted in discomfort, now blazed in silent fury as he crowded your space. "Your turn, Alecto," he seethed, though he could see that same defiant fire raging in your eyes as he'd seen earlier. "You ain't one of ours. Fight like you've been trained, and you got the scars to prove it," he glanced down at where your abdomen had been left uncovered, though he adjusted his knee as he saw how close it was to the wound in your side. "So? Who're you?"

For one, desperately stupid moment, you debated not answering him. But the knife at your throat pressed just that little bit harder, and you decided your silence wasn't worth your life. Testing his strength by trying to free your hands, you realised you likely overpowered him earlier because you caught him off guard. So you relented, loosening his grip.

"Government insider hired me to befriend and protect Ash some two–three years ago. Covert op. Nobody knew, not even her own father," you explained flatly, and Leon blew out a disapproving breath. Now it made sense.

"Merc," Leon muttered gruffly, removing the knife from your neck and freeing your wrists. "Why?" He asked, sitting back with more care than he would ever admit to not jostle your side any further.

If you noticed, you said nothing.

"So shit like this didn't happen," you shrugged, sitting up and rubbing your wrists as if that was the most painful thing on your body right now.

"Hell've a job you're doing," he muttered, idly testing the inevitable bruising of his neck and ignoring a pointed glare from you.

"Oh yeah? You try stoppin' a group of wine-drunk freshmen from turnin' their dad's ski lodge into a crime scene. I used to be respected," you huffed, earning yourself a reluctantly amused smile which Leon quickly covered.

You opened your mouth to try and drag that smile further from him, before your ear crackled again, and your mood turned sour.

"Uh, Nyx to Alecto? You read me?" Your unofficial "calls handler" asked in your ear, and a headache already started to pulse between your brows in pure irritation.

"Loud'n clear, Nyx. Impeccable timing. Hope you got your car insurance sorted or whatever the fuck you've been doin' for the last six hours," you hissed, and Leon took the moment to heave onto his feet, keeping well within earshot as he not-so-subtly listened to your conversation.

"You went dark. What am I supposed to do? Lost your location, nothing through coms—honestly, we all thought you were dead," Nyx explained, and you just managed to curb your fury as you heard the unmistakable crackle of a crisp packet down the line.

Taking a steadying breath, you did the complete opposite of Leon and collapsed back onto the floor with an oomph, drawing a startled gaze from him. "The fuck you mean what're you supposed to do?! Jesus Christ Nyx, how about check in from time to time?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm checking in now, aren't I?"

You rolled your eyes, flashing Leon a look of apologetic inconvenience, as if to say, "Callers, right?"

"Run a check on my location. Should be a second signal, not one've our systems. Think you can get anything from it?" You asked, not even bothering to hide the fact that you were looking for information to confirm his story. You just wanted to be sure, as he no doubt wanted the same reassurance about you.

"Check on your location—oh, yeah, look at that," you winced as you heard the crunch of a crisp, followed by wet chewing. "Second signal. Let's see here… gotcha. Well, shit, Alec, you're in the presence of USSOCOM Agent Leon S. Kennedy himself," Nyx laughed as if he hadn't just left you to die for six hours. But the name rang a bell.

"Kennedy? Kennedy…" you hummed in thought, wracking your memories for where you'd heard that name before.

Leon, meanwhile, had doubled back to where his weapons had been stashed to retrieve the ones he hadn't recognised, and now realised must be yours. A heavily modified semi-automatic handgun, a black steel combat knife that he couldn't help comparing to his own, only to scoff when he saw it was bigger than his, a harness not dissimilar to his own, and various straps and pouches. You must have been stripped of your weapons in the same way he had when they found you. Though he was surprised you could move at all with just how many hidden blades he kept finding. You were a walking armoury. Either that or you'd robbed a Ren Faire on your way here.

Despite the circumstances of your introduction to one another, Leon felt slightly less alone. The thing with mercenaries is that all they care about is the pay, to the point where they'd do almost anything to ensure they achieve their mission. He didn't have to worry about you stabbing him in the back because you had more of a chance at being paid if you worked with him. Especially since your goal was the same.

Sighing heavily and wondering how his day had already taken such an unexpected turn, Leon returned to where you were still on the ground, though looking a little more exhausted than you did when he'd left.

"Nyx, I beg you stop eatin' in my fucking ear. Yep, I—don't talk with your mouth full! No, I need—aaaaand he's gone. Son've a bitch," you swore viciously under your breath, eyes raising as Leon pretended he just got back, arms full of your gear. "Never told me your last name was Kennedy," you mentioned breezily, standing as he unceremoniously dumped it on the ground in a clattering heap.

"That a problem?" He asked flatly, truly not caring if it was or wasn't. And you shrugged as though you shared the sentiment, though it was evident you didn't.

"More've a point of interest. You're that Raccoon City survivor, aren'tcha?" You continued your line of hopefully lighthearted-sounding questioning as you started to assemble your gear about your body, threading the straps of your harness through your arms with a subdued wince.

When he didn't respond, you feared you'd been a little too forward. You were interested in the incident and Umbrella's involvement. Since the company was shut down, so had your mild intrigue. At least, that's what you described it as. Just a vague interest in what they were trying to accomplish, how many projects they had completed, where they all were now—that kind of thing. Your chest twisted slightly as the silence continued. "Right. Probably a rough topic."

"Somethin' like that," Leon responded quietly, making himself look busy by inspecting his gun in an effort to stave off the screaming memories that always jumped into his mind at the mention of Raccoon City. Every time, without fail, he'd see Marvin's face. His tattered future lying in the ruins of a police department. He'd hear the ever-present footsteps of that Tyrant hunting him down.

Ada's face. Her lips on his. Her hand slipping through his blood-slick palm.

You'd paused your movements, peering at him with something you were dangerously close to naming. You understood, more than you were willing to let on, what it was like to lose people. Perhaps not to the extent of Raccoon City, but you knew the burn of flame on your cheek and the sounds of your name screamed in an inferno.

Subtly, you undid the buckle above your wound, letting the leather straps hang loose before you hissed loud enough to catch his attention. "Help a girl out?" You asked, turning slightly to show him what was giving you grief. Whether he knew it was a deliberate plan to snap him from his mind or not, he didn't let on as he reluctantly stepped around your remaining gear.

You wondered if he was deliberately avoiding eye contact with you, his fingers lightly brushing your side as he threaded the leather back through the buckle you'd just undone. But just because he wasn't looking at you, that didn't stop you from looking at him. Up close, you could see it. A deep, resonating sadness. A hollow haunting in his eyes. A constant tension in his shoulders that you knew was down to always having to watch his own back.

"Leon," you began, only to be silenced when those eyes flicked up to yours. A gaze that had you questioning if whatever you were about to say was worth it. There was no common ground you could find with him. Not right now. And there were some things you refused to talk about, no matter how deeply it would bond the two of you in trauma. "Thanks." You settled on, and he seemed to accept that.

"No problem." He knew you were reading him. If your training was half as rounded as his own was, he knew you were gathering as much as you could from any microexpressions he wasn't immune to making. And he let you. If you knew about Raccoon City, there wasn't much worth hiding anyway. He knew that day had damaged him beyond repair, and he lost parts of himself he would never get back.

Leon didn't know why he held onto that leather buckle long after he'd done it up for you. Maybe it was because he felt seen by you, in a way he never thought possible. Which seemed impossible, since he'd known you less than a couple of hours and you'd spent the majority of that time unconscious. Maybe it was because he found fragments of himself mirrored in your own eyes. Those parts of himself he thought lost. The hope. The belief. Both were dangerous. And yet here you were, with both blazing bright as day.

Something no mercenary had any right to possess.

"We should get moving," he muttered finally, though stepping away from you was like wading through mud. His words seemed to snap you out of your own thoughts, and you nodded in agreement, finally stooping down to clip the rest of your gear to your body, sliding blades into pockets he hadn't even seen when he was fixing you up. Two into each boot, another into the sheaths at each thigh. Your gun slipped into the holster at your side, and yet even as a walking steel factory, you felt naked.

"Fuck—uh, my rifle didn't happen to be there, did it?" You asked, turning in a circle as if you'd just misplaced it. Leon almost laughed at the idea.

"You want more weapons?" He asked incredulously, looking at you up and down, cataloguing everything in your arsenal. Until he landed on your face and you raised a smug brow, a smirk cocking your lips to the side.

"You just give me an up-down?" You asked brazenly, placing a hand on your hip before cursing lowly as your fingers dug into the wound on your side. Wrong hip. Though Leon was thankful for the distraction to give himself a minute to compose himself. Flirting, he was good at. Even when it was reciprocated and especially when it didn't matter. But this? He had the distinct feeling you weren't leaving anytime soon, and for some reason, that mattered to him.

So he just shook his head in disbelief to avoid having to awkwardly stand whilst he thought of a comeback. Turning away, he instead set his focus on finding an exit to this wretched place, having no idea how he got here. But he felt a little better with a gun in his hand and his knife at his shoulder. And, admittedly, an ally on his side.

You accepted that you'd likely ruined the moment; not that there was a moment, but if there had been, you'd ruined it. Breathing a sigh, you followed behind him as you both searched for an exit, seemingly in vain.

The door you had found to the outside world was, almost predictably, barred from the other side, and though you'd tried to slip your arm between the top bars and reach down, you weren't tall enough. And your arm simply didn't bend that way.

"This is ridiculous," you seethed, partly from the embarrassment of trying to twist your arm a way it wouldn't, and partly from the insanity of the situation because you'd tried this three times already. You were glad the emergency lights were red—hopefully, it would hide the humiliated flush of your cheeks.

"You're doing great," Leon quipped, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, content to simply watch you in your fruitless endeavours as if he were just made of time.

"Hey, remember when I almost snapped your neck?" You asked, your voice saccharine sweet as you looked back at him with a look that was anything but innocent.

"Mhm. Remember when I almost slit your throat?" He responded in kind, and you wondered how you managed to get stuck with the world's most irritating agent. He talked to himself most of the time. Nothing of importance. More just little comments here and there. Only to then ask why you were looking at him so egregiously.

With a savage grunt of frustration that reminded Leon of a wild animal, you kicked the door after feeding your arm back through. He blinked when he saw the dent left behind. How fucking strong were you? Though it didn't seem to matter to the door, which was still stubbornly stuck in place.

With the petulance of a perturbed cat, you stomped back over to the opposite wall and, mirroring the stubbornness of the door, settled for simply glaring at it, as if you could open it with your mind.

"Aren't you s'posed to—"

"Need some help there, stranger?"

One moment, you were looking at him with that irritated scowl he'd come to almost appreciate in the hour or so you'd been stuck together, the next, he'd blinked, and your gun was in your hand, aiming through the bars of the door to the hooded newcomer, aiming between the only visible parts of their face; the eyes.

"Don't!" Leon shouted, lunging to grasp your forearm and tear your aim from the potential aid. This could be your only shot at getting out of here, and you were about to put a bullet through their brain. "Just—wait a sec," he breathed, your arm warm beneath his palm. He could see the resolve in your bright eyes waver, hear the breath stutter slightly in your chest. You looked as if you were waking from some kind of daydream, only just coming to.

And before he could analyse further, you both turned at the sound of the bolt sliding free, the hinges creaking like they'd been cast in a horror film. Despite being so against shooting the stranger instantly, Leon still drew his gun from his thigh, keeping it close and ready as you lowered your own to a more relaxed position.

"Friend've yours?" You asked as you both paused to assess the situation, though he was so close to you that you could feel the charged proximity, your shoulders brushing slightly, and you forced yourself to lean away slightly so it wouldn't happen again.

"You think that's the kinda guy I'd be friends with?" Leon asked, curbing his grin when you snorted a laugh with your hand in front of your lips. It was no secret that Leon liked to make people laugh. He liked making people feel comfortable around him, and what better way to do that than with humour? However, something in the way you smiled made him want to see it more often. Not the forced, shit-eating grin he'd seen. The softer, more genuine smile. The one you had when you were forced to trust him with your life. A smile that understood the gravity of what he was doing. You understood what it was like to have lives in your hands.

"I dunno?! I barely know you!" Despite this being the hard truth, it felt like a lie on your tongue.

"Whose fault is that?"

"Uh, I was unconscious—what's your excuse?"

Leon brushed past you, and there was a moment when he was silhouetted against the bright light of early afternoon beyond the doors, and you got a good look at the shape he was in. Irritatingly, it was a fantastic view. That tactical shirt left no curve or sinew to the imagination, and a part of your mind you were trying desperately to shove into the corner wanted to sink your teeth into the tapered dip of his waist. His hair shifted as he looked back at you over his shoulder, and you suddenly felt very small beneath his gaze.

"You were unconscious."

It took your brain a moment to catch up with your ears; the meaning of his words was lost on you before you realised it was just another stupid retort. At least, you decided it was, because trying to assign meaning to anything he said was like trying to force an elephant through a pinhole. You'd be stupid to even try.

Without anything to fire back with, you began to trudge after him, shielding your eyes from the light as they adjusted and you looked around. The stench of rotting flesh and cow shit had returned even stronger, and you forced an inhale purely out of necessity.

"Welcome, welcome! See anythin' you fancy?" Turning to the right, you gaped as you saw the same figure who'd come to your aid with their robed arms outstretched behind a wooden table laden with various wares. One in particular caught your eye, and you clenched your jaw.

"That my rifle?" You asked, tone clipped, and Leon's eyes followed your gaze to the sleek-looking, bolt-action sniper rifle sitting neatly atop a stand. Where the fuck would you even put that thing?

"Yours? No, miss, but it could be, for the right price."

"How about in exchange for not shooting you in the head?" You asked coolly, only for the figure to bark an ugly cackle. Leon rolled his eyes, dipping into a pouch in his side and tossing a clean-cut sapphire onto the table.

"This cover it?"

You blinked. "What the fuck?"

"Found it back in the square. Turns out these people have quite the treasury," he shrugged, looking back to the figure. "So? That enough?"

Reaching out, the figure plucked the stone from the table and held it up to their eye, peering through the blue hues and into the sky above. You watched curiously, but not without suspicion, waiting anxiously for the figure's verdict. You had so many questions. Mainly, 'who the fuck are you?', but you decided you'd wait until you got your rifle back. Or until after he said a huge fuck-off sapphire wasn't a fair exchange and you'd shoot him in the head anyway.

"Well, would ya look at that. Right beauty you've brought me there, mate. S'pose that's a fair exchange. The rifle's all yours, miss." He gestured again to the gun on display, and you didn't even wait for him to finish before marching over and snatching it from the shelf, instantly setting about inspecting it for any damage.

Leon managed to bite back a quick 'careful' as he watched you run your fingers along the black chassis, looking for any scrapes or scratches that would suggest the rifle had been mishandled in any way. You worked like you had learned how the rifle breathed, how it thought, despite the fact that every piece looked brand new. With a click, you pulled the magazine free, inspecting both the interior of the rifle and the rounds within until they were to your satisfaction, and you pushed it back in firmly. Pulling back the bolt, you let the empty case of your last fired round clatter to the ground, feeling a lot more confident now you'd given it a once-over, though you adjusted the scope as more of a force of habit than out of necessity.

For some reason, watching you treat the rifle with the care one would a newborn did something to Leon's chest. Something inconvenient. You weren't somebody he had to look out for. That didn't mean he wouldn't, it just meant that you could handle yourself if anything went wrong.

Glancing up, you caught him staring at you with something in his eye you couldn't quite name. This time, you didn't feel the same smug satisfaction as you did when he looked you up and down before. This time, you squirmed beneath in gaze, folding the stock forward flat against the bolt, you held the rifle a little tighter.

"Christ, take a fuckin' picture, Kennedy. It'll last longer," your muttered attempt at brazenness fell at the first hurdle, and instead, you turned to secure the rifle at your back, feeding your arm through the strap, though not without a wince.

Leon hadn't noticed he was staring; only when you called him out for it did he blink a few times to get the image of your fingers delicately running along the length of the barrel out of his mind. He had to remind himself, rather unkindly, that you were a fucking mercenary. And he famously didn't trust them. Not in matters of the heart, anyway.

Fascination. That's what this was. He was fascinated by you and your sharp looks and fire-lit eyes. Fascinated by the slope of your neck and the curves of your hips. By the dig of the straps into your thigh, the slender length of your legs that he knew had various knives hidden here, there and everywhere. He was haunted by the weight of you in his arms, the soft, scarred skin beneath his fingers, as warm as a hearth, the way you grasped at his shoulder as you stood.

Your body hovering atop his, elbow around his throat, one knee at his hip, the other straddling his ribs. Your wrists pinned above your head, blood at your neck. Breathless. Dangerous.

That's what you were. You were dangerous. You were beautiful and bloodied and dangerous.

"You, uh, really know your way around that thing," he gestured to the rifle now strapped across your back, and you smiled in relief, grateful for this change of subject.

"My oldest friend. Sure, she's had some parts swapped out here an' there, and I've modified the fuck out of her, but she's always there for me when I need her. Well, except when freaky, out-of-place merchants steal her and try to flog her on the literal black market." Leon huffed a laugh as you raised your voice obnoxiously loud, making sure the robed figure could hear what you were saying, even though he was only three feet behind you. You really didn't care what people thought, did you? He was surprised your weapon of choice was a sniper rifle, considering how wild and untamed you seemed to be. Discipline wasn't something he would associate you with.

"Kept it in good nick," he gestured again to the rifle, and you shrugged off the compliment, ignoring how it felt in your chest in favour of hoping that, at some point, it'll go away.

"We should get going—wouldn't want Ash to die of old age before we get there," you took a step back from the surprising proximity, wondering how and when you'd been lured in towards him by some invisible gravitational pull. Though you winced as Leon's expression twisted slightly, as if he remembered something ugly.

Which he had. Your differences. He was here to rescue Ashley because it was the right thing to do, and he was working towards a greater cause, even if he was forced into it. You were here to rescue Ashley because the job paid well. It must do, if you were able to afford that kind of gear and replace parts of that rifle semi-regularly.

"Right. Yeah. Heading to the church. Reckon I'm due for confession anyway," he quipped quietly, glancing at you before meeting your incredulous stare. "What?"

"They just keep coming, huh?" You remarked on the constant one-liners that seem to plague any form of silence, wondering if there was a reason he felt the need to fill the quiet, or whether he thought he sounded cool.

"Huh?" His head tilted to the side, brows pinched in confusion, and you smiled to yourself as he reminded you of a dog trying to understand fundamental human speech.

"Never mind," you waved him off, dismissing the topic. "Which way?"

"Through that door, the one…" he trailed off, and you turned to follow his gaze.

"The one that doesn't open, right?" You asked flatly, pinching the bridge of your nose between your thumb and forefinger.

"Yeah. That one." He gestured to it a little awkwardly, watching your hands move to the side of your face, as if you were trying to rub away a headache.

Which, in a way, you were.

Of course there were parameters of which things must fall into. Such as successions and attendance and the way the vows would be completed. But, she wanted you to be a part of the personal side of the affair. For things to be your decision, if possible. Such as your dress, for starters. 

It happened ten days before the wedding. The Queen had entered your room in the early morning, the servants drawing the thick curtains open to reveal the sun. You groaned, tucking your head under the plush pillows. Your ladies roused you, assisting you in dressing for the day as the Queen explained you must be fitted for your dress. You must choose the fabrics and the cut and the accessories to go with it. 

So, it began. You were ushered to a parlor with ample lighting and space. The best seamstress in the country was brought in and studied you as you stood up on a pedestal. She and her attendants circled your body like vultures, measuring your bust, waist, hips, anywhere you could think of. She would call out numbers and her attendants would scratch them down on parchment with lead pencils. This went on for several hours. Just the process of finding your exact measurements and specifications. This was to be your wedding gown. Custom made for you and your body. 

After a few hours of measuring, the seamstress pulled out rolls of lush fabric. Whites and ivories that were delicate and smooth. Laces and silks and brocade. Each were carefully crafted and rich. Of course you would wear white, you were considered pure, untouched. And maidens wore white. You spent several more hours looking over each fabric offered to you, discussing each option with your ladies. 

As to be expected, Ashley was a romantic. She loved every part of this process. Every once in a while, she would let out a sigh, and say sweetly “I cannot wait to experience this myself someday.” 

Rebecca wanted you to be comfortable above all. She would feel the fabric between her fingers and think for a long moment before she would tell you if she thought it would be right or not. You valued her advice the most, you believed. 

And of course, Claire was against the notion of white for purity. She sighed when all the ivory swatches were taken away, mumbling under her breath. She claimed it was an insult to the female sex that a woman was expected to stay pure when a man was not. That a woman save herself solely for a man who may not even appreciate her when that very man would visit whorehouses in the dead of night. You supposed she had a point, but to you, there was something exciting about saving yourself for your husband. For Leon. 

The fitting spanned over several days, the seamstress taking her time to decipher what would be flattering to you and what would clash with you. According to her, there were many factors – the color of your eyes, the shade of your hair, your complexion, the build of your figure. She wanted harmony, she did not want anything to clash. You did not question this. You just decided what you wanted to let her do the hard work. For what did you know of making a dress? 

It was seven days before the wedding when a cake tasting was scheduled. This would involve Leon. The mere thought made your heart lurch. For convenience, the tasting was held in your parlor in the early afternoon. Your ladies would attend, of course. But this was a decision you and Leon would have to decide on together. 

He had arrived just shortly after the pâtissier, bowing to you and then your ladies. He made mindless small talk as the servants prepared the table. It was a small table, round. Small enough where you sat very close to him. Your ladies sat at a separate table, whispering amongst themselves. The moments until the pâtissier was ready were painfully awkward. You shifted in your seat several times, your eyes drifting everywhere but on Leon. You wondered if he could sense your discomfort. 

“I present chocolate and coconut,” the pâtissier placed a small cake in front of the two of you, small enough for one person. 

You looked at him, then the cake, and picked up your spoon. Chocolate and coconut sounded pleasant enough. Leon followed your motions of scooping up the cake on the utensil and taking a bite. It was fine. Not grand enough for the Crown Prince’s wedding. You set the utensil down, looking sidelong at your betrothed. 

“Do you dislike it, princess?” Leon asked softly, brows raised. He looked ethereal today. Though, he wore what he always did. Trousers with a doublet over a shirt with billowy sleeves. That earring adorned his ear today though. The ruby dipped in gold. The one he wore in your portrait together. 

“It is… fine.” You hoped your declaration did not offend the pâtissier. When you looked at him, he did not seem upset. He simply nodded and brought forward another cake to replace the chocolate and coconut.

“Raspberry and lemon.” The pâtissier announced. And for a while, it went on that way. 

You and Leon would taste a cake, voice your opinions, and taste another. This went on for some time. It was well over a few dozen cakes by the time the pâtissier placed the final cake in front of you. Your belly was full, your eyes heavy lidded, satisfaction settling into your bones. That heaviness that came with a full stomach weighed on you, the urge to lean your head against Leon’s shoulder was strong, but you resisted. You licked the back of your spook clean, watching as the final mini cake was placed before you. 

“An earl grey cake with citrus filling and a honey cream.” The pâtissier declared, a shine in his eyes that made you believe this must be his own personal favorite. 

You eyed Leon sidelong – the entire tasting, he had allowed you to always take the first bite. This time was no different. You reached forward, scooping up a spoonful of the light cake, taking a bite. Your hand covered your mouth as you chewed. Immediately, you knew this was the flavor. Leon looked at you. 

“You like this one, princess?” He asked, leading you to nod fervently. 

Then, he leaned forward toward you, hand gingerly grasping your wrist and bringing your spoon to his lips. He took the rest of the bite that remained on the utensil. Your eyes went impossibly wide, your lips parting in shock. This inadvertent kiss, it made your chest tighten, your stomach flip. Which was truly ridiculous. All he had done was take the remainder of the bite of cake on your spoon. 

Your eyes drifted up to meet his, finding him already staring at you beneath his lashes. Your heart stammered again, your stomach dropping. He blinked, the corner of his lips turning up ever so slightly as he soaked in your shocked expression. Leon lifted his head, looking toward the pâtissier, his grasp on your wrist still steady and gentle. 

“This one will do.” He announced. He must have seen just how much you liked this particular cake. He demanded this be the one at your wedding. 

“Yes, your highness.” The pâtissier seemed pleased with this selection, like it would have been his choice as well. He bowed at the waist before he picked up the cake and turned. 

Your eyes were still wide and trained on Leon as he looked back at you finally. “I am afraid I have a meeting, princess. I will see you at dinner.” 

His voice was soft and tinged with a hint of regret as he gingerly took the spoon from your hand. He stood and bowed his head, placing a firm kiss to the back of your knuckles. He smiled once more as he straightened, letting go of your hand, and immediately turning to walk out of the room.

The events of the cake tasting lingered in your mind for days. No amount of shame could rival what you felt as you discreetly slipped the spoon into the pocket of your dress. His lips had touched where yours had. Late in the night in a sleep ridden haze, you had pressed the back of the spoon to your lips, closing your eyes, and imaging it was Leon’s lips in its place, fingers buried deep in your cunt. The indignity that always followed was overwhelming, but you could never seem to bring yourself to stop thinking of him. 

You dreamed of him nightly. All the dreams were hazy, but his face was always clear. The baby blue of his eyes, the gleam of his spider silk hair. His soft smile. You heard his laugh in your dreams and it always made you dizzy. Just as it did when you heard it in your waking hours. 

The preparations for the wedding had officially begun. The throne room was in the process of being transformed into the space for your ceremony. Gauzy white curtains hung from the high stone ceilings, bouquets of ivory flowers lined the windows. It was magnificent and clearly the crown had spared no expense. This was the Crown Prince’s wedding, after all. He was next in line for the throne. The future king’s wedding must be grand. 

It was three days before the ceremony that the seamstress arrived to make final adjustments to your dress. It was brilliant white and heavy with layers of silk and satin and lace. It was fitted perfectly to your body, like a glove. The corset wrapped around your middle, cinching in your waist, the sleeves were long and tied around your arms periodically, the fabric underneath bunching out. The train trailed behind you for at least six feet, the fabric itself gauzy and light. The middle of the corset was adorned with embroidery of the Kennedy crest. Pearls and diamonds studded the low neckline of the corset, stringing along so that it tinkled every time you moved. Once you were secure in the dress, the seamstress secured a juliet cap veil to your head. The edges were scalloped and studded in the same pearls and diamonds that lined the corset. 

It was grand and beautiful and you felt slightly out of place in the dress. She had you stand on a pedestal, adjusting the hem and other minor issues she found that you assumed were fine. She picked and prodded until you were heavy with fatigue. Your ladies fawned over the dress and praised how beautiful you looked. Swore Leon would find you just as, if not more, beautiful. Though you scarcely believed them. 

Outside of small moments and kisses on the back of your hand, you were worried about Leon's affections for you. No amount of reassurances or consolation from your ladies could soothe such worries. Aside from breakfasts and dinners and those occasional days where he stole you away from your ladies, you had spent hardly any time with him. There were no private moments – as it was deemed unseemly for you to be alone before you were properly wed – where you could ask him of his feelings. And even if there were, you did not believe you would have the courage to ask such questions. 

You knew he must hold some feelings for you, as kind as he was to you. To go through with this arrangement. Or, perhaps, he was just agreeable. Though the way Claire spoke of him had you believing in the latter. She told you – in confidence of course – Leon had no lovers. No previous women that she knew of, that held his heart. There was a brief fling in his early years with a rogue noblewoman from a kingdom to the east. Though she swore it lasted no longer than a few weeks before information came through that she could not be trusted. And loyalty was something deeply important to Leon. He could not stand the thought of being involved with someone disloyal, so he cut it off the moment he heard the information. 

This caused mixed feelings in your heart. Elation that no other held his heart. But worry that perhaps those vile rumors of his incapability to love were true. Those sickening rumors that he could not love a woman, that there was no room in his heart, in his bed, in his life. That he held no interest for a lover of any kind, much less a wife. This was your sole worry. You were not enough. He could not love you. He would be unable to make room for you in his life, his bed, his heart. He would not want to even fuck you on your wedding night. 

Which was another problem. You knew nothing of sex. You had not taken part in such activities, of course. It was expected that your maidenhood would be intact the night of your wedding. Leon was to be the only one you were to ever lie with. These facts brought up new and different fears in your mind. What if you could not satisfy him? Please him? What if you were not enough and he sought such warmth and pleasure elsewhere? The mere idea killed you. That you may not be enough for him, in any way. 

Your ladies did their best to soothe your anxieties and banish these thoughts. Claire told you the facts – Leon did not expect you to know what you were doing. He did not expect you to be experienced, to know how to please him. She whispered to you that Leon would focus on you. She swore she knew him well enough to know that he would be a giver – whatever that meant. You did not want to ask what that phrase meant in such a context. However, she comforted you and instructed you not to worry yourself over matters that required no such worry. 

And your heart near stopped when the seamstress presented you with a velvet lined box with lacy negligee designed solely for you. This made the spiral in your chest worsen. The worry deepen. You wished there were someone for you to speak to who could tell you what to do. Instruct you step by step of what to expect on your wedding night. What it would feel like, how you could make Leon feel good, how to be sure it wouldn’t hurt. 

The air in the room was warm, thick. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, like your lungs were too full and too empty all at once. Your head felt light, the room spinning, your body swaying where you stood. In an instant, you grasped the skirts of your dress and stepped down, briskly walking through the room toward the wide double doors leading to the gardens at the back of the room. 

“Princess!” Claire called, standing to follow you. The alarm was evident in her voice as she watched you almost sprint out of the room. 

“I need a moment. I will be back.” You called through panicked breaths and a tight throat. 

You heard low chatter behind you, Claire and Ashley and Rebecca’s voices drowned out by your racing heartbeat in your ears. You needed out. Just a few quiet moments of fresh air and peace. No one touching you or talking to you or fussing over you. No discussions of expectations or the wedding or your wedding night. It was all too much. 

Your hands pushed the doors open, a ragged gasp ripping through your throat as you stepped down the stairs, walking aimlessly until you stood in the middle of the garden. The air was cool for the spring weather, the sun hidden behind thick gray clouds, the promise of rain in the distance accompanied by rumbling thunder in the mountains. The gardens were empty, at least as far as you could see. Finally – peace. 

“Princess?” 

You froze, back rim-rod straight. Your hands tightened around your skirts, your breaths high and panicked – you felt them now, the tears that had begun to course down your hot cheeks. When had you started to cry? You hadn’t even realized. 

“Princess?” The voice repeated, careful footsteps sounding. Then he came into your view. “What happened?” 

Leon stood before you, bright blue eyes filled with concern. Those eyes darted down your figure, widening as he realized you were in your wedding gown. His eyes snapped back up to meet yours. He cleared his throat, shifting on his feet like he didn’t know whether he should be looking at you or not. You shook your head, blinking away a wave of fresh tears. 

“Is everything alright?” He pressed further, but his voice was still gentle. He looked like he wanted to comfort you, open his arms and pull you in. But he didn’t, even though you wished he would. 

“Yes,” you nodded, lying through your teeth, even though you did not want to lie to Leon. “I’m fine.” 

Leon’s face flickered with an expression you could not really read. Like he did not believe your claim to be just fine. You were standing in the gardens crying in your wedding dress, after all. If only you knew how much he wanted to comfort you. Pull you into his chest and shield you from the world, from the expectations that weighed on your shoulders. Despite yourself, you wished he would. You wished he would pull you into his arms and protect you. Tell you everything would be all right and you were safe. As foolish as it was, it was all you wanted. 

The frown on Leon’s face deepened, his eyes going soft as he seemed to realize you were not being truthful. He could somehow see straight through you. Through your lies and your false smile. A single whisper of your name from his lips was all it took for you to break. 

“I do not know what I am doing here.” You finally managed to say, the words ragged and your breaths panicked. “I do not know you, you are a stranger.” 

Leon did not speak, he did not even look offended or bothered by your words. Likely because he knew them to be true. He was a stranger. Someone you met a few weeks ago. A man you did not know but were required to marry. You did not know his temperament, his likes and dislikes, what he was like behind closed doors. You had yet to have the chance to know. He wished he could wipe away your tears and worries. Take them on himself and assure you there was no need to be so anxious. For now though, he knew you needed to simply let the words out. 

“I do not know you. Yet I am supposed to marry you? I am supposed to provide you heirs? To please you? I do not know if you even like me.” 

The moment the words fell from your lips you wished you could take them back. An imperceptible emotion glazed over Leon’s eyes – almost like shock. Like he couldn’t believe you said such a thing. Or believed such a thing. You did not know if he liked you? To him, that was such a preposterous notion. How could he not like you? You – his princess. Beautiful, kind, and smart. Proper and elegant. There was not a world he could imagine where he knew you but could not like you. 

“Princess,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Why do you think I do not like you?” 

“You… we never spend any time together. We never see each other outside official matters and meals.” You begin to explain, voice breaking again with a new wave of tears threatening to spill from your eyes. “I just do not know.” 

Your voice trailed off sadly, your eyes drifting away from him at the rush of embarrassment that filled your chest. Suddenly, you wished you could disappear. Evaporate into thin air so you never would have to meet his eyes again. He must have been thinking a million things of you. Making assumptions. Imagining what kind of wife you’d be – the type to cry or complain or be angry. But these were not the thoughts that raced through Leon’s mind. Really, he felt guilt. How had he not known you felt this way? How had he not made a better effort to quell your worries? He was thinking of what kind of husband he would be. 

“I do like you, princess.” Leon admitted, his words soft and careful as if he were afraid you would break with even the wrong tone. “I like you very much. More than I care to admit.” 

His confession shocked you. It was your turn to be surprised now. He did like you. More than he cared to admit. You had no clue what that meant, but it rattled you nonetheless. You blinked, tears still steadily running down your hot cheeks. While it was nice to hear, it did little to soothe the ache in your chest. To diminish the doubt in your heart. The lingering fear that this marriage was simply a transaction to him. While Leon did not seem to be the type of man to think such a thing, it was a worry you could not banish. 

There had been no real reassurance or admission that he did not think that way. So, how were you to really know? Your eyes would not meet Leon’s as you stood there, the heat of embarrassment creeping into your chest from your emotional outburst. 

“You mean that?” Your words were small and soft, that quiet tone of uncertainty. Your hands wrung together at your front, your face and ears warm. 

“Of course I do.” Leon nodded, his own words gentle. You could see the slight hesitation in his expression as he stepped forward, now standing less than a foot away. “Princess, you needn’t doubt how much I do like you.” 

It was a moment as he took a breath before speaking again, tone still gentle and careful. “You fill my days, you plague my nights. I dream of you, I think of you, I cannot rid my mind and my soul of you. You have all of my love, you are its keeper.” 

Your heart nearly stopped, the air around you heavy. The world stopped, everything and every sound distant and hazy. The feeling of Leon’s hands reaching for and grasping your own made you come back. The air was punched from your throat, skin hot and ears ringing. He did not only say he liked you, he said love. He said you were his love and his heart’s keeper. 

“I regret I did not tell you sooner, princess.” Leon shook his head, hands wrapped around yours and his thumbs rubbing over your hands. “It was stupid of me to assume you knew.” 

There was really nothing you could say, there was no way to respond. He had confessed his love to you and you were stunned silent. “Leon,” 

“Not yet, please.” He shook his head, clearly not finished. “I apologize I did not do everything in my power to be sure you knew. It was foolish of me. And I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, princess.” 

Now he was finished. And you did not know what to say. What was there to say? Of course you forgave him. You knew your outburst and your feelings were likely overdramatic, even though everyone around you had assured you they were not. Though it was a fear you could not seem to banish. 

“Of course I forgive you.” You shook your head, hands subconsciously tightening around his. The tears in your eyes still stung, still coursed down your cheeks as you stood before him. “I hope you can forgive me for my outburst.” 

“There is nothing to forgive.” He said softly, shaking his head. You hadn’t noticed he was in his flying leathers, hair slightly mussed from flight. “I am only happy I now know.” 

You shook your head, still embarrassed and guilty. “I should not have spoken to you that way, though. I should not have said those things or accused you of indifference.” 

“This is a strange place, a strange circumstance. Princess, you are allowed to feel confused.” He whispered, one hand leaving yours to wipe away the tears from your cheeks. 

Leon’s touch was soft. His hands were calloused of course – years of dragon riding and sword training making the palms of his hands and the pads of his fingers rough. You found you liked it though, strangely. It was a comfort to you to know your betrothed was strong and capable but could be gentle with you. He touched you as though you were fragile, breakable. 

You were frozen on the spot, feet rooted to the ground through your ivory wedding slippers. Your gazes were locked, and he blinked, eyes flicking from your eyes to your lips and back to your eyes in a soft triangle. Time slowed to an imperceptible speed as he stepped forward again, now mere inches away from you. His eyes flicked down to your mouth again, locked there as he whispered. 

“I only wish for your happiness,” 

Then, in a blur and rush of emotions swirling in your own chest, he kissed you. It was soft and slow and nowhere near rushed. Like he was afraid of scaring you. The moment his lips slotted between yours, your eyes fluttered shut. It was dizzying, the feeling of his kiss. It was your first kiss – and it was perfect. His hand gingerly cupped your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing over the skin of your cheekbone in a soothing back-and-forth pattern. His other hand stayed clasped around yours, his chest brushing against your own. 

The movements of his lips against yours were sweet and soft – his lips capturing your plush bottom lip, his hand soft on your cheek. He did not rush this kiss. He let it linger, he let it be soft and sweet and full of what could only be called devotion. You wished it would last forever. 

It was over before you wanted it to be, Leon pulling away, his eyes half lidded and hazy as he studied your face. He found you so beautiful – your eyes still shut, your lips parted and kiss bitten. It was as if you were still in a haze from his kiss, like you were trapped and you did not want it to end, which was the truth. 

Slowly, after a moment, your eyes fluttered open. Your gaze met Leon’s once again, and he had only the softest of smiles on his face. His thumb traced over your cheek, his hand running up your arm and back down again to your hand. 

“Did that bring you assurance of my favor, princess?” He asked softly. 

You nodded, lips still parted and your heart still beating wildly. “Yes,” you whispered, once you were able to find your voice again. 

Leon only smiled in response, his touch still gentle, his eyes still soft. “You look beautiful.” 

For a moment you were confused, then you remembered you were in your wedding dress, the veil attached to your head as well. He should not be seeing you in this attire yet. “Thank you.” 

He opened his mouth to speak again, but was cut off as a drop landed on his cheek. He blinked, then looked up at the sky. A roll of thunder echoed above, and he looked back down at you. The drops were scarce at first, and then they quickened. A few landed on your own face. 

“Allow me to escort you inside.” Leon said quietly, his words gentle but leaving no room for argument. 

He turned, hand still grasping yours as he began to walk through the garden. His steps were slow for you as he led you toward the stone stairs to the parlor. He stood at the base of the steps, still holding your hand as he guided you to climb them. Once you reached the glass double doors, he then followed and pushed them open with one hand. Under the cover of the awning, the downpour began. As if it had been graciously waiting. 

“After you, princess.” Leon nodded toward the room. 

You obeyed, taking a step in. But you paused as you felt his hand tug. You looked at him over your shoulder. “Are you not coming?” 

Leon smiled, a small huff of a laugh – warm and fond – falling from his lips as he shook his head. “I would not be welcome.” 

While he did not say it was malice or any unkind tone, you frowned. You shook your head. “Nonsense.” 

“I wish to wait.” He whispered. “I have seen enough of what you will look like for now. I wish to see you in full when I marry you.” 

For some odd reason, his words panged against your heart. But, you listened and you would grant his wish. “Very well. Thank you, Leon.” 

“Of course, princess.” He smiled once more, bowing his head to place a kiss on the back of your hand. There was a moment of hesitation as you stepped further inside. Like neither one of you wanted to let go. 

Both your arms stretched out as you walked deeper into the parlor. Only when you could no longer reach did Leon drop his hand. He bowed to you with that still soft smile and nodded for you to go on. 

You obeyed once more, smiling at him before you turned around and walked in. That doubt in your heart lessened with each step to the pedestal, the warmth on your cheeks seeping into your chest. 

Yes, you were still afraid. But Leon assured you that there was no reason. And maybe it was time you listened to and trusted your betrothed. For while you knew that you were the keeper of his love, he had yet to know he was the keeper of your love.

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You hear his keys jumble from the door. He didn’t tell you what time he would be home, so you didn’t prepare anything for dinner. It’s late anyways. You consider closing your eyes and resting your head on the back of the couch but it hasn’t been long since he told you he could tell when you were not sleeping. You thought about the number of times you pretended and he could tell. Embarrassing. Now that your secret was out, you had to greet him awkwardly.

He calls your name. “Are you asleep?” His voice very faint.

“No,” you answer while untucking your legs from under your butt. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He places the keys on the keyholder. “No lights?”

You reach to your side and turn on one lamp. “I didn’t realize the sun had set.”

“It’s past eleven.” Now that the lamp was on you could see his worried eyes. His five o’clock shadow prominent. “Did you eat anything?” he asks. You can’t tell if he hopes you did or not.

The moment you see the plastic bag in his hand, you shake your head no. Honestly, you were hungry because it had been hours since you ate a bowl of cereal as dinner.

He steps over your legs instead of pushing the coffee table away to make room for himself and plops next to you on the couch. “Brought Chinese,” he says and places the food bag on your lap instead of the coffee table. “You like their fried dumplings.”

You aren’t surprised that he remembers it. He was nice like that, maybe he thinks this is the least he can do. Soon after the wedding, he realized you did not enjoy cooking. It has never been a problem, he knew his way around the kitchen and knew of really good takeout places.  

“Thank you,” you say softly while leaning on the table to place the noodles and the dumplings. “Leon, did you drink?” you ask when you catch a whiff of him.

“Yeah, I’m a little tipsy.”

That explains his lax attitude. He has his arm around you across the back of the couch, he’s sitting close to you. It’s because he wants to eat, you say to yourself. And he’s a little tipsy.

“Did you have fun?” you ask when you separate your chopsticks.

“I wasn’t with anyone,” he says, watching you separate his chopsticks for him. “I had a drink by myself.”

“Only one?” you chuckle.

“One or two,” He cocks his head to your direction and grabs the chopsticks from your fingers. His fingertips are warm.

Unlike you, his body always runs hot. You remember the comment he made when he held your hand and cupped one cheek, kissing you after you two had said “I do”. His breath was hot on the lower part of your face. You somehow felt him everywhere and nowhere at once. “It’s really hot, why are your hands cold?” he had whispered. It was unusually hot on the day you eloped. Leon had to dab his sweat away so often.

“I’m just nervous,” you had whispered back. The hand that he was not holding was trembling, surely, he could tell.

“No need to be.” That was what he said right before your first kiss. It was more of a short peck because he was a gentleman who didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

It was easier for him to say, he didn’t have anything to be nervous about. He looked really beautiful that day and it didn’t help your nerves one bit. You felt like you were committing a crime while signing your documents that sealed the fact that you were now married to Leon Kennedy. You wonder if he felt the same, knowing this marriage was not a real one.

You didn’t lie to anyone really, so why did it feel like you did? You never told anyone you were in love. You never told anyone this was legit. You just told your sister you were married and that Leon was a good man. She had shrieked over the phone, demanded that you quit joking. The moment she was convinced that you were not, she expected pictures of him. The only picture you had of him was from the day you eloped. He had taken your cold hand and placed it on his arm. His other hand on his stomach so he didn’t look awkward. You had raised your small bouquet of baby’s breath to your torso as well. You did not look as nervous as you thought when the photo came in the mail but Leon looked more handsome than you remembered. You emailed it to your sister.

It didn’t take long for her to respond. How the hell did you bag that man??? Do you have blackmail material against him?

We met at work, you replied shortly.

I thought you worked with dudes that are old as fuck.

We don’t work together. Met through a coworker.

Maybe I should change careers. I mean how hard can it be to train as a government agent???

You looked at the multiple question marks she sent after that. I’m telling your husband.

I showed him the picture and he agrees that he’s hot lol. He also would like to have you guys over.

So you both can ask him what he sees in me?

Hey, I’m only joking. We would really like you guys to come over. I want to meet my brother-in-law.

I’ll tell him but he’s very busy.

Sooo what does he do?

Like I said, he’s an agent. Mostly confidential work.

So you can’t tell me?

I really can’t.

You know what? It’s annoying that you can’t tell me what he does but I can understand. What I can’t understand is you getting married. Out of the blue. Without telling me.

That email left a bitter taste in your mouth. She could tell that it was not real. She knew that you were not easy to love. She knew it was impossible for you to get married. That’s why you stalled her invitation for nearly two years. You hadn’t even asked Leon because you did not know how he would react. He knew you had a sister across the country and that she was older than you but never asked about her for a while. You weren’t offended at his uninterest in your life. He didn’t have any reason to be interested in you.

He did say he was an orphan, that one time.

It all made sense after that, he didn’t like to talk about families. Maybe because he wasn’t used to belong. To belong to a family. Belong to someone. Think about them because he belongs to them and they belong to him.

All things considered, you thought Leon turned out more than okay. Closed off but very kind, gentle, understanding.

He leans forward and helps you split one dumpling into two with his chopsticks. His shoulder bumps yours and stays there because he refuses to let go of the back of the couch behind you. When you pull your sleeve over your fingers, he quickly eats one whole dumpling, leaving you with the smaller one that he helped you split and covers your hand with his.

“You cold?” He looks silly when he stuffs his face full of food.

“No.”

“Your hands are cold.” He doesn’t’ say like always but it’s there in his voice.

He doesn’t mind touching you when he’s in a good mood, mostly when he’s a little intoxicated like this. Usually, he’s not a touchy person. You’re glad he’s not, it reminds you that you definitely like him more than he likes you. He needs the little nudge of alcohol to let go of his inhibitions. He didn’t touch you until you gave him the green light on your birthday. He didn’t know what to get you as a gift so he got you yellow roses and the blandest birthday card known to man.

Happy Birthday, from Leon.

“It isn’t anything special, I know.” He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m not good at this stuff.”

But it was special, it was from him; with his emotionally constipated, probably unintended curt message. You knew deep down he had a big heart. He cared enough to stop on his way to get you these. You didn’t think much, because there were times when you didn’t need to think about this, you just reached and hugged him around his waist. “Thank you,” you whispered. “They smell really nice. We need to get a vase for them.”

He finally put his arms around you and you felt the stiffness of his shoulders on top of yours. It was six months into your married life.

Yellow roses. He saw you as a friend. You were okay with it, as long as it meant he was not pushing you away. You were not terrible by any means. Boring and awkward, definitely. But you made it clear to him that he could talk to you about what he wanted when he wanted. He was adamant that it went both ways. However, you genuinely don’t think anything going in your life is worth talking about. Hence, he’s the one who ends up talking most of the time.

He rubs your fingers to bring them warmth. The air of the living room feels awfully similar to that one time he surprised you and laid his head on your lap. That one time you wanted to play with his hair but didn’t. It was just like this. Quiet despite the TV’s low volume, comfortable as the light coming from the lamps was soft on the eyes, smelling of alcohol as he was a little drunk. Unsure as your hands were cold and was this what being friends meant?

Sometimes he craved the quiet. He worked and worked and worked. Voices everywhere. Danger constant. His only quiet was home, you suppose.

“Why didn’t you eat?”

“I ate cereal,” you answer him.

“Has no nutritional value whatsoever,” he mutters.

“Yeah, it’s just me being lazy.”

“I don’t think we have anything in the fridge, I don’t blame you.”

You both finish your food in silence, you pretend to watch the screen in front of you the whole time. You hug your knees to your chest when you’re done and he looks like he can fall asleep any minute.

“How was your day?” you ask to keep him awake. You don’t want him to sleep here and have his back and neck all sore tomorrow.

He rests his chin on his shoulder and gives you a funny look through his long lashes. “Same as always.”

You admit to yourself that you love him like this. He seems free, happy even.

You decide to be bold and tap your shoulder for him to lay his head on.  

He doesn’t seem to be thinking twice as he takes your offer and nuzzles his head on your shoulder. He’s taller and bigger than you, you suppose the position he’s in right now is not comfortable for him. He reaches back around the couch and the other hand crosses his abdomen, gripping your ankle that he is closest to. His thumb draws circles there and your brain short circuits. “How was yours?”

“My day? Nothing exciting. All paperwork.”

He hums as he squeezes your ankle, his hair tickling your nose and lips.

“You really need a shower, Leon.” You make up the courage to smooth down his blonde hair that is sticking up in every direction.

He hums again. “Are you telling me I stink?”

“Yes, mister.”

“I’m tired,” he groans but doesn’t seem tired enough as he pushes his head and messes up your balance on the couch. You have to hold on to the arm rest as he keeps nudging you with his head.

“You’ll feel gross in the morning if you don’t have a shower.”

“You have a point,” he says but does nothing to get up. Maybe it was a bad idea to offer him your shoulder and unknowingly, your ankle. He’s never acted like a kid like this before.

You get up and turn off the TV before you offer him both of your hands. “You’re not tipsy, you’re drunk. Now get up and wash yourself please.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Yes, you are. You headbutted me.”

He takes your hands and finally gets up. “I think I ran out of shampoo.”

“You can use mine. Brush your teeth while I go get it.” You pat his back.

There’s two bedrooms in the house, one is for guests but you’ve never had guests over since you’ve both moved into this apartment. Leon uses the “guest” room downstairs. He insisted that you take the bigger room. He’s more like a roommate than a spouse.

He’s shirtless in front of the sink, brushing his teeth like you told him to when you knock on his bathroom door and hand him your shampoo. He reads the fragrance and opens its cap to smell it.

“Well, you smell nice so I can’t complain,” he says, toothbrush still in his mouth, dribbling toothpaste everywhere.

You love him in moments like these. This is the moment the wife reaches and kisses the husband. Well, maybe after he’s done dribbling everywhere but you know how this moment should go about. He won’t be like this in the morning. You know very well that he is going to be sober and back to normal Leon. He won’t say anything about his drunk self because he knows you won’t as well.

“Don’t fall in the shower!” you shout as you go upstairs to your room.

“I’m not that drunk!”

The next morning, he sees you making coffee in the kitchen. It hasn’t been long since your schedule got aligned with his. He wonders how the hell you managed to adjust your sleeping hours to the point now you could wake up before him. He used to wake up before you because you often had late shifts.

“Morning,” he says as he smells the delicious coffee that you’re pouring into two mugs. He yawns, scratching an itch on his arm. He did not use to have a coffee machine back when he was living alone. You had brought it with you to this house and saved him from Starbucks’ morning rush hour.

You slide one of the mugs in front of him and give him a warm smile. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”

He blows on the coffee before he takes a sip. “Much better now.” He clears his throat, his morning voice gruff. “I was thinking… We should commute together.”

“To work?” Your eyebrows shoot up.

“Where else?” he snorts. “What’s surprising? Why pay more for gas when we start work at the same time?”

“Wouldn’t that be…”

“It wouldn’t interfere with anything if you think about it. It’s stupid to take both cars to the same place.”

“I might work overtime,” you say and hug yourself.

He nods into his mug and seems like he wants to say more. “Then you can take your car. You’ve just started normal hours. Why are you eager to tire yourself out so quickly?”

So that we don’t have to be awkward around each other.

“C’mon, it’ll be convenient.”

You hate that word. You hate that word with your whole being. Back then, it meant something entirely different when he said it. We can get to know each other, then we can get married. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. It’ll be convenient. Convenient is why you married him. Convenient is why you are here now.

It is what you repeat to yourself over and over again. It was convenient to have slept with him. It didn’t have to be a big deal. You were lonely. You reckon he had to be, too. Because why else would he want to have sex with you? He did not love you or anything. You could only think of one thing when his face was buried in your neck. You still had his yellow roses. You had preserved them between your book pages.

As he was panting above you, hands grasping your hips with vigor, your thighs caging him in and burning, you felt like a rose stuck between thousands of words never read aloud. Yellow all over, sticking out like a sore thumb between words printed in the smallest font size possible, suffocating. Once belonged with other flowers but now settled down in a place where people thought you’d look pretty.

You hate the color yellow as much as you hate the word convenient. If not, more.

He sees you wince. He cannot guess the reason behind it is his choice of words. “What do you say?”

He is offering, you think. He still likes you enough to ask.

“Okay.”

“Good, we need to get groceries on the way back.”   

People don’t whisper much now that it’s been nearly two years since you two announced to your close work circle that you were married. There were a lot of surprised faces at first, thinking maybe Leon was joking or something. People didn’t know you very well. You were only close with Cathy.

“Perhaps we should wear rings,” said Leon once over dinner. “People don’t believe we’re married.”

“Is that a problem? What others think, I mean?”

He stared at your face while chewing, you couldn’t make out what he was thinking thanks to the dim light emanating from one of the lamps. “They think it’s a joke. Is it so bad that I want to be taken seriously for once? You wanted a wedding dress, I want a ring.”

“When do you want to get them?”

That led to you choosing matching rings with Leon. Simple gold bands. You make sure to wear them to work every day because if you don’t, you worry people will start to whisper again.

First it was, Leon’s not the type to get married, he’s taking the piss out of us, is it April fools today?

Then it turned into: Oh God, he’s serious, he says he got married last weekend.

Eloped? To whom?

He said her name but I don’t remember it, said she’s in archives now.

He’s married to an archivist? How on earth did they meet?

Probably in Donovan’s funeral, saw Hunnigan introducing them.

That wasn’t long ago!

I know, right?

You know some of them thought you had a one-night stand and got pregnant from him. The rumors subsided when that didn’t turn out to be true.

However, people were curious about why Ingrid Hunnigan would introduce an archivist to an agent. It didn’t take long for your name to become known because you had recently switched departments. You had been a systems analyst like Hunnigan, working with late Cathy Donovan. You’d switched to archives after her funeral.

People greeted you when they saw you. Leon’s wife, right?

Yes, but not really.

The first time Leon ever saw you was during agent Donovan’s funeral. He’d gotten back from Spain just a week ago. He did not know agent Donovan well but her name echoed in every corner. She was good at her job. Most of the time, nobody had an idea what she was up to.

“Leon, I want you to meet Cathy’s partner,” said Hunnigan, holding the shoulder of the woman standing next to her.

You stuck your hand out for him to shake and told him your name. It sounded disconsolate coming from your mouth, your own name. Your eyes were dazed, you kept your mouth in a thin line. You didn’t even look at him properly as if this was the hundredth occurrence today, Hunnigan introducing you to someone.

“I’ve heard a lot of great things about agent Donovan.” He didn’t know what else to say.

“Right, she was great,” you said, your eyes straying elsewhere. It looked like Hunnigan’s hand on your shoulder was the only thing keeping you from crumbling down. You looked so small with your shoulders hunched forward. He cringed when he saw you rip out the flesh of the side of your thumb.

Hunnigan went on about Cathy Donovan’s accomplishments to him. You continued to pick at your thumb, him watching your side profile as you kept averting your gaze from people around you. You seemed to be dissociating hard.

“These two were inseparable. I tried asking Cathy to work with me on a small mission once and she praised her so much in turn, I had to suck it up and meet this woman myself as soon as possible,” said Hunnigan heatedly. “I’m such a big fan of Cathy’s, you see, I couldn’t be upset. I love seeing her work with the best.”

“Thanks, that means a lot coming from you,” you managed to say, a beat too late. “I need to use the restroom, be right back.”

Leon knew too well that losing someone was difficult, yet he couldn’t imagine what you were going through. He furrowed his brows the moment his hand made contact with your upper arm. Maybe he shouldn’t have done that, he didn’t want to seem like he took pity on you.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

You made the effort to look him in the eye when it was obvious as day that you were having a hard time keeping your head up.

Your voice barely came out, “Thank you.”

Of course, you did not recognize him the second time he saw you. It was his late celebratory dinner for his mission in Spain. His coworkers had planned a small one, saying he deserved it. Once he was done with his food, he excused himself saying he wanted to get fresh air.

Not too far from the restaurant, you were sitting on a bench alone.

“Those things will kill you, y’know,” he said, eyes pointing to the cigarette you were smoking.

His unexpected voice caused you to jump in your seat. You quickly put the cigarette out by stomping it with your shoe. “I don’t usually… smoke.”

He dragged his feet while walking to sit down on the opposite end of the bench. “You didn’t have to put it out.” Though he thought you were very considerate by doing so.

“Congratulations, for the mission.”

“Thank you— name’s Leon, by the way.”

You stuck your chin out to the direction of the restaurant, “Or so I heard in there.”

“We actually met before. At the funeral.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t remember half the people I met there.”  

“No need to be sorry. You seemed out of it.”

“Yeah, we worked together for a long time, Cathy and I.”

“Look, I know it’s hard and anything I say probably won’t make any difference—”

“You don’t need to—” Your voice quite literally got stuck on your throat, you composed yourself by bringing the side of your fist to your mouth and coughed into it. “I’m trying to get better. I’m here today, which is a miracle in of itself. I know people think it’s probably good to talk about her but I’m just not in the mood, okay? Thank you for your understanding but I don’t need to be reminded, it happened not so long ago.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“No, I know you mean well.” You started to sway your feet on the gravel. It was completely understandable for you to lash out but you seemed uneasy as soon as it was out of you. “Sorry, this is your happy day. I shouldn’t—”

“You realize how many times we said sorry to each other in this past minute?” he laughed. “Also, I lost a partner in Spain. I’m not that happy today.”

Your voice turning faint, seemingly regretting your flash of anger a moment ago, “You probably feel like you shouldn’t be happy.”

He nodded. “He helped me a lot but didn’t make it.” He saw your mouth open and stopped you there. “Don’t say you’re sorry. It loses its meaning when you say it too much.”

“Even if I mean it with my whole heart every time?”

“That means you’re sorry for a lot of things. It’s not healthy to carry that much weight on your shoulders.”

“Right, I’ll be like Quasimodo.” You hunched your shoulders even more forward. “Like the hunchback.”

“From the Disney movie?”

You giggled at his childishness. “Yeah, I heard there’s also a book about it.”

He looked at your squinted eyes and thought you deserved to be happy more.

As you two carried on your now meaningless conversation, he did not know that you were certain on resigning from your job and never turning back to it. You’d started to work on the archives that week, partly because your boss had foreseen you contemplating quitting all together and did not want to lose a highly valuable member such as yourself and partly because you had requested it.

At that point, you were absolutely aware of the fact that they feared you’d never turn back to your former position. And because Cathy didn’t have any plans of ever becoming alive, you also didn’t have any plans on returning. But you knew the reason behind them doing anything you asked was them giving you time to grieve. After that, the pressure would build even more and hopefully make you take your old place.

“It was Hunnigan’s idea,” you said to Leon after he asked you very kindly why you were here tonight. “Basically dragged me here. She thinks I should be around people more.”

“She’s right. I’m glad you came.”

Leon was cute, alright. That didn’t do him justice, actually. It was evident under the street light where the bench was that he worked out regularly. Biceps giving a hard time to his sleeves every time he moved, veins protruding on his forearms, his thighs looking like they’d help him carry ten people on his large back. And oh, his broader-than-the-horizon shoulders. An absolute unit of a man with cheekbones and jawline honed like a Greek statue. With his dark blonde hair falling on his face in that charming way and his oh so kind blue eyes, you knew he was out of your league.

His gentle aura making him seem like a Prince Charming or a white knight or whatever the fuck those Disney movies had.

You planned on never seeing anyone from work again, you had nothing to lose. And Cathy so would say to shoot your shot.

“I’m thinkin’ of getting a few drinks in me, want to tag along?”

“What do you have in mind?” He seemed interested, a good sign.

“You got any suggestions? And don’t say beer because I plan on getting wasted beyond recognition in like an hour.”

“Yeah, be careful. And don’t drink and drive.” The way he took a U-turn on his interest irritated you. You really thought he wouldn’t say no, you were getting along well, flirting even. “Did you come here with your car?”

“Yeah.” You tried to not sound upset. “I’m not a teenager. I’ll take a cab. Drinks will be on me.”

“Ah, thanks but I’ll have to refuse. They’ll probably wonder where I went. It’s my dinner, after all.” The polite smile he gave you was so infuriating.

You got up from the bench. He had the audacity to look you up and down after that. “Then please tell Hunnigan I’m sorry I left early, will you?”

“I will.” He fidgeted and crossed his arms. Oh God, you’d made him uncomfortable. It was just minutes ago he was sort of flirting with you. “Don’t drink too much.”

God, why did he have to be so annoying?

The next time you two met was at the closest pharmacist to work, few weeks after his dinner and your failed attempt to get him in your bed.  

“One box of aspirin, please.” Your head snapped up at that voice. Unmistakably, Leon. With his broad back facing you, he hadn’t seen you yet.

“What can I get you, miss?”

Leon stepped over to the side when they called to you, still not looking at you.

“Eyedrops, please.”

“Miss, are you alright?”

To that, he did a double-take. You’d looked disheveled to the point of worry. Eyes and nose a few shades redder than the rest of your face, eyebags puffy and makeup smudged. With your now extremely frizzy baby hairs doing anything but their job of framing your face, it was apparent that you’d been crying.

“Yes, it’s just an allergy.”

“Can I get you anything for that?”

“No, thank you. I already have meds for it.”

Leon thanked when they gave him his aspirin and turned to you. “Wait here, don’t go anywhere.” He quickly left the pharmacist.

Surprisingly, you did wait for him outside. Why? You had no idea. Frankly, you were hoping to cry more in your car.

Approximately five minutes later, he came to you jogging lightly. He thrusted a water bottle in your hand. “Where’s your medication?”

“What?”

“For your allergy?”

“Oh, um—” You couldn’t find a lie fast enough, usually you were not bad at lying but the way he appeared to be worrying about your well-being was baffling to say the least. “I don’t have it, I mean—” You pressed the water bottle to your stomach and held on to it for comfort. “I don’t have an allergy.”

It was his turn to be baffled. “Are you alright?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“You don’t look like it.” He looked at you and around you as though checking to see any injury. “You should drink up.” He motioned to the bottle and watched you take a gulp.

“Thank you. Oh, you should, too,” You tried to give him the rest of the water while his stare questioned you. “For your aspirin.”

“I already took it. I’m supposed to take it with water?”

“Yes, Leon. Have you been taking them without water this whole time? Then why did you bring me water?”

“I didn’t know that! You looked dehydrated.”

“That’s not good for you. Now I’m worried about your stomach.”

His blue eyes shined like he came to a revelation. “That’s why my stomach burns when I take them?”

How are you this stupid, you suppressed saying, if you had known him well enough at that time, you definitely would. You forgot for a second that you were annoyed at him for rejecting you few weeks ago and find yourself flabbergasted at thinking that he is endearing, in a way.

You made small talk with him about his lunch break and he insisted on walking you to your car.

“Can I help you with anything?” he said sympathetically once you stood in front of your open car door. “You still look…”

Like a truck hit me, you wanted to complete his sentence.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. It just happens time to time.” You tried to make yourself presentable by adjusting your blouse and hair.

“It?”

“Sometimes I cry for no reason. It happens randomly, too, I don’t know when and where I’ll be crying most of the time. Like, I’ll be reading something, it doesn’t have to be sad, I mean— I was reading reports before I came here. Sometimes it gets too much, like now.”

“Will you be okay driving?”

“Yeah! Talking with you definitely helped.” His apprehensive gaze pierced through you. You actually felt like crying again, your chest feeling tight, eyes burning. You stood upright with the support of your car door. “I’ll be fine, Leon.”

“I’m choosing to believe you. Drive safe.” He shifted his weight on one of his legs and seemed ready to take off.

“Thank you. See you around?”

“You probably won’t for a while,” he said to the ground, soothing the itch on his calf with his other leg’s shin. He looked up and squinted his eyes against the sun. “I got assigned a mission. I don’t know for how long.”

“Oh, I’ll be at your celebratory dinner then, if I get an invitation.”

“Well, I don’t know how it will go. I’ll only invite you if you won’t talk for the whole dinner but flirt with me outside again.”

“You didn’t need to embarrass me like that,” you chuckled nervously. “I wouldn’t say I’m a push and pull kind of woman.”

“You can show me what kind of woman you are when I get back?”

“Very smooth, Leon.”

He seemed taken aback. “I’ll see you then.” Suddenly, he was distant again. This time you didn’t know what made him uneasy.

“Yeah… Be safe on your mission.”

He just nodded. You got in your car and gripped the steering wheel tightly until the sight of his leather jacket clad back disappeared. You hunched forward, shoved your forehead to the wheel and tried to take a deep breath. The crying spell didn’t go away as the tears burst down first and then the sobs jerked your entire body.

I will not ask you where you came from I will not ask you, neither should you

Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips We should just kiss like real people do

—Like Real People Do, Hozier

The inside of Leon’s car smells nice, he takes good care of it.

“I’m going to see my sister this weekend,” you say, averting your gaze from the way he steers the wheel with one hand. His other hand is on his knee, tapping away. The effect his toned arms have on you is humiliating.

“I think I can make it.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t have anything that day. I can go with you. It’s your mother’s death anniversary, right? I think it’s time I pay my respects.”

It’s these things he says that leave you puzzled. He’s incredibly thoughtful, no matter who he’s talking to. He very well could have his day off-work for himself, but he asks anyway.

“Do you actually want to meet my sister?”

“I do. I hope to make a good first impression.”

You think about it for a second and end up telling him. “I sent a picture of you to her back when we got married.”

“How’d you get a picture of me?” he asks, appalled. The only picture he has of himself besides the wedding one is on his badge.

“Our wedding picture, dummy. We have one, remember?”

“Oh, right, I forgot.” You can’t complain because you keep it in a dresser drawer in the envelope it came in. He was on duty again when it came and you’d showed it to him once he was home. The left corner of his lips had curled up and for a second, you thought you saw affection in his eyes. “It came out okay? I was sweating buckets, but you—" he’d said and pointed a finger to your face in the photo. “Your hands were ice cold, I nearly asked you to paste your hands to my forehead just so I could cool down.”

“We still have the picture, right?” he asks.

“Yes, it’s in my room. Why?”

“Can I have it?”

“Yeah, they sent two. Can I ask what you’re going to do with it?”

“Give it to the mafia or hire a hitman to go after you, what else?” He lets out a hollow laugh. You want to record the sound and have it forever play in your ears. “I want to frame it and put it on my desk. People usually have pictures of their spouses and children or even their dogs on their desks, no?”

Yes, you know. You have pictures with your best friend and sister on your own desk at work.

It’s his way of saying you mean something to him.

You call your sister’s name as soon as you see it. “Why do you have this picture here?”

She’s carrying the empty plates to the sink as you hold on to her fridge’s door handle.

She looks up to see you pointing at your wedding picture. It’s on her fridge. You don’t even display it in your own house.

“You printed it?”

“I did,” she says. “It’s a good picture.” Her house is littered with pictures of her and her husband on different vacations, of you and your mother and her together in some.

“You just met Leon today.”

“And I think he’s great. You’re happy with him. That’s all I could ask for.”

You were happy since he was in a good mood the entire ride coming here. It was long but you two had a smooth ride and he amused you with his corny jokes and stories. You tore small pieces of bagel and fed him when he said he was getting hungry. He was tired from driving the whole time, but of course he didn’t have it any other way and jestingly banned you from getting behind the wheel. He did make a good first impression like he promised, although he kept bobbing his cramped leg. He’s now in the backyard with your brother-in-law, chatting about football, probably.

Your sister gets your attention by giving you a side hug and rubbing your back. “You’re my only sister, of course I’m going to have a picture of your happiest day.”

You hug her back around her waist. She even had photos of your birth in the living room. Your mom in a hospital bed, one day-old baby you cradled in her arms, your father hugging your mother and looking down at you with adoration in his eyes. Did he know then, that he would never be there for you to look at you like that again?

“You remember dad, right?” you ask quietly. She was older and was able to tell stories about him to you. “How was he like? Before he left, I mean.”

“Like I told you, he loved us so much. I don’t know if it was the same case for my mom. She later told me she saw it coming, that he likely had another woman.”

“How did mom know?”

Your sister sighs and rest her head on top of yours. “She said she could just feel it. Said he felt distant. He used to come home late leading up to it, sometimes drunk. One day I woke up and he wasn’t home. Didn’t say anything, just abandoned us like that.”

There’s that sadness again, creeping up to your chest and placing a big rock there. You feel like you’re being crushed by it. Your mom had always been ambitious, had dreams for herself and her family, deserved so much more than what she got.

Leon’s laughing loudly in the backyard, your head whips to see the sight.

“Come on, go mingle with your husband. I got it from here,” says your sister and starts to place the dishes in the dishwasher.

“I’ll go get us some beer,” says your brother-in-law and gets up from his chair. The weather is amazing today, your sister had set up a nice meal outside. Leon was getting along with them well. What more could you ask for?

You find yourself alone with Leon when your brother-in-law goes inside the house. You sit next to him and he promptly puts his arm on the back of your chair.

“How’s your leg?” you ask him.

“My thighs are sore,” he groans. “Good thing we’re not driving back tonight.”

“Well, I wouldn’t let you anyways.” You put a hand on his knee and start to massage, hoping it will help his aching legs. You’re even bolder than a few days ago. He doesn’t seem to mind it.

“It hurts here,” he says and grabs your hand, placing it higher on his thigh. “You can put more pressure, I can hardly feel it.” His thigh is firm and thank God, your hands manage to stay stable. You ball your hands into fists and start to punch lightly where he wants. The meat of his thighs doesn’t even jiggle, reminding you that he’s mostly made of muscle.

You focus up on his knees. “I’ll drive us to the cemetery tomorrow.”

“I can—”

“No. You’re tired, Leon. I want to drive, don’t make me upset.”  

“Would you actually be upset if I—”

“Yes, very.” You pinch his thigh and that makes him press his lips together.

“They’re really nice, you know,” he means your sister and her husband. “I feel like an ass for not meeting them sooner.”

“You like them?” You raise an eyebrow.  

“I do.”

“So, any propositions?”

“Huh?”

“Got asked for a threesome yet?” you smirk.

“I’m sorry?” He’s horrified and you find it funny.

“After I sent the wedding picture to them, they both said you were hot. I just remembered it.”

“I’d rather not know that!”

“Relax, Kennedy. I’m just joking. They’re not gonna ask you that.”

He visibly relaxes and puts you in a headlock in a play-fight manner with the arm that was behind you. His nose and mouth pressed up against your hair, he says, “I’ll just tell them I’m a one-lady type of man if they ever do.” You consider biting his arm.

“Can the lovebirds look up here for a second?” chirps your sister. She has come with her camera outside. “It’s the golden hour.”

Leon adjusts his head to look towards the camera and relaxes his hold on you, arm dangling from your shoulder, other hand engulfs yours on his knee, rings clashing.  

“Aww,” your sister coos as she takes the photo. “I’ll send this to you.”

She doesn’t suspect a thing, probably because you’re not pretending anymore.

You splash your face with cold water after you’re done brushing your teeth in your sister’s guest room bathroom. Leon’s inside the room, splayed out on the bed, exhausted after today. It won’t be awkward, you say to yourself, hope to God your hands don’t start to tremble from anxiety.

Leon has taken off his t-shirt, bent one of his knees and put his hands behind his head. Not helping your case by looking irresistible. Even the tufts of hair under his arms are endearing to you.

“How are you holding up?” he asks once you sit on the bed next to him, back facing him. He knows you will visit Cathy too when you get back.

“I’m good, Leon.” You take off your ring and place it next to his on the bedside drawer. “Never been better, actually. I missed them.” You twist your upper body to face him. “Here,” you say as you place your newly washed cold damp hands on both sides of his face in attempts to cool him down.

He shivers, his shoulders going up slightly for a quick second. “That’s nice,” he murmurs, closing his eyes. You’re silent, in part because you’re speechless before his beauty, but you also would like to try to give him a little piece of serenity he needs.

“This used to be my mom’s room when she was living here.”

He hums softly and opens his eyes, his hands coming up to hold on to your bare arms, the skin between his eyebrows pinched.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, hands finding place on his broad shoulders.

He starts to rub your arms up and down, his hands stopping after a while to trace a strap of your tank top with his fingers. All of your worries about intimate gestures going out the window the moment you let his hands wander.

This is the tender domesticity that you’ve been longing for so badly, you want to thank him.

He scrunches his nose. “I wanted to kiss you, now I think it’ll be inappropriate.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. Your grip on his shoulders is now stronger, begging not to tremble. He feels lonely, he shouldn’t have come here. You have to swallow hard. “It won’t.”

His hand goes up to cup the back of your neck, he’s staring at your lips like he doesn’t wish for anything else. “C’mere.” He tugs at your hip to get the lower half of your body up on the bed. He drapes you halfway on his torso.

Once you’re situated to his liking and casting a shadow on his face, he brings you down ever so gently to his mouth, massaging your nape. He’s hot all over, his mouth, his breath on your face, his chest, the hand that’s splaying his fingers on the small of your back. With his soft lips moving lazily against yours, you’re quite literally bursting at the seams. The muffled sigh he drags across your mouth tempts you to press your entire body to his harder and sling your leg across his hips.

His kisses turn into open-mouthed ones and he tastes like minty toothpaste and sunlight on golden hour.

A small noise comes out of your throat, hands straying down to his bare chest and he has to cradle your face to stop. “We should sleep.” His Adam’s apple bobs enticingly. “I seriously don’t want to disrespect your mother’s ghost.”

A laugh escapes your lips as he hugs your head and buries it to his chest, his chin resting on top. “You’ll apologize to her tomorrow.”

It’s okay, you think when you feel the low timbre of his chuckle on his chest. We’re okay. We’re doing better.

There's no plan, there's no race to be run The harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun There's no plan, there's no kingdom to come I'll be your man if you got love to get done Sit in and watch the sunlight fade Honey, enjoy, it's gettin' late There's no plan, there's no hand on the rein

—No Plan, Hozier

The fourth time you saw Leon Kennedy was at a bar. You thought his coworkers were going to be there to see him after his mission but it was just you two.

He had emailed you a day before, saying he asked for your email address from Hunnigan, inviting you for drinks the next day and apologizing for letting you know this late.

“Where’s everyone? Am I early?” you asked, despite noticing the table he was sitting at was for two people.

He looked up and you were taken aback by the sight of him. He looked tired. He had a bit of a stubble and his hair was tousled. “No, you’re right on time,” he said, getting up to pull your chair for you. “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise,” you said, ridding yourself from your jacket. You actually put in the effort to look good that day. A nice outfit, a little bit more makeup, hair done.

As you sat down in front of him, a corner of his lips went up, “You look good.”

“The last time we spoke wasn’t my best moment.”

“How have you been?”

You placed your hands on the table and started to play with your fingers, anxious. “Since then? Better, I suppose. How about you? Your mission went well?”

“Depends on how you define well.”

“You’re still in one piece.”

“If only that was enough.” You didn’t get to see his disappointed expression for long when a server came up to your table and Leon quickly ordered a drink, asked what you wanted and waited with his hands together on the table.

Once the server was away, you slightly leaned towards him. “They should be grateful that they got their best agent back alright.” Although you couldn’t ask him any details about his mission, you knew he was a special agent that was good at this job.

“Hunnigan told me you’re in the archives.”

“Yeah, that happened months ago, before your dinner.”

“Why the change of heart?”

“I—uh…” Your throat felt dry under his piercing stare. “I wasn’t needed there anymore. So I transferred.”

“Really? I heard it’s quite the opposite.”

“Oh, they’re talking about me?”

“Yes, seems like they really want you to work with agents again.”

“I know that,” you said and dug your fingernails to the corner of the table, his eyes following the motion.

“What do you mean?” he said, scratching his jaw. “You said you weren’t needed.”

“I felt like I wasn’t being useful. I tried to quit. They tried really hard to keep me there. Now, they’re constantly asking me to come back after everything.”

“They do know how to squeeze the last bit out of everyone,” he nodded. “Are you happy with where you are right now?”

“As in life?” You rolled your eyes thinking about it. “What does it look like?”

“I was worried the last time I saw you.” He sounded sincere.

“I know, I looked miserable.” Probably looked like the physical embodiment of a cry for help, too. “Can we not dwell on it, please? I’m better now. But now you—” You reach and tap on the middle of the table. “You look like you need to sleep for days.”

“That would be great,” he sighed.

You kept looking at the door but no one from work was coming in. “Why is no one coming, Leon?”

“They won’t, to be honest with you. I only invited you.”

Your back was then one with the chair. “Oh.”

“I should’ve let you know, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I don’t mind the quiet,” you smiled. And then you realized, he was doing the same thing you were doing, pushing anyone and anything away.

Him reaching out to you, this was his cry for help. Why you specifically, you didn’t know.

“You told me you lost a partner in Spain, were you close?”

To that, he dropped his chin and stared at his lap. “No, I wouldn’t say that. I didn’t know him. We met under strange circumstances and ended up helping each other. I got the impression that he regretted a lot of things but wanted to believe people could change.”

“I believe people can change, for the better or worse,” you mumbled.

Your server came with your drinks. Leon didn’t waste a second and downed nearly half of his drink. “You tried to quit?” he asked.

“I did. I thought it was time for a little stability in my life. This is as far as I can get to it,” you said and took a sip of your drink which was the same one as Leon. It was strong.

“Stability. That’s unlikely in this job,” he scoffed, fingers tapping at his glass.

“Do you see it as impossible, Leon?” You desperately hoped he would say no, you needed to hear from someone that it wasn’t just a pipe dream.  

He seemed to be thinking for a slow moment. “I guess, for some people, it wouldn’t hurt to try.”

“For you it would?” you inquired.

“I once thought I would marry my first girlfriend. I was like what? Twenty, twenty-one? I was really stupid and in love. If twenty-one-year-old Leon saw this, he would be devastated,” he said and raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t think I can find someone who would understand what I do. It’s not like I can tell them. They’d be in danger because of me. I can’t ask them to trust me blindly. I wouldn’t want them to.”

“If someone was willing to accept you as you are, do you think..?”

“Who in their right mind would?” he groaned in exasperation.

“I would. But my situation is different, I have an understanding of what you do. I also can’t be in any more danger than I already am.” There was a beat of silence after you said that. The drink was definitely too much for you, you were sure. Your ears were burning hot, one hand coming up to cool one down with your nervous cold fingers, your eyes roamed the whole place. You chugged the remaining of your drink and wiped your mouth.

“Whoa, slow down there,” he bolted and looked at your abashed face as if he was in a contemporary art museum, trying to understand what the artist meant with their absurd piece.

Feeling self-conscious, you fixed your hair and babbled out, “Why did you get into this line of work in the first place?”

His back straightened, shoulders rolling back. “I was… recruited.” You didn’t quite understand how but remained from prodding any further. “I was the best candidate for what they wanted. An orphan who didn’t have anything to lose.”

It really wasn’t going well for you. You wanted to bang your head against the table and avoid looking at him completely but after what he had revealed to you, you couldn’t be any ruder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

If Cathy were to hear about this, you wouldn’t hear the end of it. Good job honey, that’s one way to woo a man. She would’ve said it in that sarcastic tone which she infamously was a master of.

“No, it’s fine,” said Leon. “You could do so much better than me, though.”

Have you seen yourself, you wanted to exclaim.

Your nostrils were wide, trying to sober you up by hogging as much oxygen as possible, you tried to remain calm, you were feral however. “Why do you keep putting yourself down, Leon? You know, you could’ve called your friends today and they would’ve come running to you. You’re a great person, they don’t give a damn about how successful your mission was. They’re happy that you’re back, that’s all. They are your friends, not the alcohol.”  

He was dead silent, staring at his glass with an expression you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“I’m sorry for overstepping but I saw how they were trying to look out for you at the dinner. There wasn’t even a glass of wine there, celebration my ass. Everybody can tell you’re not fine. I don’t know you that well but even I can tell. What you’re doing to yourself isn’t healthy. It’s self-destructive.”

He wiped his forehead. “You’re the one to talk.”

“Excuse me?”

“Hunnigan’s always talking about how you’re running away every time you see her. She has to drag you everywhere. She’s being nice to you, you could try appreciating that, you know? And you’re clearly stuck up on something, are you trying to repent for your sins or what?” He quite literally disarmed you with his icy stare.

“I’m not Catholic,” you retorted.

“Well, would you look at that. We’re more similar than I thought.” The smirk he had on was sardonic, the furthest from being friendly. You felt an urge to get up and never look back.

“Wrong,” you said as you crossed your arms. “I don’t expect alcohol to solve my problems.”

“Yeah, you’d rather run away from them. And that isn’t going well for you, is it?” He finished his drink and motioned for the server for another. “Also, stop being a hypocrite.”

“Excuse you?” you said with seething anger.

“Are you not trying to ‘get wasted beyond recognition’ right now, as you put it?” he sneered and pointed out your empty glass.

“That was one time, I usually don’t drink. And I’m not planning on drinking more.”

“Oh, did I ruin your fun?”

“Stop that,” you said through your gritted teeth. “Stop being mean. I’m not your friend. You don’t have to push me away. I don’t know why you invited me here. I can just get up and go, leave you with whatever you have up your ass that’s making you act like this. I’m only asking you to stop putting yourself down so much and you’re being all defensive. You know what, I don’t deserve this.” You got up from your chair, grabbing your jacket and purse.

He stood up quickly and tried to follow you. “Sit down, Leon. Your drink is coming.” You didn’t give him any chance to reply and threw the amount of cash that covered your single glass of alcohol on the table.

The walk from the noiseless bar to the nearest bus stop was not pleasant, to say the least. The air was biting cold, hitting your warm cheeks and making you shiver.

Leon only lost sight of you because he stopped to tip the server generously. He fucked up big time, he knew that. It was going to be a pain in the ass if you already jumped in a cab but he had hope that no vacant cab was passing the area on a Friday night.

He was stupid to think this would go smoothly. The last time he saw you, he was concerned about you. The way you’d casually admitted you were not fine was echoing in his mind. He wanted to see if you’d be there by the time he was back from duty. He admitted he was scared for you, for that woman who seemed so small during the funeral, for that woman who had a meltdown in her car in the middle of the day, barely hanging on.

He wanted to tell you today that maybe you should quit. But you had already crossed that bridge.

Maybe you wanted to help people, too. At least at the beginning. Now you wanted peace and quiet, because your life has been anything but. Unlike you, he gave up on that a while ago. He wanted to regard your daring words— I would— as being drunk, he really did.

Ada would never admit she’d want something like that to him, to anyone. Ada didn’t want a stable life, she would never live at a place longer than a month, work with someone more than twice. Even after all of their encounters, Leon still didn’t know what her actual motives were. Raccoon City, Spain, his last mission.

It was pitiful, the way his breath would hitch every time he saw a dark-haired woman wearing red out of the corner of his eye. His heart would pound in his ears for a quick second before he’d realize he was mistaken. He would allow himself, for a brief moment, that maybe it was Ada, here to see him. However, she was never the one to be sentimental. Her every action had a tangible intention that Leon could never guess.

But Leon knew she cared. Enough to save him every goddamn time he needed saving. Enough to ask him to come with her. If he was twenty-one, he would’ve chosen to tail behind her, ready to follow her wherever. Except he had changed, he was not naive anymore. He’d like to think he made the right choice by separating their ways back in Spain. He didn’t know if he was going to be used again.

He also didn’t know what would become of them. Needless to say, he wasn’t going to abandon the mission and ride off into the sunset with Ada yet a part of him wondered about their alternate universe in which he chose to follow her. What would have happened if he just hopped onto that helicopter with her? Where would she have taken him? Was she planning on greeting him properly after all those years? Was he ready to forgive her after Raccoon City?

Perhaps she would have dropped him off somewhere, with a phone number or an address, leaving him confused yet again. Maybe he would’ve reached out, met her in a different circumstance where they didn’t have to constantly run away from trouble. Maybe she’d be living in a small flat and then she’d ask him to come over. Maybe he’d continue to visit her, make himself familiar with her small space.

Except that was not feasible at all, since she was a fleeting kind of woman, just like all the moments they shared. Not there to stay. And none of these would happen, it would always be a different hotel room, different city, barring him from being constant in her life.

A puppy love, he used to think. Young, naive, credulous love. No, he realized, it got older and bigger, sicker. It was time to put it down, put it out of its misery.

He sprinted to the bus station, his hunch was right, you were sitting there, arms folded on your chest, alone. You looked up the moment you heard his footsteps. He left a few steps between you two and braced himself by putting his palms on his knees.

“Why did you come here?” he asked, his eyes were focused on your red nose. Probably from the cold, he convinced himself.

“What do you mean? You asked me to,” you grimaced.

“You said we’re not friends, so why did you come here?”

Your head turned opposite of Leon, resting your chin on your shoulder and hugging yourself tighter. “I wanted some company,” you grumbled, the collar of your jacket muffling your voice. “I think Hunnigan’s right and I might need it.”

“Sorry I’m not a decent one.” He took slow steps to sit next to you on the narrow bench of the bus stop, his shoulder grazing yours. That made you perk up at him.

“I’m sorry for the things I said earlier,” you said, holding his gaze.

“You said a lot of things.”

“Well, I’m sorry for all of them, I crossed a line.”

“Don’t be, I needed the scolding.”

“I didn’t mean to scold you.”

He knocked his knee to yours. “Do you always regret the things you say immediately after? I was an asshole, you got angry, rightfully so.”

“But I was the one who started it,” you pursed your lips.

“Doesn’t matter, we’re not kids.”

“I, uh, called a taxi, should be here in a few minutes,” you said after a minute of silence.

“Okay, tell me something in the meantime.”

“What do you want to hear?”

His thumb caressed his brow, he was contemplating. “Would you consider marrying me?”

“What?”

“Would you marry me? If I asked?”

“No, I heard you the first time.” Your eyes took in every inch of his face, searching for a sign, anything that might explain this. “Leon, are you drunk?” 

“No, I’m nowhere near drunk. It takes more than one drink for me to get buzzed.” He crossed his arms, imitating you. “Think about it, we can both try to live calm and stable.”

Your face was contorted in confusion, still for a slight pause. “People don’t marry out of spite, Leon. They marry out of love.”

“Who said anything about spite?”

“You’re clearly angry at something or someone.”

“I am not.”

“This life you are living right now… isn’t quite what you planned, is it? Some things didn’t go according to plan and now you’re here, trying to steer the reins again. And you’re angry.”

“What are you, my therapist?” This time his comeback didn’t sound as if it was meant to hurt you, but to make the air between you lighter. “I guess I do resent some things, doctor.”  

You went along with his enactment. “Admitting is a huge step Leon, I appreciate the honesty.”

“Now you be honest,” he said, bouncing his leg in impatience. “Are you in a relationship? Am I being creepy by cornering you like this?”

“I’m not and I don’t feel cornered. If I did, I’d just get up and go. You just saw.”

He nodded, his lips in a thin line. “Experienced firsthand how you run away from your problems and I don’t mean it figuratively.”

You chuckled. “You are not a problem in my life.”

“Not a friend either.”

Your smile dropped. “I don’t think we know each other that well.”

He hummed, looking far away. “That’s probably your cab.” He got up, shaking off dust from his jeans. “Take my number before you get in and let me know when you make it home safe.”

You gave him your number but didn’t get to write your name in his contacts as the cab drew near. “Thanks for keeping me company, you didn’t need to run after me,” you said as you handed him his phone.

“We won’t dwell on it,” he winked as he opened the back door of the cab for you. “And think it over, okay?”

“What?”

“My proposal. We can get to know each other, then we can get married. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. It’ll be convenient.”

“Tell me one good thing that will be convenient.”

“Uh, okay. Here’s two for you,” he said and held up two fingers. “A better healthcare plan and tax benefits.”

You laughed and the driver seemed annoyed that you were still standing in front of the open door. “I should get going.”

“Text me when you get home,” he said when you finally got in the car.

You texted him again two weeks after his ridiculous proposal.

Hi, Leon. Do you remember what you asked me after the bar two weeks ago?

Hi. Yes I remember.

Were you being serious or should I pass it as tipsy nonsense?

There was no response from him for a few minutes and you had started biting your nails nervously.

I was being serious. I wasn’t tipsy.

You stared at his short text longer than it took him to reply. You had already made up your mind but it felt cheap telling him over a text. This was not the proper way of doing this. You also didn’t know how to convey this to him, so you resorted to a playful text.

Ask me properly and I’ll consider it.

I’ll ask you again properly over dinner next Friday? I know a good Italian place.

The next Friday, he kept his promise and said those four words in a fancy quiet Italian restaurant. You said yes.

“I have a request,” you said, swirling your wine before taking a sip. “I want a wedding dress, not like a gown or anything. Just a simple white dress.”

“Sure, I already have a suit that I can wear.”

Your heart tugged in your chest. The fact that you had to buy your wedding dress by yourself, no matter how simple you envisioned it to be, without Cathy by your side was making your ears ring, drowning out all the knife and fork clatter around you.

Here's my hand There's the itch But I'm not supposed to scratch

—Love Me More, Mitski

It’s four a.m. and you want to say you’ve actually seen it coming. Every time something good happens, its catastrophe follows eventually. Just like how Cathy’s mission was going so well until it wasn’t.

It’s four a.m. and the meal you’ve prepared for Leon has gone cold on the dining table. You thought he’d be hungry when he came back from mission, so you went out and bought ingredients, followed a recipe word for word, even made soup additionally just in case he didn’t feel like eating solid food after what his body’s been through. He said he’d be back at one a.m. and he hasn’t contacted you since. You’ve called and texted him numerous times but it was radio silence from him.

He had promised you, before you got married, that he would always let you know when he got back from a mission and he always did. He never once forgot because you were very serious about this, wanted to know as soon as possible that he was back safe.

It’s four a.m. and you feel like you’re going crazy, soaring into a heaving fit as each minute passes by.

The sound of his keys makes you clutch at your chest and before you even realize, your legs are walking you to the front door. He’s being quiet and you wait for him few steps behind the door. His steps are feather light, head bowed down to take off his shoes, he exhales a long breath as he places his backpack down.

He flinches when he sees your silhouette in the dark. “God, you scared me. I thought you’d be sleeping.”

“You didn’t text me,” your voice breaks, your hands are clutching at the sides of your pajama shirt like it’s a lifeline.

“I forgot.”

Your tears threaten to fall down and you’re grateful that it’s dark and he can’t see. You bite down your lip strong enough to make it bleed. “I was worried.”

“I’m fine, you didn’t need to stay up.”

It’s not like you chose to, you physically couldn’t lie down or eat anything when your mind went all haywire, creating the worst possible scenarios it could think of.

“I, um, made dinner.” You point to the table. “But it’s gone cold, I can heat it up. Don’t know if it will taste any good, though. Did you have any chance to eat something? I mean, if you ate dinner, it’s been hours and you’re probably hungry—”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I also made soup, so it’s easier on the stomach. You’re tired, right? Just eat some soup and then go to sleep. I’ll heat that up and there’s also tea in the pantry, supposed to help you sleep. Oh, I filled up the bathtub, I’ll go drain it, the water’s gone cold and you probably want to have a hot shower—”

He cuts you off again by blurting out your name. “Hey, hey, slow down.” His calloused hands come up to hold your shoulders and you let out a small whimper of surprise, your chin dropping to your chest. “I don’t want anything, I’ll just sleep.”

You shrug and escape from his hold, so he doesn’t ask you why you’re trembling like a leaf. “But shower…” you manage to make out and point to the direction of his room.

“Yes, I’ll drain the tub and shower, you go to sleep, okay?”

“Okay,” you say softly. He’s home, you repeat deliriously. He’s here, very much alive. The thought calms your nerves instantly.

He doesn’t turn on any of the lights while navigating his home in the dark. You crane your neck to watch his silhouette move to his room. He opts to turn on the bathroom light first. You listen to the water droplets as you put away the food you made for him in containers. He says something you can’t quite hear when he gets out of the shower.

“Did you say something, Leon?” you raise your voice slightly.

“Yeah, did you clean my room?”

“It was messy. Thought it’d be nice to see it tidy when you came back.”

He doesn’t reply right away and your head turns to his direction as if he can see you through the door.

“Thank you. You didn’t need to.”

You actually cleaned the whole house when he was away, not that he had the chance to see it.

You were aware from the very beginning that this was what you got yourself into. You and Leon never promised each other love. But why are you feeling like this now? Stupid question, really. Because things have changed, you’ve grown to love him and you’re afraid. You’re afraid that one day you’ll have to face the world without him by your side because he has become your anchor, holding you in place where you now call home. It’s nice having his warm hands on you, it’s nice coming home to him.

However, in moments like now it feels like you’re playing house, actors going their separate ways after the lights go out. It awfully feels like you’re standing in the middle of a dark stage, curtains closed so nobody can see what goes down behind the scenes.

You’re in front of his door, first aid kit in one hand, knocking. “Leon?” You know he’s not sleeping. He can’t sleep well after he comes back from his missions, his insomnia making it impossible for him.

The door cracks open and you slide past him before he can say anything, perching cross-legged on the side of his bed, placing the kit on your lap before propping his pillow against the bedpost so he can sit comfortably in front of you. “Let me have a look.” You pat on the bed. “And turn on the lamp, please.”

You can finally see him when he does. The first thing you see is the big purple bruise on his side because he’s only wearing his sweatpants. His hair is wet from the shower, hanging to his eyes, eyebags dark and prominent, one of his forearms is freshly bandaged. Despite all, he’s standing tall in front of you.

“They already patched me up,” he says, showing his bandage.

You take his hand and draw him near, making him sit on the bed with one leg dangling from the side. Half of his face is illuminated like this and you can see the cut on his jaw in its full glory. Your fingers begin to work quickly, cleaning the wound all the while he winces by closing his eyes. “Seems like they didn’t take a good look at you. What happened to your ribs?” you ask to distract him.

“Got kicked. They’re not broken.”

You put the band-aid on his jaw and search his eyes as they open. He blinks slowly at you, understanding that you want to hear more. “Hurts when I breathe but it should be gone in a few days, it’s not that bad.”

You take his unwrapped hand in yours, the skin of his knuckles is very red, it probably hurts when he flexes it. You grab the ice pack you remembered to bring with you and place it on top on his knuckles.

“Not there,” he mumbles. “Put in on my shoulder, it’s really sore.”

You place the pack on the shoulder he points. He tries to turn his head that way but his face contorts in pain and he gives up, exhaling a long sigh.

“Did you have them wrap it up?”

“No, can’t be bothered to rewrap it later.”

“That’s why you have me to do it for you,” you hum, adjusting the ice pack. You’re closer to him like this, able to smell his soap and shampoo from his body. You can make out the shape of his chapped lips and yours ache to kiss his pain away, except you are overheated with grievance.

His eyes bore into you, taking you in. There’s an unassuming hand on your bent knee, squeezing lightly. “Did I scare you?” he asks.

“You promised me,” you gripe to him, fumbling with your fingers on your lap after you place the first aid kit next to you. “You promised me that you’d let me know when you were back. Of course I was scared.”

His forehead falls onto your shoulder, damp strands of hair pressed to the side of your neck as the ice pack tumbles down his back onto the bed. “I’m sorry, honey,” he says breathily.

He’s only called you by your name all this time, so this is new. And stomach lurching. Your cheek knocks the side of his head with your startled reaction.

“I have no excuse,” he murmurs. His palm on your knee slides up, leaving a burning sensation as it goes along your thigh, bypassing your hips and finding place on the curve of your waist.

“It’s okay,” you squeak when you feel his thumb caressing your ribs through your t-shirt.

You don’t remember ever sitting down with him, drawing lines about the nature of your relationship, lines that both of you never meant to cross, because you didn’t. You didn’t discuss anything about boundaries because at the time you were getting married, you didn’t know him much. Both of you assumed that it would naturally develop, silent agreements to come.

It was manageable before, now it confuses you to the point of ripping hair from your own head. There were times where you didn’t think twice about giving him a friendly hug, a pat on the back, a reassuring squeeze to his knee but after getting into bed with him, every action was testing the waters.

It wasn’t even a bed; it was the couch in the living room where you had countless dinners and conversations, the heart of the home, if you will. It felt shameful afterwards as if it happened in an open space, because it was quick and devoid of any intimacy, but it was in the confines of your own quiet home still.

You want to go back to the time when you were friends, and not what this was supposed to be. You want to go back to the time when you didn’t know how it felt to have him like that, when you didn’t know his touch would be so tantalizing, his lips unbearably addicting, his warmth conquering.

Initially, you thought you’d cross any bridge regarding him when you came across it, but there weren’t any bridges around to reach him to begin with. You quickly realized that he had burned them before you, for everyone. So, you painstakingly built each and every one of them with your bare hands, desperate to get to him. And him shaking them felt immensely unfair, all your hard work threatened to fall.

Your hand on his chest pushes him away ever so slightly before his hand drops from your waist. He hisses softly yet the action hurts you more than it hurts him. He yields to your touch, back leaning on his propped-up pillow, waiting for you to gather the scatter of your thoughts patiently.

“Stop confusing me, Leon.”

“What do you mean?”

“What am I to you exactly?”

“You’re my wife,” he says. Obviously.

“So why doesn’t it feel like it?”

“We never guaranteed that it would.”

“Yeah, I know that. All this time I thought maybe we were doing better, now I don’t know Leon, you’re confusing me. Either stop giving me hope or just say it outright.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“That I’m just a fuck buddy to you.”

His jaw ticks, lips curl in disdain. “How shallow do you think I am?”

“I know we never established any boundaries between each other but it’s gotten to a point where I don’t know how I should act around you.”

His face stays stagnant. “You can’t be serious. Your boundaries were set from the beginning. You never had a place for me in your heart.”

Time seems to stop for you in that dire moment, Leon’s blue eyes serving you a new wrench of dismay. “When did I give off that impression?”

“Our first anniversary,” he clarifies hoarsely. “We ate pizza on the couch, remember?”

You do, you even remember the Disney movie he had rented as a cheeky nod to time you two first flirted. The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

“I always wonder why you said yes to my proposal in the first place,” he said after taking a bite from his pizza slice. It had been a year since getting married, Hunnigan was the one to point out to him. Apparently, she was proud of herself due to the fact that she was the one to introduce you two.

“I thought of Cathy and what she would’ve said to me,” you said, watching the animated Quasimodo sing his heart out to the town below him.

“What would she have said?”

“That it is ridiculous and maybe I should say yes.”

“So, you thought of what Cathy would’ve said to you getting married but not your family?”

You turned your head to him, ready to get vulnerable. “Cathy was family to me.”

“I didn’t know you two were that close.”

“Yeah, we met when we were roommates back in college. She urged me to change majors and follow her path.”

“To become an agent?”

“No, she was the one who always wanted to be a special agent. I didn’t know what to do at first but somehow ended up working alongside her.”

“What were you studying before?”

“I was studying to become a nurse. Kind of in my sister’s path, she’s a doctor.”

He scratched his nape, looking ashamed. “I believe I never asked that before, sorry about that.”

You elbowed his side after taking a sip of your drink. “Yeah, you better be sorry for not knowing what your sister-in-law does for work.”

He rolled his eyes upon your teasing. “Were they supportive of you changing majors? Your family, I mean.”

“My family’s always been small. It’s just me and my mom and sister. Dad’s never been in the picture. He left when I was a few months old. My mom raised us herself. And yes, she would support anything I did. She loved Cathy because she would make me do things I’d never do myself.”

“Your mom sounds like a great person.”

“She was. She died four days before Cathy did.”

“I’m… sorry to hear that,” he said, much more ashamed than before. You didn’t blame him, the first year of your marriage flew by really fast, with him on duty most of it. Forget sitting down like this to talk, you rarely got any chance to see him.

“Yeah, their deaths being so close fucked me up really bad. We were on mission. My mom was living with my sister then because she was sick. My sister didn’t tell me her condition was even worse than before.”

“Why?”

“Mom knew we were working on something big and begged my sister not to tell me. She thought she’d see me after I was done with the mission. I had a whole fight with my sister about it. I felt betrayed.”

“I think I would, too, in that situation.”

“I was so fucking unprofessional after that. I couldn’t keep on helping Cathy properly. And she—”

“It isn’t your fault.” He shook his head, meeting your gaze in the space between you two on the couch.

“I’m tired of hearing that,” you huffed.

“None of that is on you. It’s the truth.”

“It’s not. I knew the situation was going bad. Cathy tried to make me believe it was not. Somebody else had to be transferred to take my place instead. I insisted but I had to be taken out. That’s when we lost connection to her.”

“How did you know it was going bad?”

“I could tell from her voice. I know her better than I know myself. I failed to get her help. I should have never listened to her.”

“But you couldn’t do that, could you? She clearly gave you wrong intel. You can’t send back-up until—”

“I could’ve made it seem like she requested back-up. That would’ve saved her, exterminated the mission, but saved her. I’d have faced the consequences of my actions sooner or later. If I did that and saved her, she’d be mad at me for years but who cares as long as she’s safe and sound?”

“I get it. I’d also have someone mad at me if it meant they’d be safe.”

“In the end, she died for nothing. The cult she was infiltrating dispersed after they killed her, all fled to different countries. It’s harder to track them down now. They’re everywhere.”

“You follow through with it? It would be impossible to track down each mission.”

“Why do you think I’m in the archives? I have access to mission reports. They don’t think it is bioweapon related, so sometimes they let me see them.”

Esmeralda was dancing along people’s whistles, captivating every man in the square.

“You said Cathy died for nothing but you actually don’t want that to be true.”

Fiddling with your fingers, you said, “Obviously.”

“You’re loyal,” he remarked. “I’m sure she would’ve loved to see her mission completed. Do you ever think of working as an analyst again?”

“Nope.”

From his expression you could tell he wanted an explanation, so you gave him one, “I don’t want to see people get hurt anymore. It’s a dangerous job, you know it. Why are you asking me?”

“No offense, but then why did you agree to marry me knowing I do the same job? If you’re scared of losing someone this much—it just doesn’t make sense to me.”

You sighed, having a hard time thinking where to even start. “You’re going to call me crazy.”

“I would never,” he said, half-jokingly.

“Okay, I really did think what Cathy would tell me to do. I always listened to her, the whole time we got to spend together. She told me what she wanted to do with her life, told me I looked depressed with what I was studying and maybe we should join an academy together. She was larger than life, lit up an entire room with her presence, never spoke ill of someone, liked to help people in any way she could. I’ve always been shy, so she went above and beyond to find me decent blind dates.”

“She sounds wonderful. She was also your matchmaker?”

“In a way, yes. Dragged me to parties with her so I could have some fun.” You gave Leon a smile, recalling Cathy and her antics in your mind, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Nothing sounds crazy so far,” he reassured you.

Finished with your pizza, you dusted off the crumbs into the box and lifted up your knees to sit cross-legged facing him. “I couldn’t keep someone interested in me for more than two dates.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he replied, his eyes traveling up and down.

“No, seriously. This one time, a guy left mid-date, told me he had a phone call, paid for the coffees and just left. I waited there for half an hour. It dawned on me when I couldn’t see his car outside. Didn’t call me after.”

Leon shrugged one shoulder. “His loss.”

You smacked his bicep playfully as a way of thanking him for his compliment. “I only went on these dates because Cathy thought it would be good for me. I had a few fights with my sister about Cathy and her influence on me. She thought I was like her puppet but I genuinely don’t think like that. I told you I knew Cathy like the back of my hand. It was the same for her. Never pushed me to do something I’d be uncomfortable with. Well, I’d feel awkward at times but it would be momentary, I’d learn so much in the long run.”

“That’s a very healthy way of looking at things. I’m still waiting for the part where you think I’d call you crazy.”

“I trusted her judgment because I knew she only wanted the best for me. She’d definitely try to set me up with you if we weren’t so busy all the time,” you said, lips curling into a roguish smile.

His eyebrows shot up, being brazen about it. “Oh, you’re saying I’d have her approval?”

Especially when you keep raking your hands through your hair like that, you wished to say. “Yes, you would.”

“Thank you, that means so much.”

“You didn’t even know her.”

“Well, she means so much to you, I feel honored that you think that way.”

A haze of grief washing over your heart, lungs expanding, you started, “I also… never mind.”

A comforting hand fell on you shoulder, shaking you slightly. “Now you have to say it, don’t leave me hangin'.”

“Here’s the crazy part,” you swallowed dryly. “Whenever I thought of my future, it was always with Cathy. I didn’t even think of getting married. I thought we’d retire together when the time came, she and Allison—her girlfriend—would live next to me. And if they ever had the chance, they’d marry and maybe have kids. I’d look after them like they were my own, be the best aunt. Isn’t it crazy, dreaming of looking after someone else’s kids and not yours? Sometimes I’d lay my head down and imagine myself in a little community, living next door to Cathy and her family, growing my own vegetable garden—though I don’t know the first thing about gardening but I’d learn! I would also grow pretty flowers and give them out to anyone who decided to come over. Go to the bakery in the morning, greet everyone on the way and grab my breakfast fresh out the oven. I’d get so fat! Eating baked goods every day, sounds like heaven to me.”

“Indeed.” With a fond smile on his face, he took of his hand from your shoulder and fully turned to you, bending one leg up on the cushions. “I don’t think I met an Allison at the funeral, was she there?”

“She was,” you said, remembering the painful conversation you had with her. “She arrived really early and left before anyone from work came.”

“What happened?” he asked, noticing you ripping skin off your fingers just like you had been doing during that day.

“I tried to talk to her. She told me I was a liar and walked out—” Leon interrupted your chain of thoughts by taking your hand, preventing you from damaging your fingers further. “I couldn’t keep my promise to her. It’s awful. I told her before the mission that it was going to be okay, we’d done this with Cathy many times and I’d make sure to keep her in one piece.”

Your other hand had a death grip on your knee, nails digging and leaving indents to keep yourself grounded. “They tortured Cathy while she was captive. She died because she refused to give them any information.”

Leon seemed like he didn’t want you to continue, placed your hand in his as though he was reading your palm and started to fidget with your gold wedding band on your ring finger. “Tell me more about that dream of yours. I bet you wouldn’t even install normal ceiling lights in your house. It’d just be little lamps everywhere.”

Giggling, you said, “Yeah! I’d be that auntie that collects little trinkets and displays them all around her house. I’d learn how to knit and make so many ugly sweaters for God knows anyone.”

“So, no partner living with you? Just you with your trinkets?”

“There’s so many types of love and I just didn’t see myself in a romantic one. It just happened that I never pictured myself alone. That’s it.”

His hands slipped away after your raw confession, broad back straightening, appearing tensed up. Yet again, you couldn’t make out what his expression meant.

Esmeralda was now singing a hymn, Quasimodo staring at her in admiration from the shadows.

“I talked so much today, now’s your turn. I feel embarrassed that you know my abysmal attempts at finding love. How about you, Leon? You got any embarrassing stories that you can tell?”

His answer was quick and mischievous, “Yeah, this one time this lady just got up and left me at the bar. In the middle of an argument.”

You pursed your lips and bumped on his knee on the cushions, restraining a laugh you know he’d get satisfaction out of. “Don’t piss me off, that wasn’t even a date.”

“I had a girlfriend when I was twenty-one, she broke up with me before I started working as a cop.”

“That’s so long ago and not that embarrassing if I’m being honest,” you sniffed at him.

“I already told you about how I thought I’d marry her. I really believed my first ever relationship would live to see its future.”

Offering him a new perspective, you explained, “Well, technically it did, it just wasn’t a bright one.”

“Pshh,” he scoffed, turning to the TV, stretching before bending his arms behind his head. “Wait—you’re telling me I’m the only long-term guy you had?”

His late light-bulb moment pulled a chuckle out of you. “Turning it back to me again, okay. No, I did date a guy for nearly one year. And before you ask, he said I worked too much and wasn’t fun.”

Leon’s face scrunching as if he just ate something sour, he blurted out, “Where do you find these types of guys? Did Cathy set you up with this asshole?”

“No, actually, I found him myself.”

“Is he the one who made you think you’re not fun to be around?”

You were left stumped, unable to think of any answer.

“What? If he is, I disagree with him.”

“You only say that because I go along with your corny jokes.”

“Yeah, that’s the only reason,” he chimed sarcastically.

Quasimodo was saving Esmeralda from the burning stake, the sign that the movie was about to end.

“Your dream,” he cleared his throat. “I could just picture it like a happy ending to a Disney movie. You know, they all have happy endings. Besides, I don’t think you’re insane for wanting a happy, peaceful life.”

“What’s insane about it is that I even imagined myself dying before Cathy. Getting buried before I got to bury her. I’ve never thought I’d live the day she wouldn’t, yet here I am… I wrote an entire script for the rest of my life in my mind, that’s why I spiraled down and down and down when it was not possible to play it out anymore. So, I stopped. It wasn’t healthy for me to continue obsessing over my ruined happy ending. I decided to live in the present. Write as I live on. Be more like Cathy, hopefully.”

There was little beer left in his can but he raised it anyway. “In the loving memory of Cathy Donovan, then.”

“I don’t have any drink left,” you gasped, lifting your can. “Cathy, I’m so sorry, you deserve the fruitiest of Martinis.” If Cathy was there, she would’ve laughed like a hyena, found it hysterical that you managed to call her fruity given the context.

After the honorary toast, Leon leaned back and intertwined his hands on his stomach, eyes fixed on the TV screen where Phoebus and Esmeralda were passionately kissing.

“The novel’s ending was not family friendly, I guess,” you mocked.

“I haven’t read it.”

 “If you’re planning on reading it, my lips are sealed.”

“Don’t know if I have the time. I don’t mind, tell me.”

“It’s painfully sad. Esmeralda gets hanged, Quasimodo pushes Frollo from the cathedral tower in grief and rage. That’s the moment he realizes he’s lost everyone he’s ever loved. He also refuses to let go of Esmeralda, starves himself holding on to her dead body in her grave. Years later, an excavation group finds their intertwined skeletons and when they try to separate them, Quasimodo’s bones crumble to dust.”

“Now that’s vile.”

Toss your dirty shoes in my washing machine heart Baby, bang it up inside I'm not wearing my usual lipstick I thought maybe we would kiss tonight

Baby, though I've closed my eyes I know who you pretend I am I know who you pretend I am

—Washing Machine Heart, Mitski

“How would I know I’d end up here?” you ask him, voice shaking. “We didn’t promise each other anything, so I didn’t have any hope.”

You want nothing more than to ask him about the teddy bear keychain he has in desk drawer, why he holds onto it, ask whether you should be relieved that it no longer has a key attached to it.

There is that gut feeling, clawing at your churning stomach, that tells you he has someone. Someone else who knows him better than you, who is a better match to him, who makes him happier.

Someone he loves.

“But we had sex, it made me question everything and I’ve come to the conclusion that we were both lonely and weren’t thinking straight. You acted like it didn’t change anything, it almost made me go crazy. Please say something so I can finally understand, Leon,” you cry out.

“I don’t regret it,” he declares. “I don’t regret what we did. And I know how we started this marriage, I assumed it would always be the same after you told me your feelings.”  

“I admit I’m hard to be with.” Your head hangs to the side, brows furrowed. “It’s hard for me to trust someone as much as I trusted Cathy. I’m sorry it took two years for us to be candid with each other. I used to be laidback about who I slept around with before. Now, I don’t know, I think twice about how I should touch you, talk to you. I used to think romantic love was not for me, so I wasn’t worried when you proposed because you didn’t expect it. I thought it wasn’t for people like us.”

“But you are capable of love,” he emphasized. “I know you are. You’re so good to me all the time. You stay up all night worrying when I’m not home, cook food for me despite your hatred for it, remember the smallest things and help me out, talk to me when I can’t sleep. I can’t even repay you for any of it and you still continue to be good to me. See, you’re speaking in a way that’s making me think there’s a chance that you love me and I still can’t say it back.”

Your silent tears unsettle him, this is the first time you let him see you cry. He has heard it before, the soft sobs and small chokes at night when you didn’t know he was awake.

You sniffle, “I know you’re capable of it, too, Leon. If the reason you can’t say it back to me is what I think it is, you definitely are.”

You quickly wipe your tears with the back of your hand when he asks, “What do you mean?”

“There is someone, right? You love them.”

His silence speaks volumes and it becomes your acceptance.

“Don’t let this thing between us hamper it, okay? I’m fine with it. To be honest, I didn’t expect you to keep up the faithful husband act.”

“Jesus,” he howls. “Just how terrible do you think I am? This thing between us is our fucking marriage. Not some situationship. Although I can’t make you think otherwise because you refuse to. I’m only gonna say this once, okay? I respect you enough to not sleep around behind your back.”

“Thank you, Leon, but I’m saying it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.” You take both of his hands, wanting to remember the feel of him. “You love someone else and it’s okay. You’re better off with them. Hopefully they’re better at love than I am.”

You take off your ring and place it in your palm, caressing it. “I know I probably shouldn’t be asking for this but I got so used to the weight of it on my finger. Can I have it as a keepsake?”

He grips your wrist tightly, grimacing. “What are you doing?”

“This is me letting you go.”

“No.” He shakes his head, voice thick. The way he places the ring on your finger again is a wretched overcompensation for not doing it before. You two didn’t have rings at the wedding and you were the one to place it on your own finger after purchasing them. “You’re running away,” he speaks in a hoarse croak. “Where will you go this time, hm?”

“I’ll resign and move close to my sister.”

His palms are cupping your jaw, fingertips in your hair. Him closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against yours is a way of saying I can love you if you give me time, I know I can.

“Stay,” he whispers, narrowing your whole world down to his warmth and you shudder from it. “Just tell me what you need.”

I need you to love me more, love enough to fill me up till there’s no crack left for me to write happy ever afters that will never come true. I need you to fill me full up, love enough to drown it out. Drown me out.

“Kiss me.”

“That I can do, honey.”

You know perfectly well that you’re selfish for wanting him like this. However, you yearn for the still of his hands on you, the irresistible feel of his skin on yours.

A kiss is placed on your temple, another one on your damp cheekbone, another on your jaw. Your eyes are closed the whole time he moves slow with his kisses. He grazes his nose beneath your ear, bringing you close to the brink of tears again. His hot breath is licking the other side of your face after, pecking the corner of your mouth.

“Scoot,” he says before gripping your waist and tipping you towards his torso. “My back is killing me like this.”

You’re afraid of hurting him with your weight but he insists, pulling you and placing you on his lap, getting you to straddle him, your thighs encasing his on either side. Your face a few inches above his, he tips his head back and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. You can see a gash on his shoulder that disappears down his back which you didn’t notice before and you become aware once again that this isn’t the right moment to ask him for this.

“Leon—”

He can tell you’re about to get off him and he shuts you up by pulling you in a crushing kiss, pressing your chest to his with arms around your back so you won’t get away. “Stay here, don’t run away from me,” he says between labored breaths. His fingertips dance on your sides, making the hair on the back of your neck stand. He can probably feel your heart thumping crazy against his chest.

You caress the indent on his chin with your pointer finger, leaning down to kiss it. Leon lets out a delicious sigh, hands feeling up the sides of your thighs.

“Why did you kiss me at the wedding? There was no one to see,” you finally ask.

He lifts an eyebrow, eyes flicking to the side trying to remember it. “The officiant was there. And the photographer.”

You nod and his lips are on yours again, tender this time. He opts to place quick kisses over and over again when he’s done being gentle. A chuckle escapes you when his nose bumps yours.

Fingers drifting under your shirt, he scratches your back up and down with his blunt nails. Any inch of skin he comes across, he kisses. Earlobe, jaw, neck, shoulder peeking through shirt. One hand splaying his fingers on your back, middle finger in line with your spine, right between your shoulder blades, the other one comes up front, lifting the front hem of your shirt. “Take this off.”

He doesn’t move the hand on your back when you’re taking it off, eyes dropping down to meet the new exposed skin. But you feel too naked, even though he’s wearing the same amount of clothes as you. You hug him around his neck, careful not to hurt him, bare chests pressed together.

He clasps the tops of your arms, biting the inside of one bicep.

“Ouch.” You retreat. “Why did you do that?”

“Let me see you.” He tips you backwards after his hand comes up to your nape, your butt slides on his lap, making you sit right on his crotch. He lets out a content hum, not embarrassed of his half hard erection. You cling to his biceps although his hand on the back of your neck is securing you in place.

A kiss is planted to the base of your throat and then to each collarbone. The hand on the front cups the underside of your breast, goosebumps rising on your skin. A wet kiss on the valley of your breasts, his breath cooling it. A low moan from you when he takes a stiff nipple in his hot mouth, finally giving it some attention. He twirls his tongue around it, teasing, before licking it right.

Your hips move involuntarily, rubbing against him through clothes all the while he sucks, kisses, grazes teeth. A jolt of electricity travels down to your core when he switches sides, underwear clinging to your sticky folds. You keen into him, pushing your chest out when he begins to suck a bruise under your breast. Your fingers dig into his scalp, tugging on his damp strands.

You discern his knitted brows and inclined back before tapping his shoulder. “Leon, stop.”

He halts the moment he hears you. The sight of a string of spit connecting his lips to your chest is obscene. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re hurting. You should lay down,” you say while standing up.

His eyes never leaving you, he gets off the bed as well. He seizes you under your arms, picking you up with ease. “See, honey? I’m fine. You don’t need to worry.” He doesn’t let you protest and nips at your bottom lip before sloppily kissing you, tongue claiming every crevice of your mouth.

“No, put me down!” you wail, kicking your feet in the air.

“Okay, okay,” he grins, setting you down on the floor. Your heated cheeks amusing him, he takes your hand and places it on the waistband of his sweatpants. “This is the only thing you need to worry about.”

You decide to be daring and slide your hand down, palming him through layers of clothing. “Fuck,” he huffs, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against yours, big hands pawing at your backside, fondling your ass. Your hand slips past his briefs, touching him without any barriers.

“Oh, just like that,” he encourages you when you pick up a pace. His abs tightening, it doesn’t take long for him to fully get hard. “Ah, wait—”

“Hm?” You look up at him, just holding him in your palm.

“Need to get a condom, be right back.” He squeezes your ass one last time. “You better take everything off,” he teases before stepping away to get to the bathroom.

Second thoughts come rushing to your mind the time he’s undressing and grabbing a condom in the bathroom. Maybe, you shouldn’t do this. It’s only going to make it harder for the both of you. You admitted loving him and he wasn’t able to say it back. But he told you to stay, he needs you, wants what you’re able to give him. And you desperately need to give him all you have, mind and body, even if it means for a short time.

Because you know you will never be able to love like this again.

Your thoughts are interrupted when a packet of condom is thrown on the bed in front of you, hands gathering your hair on one shoulder to return messy kisses to your neck from the back.

Your back meets his pecs, his erection snug between your bare ass cheeks, you sigh softly when his fingers find their way to your clit, making your spine tingle. You hold on to his forearm, clawing at his veins as he gathers your wetness from your entrance, back to circling your bundle of nerves with now soaked fingers. His bandaged hand urges you to spread your legs more before finding place on your throat. He ruts his hips against your ass, breathing loudly while you whine out incoherent sounds.

He groans your name, drawing your attention up to his scrunched face. “You’re so good to me.”

“Leon,” you whimper as he drags two fingers all the way along your slit, pumping them inside. The way you stretch around his fingers distracts him from the rhythm of his hips, making him still. But you crave the friction, arch back your own hips to get him to move again. Your hand winds around and finds his aching hard dick, thumb stroking the precum all over his angry red tip. Your head rolls back over his shoulder and you want nothing more than to properly see.

“Leon, I’m close,” you moan and push his hand away. “I want to see you.”

“Anything you want, honey,” he pants in your ear, tip of his tongue tracing the shell of it.

You crawl to the middle of the bed, endowing him the sight of your glistening slit before laying down on your back, waiting for him to get on top of you. He parts your legs, taking a good look before smearing his tip on your folds, a mix of your wetness and his precum making it extra slippery.

“Please,” you manage to make out, one arm across your chest, another resting on his shoulder.

He rips your arm from your chest and pulls both your wrists above your head. “I said let me see you.”  

He doesn’t let you fuss, fucking up his cock against your clit, allowing himself the bare feel of you for a little while.

He kisses your pout away before retreating to roll the condom on. You hiss as his tip breaches your entrance, legs trying to close on instinct, but he’s laying between them. He gets you used to the feel of him inside before you nod for him to move, slowly at first. Once your back arches and your hips shift, he gets the message to piston his hips faster.

He searches for the right pace just by examining you, what your face does when he tries something new, how your back arches, by the sounds you make. Not too fast, not too slow, he eventually finds an angle you particularly like.

“Too good for me,” he chants whilst thrusting, intertwining his fingers with yours above your head. You notice the absence of his ring but you don’t worry about it because you know he leaves it on his desk when he’s away for a mission, not wanting to lose it.

Your legs hug him around his waist, heels pressing him into you deeper. “Yes, yes, yes…” You keep singing his name when you feel it building up inside.

“Fuck, I’m not gonna last long,” he grunts, listening to the slaps of skin and your frantic cries of pleasure.

“Good ‘cause I’m so close.”

He takes that as a challenge, making sure you reach your high before him. He watches as you do, walls clenching down on his length, lips chasing his.

He’s cooing in your ear between your gasps, coaxing your bliss out of you. “I know, honey, I gotcha. You can let go.”

Your mouth opening in a silent moan as your orgasm ripples through you, hands trembling in his hold, legs trying to shut, your entire body quivering as you ride it out.

Irregular thrusts of his hips bouncing your breasts in front of him, he nestles his face between them, breathing in your scent. He noses the blossoming mark he left under there and moves slow, dragging it out as much as possible.

He sinks boneless on you, his weight feeling comforting rather than crushing. You embrace him as he softens out of you, leaving you feeling empty. He peels the condom off and lays on you for a while, head between your ribs, trying to catch his breath. You wipe away sweat from his temple, frowning.

“You’ll have to hop in the shower again.”

“Give me a few minutes,” he says, voice muffled and nasal. “And you’re coming with me, too.”

“Leon!” you shriek, playfully slapping his twitching bicep. “You shouldn’t tire yourself more.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter. I was gonna ask you to wash my back.”

After a few minutes, you drag him in the shower, helping him soap his back. He stands under the hot rain when you’re cleaning yourself with his body wash, eyes and hands wandering, groping here and there. You smack his naughty hands each time, can’t help but giggle. However, he’s tired and sleepy, so he’s only playing.

You offer to change his sheets but he insists on doing it in the morning and tugs your arm to your room, preferring to sleep in your clean sheets. He nearly falls asleep as you blow-dry your hair, waiting for you in the bed.

As soon as you’re snuggled up to him, he tucks you to his chest, chin on your forehead. Soft sighs tickle the crown of your hair.

“Can I ask you a question?” he murmurs, barely audible.

Your pointer finger stops drawing circles on his pectoral muscle. “Mhm?”

“After your mom and Cathy passed away, how did you survive? There has to be a reason.”

“I actually planned to end it all after both funerals. I told myself to just get past that week. It’ll all be over in a week. But there’s my sister. She came with me to help with Cathy’s funeral. Forced me to eat anything she could cook while I lived on autopilot. She was washing my hair in the sink when I realized I can’t leave her behind. It’s just not fair. She has a wonderful husband but a husband doesn’t mean forever— I mean, look at what my mother got. A deadbeat husband who left her with two little kids. My sister doesn’t have any kids. Worst case scenario, her husband leaves her and—”

He retracts abruptly to search your face, hand on your cheek to steer you to him. “So, you wrote a script again. With a sad ending.”

“My sister is my only family left. I don’t want her to live unhappily.”

“Hey, I’m your family, too. Why are you talking like I’m not here?” He presses a long, soothing kiss to your lips. His fingers tip your chin up. “Look at me. What do you have in that mind of yours? What kind of script do you have for us?”

You lie. “I don’t have one.”

He smiles. “Good. Because we’ll write one as we go on.”

(a/n: a very short part 2 will be posted here in a few days, keep an eye out for that. ty for reading!)

If you had to point out the exact coordinate of the tectonic tension release that split your marriage in the middle, and answer — Was it a night of shouting that did it, fire in the throat, accusations hammered like nails into the cold silence that followed? Was it some apology gone wrong, or some confession, or one act that couldn’t be unwound?

No.

It was a kiss.

Or rather: the sudden bewildering lack of one.

It’s late, the digital display on the oven reads a quarter past two.

You are sitting at the kitchen island, cradling a mug of masala chai with a pale, crinkly skin formed over it, forearms planted in the scatter of unopened mail, your documents, and the laptop in front of you, navigating the insomnia that always accompanies the tail end of Leon’s deployments.

After this long of marriage to a man whose job title is a redacted line of black ink, you have developed a physiological clock entirely dictated by his proximity to home. Your body has learned to count distance in smaller things than miles: sleep thinning to gauze near the end of an assignment, the ache in your jaw going away only once his return has entered some system somewhere, finding yourself listening for engines long before dawn as if you could hear a government airfield from here.

Which is tonight, because a coded message pinged your phone three hours ago and your stomach cinched before you even read it. An automated DSO courtesy that translates simply to an incoming flight.

The phrasing is the same bloodless logistics language you spend your days swimming in, clipped and clean and scrubbed of a human being at the center of it. Inbound movement. Estimated arrival window. No promise beyond the fact that he made it onto the plane.

Well, the rituals of waiting are half the architecture of your relationship, anyway.

And also, so is watching the software some discreet guys have installed that is connected to his wedding ring that sends you his health data. A thumbnail worries the softened paper seam of a padded envelope until it starts to peel.

His stats are in the safe green zone.

That’s how you keep track of your husband while he’s away from home. You haven’t stopped monitoring the app, even after it was confirmed he would be back today.

Logically, it would be better if you also had it on your phone, but for your own mental wellbeing, you have learned to keep it within reach but not within sight, as if denying its presence will ward off the possibility getting a call about bad news.

Which, you have, in the past.

So, you cope how you can.

The dread at some point was a more constant companion than Leon. Hovering in the corner of your eye, right above your shoulder, disappearing whenever you tried to look at it. Always in the dark. Waiting. Waiting.

Telling you, any day now.

Any day, you would receive the news.

Any day, people from the DSO would knock on your door.

However.

That was then.

That raw nerve had long since scabbed over.

You’d trained the frantic over-imagining out of your system until you could sit through a hurricane of bad news with a straight face. You learned to weaponize patience the way your husband weaponized pistols. The part of you that used to stare holes through the phone has been smoothed down like river stones by years of release codes, custody logs, sealed transfers, and destination fields left blank above your pay grade.

And hey, there are things a body learns from the sheer force of repetition. How to wait without calling it waiting. How to leave a message unopened for two full minutes because opening it will not change its contents. How to breathe through the strange domestic vertigo of sipping tea on a Tuesday night while somewhere three time zones away, Leon is probably taking fire in a containment breach where the enemy deployment forms show a weapons-grade strain of the Tyrant-Virus — a strain you only recognize because you glimpsed the incident report in Sherry's inbox when you brought her lunch last week.

And in the center of this architecture of waiting sits a single, unwavering faith:

You built a life on the promise that Leon will always come back to you.

On taking him at his word.

Around letting that word be enough to get dinner made, to answer emails, to sign for packages, to go to work and process somebody else’s emergency pull without letting your mind peel away and trail after him.

There is no percentage in wondering if his face will be the same as it was when he left, or if the next time you see him the light will have drained a little further from his eyes, or if he’ll come back with an injury that will never quite heal, or if he’ll come back at all. You don’t conjure up the catastrophes that might have happened between the last call and now. You don’t re-read the old news articles about Harvardville, or Tall Oaks, Lanshiang, Raccoon City except for the anniversary, when the survivors’ forum organizes a memorial and Sherry sends out a mass email.

You are a student of self-preservation: you have archived the past but do not excavate it unless the need outweighs the cost.

The topography of this life has long since been mappable with your eyes closed. You know exactly how much slack to give him when he returns checked out. Exactly how to draw the humanity back into his eyes when it has gone somewhere far, far away to torment itself. You’re highly attuned to the barometric pressure of Leon’s pain. He brings it home as silence, if not, tetchy humor, or as a brief, naked need that is gone almost before you can respond.

But how he tries, your husband.

He tries so hard to leave the job at the door the way you do when he doesn’t have to — to be “the man you married” and not the one held back by what he keeps inside, he says, as if he’s a different man without it, as if his core personality and existence isn’t so intertwined with his past and path, as if you haven’t married him not despite all this, but because. And—

The metallic, stealthy slide of a key slipping into the deadbolt tinkles down the hall. You freeze.

Usually, there is a protocol to his arrival. Years ago, when the phantom pains of Raccoon City were still loud enough to make his hands jump at sudden noises, he established a rule. He never used his key to come through the front door if you were home. He would ring the bell or knock — a terrible mimicry of shave and a haircut — to announce his presence. It was a joke so you wouldn't pull the baseball bat from under the bed, but it was also a psychological threshold. You imagine being welcomed home with something with a heartbeat opening the door for him when it was usually him entering rooms with the expectation of exterminating threats that jumped at his face around every corner meant a lot to him.

You rise from your seat and leave the kitchen, rounding the corner just as the heavy oak door swings inward.

Leon stands in the threshold, bringing the chill of the late night with him.

Even exhausted, his presence is sheer gravity. Your absolute hunk of a man fills the doorway, tall and broad through the shoulders, wrapped in a heavy leather jacket that makes his already thick chest look impassable. He is in his late forties now, but time hasn't whittled him down; it has only made him denser, bigger and sturdier than he was in his youth. The hallway light catches the layers of his light brown hair, the long fringe already sweeping forward to obscure his pinched brow.

“Hello sailor,” you say softly, keeping the volume low to match the hour.

He kicks the door shut with the heel of his boot. “Hey.”

It’s rough, dragged through miles of fatigue. He looks worn, his crow’s feet carved a little deeper tonight, but his light blue eyes remain hawklike, tracking the shadows of the foyer as if his attention refuses to power down.

You step forward, propelled by the simple, blinding purity of relief: he is here, he is home again, back beneath your roof, the world outside briefly inconsequential. You brace for the usual — the thunderous sluice of his breath as the burdens he bore are at last surrendered, the faltering caving of his posture as gravity of you slowly reclaims him, and above all, the inevitability of his arms folding you in, tugging you as if to test the strength of your legs.

When you step into his space, his body reacts on pure instinct. His large hands catch you squarely by the waist, pressing familiarly into the soft fabric of your sweater. It is a possessive, grounding grip, the physical reality of a man who knows exactly how to hold his wife — not softened at all by boredom of the years that have gone by. Still the same enthusiasm and strength. Still the same longing.

Your hands come up to rest against his chest, feeling the solid heat radiating through the crispness of the night on his clothes, and you angle your chin upward, rising onto your toes to meet his mouth.

Leon pivots. Instead of his mouth, the rough, unshaven line of his jaw grazes your lips. You catch a fleeting, abrasive press of his cheek against yours before he is already pulling back, putting an extra inch of distance between your bodies.

Huh.

The rejection is so quiet, so neatly executed, that for a moment, you wonder if you imagined the slight. But your lips are still parted in the empty air, and his hands have already dropped from your waist.

“Don't,” he murmurs, his tone dropping into a low, deadpan register to pave over the awkwardness. “I'm a biohazard right now, baby.”

He steps out of the narrow space you share, rolling his shoulders as if shrugging off an invisible yoke. “Three different time zones of airplane grit, sweat, and a lot of shit that doesn't wash out easily. Let me hose off before I make you regret standing downwind.”

He aims for casual, a quick one-liner deployed like a smoke grenade to cover his retreat. His go-to move. But you've been married to him long enough to clock what he's not doing. Like meeting your eyes.

“I've seen you worse,” you reply, keeping it light, a perfect volley back. “Remember that time in '15? I'm pretty sure you had actual bog water in your hair. Your threshold for 'contamination' is conveniently flexible.”

“That was one time.” He almost sounds offended.

“You smelled like a swamp creature for three days.”

“And you still let me sleep in the bed. Which, in retrospect, says more about your standards than mine.” Leon's mouth twitches into a smirk, but it's performative. His eyes stay distant, that pale blue gone somewhere you can't reach. “Give me ten minutes.”

He shrugs off the heavy leather jacket. Rather than tossing it over the brass hook by the door as he has done a thousand times before, he holds it out like a white flag. When you reach for it, the transaction feels strange, a physical object placed between you to ensure you don't attempt to step into his space again. He leaves the garment in your hands, treating it like a barrier as he moves past you.

“Be right back,” he says with an almost apologetic pinch to your nose that you wave off, already walking away.

You watch his broad back recede into the dim light of the corridor, listening to his heavy footfalls as the bathroom door clicks shut behind him, followed moments later by the hiss of the shower turning on.

You are left standing entirely alone in the foyer, holding his jacket like a prop from a play.

The bare bones of this retreat is a parallel to another homecoming — one that plays out in the theater of your mind now with such clarity it feels as though the years have not passed, or have simply looped.

You can't recall the year exactly. You remember the season, woodsmoke, damp pavement and wet leaves of late autumn; and you remember that you'd been asleep on the couch with the television murmuring its way through some late-night rerun. A blanket pools around your hips, a paperback splayed open on your chest, its spine cracked.

You don't hear the car pulling up to the driveway with such hasty parking that you would later discover must have been loud as hell from the brake marks on the ground — let alone hear the keys and the door getting unlocked. It's the uncanny feeling of being watched that jostles you from that state of half-sleep. When your eyelids flicker, there's a figure at the edge of the room. A shadow in the shape of a person, filling the frame of the entryway like a boogeyman. For a second, in the haze of slumber, your heart misses a couple beats. Your muscles tense in preparation to roll, to spring up and defend yourself, to grab the nearest thing you could throw, because surely an intruder couldn't be that bold, to waltz in, to stand and observe—

The TV illuminates the dark room.

“Ah, fuck! Leon! You scared the living daylights out of m—”

You have only a couple seconds to take in the state he's in — tactical vest still strapped across his chest, boots still laced and caked with a substance you didn't look at long enough to identify, sidearm holstered but jacket gone, the dark long-sleeve beneath stiff in and tones darker places, the fabric holding shapes it shouldn't, the blood on his face; and you barely make it upright before he crosses the room. Two strides, maybe three, and then Leon hits the hardwood floor with a bone-jarring impact that rocks the ground underneath and makes you jump.

He collapses forward, dragging his heavy torso down until his forehead finds the soft terrain of your lap. His massive arms wrap around your waist, his grip locking with a desperate, crushing intensity, burying his face into the fabric of your pajama bottoms.

Your heart stutters and shoots up, a frantic bird battering against your throat. “Leon?” you whisper, your hands automatically flying to his hair, burying your fingers into the long, sweat-dampened strands at the nape of his neck. “Leon, hey, what is it? Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head, the movement infinitesimal against your thighs. He just grips you tighter, his broad shoulders tense under the dense layers of Kevlar and black canvas.

“Let me look at you,” you urge, pressing your palms against his rigid shoulders, trying to coax him up. “Come on baby, look up. Let me see your face.”

“No,” he rasps, muffled, torn at the edges. “Don't look at me. Not right now.”

“You're covered in blood—”

“It isn't mine,” he says, the bleakness in his voice effectively stopping the breath in your throat. He exhales a long, ragged sound, his face pressing deeper into you, as if trying to physically merge his existence with yours, to hide from the ghosts at his heels. “Just let me stay right here. Give me a minute. Please.”

“…Okay.” Your fingers weave back into his hair, stroking along the length of his scalp. “I'm right here. I've got you. I've got you, Leon.”

His broad frame shudders, his chest expanding and contracting in a series of violent spasms. You can feel his shoulders quaking beneath your touch, his body shaking with the strain of containing a grief so immense, it is like the ocean itself has poured its way inside of him.

“It's okay,” you murmur, continuing the soothing motions of your hand. “It's going to be okay.”

Leon shakes his head again, and it kills you. You do not push him again. You yield, soften the lines of your posture, curving over him to drape your body over his shuddering frame. You stroke the side of his head, your nails lightly dragging against his scalp in a grounding pattern. You murmur mindless, soothing things — that he is safe, that you are here, that you will not leave his side, and everything is going to be all right.

You know, of course, that these are lies.

You know that this is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that the job will drag him through a new layer of hell, that the horrors he has witnessed today will not be the final nightmare of his career.

You know that the world outside the walls of your home is a cruel and vicious one, and that no amount of promises or wishes or luck will keep him from returning to the frontlines.

You know, and yet you whisper the words anyway, hoping they might carry enough conviction to become truth. Hoping that even a single lie, spun with love, if only for a moment in time, may offer shelter from the storm of his life.

The TV's glow pulses silently across the walls, casting shifting rectangles of light that dance with the shadows, and outside, headlights from a passing car sweep through the window, spotlighting your huddled forms for a brief moment before plunging you back into half-lit darkness. The light catches the damp strands of Leon's hair and the pallor of his scratched and cut, bare forearms where he clings to you.

Slowly, the frantic tension seeping from his muscles begins to ebb. His breathing shifts from ragged, defensive pulls of air to one longer and deeper. And when he finally speaks, his voice is a gravelly croak vibrating against your knee.

“I kept thinking about you.”

Oh, Leon.

“Comms went completely dark,” he whispers, the fragmented confession falling from his lips, bloodied pieces of broken glass. “Lost the extract point. Had to hike twelve miles through the quarantine zone. Kept thinking about this god-awful mustard velvet. How you refused to return it, so I refused to pay for the moving and carried it myself and got scrapes on the foorframe. Kept thinking about you being so mad you slept out here on a couch I told you would ruin my back... and then I found out you were right. It's comfortable.”

You let your thumb trace the rough cartilage of his ear.

“Every time it got — when it got bad, I just. Kept putting you in front of it. Like if I could get back to you, the rest of it didn't count.”

Your throat aches. You press your mouth to the crown of his head, breathing in the smell of smoke and copper, and say the only thing that matters.

“You're here.”

“Yeah.”

“And I'm here.”

His fingers curl deeper into the fabric at your back. “Yeah.”

“So the rest of it doesn't count.”

A tremulous smile curves against the surface of your thigh, the faintest hint of brightness in the dark of the room. “Yeah...” He squeezes you closer.

“And Leon?”

“Hm?”

“It’s marigold chenile.”

That gets a loud snort from him.

You cradle his jaw between your palms. Your thumbs stroke the curve of his cheekbone, and you lean in, pressing a kiss against his grime-caked temple. “C'mon, let's get cleaned up.”

Leon's eyes flutter shut. “I can't move.”

“Sure you can.” You give his shoulder a gentle pat. “Come on, big guy, up and at 'em. I'll wash your hair and help peel you out of the rest of that stuff, and then we'll order a pizza, and not think about that beast of a report waiting for you tomorrow.”

That earns you a dry chuckle, and he lets himself be guided to his feet and steered towards the bathroom.

Weeks later, on a Saturday with no particular agenda, you find a painting at an estate sale two towns over. A lighthouse — oil on canvas, small enough to carry under one arm, rendered in muted blues and grays with a single warm beam cutting through fog. It's not expensive or remarkable. But the relentlessness of the light in it reaching forward into the dark of a storm churning the sea stops you, a fixed point doing its work without any guarantee that it will help anyone.

You hang it in the hallway, between the coat closet and the kitchen door, where it would be the first thing visible from the entryway.

Leon notices it that evening. He was heading to the kitchen, half-distracted, and then he stops. Just stops, one hand still on the wall, his eyes on the painting. He doesn't say anything for a long moment. You watch from the living room doorway as his expression changed phases — recognition, maybe, or gratitude, or the particular ache of being understood in a way he hadn't asked for.

“Where'd you find this?”

“Estate sale. Twelve dollars.”

“Twelve dollars,” he repeats, like the mundanity of it makes it better. He looks at it a while longer, then looks at you.

“It's perfect,” he says. And means it.

The painting has stayed in that precise spot on the wall for years now, its muted colors doing their slow work of settling into the house as a piece of furniture you no longer consciously notice. You vacuum around it, dust it when the mood strikes, occasionally pause to appreciate the artist’s work.

On certain nights, you'll find him there, too.

Not always. Sometimes weeks will pass without mention of the lighthouse at all. But there are nights when you'll wake to find him standing in the hallway, shirtless in the dim glow of the nightlight, his scarred broad back and shoulders catching the faint illumination as he studies the painting. He won't be doing anything but standing there, his arms crossed, his attention fixed on the canvas with the daze that only comes from deep exhaustion. Those are the nights when whatever lurks behind the doors he so meticulously closes behind him at work manages to trail him home, and in response, you silently slip away, granting him the solitude he needs.

Other times it's mornings, before the sun has properly risen, when the kitchen is still dark and you're padding out for coffee. He'll already be there, leaning against the opposite wall as if he's been waiting for the house to wake up around him. He'll catch your eye first, or you'll catch his, and the bunching of his face is an emotion you've never fully learned to name — not quite sadness, not quite nostalgia, but the exact shade of blue you imagine long-distance sailors must feel when they finally spot shore after too many nights of black water. He'll just look at it, at that beam cutting through the dark and the storm, and then at you, and his posture will ease by fractions, enough that you know whatever knot was twisting inside him has loosened just enough to breathe around.

You don't ask what he's thinking when he stands there. You've learned that some thoughts are meant to be left alone, like birds that won't sing if they know they're being watched.

The wall around the painting hasn't stayed bare for long, however. A life seeps into the empty spaces, one object at a time, relocated from other places or newly added. There's the photo from that trip to the Mediterranean region of Turkiye, the two of you squinting into the sunset, colors bleeding together at the edges. You remember how the salt had dried in your hair and how Leon's sunglasses had left an indentation on the bridge of his nose when he finally took them off. Tucked into a corner of the frame, there's a creased ticket stub from that surprise concert you'd driven six hours to see, the ink on the venue name barely legible anymore from how often you've both run your thumb over it. A collection of postcards from the places he's sent them from — countries you can't always pronounce, messages that say nothing at all about what he was really doing there — arranged in a haphazard semicircle around the lighthouse. Pressed leaves from hikes, coasters from bars where you'd stolen quiet moments before another deployment, the brittle petals of a dried rose from an anniversary when you weren't sure he'd make it home in time.

Faces, too — photos that capture a geography of people. There's Sherry at your elbow, grinning widely at some DSO summer cookout where the burgers were charcoal-black and Leon pretended to be offended when she ate his last one. Chris, looking distinctly uncomfortable in civilian clothes at Rebecca's wedding, his massive shoulders straining at the seams of a dress shirt that clearly hadn't been worn since his sister's graduation. Claire appears twice — once smirking behind bar napkins scrawled with inside jokes from that night in Baltimore, and again, softer, in a candid shot Leon caught while you were whispering in her ear. In one frame from years back, Helena leans conspiratorially close during a rare night out, her laugh caught mid-motion, while in another, Hunnigan adjusts her glasses during an outdoor briefing where you'd brought sandwiches. Jill appears near the bottom, a rare casual moment where she's actually unguarded, caught during that brief window she and Chris stayed with you after Valentine's Day when their apartment was flooding. A cluster of DSO agents whose names blur together but whose hands you shook at countless retirements and memorial services. It's all pinned up there, a story told in fragments, evidence of the inches between who he is when he leaves and who he is when he returns.

The jacket hangs heavy in your hands, reeking of the same sterile-metal scent that clings to him after these particular kinds of missions and still breathing the chilly air he brought inside. You move to the brass hook by the door and drape the leather carefully, your fingers working the sleeves into neat lines.

With how he acted just now, you know he'll be back before the painting after you go to bed, whether he seeks it out on his own or stops on his way to the kitchen for a drink while you're pretending to be asleep.

It is the morning after his return, the sun burning away the last remnants of the night shift you spent waiting for him, but the light bouncing off the bathroom tiles is weirdly exposing.

You stand alone at the vanity, fresh out the shower, drying your hair. The mirror is flecked with barely noticable toothpaste and soap residue, the kind of thing that gets ignored until 'company is coming', and the counter is cluttered with the products that keep the signs of time at bay.

The bags under your eyes could carry groceries from the lack of sleep you had from worrying about his silent state the entire night. The space beside you where he would occupy on the mornings he was home is a yawning void, the only sign he was ever here at all is the damp towel that belongs to him.

He had showered quickly, the sound of the water running was almost a white-noise in the background of your fitful restlessness, and was in the walk-in closet changing by the time you woke. The only acknowledgement you got was his back tensing in the reflection of his dresser's mirror, and a muttered, “Morning,” that could barely be considered a greeting, and definitely wasn't a proper welcoming of him returning alive from wherever the fuck the government sends him to do their dirty work.

He was out the door for a morning run before you could even get a foot on the floor, and the harsh clang of the lock clicking shut was louder than a giant gong in the silence of the house.

All you could do was slap your hands on your thighs in a gesture of bewilderment and snort out a, “Good morning to you too.”

And he hasn't knocked or rang the door this time around, as well. Just silently came back while you were moving through your morning routine in the bathroom, and began to put a pot on the stove.

Usually, he would have come to join you in the shower or the bath, or at the very least, sat on the toilet seat and spoke to you while you did your skincare and makeup, to give you a rundown on where the hell he was, and why the hell he wasn't telling you anything else, despite the fact that you had a level 4 clearance yourself. Now, though, you can hear him move around in the master bedroom. Opening the blinds, folding the clothes that were on the chair, making the bed. You can't see him, and he's not talking, but you know his little quirks and the order of operations he goes through to settle himself back into domesticity.

You cap your moisturizer, setting it down on the glass shelf with a click that sounds aggressively loud, gather your things, adjust the collar of your shirt and dust off the gathered powders, and step out of the bathroom, entering the narrow, neutral territory of the hallway.

The timing is flawless.

The exact moment your foot crosses the doorway, Leon suddenly rounds the corner from the bedroom. He slides past you, maintaining a precise distance of three feet, executing a maneuvering pivot that ensures your shoulders do not even brush.

“Hey,” he says, “I started chai for you, it's still boiling but milk is yet to be in. I'm gonna hop in the shower.”

“Oh, why didn't you come in while I was...”

But he is gone, the bathroom door closing firmly behind him.

Your hand wavers slightly in the air, reaching to grasp the words that died on your tongue. Your lips, parted, form a small circle of shock, a half-asked question that will never find its answer.

You knock twice. “Hey, Grumpatron 3000,” you say, trying to keep your tone light despite the weight of the worry in your gut, “Is everything okay? Don't leave me hanging here.”

He had started the chai for you, though. That's gotta mean something. Doesn't it?

“Uh, yeah,” comes from the other side of the door, the word stretched long like taffy, and you can just feel the awkwardness in his voice, like he doesn't want to have a conversation right now. Or maybe that's just you projecting.

“Right,” you say, leaning your forehead against the cool wood, “Just trying to figure out if I should clear the coffee table so the paramedics have a place to put their kit.”

“No, I'm fine. Sorry for making you worry. But I'm good, no need to pull a Ripley's Believe It or Not.”

Okay, he's joking around.

“Right. Because that's not famous last words or anything.”

“I'm not that decrepit yet, for God's sake.”

“Someone is getting close enough to join AARP...”

“I don't even a silver streak in my hair. Now go and check on your chai before you blame me for it being bitter.”

You can't help but think back to how mornings with him usually go.

Standing at the double vanity in the master bathroom shoulder to shoulder, brushing your teeth in tandem, little fights of elbows and hip-checks because of how both of you gravitate towards the same half of the mirror despite all the room, the complaining that follows afterwards with no attempt made to remedy the situation, and flicked foam. Him shaving his perpetual five-o'clock shadow, yapping that the razor you bought him was too fancy, and the one time he cut his chin because he refused to use the fancy pre-shave oil and instead kept using the cheap, shitty, generic brand, foamy canned crap that smelled like the type of men that hunted the most dangerous game. Which is women, obviously. You blow-drying your hair, the heat warming his back, the noise drowning out whatever inane comments he has to make about the latest news from the TV in the shared bedroom. Him doing his skin care routine, the whole nine yards with your bubble headband and everything, that you taught him and now does better than you, his face shiny and glowing, while you're over there with a crusty, bare, sun damaged, dehydrated mess. Then the two of you migrating to the closet, the dressing area, to pick out clothes and accessories and to argue over who left a wet towel on the ottoman. And the little touches that were given in between, the ones that said 'I'm here,' 'you're good,' and 'I love you' without the actual words, the ones that meant the most, the ones that had been taken for granted, the ones that are missed.

All of that is missing from this morning.

And the next.

And the one after that.

Here is the mathematics of your marriage: you work with parsing the changing equations of his trauma, to solve for the variable of his comfort, even when the sum keeps coming up zero. To let him control the contact, to accept the strange arithmetic of space he imposes when he returns. Sometimes that means reconciling yourself to nights where his warmth is a phantom limb beside you. Understanding that a kiss avoided is not rejection but quarantine, a different kind of protection. Learning to mind your own business. That's the price of admission to this life, isn't it? The silent tax you pay for the privilege of still having him to pay it to.

Because waiting for your husband to come back home doesn't just involve physical distances. It's also the emotional miles he travels, and trusting him to return, as well.

His broad back blocks most of the mirror, the heavy, layered musculature of his shoulders bunching as he leans over the basin. He holds his straight razor under the cascading water. Steam is visibly rising from the tap, billowing up to fog the lower hemisphere of the glass. The temperature has to be scalding, yet he holds his hands directly in the stream, his thick fingers turning a flushed, raw red under the punishment.

“You're going to boil your own hands off,” you say softly, announcing your presence so you don't startle him.

“Can't be too careful these days,” he says, his voice a low, raspy rumble over the noise of the rushing water. He twists the faucet off, and the sudden absence of the roar leaves a ringing void in the room. “Place is probably a petri dish.”

He reaches for a pristine white washcloth, not the damp blue one he usually leaves wadded up on the counter. He grips it tightly, wiping down the edges of the sink, catching the faint streaks of water and shaving foam, then wipes the basin in perfect, overlapping concentric circles.

“Since when are you worried about that? You used to eat protein bars sitting at the bottom of a tactical go-bag for three years. I once watched you drink from a garden hose behind a gas station.”

He only scoffs in return.

It's a random day. Leon is taking out the trash.

This is not remarkable in itself. Less remarkable is why it's happening at almost midnight — the bag is barely half-full, a wasteland of milk cartons and a few takeout containers from the past two days left to fester because you've both been too exhausted to deal with them properly. What catches your attention is the ceremony of it. He's acting like he's disposing of hazardous materials instead of household waste.

You're hovering around the kitchen entryway, shoulder propped against the cool plaster of the wall, watching him work in the island of light cast by the range hood. Leon has always been methodical about certain things — gun cleaning, tactical packing, and surprisingly, keeping the garage organized with all those gleaming toys you never quite understood — but this is meticulous to the point of obsession.

He pulls the drawstring tight, twice where once would suffice, tying it with extra extra knots. Then he reaches into the cabinet below the sink for a new liner, wrapping it around the plastic bin, pressing and tucking until every edge is secured, leaving no loose flap that might catch air or spill unseen contents.

The whole process takes maybe ninety seconds. He doesn't hum along to the music on the wired headphones he normally puts in to avoid disturbing you when he's puttering around the kitchen after midnight. They aren't even on. No podcasts, either. He's somewhat of a bomb disposal expert surveying a ticking time bomb while you're standing there with all the subtlety of a neon sign.

Leon lifts the bag from the can and steps back, his posture stiff as he examines his work, checking that no breach has occurred. Only then does he turn toward the back door, the black plastic bag held away from his body like it's radioactive, walking through the kitchen without acknowledging you, the sweep of the range hood light catching the silver glint of his wedding band as he passes in and out of the illuminated zone.

You keep waiting in the doorway, listening to the scrape of the back door, the heavy thud of the trash landing in the outdoor bin, and then the scrape again as the door slides shut. When he returns, he washes his hands at the sink. Twice. Scrubbing between each finger with a thoroughness that extends beyond mere hygiene, his back still turned to you, his focus entirely on the basin in front of him.

He reaches for a towel — disposable, not the communal dishcloth that usually hangs from the oven handle — dries his hands, then tosses it directly into the garbage can he just lined. A fresh bag already containing its first piece of trash.

“If you brought a murder weapon or some damning evidence with DNA or something, I can help you properly dispose of them,” you say, breaking the silence. “Right outside of home isn't the best place, just saying. I watch a lot of Forensic Files.”

“Very funny,” Leon replies, turning to face you, the kitchen island a barrier between you, his eyebrows lifting in a half-ironic arch. “What gave me away? Was it the latex gloves and hazmat suit?”

“I'd say the the surgical hand scrubbing. But seriously, what's up with the covert trash operation?”

“The smell,” he says.

“Oh,” you reply, not knowing what else to say. You can't really argue with that. The windows are open, it’s late August in D.C.. Not a good environment to ferment scraps. “Yeah. Yeah, fair enough. I guess we've neglected the domestic chores lately. I had three equipment manifests to reconcile from that New Mexico field op, and one of the restricted-issue cases came back with a contamination flag on the seal. Spent half the day arguing with Inventory about their tracking system when clearly their dumbasses in receiving didn't log the biohazard protocol properly.”

“All I'm hearing is you didn't stop by to eat at all,” Leon remarks, the dry humor of his delivery masking a genuine concern.

He knows how you get. Work mode activated means the world falls away. Once you start on a project, you tend to become single-minded. Food, sleep, and socializing can fall victim to your tunnel vision.

“C'mon, have a late dinner. Or an extremely early breakfast. Take a break. You're gonna drive yourself to an ulcer at this rate. We've got leftovers. Those weird dumplings. Supposed to be like a Russian pierogi, or whatever, but actually taste like a soggy samosa with too much filling. Surprisingly not bad if you dip them in sour cream.”

“You mean pelmeni?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you didn't like them.”

“Yeah, that's the thing. I didn't. But they're kind of growing on me.”

“They’re growing on you now? Boy, I’ve been telling you to eat them properly for years—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“But noo, you never listen to me. You do this every time. Every time. Like I tell you to hey, fish is good with lemon and you say nah, and I’m annoyed the entire dinner and suddenly one day, Mr. Kennedy has discovered lemon is good with fish and is a fan of it! I’ve been telling you!!”

He looks sick of your shit. “Can a man not go at his own pace?”

“Can a man not be allergic to advice when his wife knows what he’ll like?”

“I thought you liked your man standing his ground.”

“I would like my man to take pelmeni out already, please.”

Leon shrugs, opening the fridge and taking out the container in question. “You sit, I'll heat them up. Maybe add a little something to dress them up. Actually, we have a bit of borscht left too...”

“Sure,” you agree. You are hungry, now that the adrenaline rush from the inventory fiasco has faded. “But no more of that cheap beer for today for me. Let's try that fancy IPA you've been saving. I think we've earned the right to indulge a little tonight.”

“Atta girl. Knew there was a reason I married you,” he teases as he sets the food to reheat and retrieves the bottles from the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.

“Shut up.”

He holds one bottle steady, then uses the edge of its cap to hook the lip of yours and pop it open with a decisive twist of his wrist. The hiss of escaping carbonation cuts through the quiet kitchen. He makes yours slide to you first before taking his own bottle and opening it bare-handed, the cap coming off with a low grunt of effort as his knuckles whiten with the strain.

“Oh Wesley I'm dripping,” you say as you watch the flex of his forearm, and he gives an incredulous, huffed laugh at the abruptness.

(He'd blinked and immediately asked who 'Wesley' was when you'd first said it, that deep line appearing between his eyebrows, the one that meant he was trying to parse your life's latest pop-culture reference bridge. Half the evening was spent you projecting your phone’s screen on the massive TV in the living, scrolling through TikTok to make him understand the punchline — and it was the most puzzling thing to him ever what was so funny about this.)

“Don't objectify me,” he says, his tone droll, a smile threatening to break the flat line of his mouth. “I'm not just a piece of meat to you, am I?”

You grin at him. Then, leaning across the island, you tap the neck of his bottle against his in a casual toast. “Of course not. You're also a pain in my ass.”

You clink the bottles together gently before taking a long, appreciative sip, face souring at the hoppy bitterness on your tongue.

“I do work hard at that.”

“Work harder at making me happy,” you tease, and the smile breaks through. “Feed me, Seymour!”

“See, that's a reference I get.”

You notice an anomaly one random day.

On his nightstand — on Leon's side of the bed, where there is usually a book he isn't reading and the charging cable for his phone and a half-empty glass of water — there is now a small bottle. Compact, pharmaceutical-looking, the pump dispenser clean and unused-looking in the way of things recently purchased. Medical-grade hand sanitizer, the label says, in small, matter-of-fact font. 70% isopropyl alcohol.

You'd stood there for a moment in the morning light, and had thought, distantly and charitably, that it might be for the rash he developed on his forearm a week ago, or that perhaps the last mission involved something so disgusting it had instilled a brief germaphobia in him.

You'd checked his arm that morning. Faint, silvery striations cross-hatched its skin, running from his elbow to the knob of his wrist, up to the back of his hand, left behind from the rashes that had appeared so suddenly and disappeared just as fast. It hadn't been a bad rash, nothing requiring medical attention. Just some raised, red bumps. As though he'd rolled around in poison ivy, or come into contact with a strong allergen.

He'd theorized it was the hotel detergent, which was a perfectly plausible explanation, and since the rash had gone away quickly, the two of you hadn't paid too much attention to the leftover marks.

Apparently, Medical Countermeasure had taken a look at him and given him the clear. He'd complained that the ointments were greasy and made him sweat. A pain to apply and keep from getting on everything. The itch had stopped, anyway, which was the worst of it.

“You're lucky I love you and would kiss you no matter how blotchy you are,” you'd said, and kissed his nose, and he'd grumbled, embarrassed, that the marks would fade and you didn't have to worry, if it got any worse, he'd go get himself looked at. You were a nag, he loved you, and the next time, he'd make sure the hotel knew to use a different laundry soap on the sheets.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” you'd told him. The conversation ended there.

That night, when you're putting away the dishes after dinner, you see the bottle of disinfectant again, placed neatly on the kitchen counter. It seems he's taking real care that you don't catch it if it's contagious.

He eventually starts strictly separating his own laundry with the excuse that it will be better until he figures out what the rash is about.

You agree.

“What's with the turtlenecks? We just made it to September. Are you going through a Steve Jobs phase? Not complaining at all, I love the way it hugs your shoulders and arms. And the black looks nice.”

“I got banged up a bit, the bruises are nasty. Just don't wanna bring attention to them in public, y'know?”

“Okay...”

The guest bathroom is never anybody’s bathroom.

That is the joke of it.

It belongs to folded hand towels with the decorative stitching you only put out when company comes by, the ones that have survived three apartments and still smell faintly of the lavender sachet your mother insists on tucking into linen closets. There is a glass dish with two guest soaps in it, white and shell-shaped, both gone dusty around the ridges because nobody ever actually uses them. Extra rolls of toilet paper are stacked beneath the sink beside a travel bottle of ibuprofen, cotton pads in a half-open sleeve, and that little wicker basket you keep meaning to throw out because one handle has come loose and snags tights if you are careless. The framed print over the toilet has hung crooked for months. The night-light only works if you jiggle it. It is a room maintained for other people, for holidays and overnight visits and the idea that one day someone might need it. Not for either of you.

You notice because you are looking for the cold medicine.

Not for yourself. Mara from procurement came in glassy-eyed and stubborn that morning, wrapped in a cardigan and one of those oversized scarves that makes her look like she is trying to survive an arctic winter inside the office AC. She spent the better part of the morning insisting she is fine while blotting at her nose with scratchy brown paper towels from the break room dispenser. By eleven, she looked ready to fold face-first onto a spreadsheet. You told her to go home, but she dug her heels in. Back at your desk, an incoming chain about delayed protective gear requisitions sat open on your monitor while you thought about the half-full box of cold medicine at home.

So that is why you are on your knees in front of the guest bathroom cabinet during your lunchbreak on a Thursday, handbag tipped over on the tile beside you, blazer shrugged off and dropped over the closed toilet lid, rifling past extra soap, cotton swabs, hotel-size mouthwash, and a lint roller with somebody’s long blond hair caught around the adhesive.

You find the medicine behind a packet of disposable razors.

You pause with your hand still in the cabinet.

Disposable razors.

Leon does not use disposable razors.

He's used the same heavy one for years, stainless steel, could survive a fire, even. You bought this model for him years ago for his birthday, back when he was still using cheap disposable things despite the fat paycheck and shrugging off the razor burn, as if it made no sense to buy anything built to last when he spent so much of his life ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

He keeps spare blades in the drawer beside your sink because he is weirdly old-fashioned about some things and annoyingly smug about them too. Once stood there in a towel and informed you that cartridge razors were a scam built on planned obsolescence, face full of shaving cream, sounding like a man giving congressional testimony.

These are not his.

Or they should not be.

You pull the packet free.

One missing.

Your eyes go to the counter.

At first it is only the mouthwash. The bottle is blue instead of the green one you buy for guests twice a year and forget to replace. Then the hand towel hanging beside the sink: dark gray, thick cotton, the exact shade of the ones Leon prefers because they do not show stains. Then, in the ceramic dish by the faucet, a toothbrush.

Black.

His toothbrush is always black.

It sits in its place on your bathroom counter so often you barely see it anymore, only reach around it while hunting for your eyeliner or your tweezers or your face cream. You see it this morning in the holder beside yours. You are nearly sure of that. Enough that your chest tightens around the memory and squeezes.

You rise slowly, the packet of razors still in your hand.

The room looks different once you are standing.

Occupied in small, neat ways. A bottle of aftershave on the narrow shelf over the toilet. Not the full-size one from your bathroom, but the travel bottle he refills before trips. A comb beside it. Another antiseptic bottle. One of your hair ties looped around the faucet base, black elastic gone stretched at the seams. Folded on the rack below the sink, a towel that belongs to your master bath set.

You stare at it until you have to unclench your jaw.

The rash thing was fine, but. Why is he hiding these?

Leon notices things.

Comes with the job — field training, threat assessment, listenimg into the silence for what may be lurking in it — but he insists with you it’s different. An instinct that transcends training, as if love has mutated his threat radar.

Most days, this makes you feel chosen, mapped like a cherished terrain. On others, you resent how little of yourself you can keep unobserved. You’ve said so: “You’re not a bloodhound, mister, and I’m not a missing person.” To which he replied: “That’s the point.”

You learn this early in your marriage: you cannot exist in the same space with Leon S. Kennedy and expect him to miss something’s wrong. You cannot change the channel from the documentary about deep-sea creatures to a sitcom without him picking up that you specifically want laughter to distract yourself. Cannot suddenly decide to use the good plates for leftover spaghetti on a Tuesday without him noticing you need some self-indulgence. Cannot, after months of letting dust accumulate under the bookshelf, suddenly scrub the baseboards clean while he's at work and expect him to return home oblivious to the change in the room's scent profile and clock that your mind is busy from that alone.

Most irritating is when you pick up a new book you've been meaning to read for weeks. You find a quiet corner in the house — the armchair by the window that gets the best afternoon light, the spot on the couch where the cushion has molded perfectly to your shape — and settle in with the paperback. And within minutes, he'll materialize in the doorway and stare for a while.

“Finished with Murakami already?” he'll ask, and it will sound like he's looking at you from the scope of a gun, magnifying and observing and pinpointing. Like he's got an eye on every thread in the sweater you're wearing and can tell which ones have moved between yesterday and today. (He had recommended the book, brought it home in the plastic bag of a bookstore in Alexandria, and handed it to you as if to say, “I saw this and thought of you.”)

That is to say, even when you try to be nonchalant about your findings on his stuff in the guest bathroom, Leon knows through the phone itself the moment you let it slip that you're in the middle of packing a care package for a sick coworker and couldn't find the tape for a good thirty minutes. It's usually him who's losing things and you who finds them, and he can hear that you're bothered that the roles are reversed.

“I haven't seen that roll in ages,” he tells you. “I've got a few spare in the garage if you don't mind masking tape.”

“I might just do that, actually. Would save me the trip to the store. I think the last time we needed clear tape was to ship that gift to Claire, and that was... in July?”

“You're doing a lot of mental math tonight,” he murmurs.

You ignore his attempt to metaphorically knock on your door to see if you'll answer. “Where in the garage are these rolls?”

“Top shelf in the back.” He takes a sip of whatever he's drinking. “Past the Harley, next to the Christmas decorations. Look left of where the toolbox is, there's a workbench near the SUV — scissors should be there.”

“Thank you, sweet boy,” you say, and the nickname slips out. You don't call him that a lot, not anymore at least, and the way he pauses to take a deep breath in before sighing lets you know that he's taken note of it. “What nice memory you have. Sometimes, I wish I had a quarter of that.”

“Get into crossword puzzles and sudoku.”

“Ugh, no. My brain cells deserve better.”

“Like a marathon of true crime documentaries, huh?”

“Exactly,” you reply, and then you go quiet because the truth is, you haven't been watching anything lately, not really.

The TV drones on in the corner of the living room, a box of light and sound that keeps the silence at bay but doesn't really fill anything. You could turn on the news, watch anchors with their professionally-constructed concern deliver statistics you can't retain, their faces blurring into the commercial for cleaning products that promise to eliminate 99.9% of germs. An hour later, you'd have no recollection of what was said, only a vague headache from the bright lights.

Same with the podcasts Leon leaves open on his phone, profiles of Cold War espionage networks, the unredacted histories of failed containment operations, forensic breakdowns of pandemic viral mutations, and interviews with retired agents from the Eighties who still won't go on the record. Same with the radio in the car on the way to work. They're on, but not in your head, washing over you like rain on a window, sliding down the glass without ever really penetrating. Your head is somewhere else entirely, stuck in a feedback loop of questions that sound like accusations in your own mind. An entire world marches on while you're standing still in the hallway of your home, staring at a lighthouse painting that suddenly looks less like art and more like a map where the X is buried.

It was already bad enough. Now, this guest bathroom situation...

“Hey. You got quiet all of a sudden. What's on your mind, angel?” Leon's voice crackles on the other end of the line.

There's a soft hum in the background, probably the engine of that ridiculous Porsche he justified as a midlife crisis purchase. The image clicks into place: him in the low-slung bucket seat, the leather creaking beneath his weight as he navigates some anonymous stretch of highway. His reflection in the rearview mirror, eyes on the road ahead, focused on the distance and the destination. The scenery changing outside the windows, the landscape shifting, the horizon receding. The miles adding up like a countdown, a reminder of how far away he is. The space between you growing, stretching, yawning.

Sometimes it feels like he's calling from another dimension entirely, some parallel world where touching his wife after carrying home god knows what on his skin is somehow more dangerous than facing down a B.O.W. with a handgun and a bad attitude. A different frequency, one you keep trying to tune into but only comes through as static. Where the logic of love and protection has been twisted — where the urge to keep you safe manifests as a slow, systematic withdrawal that feels an awful lot like abandonment. Where the force that binds you as husband and wife is also the one prying you apart.

“Come on, talk to me.”

“No, it's fine, it's stupid.” You cave in at how soft he said it, with the bare minimum of resistance. “I just miss you.”

Leon knows that small sentence is a loaded gun. Also knows the safety is on and it's not even aimed at him at all.

That's why there's a care package for you waiting on the porch after you get back home the very same day, having made it back to the DSO headquarters in the nick of time before lunchbreak ended and delivered the one you prepared to poor Mara who wasn't even able to make a quick trip to the store to get cold meds.

That basket on your porch is an inventory of conversations you barely remember having. The lavender-vanilla candle you mentioned smelling in a boutique window three weeks ago while on a lunch run sits wrapped in tissue paper beside your favorite brand of fuzzy socks — the ones with the little rubber grips on the bottom that make you feel like a contended cat stalking around on hardwood floors.

There's the artisanal chocolates with different fillings from that shop in Old Town you'd texted him about after your coworker brought some to the office. Even that Guerlain perfume sample you'd mentioned how divine it smelled when testing fragrances at Nordstrom half a year ago is there, unopened, still sealed in its little white envelope.

There's a new Kindle, the latest model with the warm backlight you'd been coveting but couldn't justify, pre-loaded with a mix of romance and thriller novels you'd bookmarked on your Amazon wishlist.

A bottle of that Lagavulin 16-year-old single malt you'd jokingly told Leon was “too good to waste” on anyone but him when he'd offered you a sip, now sits beside a set of handmade whiskey stones carved from soapstone.

Tucked beneath these items is a silk eye mask from Slip and a pair of cashmere lounge pants in that charcoal gray you love but could never bring yourself to spend the money on.

There's that limited edition fragrance you'd been admiring at Creed, the one with the notes of sandalwood and bergamot that made you linger at the counter longer than you should have. And next to it, a certificate for a spa day at that exclusive place you'd once said only existed for people who “have nothing better to do with their money than to be pampered.”

A pair of noise-cancelling headphones, the expensive over-ear ones from Bose, are nestled beside a collection of vinyl records from bands whose tours you'd lamented missing in your youth — who knew he'd been paying attention when you'd lamented missing them?

At the very bottom, beneath everything else, is a handcrafted ceramic mug with the lighthouse design you'd admired online months ago but never bought for yourself, its glaze catching the porch light like a beacon. And nestled inside the mug is a small folded note printed on cardstock:

> Hope this makes the days a little easier. Text me whenever you can. Love, L.

You don't know who he called to get this assembled in such short notice, to pull together this collection of things you barely remember mentioning, scattered across months and years. The logistics alone is a nightmare for a single trip: a stop for the Guerlain at Pentagon City, the spa gift certificate procured through whatever exclusive concierge service wealthy people use when they don't want to stand in line, the records tracked down in dusty shops along U Street where they probably still play vinyl on proper turntables behind the counter. The efficiency makes you stare off into the distance. How easily he exists in two separate worlds, one where he's your husband listening to you babble about perfume and scented candles, and another where he manipulates strings you can't even see to make these things appear on your doorstep without you ever knowing.

You stand there on the porch, the basket heavy in your arms, and wonder if it's meant to be compensation or consolation. If each item was chosen as a balm for the absence and isolation, or merely a reminder that he's thinking of you, even when his thoughts are a mystery. It's thoughtful and overwhelming, a gesture so intimate it could be an apology, or perhaps a plea.

The ghost of his cologne lingers in the fabric of the gift wrap. Leon's not a man of grand declarations, not the kind to write sonnets or compose songs, but his language is clear: I hear you, I see you, I haven't forgotten. But underneath that, there's a subtext that stings: This is all I can give right now. Forgive me.

The leaves thin early this year, drifting down into the gutters and sticking to windshields, and you’re just standing there one day at your window, watching them tumble from a half-dead maple on the curb, when it finally dawns on you.

The Raccoon City’s anniversary is getting closer.

It’s as if your subconscious had been politely clearing its throat all week, waiting for you to notice that his odd little rituals, his surges of energy and sudden withdrawals were lines drawn in highlighter, blinking neon reminders of what time of year it was.

You feel a brief, hot humiliation that it took you this long to remember — worse, that the penny had to drop in the first place.

You’d prided yourself on being the one person who never forgot what happened to him, on being the custodian of that particular wound. You’d promised yourself never to be the kind of spouse who tiptoed around the crater and offered up platitudes instead of help. But here you are, stunned to realize that you hadn’t even noticed that it was the middle of September.

You’d read somewhere, years ago, that trauma anniversaries affect the amygdala the way allergies affect sinuses: you might not see the pollen, but your body knows it’s there. That’s why he’d been wanting to sleep in his own bedroom for a while, why he’s been bringing out an alcohol flask out more to pour into his coffee, why he’d scrub his hands so hard the knuckles bled if you didn’t intercept him with lotion. It all makes sense, cruelly and completely.

But the shame is yours to chew, and you do, letting it grind your molars.

In your “defense,” a rationale exists for your oversight.

Septembers always sieves the color out of him, but the ones where he would avoid life itself like the plague and disappear off the face of the earth, where he would act like you were a complete stranger he couldn't even stand the slightest touch from, a dog too sick to even try and eat its favorite food, are long behind you. Things have been significantly better after the New York bioterrorist attack a decade ago. Chris had shaken Leon out like a dusty rug and beaten him against a porch railing until most of the ghosts fell out, and he was finally light enough to able to get back on his feet, pick his life back up, get some help. He’d managed to gain back your trust, and in return, you'd gotten complacent enough not to look for shipwrecks in the horizon around this time of year anymore.

You’d gotten so good at screening out triggers from your lives that the act itself became invisible, second nature. Maybe that’s why it snuck up on you. Maybe he wasn’t the only one whose brain was trying to keep you safe from memories that wanted to eat you alive.

However.

Yeah, however.

It still isn’t excusable, how you just fucking forgot.

You can sit down and sift through memories as though looking for a lost key at the bottom of a handbag all day, but that's not going to change the fact that you've been fumbling as if it's your first year with him all over again.

But it's also a concrete answer you're glad to have that you weren't just having a nebulous feeling that he was pulling away. When there's an answer, there can be an attempt at a solution, and that's more comforting than the alternative.

So, you start rearranging yourself around it, and stop taking the small liberties of marriage.

When Leon leaves his coffee by the stove and turns his back to crack eggs into the pan, you leave the mug alone instead of stealing a sip just to hear him complain that you always go for the first half-inch when it’s still hot. When he shaves, you stop perching on the bathroom counter with one foot hooked against the cabinet handle (because that too is one of those easy, everyday invasions that only works when he’s loose enough to be annoyed by you), reading him pieces of the paper over his shoulder while he squints at himself in the mirror and tells you, around a mouth full of foam, that sports journalism is the last honest profession in America. Even the paper itself you start handling differently. The sports section still ends up crumpled where he folds it wrong over the baseball scores, but the city pullout disappears before breakfast now, since every local editor in the country starts thinking they invented grief the minute the date gets close.

He notices the missing section on the second morning.

“There was more paper than this.”

You keep your eyes on the toaster. “I threw it out.”

The pause behind you is small. You know the sound his wedding band makes when he taps it against ceramic, and you hear it then, once, against the side of his mug.

“Oh.”

“They were already doing anniversary coverage.”

Another beat. “...Really.”

Maybe he’s deliberately making it sound like he didn’t even know. You turn around.

He’s standing barefoot on the cold tile in gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and the old sweatshirt he refuses to throw out even though it's a few sizes small for him now, and pulls taut across the breadth of his shoulders and strains against the swell of his biceps. His hair is still damp at the nape from the shower. He has his coffee in one hand and the surviving half of the paper in the other, looking at you with that shuttered, careful face that makes you feel as if you’ve walked in on him bleeding and embarrassed him by seeing it.

“You don’t need to read that stuff,” you say, gentler than you meant to.

His eyes drop, though not in the way they used to years ago. Lower. To your mouth for a flicker, then to the toast you’ve just set on his plate.

“You don’t need to do all this either.”

You force a little shrug. “What do you mean? It's just breakfast.”

Leon gives that tiny nod of his, the one that never tells you whether he’s accepting what you said or choosing not to challenge it.

That would almost be enough on its own. Then Sherry sends the annual text, your phone lighting up against the counter's laminate.

Memorial at seven on the 30th. Forum meetup after, same place as last year. Tell me either way so I can save seats.

You don’t answer right away. Leon is at the sink beside you, rinsing the same mug longer than necessary, thumb dragged hard over the glaze as though soap is something that needs soaking into the ceramic. He catches the change in your face before you even say anything. He always does.

“Who is it?”

“Sherry.”

His hand stills under the running water.

You angle the screen toward him. He leans in and reads it from where he stands, shoulders going tight under the thin cotton of the sweatshirt. The faucet keeps running until you reach past him and shut it off yourself.

“You don’t have to go,” you say.

That gets you a look, startled, almost. As if he hadn’t realized you’d built the whole answer already and moved into it.

“I wasn’t going to, I have those investigation files to look into.”

“Then we don’t.”

He dries his hands with the dish towel, very slowly, fingers one by one. “You can go.”

“I’m not leaving you alone that night.”

He turns away before you can read his face properly and hangs the towel back on the oven handle with absurd care, squaring the corners.

“You don’t have to babysit me, y'know. I'm a big boy.”

Your fingers hook around the elastic band of his sweatpants and give them a firm tug, pulling him just a step closer. “Well, maybe I wanna spend time with that big boy, ever thought of that?” you tease, and that earns you a small laugh, a bit of a smile that gets the lines around his eyes to be more prominent, and a squeeze on your arm. A good sign, a great one. “I'll let Sherry know.”

His body is drawn toward you in the old familiar way — eyes softening, thumb finding that particular spot on your hip, the way his breath catches just before he leans in. You read it all as clearly as words on a page and brace yourself for the contact you've been starved of for weeks. For a half-second, his gaze drops to your mouth and you think this time, finally, this time he won't pull away. But then his fingers tighten around your waist in a way that feels more like apology than passion, and his head turns at the last moment. His lips press against your hair instead, his breath warm against the crown of your head for the briefest of seconds before he's pulling away, turning with practiced speed toward the clock on the wall as if it just called his name. The muscles shift beneath his sweatshirt in a clean line that leads away from you, and your heart settles somewhere heavy and low in your chest.

“You should hurry, or you'll be late,” he says without looking at you, and there's a waver in his voice that tells you exactly how much he wanted to kiss you a moment ago.

“Yeah,” you agree quietly, and take a step backward, untangling yourself from his orbit, focusing on gathering up your things, smoothing down your shirt, and preparing to leave. As you walk towards the front door, you glance back at him, standing in the kitchen with his back turned to you with one hand braced on the kitchen island, and force a smile that he can't see. “See you tonight, alright?”

You're folded onto the master bedroom floor, legs crossed at an angle that promises stiffness later, with one of Leon's work shirts draped over your thigh like a surgical blanket. The fabric is cool against your skin, crisp but worn in places — elbows, cuffs — where his shape has pressed into it over years and smells like him, faint traces of his woody and clean cologne. The missing button sits exposed on the cuff, a dark circle of vacancy where the small, disk of shell should be.

The sewing kit lies open beside you, a zipper pouch of miniature chaos, a jumble of colors tangled around plastic cards, needles winking in the lamp light, a thimble like a tiny silver helmet. Your phone sits propped against a pillow, speakerphone active, Leon's voice emerging from it as if from a tin can stretched between two trees. He's three days into being out of state: there's the familiar rasp of sleep deprivation threading through his otherwise smooth baritone, still funny on instinct, giving you just enough warmth to make the distance feel manageable.

“You’re gonna butcher it,” he says after listening to you mutter at the thread for a full ten seconds.

You bite the end off and squint down at the needle, clearing your throat to get rid of the scratch building there. “Do you want your favorite shirt saved or not?”

“That’s my least favorite shirt, actually.”

“It is not, liar.” Your fingertip stings, a pinprick of blood welling to the surface, and you stick it in your mouth to stop the bleeding. You're terrible at this, the way some people are bad at singing or math equations. The needle slips through the button hole and the thread goes slack, the knot refusing to behave. It's an affront to the universe that the man who can sew a bullet wound can't fix a damn shirt. “It’s the one you wear to every awards dinner, and every time you’ve met with the President—”

“Okay, okay. Jesus, you’re like the FBI of blouses. Or the CIA of…”

“Don’t be corny.”

“Well, what’s left behind my personality if you take that away? It’s like ramen without any seasoning.”

“I’d say that’s cultural appropriation. At least say pasta. You are Italian.”

“Pasta is still good when it’s plain, a little crispy and brown with extra butter.”

Your mouth twists downward.

“Hey, don’t make that face,” he says. It’s not even a video call. You wish you’re making this up.

“Fine. What about how you’re insinuating plain noodles are less than pasta?”

“Nuh-uh. You’re not getting me today.”

“How about I also tell you crispy pasta with extra butter isn’t plain pasta?”

“It is. That’s the definition of plain pasta.”

“It’s not. Boiled pasta is plain pasta. If you want to keep the playing field even—”

“It’s boiled. Boiled. It’s even in the adjective for ya’.”

“It’s still plain. That’s the inference.”

“Then the inference with the noodles changes because you don’t boil them. You put hot water and they soften.”

That wasn’t even remotely true. “How about I put you in hot water and soften you, huh?”

“Nah, I’d get hard.”

You drop the needle and massage your forehead, but there’s still a smile on your face. “I fucking — swear to god—”

“I’d still have good packaging.”

“What?”

“If I were plain noodles. Sorry, plain pasta.”

You clear your throat, “It would be crinkled at this point, though. You know what they say, right?”

“Just because the wrapper is wrinkled, doesn’t mean the candy is any less sweet?”

“No!” you absolutely holler with delight, picking your needle back up, “Expired! It means—”

“Hey, you taught me that one, no take-backs.” He laughs, that low, quiet sound that means his eyes have crinkled, and the backs of his knuckles are pressing to his forehead. “You’re still buying what I’m selling, aren't you?”

“It’s called good marketing.”

“Mm. Good thing you also have a weakness for cheap carbs.”

“Don’t make me sew a fucking drawstring into this, Kennedy.”

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s not even a full word, more like air leaving his body. “Missed that mouth of yours.”

The needle almost pricks your finger and you momentarily give yourself a break by taking a sip from the mug of honey herbal tea sitting by your side. “Yeah, well, I missed your hands on it.”

“Stop,” he warns, his voice a notch more searing than before, the laughter strained. “Come on.”

“What?” You keep trying to get the damn button back on the damn shirt, but his reaction has heat prickling in the tips of your fingers. You're too aware of the fabric, the weight of the empty sleeve against your leg, and the fact that the bed is only a foot away, rumpled from sleep and taking up space in your periphery. You could've sat on it, could've done this at the dresser, but you're on the floor, cross-legged in pajama pants, and the position is suddenly vivid. “Am I not allowed to talk now?”

“Not unless you're prepared to follow through. I'm not exactly surrounded by privacy at the moment, angel.”

Angel. It hits you right behind the sternum and flutters, the same way it has since the first time. He's said it a thousand times, said it in public, whispered it in hotel rooms and growled it against your throat in the dark. Said it so many times, in fact, that the flutter should've faded by now. It never has.

“I mean,” you say, taking another sip from the mug, faking casual, trying to focus on the needle you're absentmindedly twirling between your thumb and index finger, the button, anything other than that word and the way his tone changed, “I could send a picture.”

“That's cute. Of what, the button? Should I send a pic of the report I'm reading for context? Really get you hot and bothered by the fourth paragraph, babe.”

The cough catches you mid-sip, making your hand jerk for the tea to slosh against the sides of the mug. You set it down quickly, turning your head away from the phone as your body works through the reflex. The fabric of your pajama sleeve muffles the sound, but the vibration of it travels up your arm — a dry rasp that settles into a deeper, more productive hack that leaves your chest feeling prickly and itchy from the inside.

“Shit,” you mutter into the crook of your elbow, the sound coming out muffled. “Sorry.”

The background noise, which had been a constant low white noise of what sounded like paper rustling has stopped completely. The line is live, but Leon himself has gone conspicuously quiet.

“Fine, I'm fine,” you say before he can ask. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”

“That's not down the wrong pipe.” His voice is flat, stripped of the teasing lilt from moments ago. It's the clipped, precise tone he uses for field reports, the one that makes your stomach clench even though it's never directed at you personally. “You didn't have that cough when I left.”

“Yeah, it just started. Probably just—”

Another cough, this one softer but more persistent. You press the heel of your hand against your sternum. “—picked something up. Remember Mara? The care package? This feels exactly like what she had. And she’d been wearing a mask too. Maybe I should shoot a message to the office—”

“Have you been short of breath at all?”

“No. Seriously, baby, it's a cold, at worst.”

“Any fever?”

“I don't think so.”

“Did you take your temperature?”

“Leon, I'm not eight,” you say, rolling your eyes. “It's just a cough. Don't worry so much, okay?”

“Are you itchy at all?”

You click your tongue and sigh. “Why would I be itchy? What are you thinking, chicken pox or measles or something? She would have told me if she was sick like that.”

“Just trying to eliminate possibilities.”

“Okay, well eliminate your current line of questioning. You're starting to sound like a hypochondriac.”

There's an exasperated sigh on his side and aggressive shuffling that makes the speakers crackle. “Okay. Okay, okay...”

“Leon.”

“Fuck, I need to go. Can't do this over a goddamn cell phone anyway, not on this signal. Shit.” He doesn't even sound like he's talking to you anymore.

There is the muffled, distant quality of his hand covering the mic, and his voice gets quieter, the words indistinct and hard to catch. Someone answers him, the sound patchy and barely audible, and then Leon's voice gets louder again as his palm moves away. “Promise to call me if it gets worse, alright? I'll get someone to check on you if I can't be there. Promise me.”

“Baby,” you try, the confusion making you blink rapidly. You set the shirt aside, leaning forward toward the phone as şf getting closer to a skittish animal. “I will. It's fine, I promise, I'm not going to drop dead on you from a common cold.”

“Just... fuck,” The rest of the sentence is cut off, and he sucks in a breath that sounds grim and shaky. For a second, you wonder if something has happened on his side. “I'm sorry. Look, I gotta go. Love you.”

He’s gone before you can reassure him a bit more.

> Sherry: Heard you’re under the weather. I’m nearby. Want me to drop off soup?

“Oh my fucking god,” you mumble into the back of your hand, sniffling. Your voice sounds like gravel underfoot.

The phone drags at your fingers, heavy as a brick as you squint at Sherry's message that reflects the afternoon light that knifes through the blinds. Your temples pound in tandem with the cough that's taken up residence in your chest, a dry, useless hacking that won't leave you alone.

One day into working from home right in the aftermath of your call with Leon, and your desk looks less like a workspace and more like a sickbay battlefield. Tissue boxes flank your laptop like artillery, a half-empty mug of lukewarm tea sits abandoned beside a stack of forms you've been staring at without comprehension for the better part of an hour, your thermal blanket hugging your shoulders like a shawl.

You slide your phone onto the coffee table, where it lands with a soft thud amid the crumpled tissue graveyard. Of all the people to show up, of course it would be Sherry. “Nearby” my ass. The DSO headquarters is a twenty-minute drive without traffic, and you've lived long enough in Leon's world to know “nearby” is code for “I've been dispatched to check on you because someone who won't call himself is panicking about your cough.”

Your throat is a landscape of raw glass, a swallow a grind of shards against the tender flesh. Levering yourself off the swirly chair costs you almost everything; your joints pop like firecrackers, a chorus of small betrayals announcing a body that's aged decades in a single night. The kitchen recedes, a distant shore at the end of a hallway that stretches as you move like a novice tightrope walker, breath as worthless currency, desperate not to set off the next round of your lungs' mutiny.

Your reflection in the nearby window is a stranger: pale, exhausted, with dark circles that look like someone pressed their thumbs beneath your eyes. You blink slowly, twice, wondering how Leon would react if he could see you now. The thought is followed by a wave of irritation — how much easier this would be if he hadn't spent the last month building walls between you, making his paranoia your problem.

That's not fair, you think immediately after, tellling yourself very firmly that a married man is allowed to freak out a little when his wife gets sick in his absence.

Even though he's not been picking up his phone.

The cabinets open with a squeak that grates on your frayed nerves. You reach for a glass, your fingers clumsy as they close around it. The water from the filter is cold against your lips, a brief respite from the burning sensation that's taken up residence in your chest.

The thought of Sherry appearing at your door with soup while you look like death warmed over is mortifying. Not just the physical embarrassment, but the implication — that Leon would rather send his surrogate daughter to check on his wife during what might be nothing more than a stubborn cold than pick up the phone himself.

“Overbearing idiot,” you mutter, not without fondness, and tap out a quick answer.

> You: I'm sorry he's making you do this, Sherry.

The little bouncing ellipses pop up immediately, showing her typing a response. A few seconds later, a gif of Super Nanny in a car with the caption of 'You guys are in a crisis, I'm on my way,' fills the screen.

> Sherry: Don't apologize. You know he can’t order me around even on a good day. Be there soon! 👍

“He's lucky I love him,” you grumble, pulling a face at the phone and dropping it on the island.

Your husband's not a particularly paranoid person. At least, not outside of the context of his job. That paranoia comes with the territory of being a high-ranking agent and working directly under the POTUS. He has a right to worry about threats, especially after the things he's seen and experienced. But his tendency to fret has always been limited to his professional life, where he's had to cultivate that sense of hyper-vigilance and suspicion.

At home, he's always been the relaxed one, the easygoing partner who tells you to calm down, to stop fussing. Even when he's stressed or tired or distracted, he's able to flip that switch and let go of the anxiety that dogs him at work. It's a skill not everyone has, and a crucial one, given the kind of work both of you do. Being capable of compartmentalizing isn't just helpful; it's essential.

He's not very good at it right now, it seems. A symptom of September 30th flare-up, no doubt.

Sleep won’t hold.

Every time you slip under, the fever yanks you back up with a pinch behind the eyes, a dry fire that licks at the back of your throat, and the suffocating cling of damp sheets against your legs. When your eyes flutter open again, the room has drowned in darkness except for that stubborn stripe of streetlight knifing across the foot of the bed.

Your room, not the big one down the hall.

The arrangement had started as a way to not disturb each other in a very schedule-conflicting time of your lives and stayed because it suited you both too well: the master bedroom you shared when you wanted to sleep together, and your own rooms for the nights when one of you wanted quiet or work or simple space. Before long, though, someone would scurry from their own bed to the other's room, and start out as always: one flopping onto the other's mattress, pretending it was just to hang out for a few minutes. It always ended the same way, though — a sleepy, cozy pile-up of tangled limbs and shared blankets, breathing in time.

Tonight Sherry had taken one look at your fever and herded you into your own bed with medicine on the nightstand and enough pointed casualness to make quarantine sound temporary and reasonable.

But. Back to the point.

There is somebody sitting beside you.

Your heart kicks once before a hand settles more firmly over your forehead.

Gloved.

“Easy,” Leon says.

The leather is cold. Not room-cold. Outside-cold.

Your eyelids are leaden, each blink an effort as his image gradually sharpens from watercolor blur to clarity. Leon is turned toward you on the edge of the mattress, one knee pressed deep into the bedding, his shoulders rounded in a permanent hunch as if he'd leaned over to check you and simply locked in position. He's still wearing his leather jacket, the dark leather glistening like oil where the rain hasn't yet evaporated. Damp patches bloom across his shoulders and chest, the fabric clinging to his outline in a way that exposes the tension in his back. His hair, usually styled with just enough defiance, is plastered to his forehead and temples in wet strands that catch the minimal light, dripping occasionally onto the pillow beside you. His face is wet too — the rain has left beaded droplets along his soft jawline, trailing paths down the column of his throat. He smells of car air freshener in that synthetic pine way that means he's been driving too long, of cold air clinging to his damp clothes, and beneath it all, the faint, stale bitterness of coffee turned cold in a paper cup hours ago.

“Leon?”

Your voice comes out rough and small.

His thumb strokes once along your hairline through the glove, smooth leather over damp skin. “Hey.”

It is the way he says it that gets you. Not soft, exactly. Worn down to the grain.

You swallow and wince. “What time is it?”

“Late.”

You manage a dry look at him from the pillow. “Very helpful.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, then drops.

When you shift, the room tilts with you. Leon’s hand leaves your forehead and slides into your hair instead, combing with a care so controlled it feels clumsy. He pets your head once, then again, slow enough that you can feel him deciding where to put his fingers.

He still has his gloves on. The jacket, too.

You should say something about that.

You don’t.

Your eyes flutter closed as his gloved palm engulfs your cheek, thumb grazing the swell of it. You lean into his touch instinctively, body responding before your mind catches up, all the distance dissolving in that single gesture, and you realize your shoulders have been permanently tensed, waiting for this contact. A breath you didn't know you were holding escapes your lips, trembling as it passes. His fingers still encased in that cold barrier has come to represent so much between you, yet it's sugar melting in the water with such simple intimacg, and you're ashamed of how much your body is betraying you, how it arches toward him like a plant starved of sunlight, silently begging for more.

His whole body locks.

It is immediate. The line of his shoulder goes hard. The breath he had been taking breaks in the middle and starts over smaller. Even feverish, you can feel the strain of him holding still under that one stupid, instinctive lean.

“You're supposed to be halfway across the country,” you murmur, eyes half-open.

“Was worried,” he finally says, a kink between his lowered eyebrows, gingerly sitting himself at the very edge of the mattress as if to keep from disturbing you. It's so fucking funny considering how massive he is. Big, broad, tall, trained to kill, in his combat gear. Trying not to take up space.

“I know. Sherry already did her Florence Nightingale routine and everything.” You wave a limp, lazy hand at the orange pill bottle on the nightstand, the glass of water.

“Yeah.”

You watch his face. “I can’t believe you sent her.”

His eyes stay on you. “You can’t?”

You would argue if your bones did not feel full of wet sand. The effort of keeping your eyes open is already getting stupid. Still, there is enough strength left in you to see what he looks like in the half-dark.

Not dramatic enough for a man who you're guessing drove like hell to get home just because of a little cold. Leon never goes dramatic when he can help it. What he does instead is worse. His jaw is set so hard the muscle keeps jumping near the hinge. He is sitting on the edge of the bed like he does not trust himself to settle his weight any farther in. He hasn’t even unzipped his jacket. One glove stays in your hair. The other is braced on his thigh, fingers curled tight.

He's going to get sick himself at this point, just from being a wet dog.

“Come here,” you mumble.

He doesn’t move.

For a second you think he didn’t hear you. Then you see his mouth pull tight.

You pull your hand out from under the blanket and catch weakly at the front of his jacket. The leather is damp and chilled through. “Bed,” you say. “C’mon.”

His eyes drop to your hand.

Want caught on the act, held by the throat.

The leather creaks, and his chest lifts in a shallow inhale. Then the want evaporates from his expression. His gloved hand covers yours, pries it off his jacket, and puts it carefully back on the mattress. Your arm has turned to lead. You can only watch as he leans away from you to grab a tissue from the box on the nightstand, and then his hands are at his own face, wiping the rain off with careful swipes, catching the last of the drips in his lashes and his hair. He folds the tissue and tosses it at the wastebasket, and his aim is so perfect it pisses you off.

“Who's gonna look after you if I get sick too?” he says, and his voice is perfectly level, and you hate it, you hate him, and his stupid gloves, and his stupid job, and the virus chewing on your brain, and every mile that has stretched between the two of you since—

“I won't get you sick, here, just,” you blurt out, loud and jumbled, shooting up and immediately getting dizzy.

And Leon is right there, grabbing your arms, steadying you, “Woah, hey, careful, baby.”

Your fingers, fever-hot and trembling, lock around his forearm before he can pull away completely. The leather of his jacket, still damp with rain, is slick under your grip. With the last of your energy reserves, you tug with urgent pull that stems from months of missed touch and the primal need to have him close when your body feels like it's failing you.

It's enough to throw him off-balance.

Leon goes down with a surprised grunt that sounds more like air being knocked out of him than anything. He lands awkwardly, his back thumping against the headboard while one leg drapes over the side of the bed and the other gets tangled in the sheets. For a moment, his eyes are wide, the blue of them almost white in the dim light, his mouth slightly parted in a perfect “O” of shock.

Then he's moving, trying to extract himself, but you're already on him. You're not proud of how you do it — using his confusion and his worry to your advantage — but pride has no place in this. This is a war of attrition. So, you use whatever weapons you have at your disposal. In this case, the element of surprise and his hesitation. You straddle him, pinning him in place with a determination that belies the weakness in your limbs. The fever might be eating at you, but you won't let it consume the memory of his warmth. Not tonight.

“Stay,” you whisper, and it's both a command and a plea, coming out husky.

In the shadows of the room, his features are barely discernible, a study in chiaroscuro. But his eyes, they shine with a intensity that cuts through the darkness.

He doesn't push you away. His Adam's apple underneath the turtleneck bobs in a silent swallow, his hands hovering in the air, unsure of where to land. Finally, they settle on your waist, not gripping, but resting there, the heat of his palms seeping through the layers of fabric and skin, reaching into the marrow of your bones. You should question that. You should...

A sigh escapes him, long and heavy, a surrender, an acceptance, an apology all rolled into one. “Okay,” he murmurs, his voice a rough caress in the quiet. “Okay, I'll stay.”

The tension funnels out of him all at once, a release you feel in the way his shoulders lower and his hands lose their careful distance. The shudder that goes through his body is deep enough that you feel it through your thighs, where you're still straddling him. He's wrapping his arms around you finally, pulling you closer with a kind of desperate gentleness that feels like an apology and a confession all at once. The leather creaks as he shifts his hips forward, working himself backward until his back presses against the mattress and his legs straighten onto the covers with a soft thud of his boots hitting the floor. You let yourself settle, shimmying down until your cheek rests against the cotton of his turtleneck, right over his heart.

“My Leon,” you cough a little, “I've missed you...”

A noise rumbles in his chest. His heartbeat quickens beneath the cage of his ribs. He is solid and warm, and in spite of the fever that's turning you inside out, the universe is suddenly in its right axis again. You're exactly where you belong. Nothing can shake this truth, not even the tremor in his breath. And you, despite the burning in your eyes, find the strength to smile. Here, in the cradle of his body, the world can fall apart a thousand times, and you'd still feel safe. “I love you,” you mumble, feeling the words reverberate in his sternum. “Love you so damn much...”

He doesn't echo the words, but his response is just as eloquent: his arms tighten like steel cables sheathed in skin and sinew, gathering you in until your cheek is more comfortable against the pillow of his chest. The sheer breadth of him is overwhelming — shoulders that seem to span the width of the bed, pectorals thick as armor plating beneath the damp cotton of his turtleneck, biceps that flex against your side with the effortless power of a man who has never known weakness. One of his hands rub your shoulder, the other pressing into your spine. He envelops you completely, and for a moment, the storm that rages outside and the fever that ravages your insides are equally insignificant against the solid, undeniable reality of Leon Kennedy holding you like you're the only thing in the world worth protecting.

You feel his nose in the mess of sweat-slick hair at the crown of your head, breathing in. Another tremor, a hitch of his chest, and the unmistakable sound of a suppressed cough.

With a small sound, you give a kiss to the swell of his pec, and also attempt to hug him back like he's a huge teddy bear. At least, that's the comparison that makes sense in your addled mind. The broad expanse of him, the solidity of muscle and bone, the way his heat radiates and envelopes you — it all conjures an image of an oversized stuffed toy. It's also so comfortable laying on top of him. Your own arms can't quite reach all the way around his massive frame, so you end up clutching fistfuls of his jacket at the sides, hugging him as much as you can in the position you're in.

He shifts a bit, and when you rest your chin on his chest and look up at him, you find that Leon's head is turned to the left, and the back of his right hand is pressed to his face, the black leather of his glove dark against the deep, dark red that's overtaken his ear.

“Leon,” you mumble, and his name comes out slurred. Your eyelids are slow to blink as well, and you realize that you're probably seconds away from passing the hell out now that he's with you. Damn. Well, at least you had the presence of mind to lock him into a cuddle first, though. That's a win, at least.

“Go to sleep, baby,” he says in a buttery, low rumble, sending a fresh new wave of flush over your face. His other hand finds its way to the nape of your neck, and the pressure of his thumb is gentle. It traces a small circle there, finding the dip of your vertebrae, the delicate knob that marks the base of your skull.

“Hmm,” you reply, and that's the best you can do. You're pretty sure his hand is going to lull you to sleep.

But Leon still hiding his face bothers you. Rotating your arm out of the hug is an effort that sends a shiver through your fevered body, but you manage, hovering your hand above his. The leather of his glove seems to breathe against your fingertips. You begin to trace the sliver of exposed skin at his inner wrist with your thumb, and his fingers twitch instantly in response.

“Le-on...”

No response other than a loud swallow.

Your nail catches at the leather hem, and you toy with it for a little bit, observing his reaction. Which is a gruff grumble, followed by a click of his tongue that gives away he’s going to tell you off. But before he can do that, the tips of your middle and ring fingers slide right into the semi-tight space between his flesh and the non-elastic glove. Right away, heat slams into you — a furnace blast that makes your own fever feel like a passing chill. His pulse hammers beneath your touch, frantic against the inside of his wrist.

Through the resistance of the leather glove, you venture higher, skimming the calloused heel of his palm, your touch feather-light against the deep lines etched there — the life line, the love line, the dips and rough patches, all the maps of him. Up and down. Up and down. Just the faintest graze of your fingertips across the hills and valleys of his palm.

His breathing is uneven. Short inhales, longer exhales. You catch a brief glimpse of teeth sinking into his lower lip, then his free hand slides from the back of your neck and comes to rest at the base of your throat. His index and middle finger press gently against your fluttering pulse point, and the sensation is intimate, a mirror of the tender exploration of his palm. But there's a tremor in his touch, too, a subtle vibration that travels from his fingertips to the core of you. It sends a quick shot of warmth spreading through your veins. His grip tightens slightly, possessive, protective. Or maybe that's just the delirium talking. Maybe you're projecting your own need onto him.

“Leeeoooon...” You draw the 'E' sound of his name out, and it comes out a whine. “Let me... I missed you...”

He only says your name with a bassy baritone.

“Jerk,” you mumble. Your fingers curl, pressing into the very middle of his palm in a scooping motion, and his chest rises in a sudden gasp.

Why is this so sensual?

It's... It's a belated realization that this is a bit like. Uh.

But your body has detached from logic, operating on a deeper, more instinctive current than your fever-fogged mind can follow as your fingertips continue to ghost over his palm and push his glove up little by little, your brain is starting to go blissfully blank. The fact that his gloved hand is covering his mouth and the breath he just sucked in doesn't register in the slightest. But him looking down, his shiny eyes and the pink tint on his cheeks does.

“Hi, handsome,” you whisper, and his eyebrows furrow at that. A low, frustrated grunt vibrates in his throat.

In the next instant, his free hand lifts from the crook of your shoulder and slides through your sweat-damp hair. He gathers a fistful at the back of your head and pushes your face into his tits, effectively muffling anything else that might come out of your mouth.

“Go to sleep,” he repeats, and his voice has that commanding, serious edge that he uses when his patience is running thin, and it's a warning.

Your fevered brain decides on the best possible course of action: you bite his chest through the damp cotton. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough that he gives a hiss that vibrates through his ribcage and into your cheek. The fabric tastes like salt and sweat, and the heat of him seeps through the material. When you try to lift your head, curious about the noise, his fingers tighten in your hair, keeping you pressed against him. The grip isn't painful, but it's unyielding — a clear command to stay put that sends another wave of dizzying contentment through your fever-addled body.

“Seriously,” he says in that gravelly way, and his chest expands in a long, steadying intake. “I'm gonna leave if you're just going to be a little shit.”

You smile into the rumpled turtleneck and shake your head, the softness of his pecs a comforting weight against your cheek. “Please no,” you say, immediately turning away to cough after. “'M sorry, just wanna see you.”

The tension in Leon's body underneath you eases a fraction, and his grip on your hair loosens. “Then settle down and quit playing. You're burning up, and I know you're exhausted, so stop fighting it and get some rest, okay?”

“'Kay,” you agree, snuggling deeper into his embrace, relishing the solid warmth of him and the elevated rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear. “Love you. Missed you.”

“I know,” he replies, all rumbly. “Missed you, too.” Then his lips brush against the crown of your head, the contact brief but unmistakable, and the kiss is tender and reassuring. It's not one of those passionate, hungry kisses that make you melt, but the affection in the gesture is undeniable, and it makes your heart flutter. “Sleep. You need it.”

And with that, your eyes drift shut, and the world falls away, leaving you adrift in a sea of contented warmth.

“No, it's okay, I can talk. She's asleep.”

Your consciousness surfaces slowly, the fever's grip loosened from a stranglehold to a firm handshake. Your eyes crack open through the gummy residue of sleep, and you find yourself in your bedroom, buried under the comforter. The bedside lamp throws a weak yellow glow across the room while the rest stays swallowed in shadow. Leon is sitting propped up against the headboard, the muscles on his arm bulging as it holds his phone to his ear. You're curled into his right side, arm draped across his lap, and his other hand rests on your shoulder, thumb moving in slow, absent circles. Still gloved, you notice. Jacket's gone, though.

You don't move.

It's not eavesdropping. Not really. If you stir, he'll probably get up to finish the call somewhere else, and you're too warm and too tired to lose him right now.

“The answer’s still no,” he says quietly. “I don’t plan on telling her.”

Your heart gives a particular, harsh rap on your ribcage. It’s then that you notice the other voice on the line belongs to a woman.

“I know. Yeah, I know. I've been careful about that. Separate bedrooms are really working in my favor right now, but doesn’t seem like it is. Still, one can’t be too vigilant.”

Ice slides through your veins.

His thumb presses harder against your arm, as if grounding you there, and your body freezes so completely that the air in your chest has nowhere to go. “Stop. Don't be like that. You agreed to let me handle this my way, remember? It's my marriage. I can't — I’m not springing this on her in the middle of everything else. It would crush her.”

What the hell is he talking about?

Your eyes are wide open now, fixed on the wrinkled fabric of his jeans, and your mind is racing through every possible interpretation. None of them are good. Not a single one.

“How are things going on your end?” His voice shifts, softness creeping in. “How far along are you now?”

Your stomach drops through the floor.

“Fuck. Okay. No, no, we'll figure something out. Take care of yourself, alright? And check in regularly. I mean it.” There's a pang in his voice, a blend of concern and frustration. His gloved palm moves from your shoulder to the back of your head and he's quiet for a moment, listening, before he speaks again. “Yeah. Talk to you soon. Bye.”

The line clicks off.

You squeeze your eyes shut, feigning sleep, and try to keep your breathing steady. A thumb strokes, idly, along the curve of your ear, and he breathes out, an almost inaudible, “Fuck,” as his head thuds back against the headboard.

By morning the fever is gone. Only a tickle and the most annoying swelling in your throat remains of the cough, as well.

What they leave behind is the sour, washed-out weakness of having sweated through half the night and lived to tell the tale. The sheets are tangled. Your hair is a mess at the back of your neck. Your throat still feels rubbed raw, but the pressure behind your eyes is gone, and the room has stopped tilting every time you move.

Leon is already dressed.

He is by the dresser with his back half-turned, fastening his watch, having changed into a quarter zip compression shirt. His jacket is laid over the chair. His duffel sits open on the bench at the foot of the bed with that neat, economical packing job of his that always makes it look like he was never really there to begin with. The leather gloves are still on.

You push yourself up against the headboard and watch him fold a charger, tuck it away, zip a side pocket shut.

“Wow,” you say, head bobbing with the big swallow you have to take to be able to sound normal. “Caught you before you could put cash on the bedside.”

Leon glances at you from the corner of his eye, and flicks to the window. He reaches up to adjust the blinds, letting in a few more inches of daylight, then struts over, close enough to touch, close enough that the mattress dips when he braces one knee against the side of the bed. His gloved right hand lands on your forehead, then the side of your neck, checking by habit. Cooler now. You can feel the relief in the breath he lets out through his nose.

“Fever broke,” he says.

“Apparently I’m a medical miracle.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, pulling tighter before it smooths back out. “Don’t get cocky. You still look a little rough.”

“What a flirt,” you manage to smile, and it feels rusted, closing your eyes as Leon traces the shape of your face in that fond, gentle way of his. The back of your nose is burning, and you sniff it back down. The conversation from the night before stuck in your head is a parasite that won't let go, and it's killing the mood.

You hold out a hand without thinking much about it. A small, ordinary thing. Come here. Stay a minute.

For one second, his body answers before the rest of him does, shifting backwards imperceptibly. And that minute hiccup of a hesitation is enough for you to withdraw, curling your fingers inward, resting them back on the sheets and nod a couple times in a rapid fashion, “Okay.”

“Hey,” Leon is frowning, and his hand reaches for yours.

You snatch it before he can, holding both your hands up in a surrendering gesture. “It's fine.”

“I just have to—”

“It's fine, Leon,” you cut in, pushing the comforter aside and swinging your legs off the opposite side of the mattress so that your back is to him. You don’t see him flinch because of the lack of endearment. “I get it. I do. It's a work hazard. Can't get you,” — your eyebrows rise to emphasize the word — “infected while on the field, right?”

It's not like you two were basically cuddling the whole night or anything.

Leon pushes off the mattress, his boots, which you hope are clean because it was raining yesterday and god help his soul if you find any trace of mud in the house later, make almost no sound as he navigates around the bed. He stops at the foot of it, a solid silhouette against the morning light bleeding through the blinds. Not too close with that careful distance. You can feel his eyes on your profile, even before you turn to meet them, and you know exactly what he's doing — the way he always does when he's trying to gauge the temperature of a room without touching it, and that makes the heat in the back of your head flare hotter.

Silence.

“Listen, I...” his voice trails, and the pause is a beat long.

Your lips press together, and you can't decide if it's more exasperating that he's actually struggling to come up with the words, or that you two still have to dance around the issue — whatever it is.

Whatever it possibly is.

And that thought has you feeling so cramped that you have to say it before it can choke you, “Have I done something?”

Leon is halfway into bending to grab the duffel bag's handle, and that question brings his head up. A total deer in headlights, even through the long hair strands falling over his face. He fumbles with what to do about the luggage, and then abandons the idea entirely, straightening to his full height. “What? No. What are you talking about?”

Yeah, great. He's got the most comically forced oblivious look in his face. Like a cartoon character. You could almost draw the white scribbles of confusion circling his head.

“Don't. You know what I'm talking about. Just—” you bite down on the inside of your cheek. Hard. Your stomach turns loops over loops in anticipation. “Just, please, tell me. What is this? Is it another woman?”

His brows snap together immediately, head tilting as he rapidly blinks as if you blew a breath right into his eyes. “What?”

You get out of bed more slowly than your pride would prefer. Your legs are weak. The floor is cool under your feet. You cross to him in one of his old shirts and yesterday’s sleep-wrinkled shorts and stop close enough that he has to either meet your eyes or step back.

He meets them.

“This is ridiculous.” Leon shuts his eyes and shakes his head, palms the back of his neck, rubbing at the hair there. “We’re not doing this. You're sick, and you're overtired, and we can talk about this when you're better.”

“When I'm better. Right. I've been better this whole time, and it never occured to you to talk about it then?”

“There is no other woman! How could you ever think that of me!” Leon snaps like a glacier fracturing, it startles him more than it does you. His eyes dart to the floor as if searching for an escape route between the floorboards. He brings one gloved hand up to rub at the hinge of his jaw, thumb pressing into the muscle there while his fingers curl into a loose fist, thumb obscuring his mouth as if he might bite it.

Your entire face is on fire. Sweating bullets, but the cold kind, where you can feel the blood going down the drain, and the shakiness of the adrenaline rush from the chest. “Then give me something. Anything. Because from my point of view, you avoid kissing me, let alone touching me as if I'm radioactive, you avoid sleeping next to me, you avoid standing too close to me unless you think I’m unconscious. You leave for days, come back, scare the hell out of me, and then the second I’m vertical again you’re halfway out the door. And I don't know what the fuck to do anymore. What do I think? Huh?”

“Not that I'm cheating on you, for god's sake,” the last bit comes out in a harsh whisper, and the man is staring at you like a stranger on the street that has the gall to insult him to his face.

Way to ignore the point you're making and laser-focus on the one thing that pisses him the most off. “That's not the issue here.”

“But it is! It is the issue! I would never do that to you. And. And. That you'd think that after all this time—”

“Look. If you're not interested in sex or don't find me attractive anymore—”

“Are you fucking insane?” Leon's voice pitches upward. He's looking at you in disbelief.

“Forgive me for trying to rationalize your actions, or lack of, since you're not telling me anything, and apparently, I'm insane for that!”

“You are!” Leon's hands fly up, the muscle below his left eye pulses wildly. “You're the smartest person I know. And yet somehow, you've decided that the only possible explanation for what's happening is that I'm cheating on you, or, or,” Leon's face contorts, the rage flushing his skin a blotchy, uneven red that makes him look ill, “that.”

“So you agree,” you spit, folding your arms. You're on the verge of tears. But you've had years of practice at holding them back, and you manage to keep a level voice. “Something is happening?”

He looks at you like he's been stabbed. As if he were the one that had the right to be offended. Like you're the bad guy here. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, the compression shirt stretching tight across his pectorals as he struggles to rein in whatever he wants to say.

“What,” you ask, with a full period at the end.

“I'm not having this argument,” he declares, snatching up the duffel bag, his boots make the floor vibrate as he storms to the door, and it only gets you riled up that you have to pick up your pace to match his strides.

“No you don't. This is not how this is going to play out,” you block the bedroom doorway with your arms wide open, and the man barely stops in time to not run you over.

“Get out of the way.”

“No.”

“Stop this, I have to go,” and his tone is dripping, it's not a request, the glare that accompanies the statement is cutting.

“Do you have any idea how much I've been agonizing over what could possible be going on with you for this past month and so?” Your voice finally cracks like an egg on the edge of the words and the vulnerability is the messy egg yolk going absolutely everywhere. “And you just kept playing it up, up, up and up as if I'm stupid.”

Leon's whole body seems to deflate with it, the sigh tearing out of him through his nose in a rush. He turns away, the line of his jaw hard and tight, and closes his eyes, and for a minute he just stands there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, like he can't decide whether to stay or bolt.

“You know how this works! I've been through the rulebook with you a hundred times. You tell me where it hurts, even when it's hard, even when when you have to say you can't say why. I give you your space, I take your long nights, I take your silence, I let you bleed all over the bathroom tiles without asking questions because I trust you to tell me when it matters! All we've ever had is trust. It's the whole damn point. So yes, I think we've finally hit a dead end on this road, because what else could possibly be so bad that you'd rather let me think I'm losing you than tell me the truth?”

“Doesn't seem like you trust me all that much,” Leon mumbles away like one does under their breath while a parent is scolding them.

“Really? That's what you're going with? After all I've said, that's what you're going to say to me?”

“Yeah because I'm still stuck at the fact that you'd think I would cheat on you! You know me! I love you, and I thought you loved me enough to not think that of me—”

“—I do! I do love you! Why else do you think I—”

“—Do you not see the kind of work I have to put in to even be allowed to have a wife? To have you? Do you really believe that I would throw that all away—”

“Then tell me. Tell me. Stop bullshitting. Tell me,” you plead, with that little break in the middle that feels like the sound of your heart straining against its own stitches. The air is heated with the panting from both sides, the silence stretches between you like a mile, and you are the one that is running to the other side of the bridge, “Give me something, anything! Or back to it again, have I done something to make you lose that trust in me?”

Leon's head dips and the sun shines on the dark blond strands of his hair, his gaze falling to the carpet. He's wearing a strange look that is not guilt or shame or anger, but a terrible sort of sorrow. It's a look of resignation. Of a defeated man. “It's not your fault, it's not anything about you, it never is — it's not you.”

You have to admit quite a bit of weight is lifted off your chest after he says that. You take a breath to steady your nerves, but your throat doesn't cooperate and ends up a rattling inhale instead, the remnants of the cold collecting in the back of it and turning the simple act of breathing into a conscious effort.

He looks up at you as if seeing you for the first time since he started packing, and there is such an unmistakable tenderness in his gaze. That's good, right? That's the man you know. Your Leon.

“Okay,” you nod, then keep nodding, “Okay. Then, is it case-related? Are you safe? Are they blackmailing you, threatening you? Did you get caught in some scandal or corruption ring, or, are you in trouble, is it worse than Tall Oaks—”

“Please, baby.” He walks off again, one hand on his hip and the other sweeping down his face. “We really can't do this right now. Not now.”

Back then, a single tear would have been enough to pull him toward you, to make him close the space between your bodies, to murmur apologies against your skin until the anger dissolved.

“Then when? When?”

“Soon, okay, soon, I will, just. After it's over.”

“If it was this simple and you could have just told me, yes there is something and we'll talk about it later, just like how we've always done, by the way, why didn't you? Why did it come to this?”

“It's complicated—”

“It's always complicated in this field! I know! We've lived through the same events over and over again, but this isn't one of them!”

“I know. I know, I'm so sorry.”

You step away towards the huge windows for a breath of fresh air, and wipe the back of one wrist over your eyes, pressing in the tears before they can fully form.

When you turn around, Leon's sagging against the lip of the dresser now, his weight settled into the wood with the kind of defeat you rarely get to see in him, face drained of color, all of it leached away until the skin under his eyes looks bruised and paper-thin in the morning light. He's resting the heels of his hands on the edge, arms straight and supporting the weight of his upper body, and his shoulders have rounded forward into a permanent hunch that suggests he might slide right off the edge if he lets himself.

The phone call.

You have this arrow in your quiver, and the bow is drawn back, taut. It takes everything to lower it again.

Because Leon is not a liar, not really. Not in a way that counts. He omits, he deflects, files the truth away in a drawer with a top-secret seal, but doesn't manufacture a different reality to serve himself.

It's why you're scared.

“I know it's hard, but right now, I need you to trust me. As you've been doing all this time,” he says like a eulogy for a life you're not even aware is over. He spreads a gloved palm flat on his chest as if he’s trying to physically hold something inside himself in place, as if he’s about to come apart at the seams.

You stand your ground, your arms still crossed, and the living hell of a tear starts its slow, inevitable, lived-in path down your cheek, plopping onto your shirt and staining the soft gray cotton with a darker shade. A headache is creeping in between your eyebrows. The fatigue of being sick plus the exhaustion from being emotionally starved for weeks is a dangerous cocktail.

“I'll—” Leon begins, looking for a softer landing for this conversation, some way to de-escalate, but he’s fumbling for the doorknob in a dark hallway. He's the best operative you know, he faced down a literal zombie apocalypse when he was barely out of his teens, and he's struggling to find the words. And that sends a chill through you. “I'll be back as soon as I can.”

You nod, a gesture that feels both magnanimous and performative.

“Meanwhile,” he adds. “You can check my messages, the computer, my phone, tablet — any of it. If it puts your mind at rest.”

Still. Still he's stubbornly on the cheating topic.

“Of course,” you reply, and it comes out as flat as week-old soda. “I'll just spend the whole day snooping through your devices. Like you've assigned me a casefile.”

Leon's face does something complicated, a brief tightening around his mouth before smoothing out again.

“Whatever made you break the one hard boundary between us better be fucking earth shattering or I'm not sure if I can—”

“Baby…”

“Don't,” you snap. His lips clamp shut. “You've made your point, now go do your job.”

Leon's right knee bends as if he's about to lunge toward you, catching his weight mid-motion before the rest of him can follow. His gloved hand lifts off the dresser nd hangs there in the space between you, fingers curling inward as if he's just remembered a burn he can't rub out. The fist drops back to the wood with a muted thud.

His gaze tracks a frantic, useless pattern: the dust motes dancing in the slice of sunlight; the water stain on the ceiling you've both been meaning to fix; the scuff on your side of the bedframe; anywhere, everywhere, but at you. He bites his cheek hard enough that the muscle jumps in his jaw. Then he finally makes himself look at you.

“I love you,” he says, and it's the most honest thing he's said all morning. “More than anything. Everything I do is for you. Please believe that.”

You still do, even though it shrinks into embers sometimes, that trust too stubborn and hopeful to be extinguished. However, the doubt this time around is too forceful of a cold gale, and it's wrapped itself around your heart.

“I'm trying,” you whisper.

“You’ve got so many,” you murmur gently.

Leon exhales through his nose.

“Comes with the job.”

You hum softly, not satisfied with that answer, but not pushing either.

Your fingertips follow one thin line along his collarbone. Then another across his side. You treat them carefully, like they might bruise under too much pressure.

“You don’t have to tell me how you got them. I just… want to know them.”

He looks at you then.

There is something unguarded in his expression. Something uncertain.

“You want to know my scars?” he asks quietly.

“I want to know everything about you.”

That does something to him.

He moves slightly onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Giving you access. Trusting you with it.

You press a soft kiss to the first scar you find.

Right on his shoulder.

He stiffens for half a second.

Then relaxes.

“What was that one?” you whisper.

“Knife,” he replies simply.

You nod and kiss it again.

“Okay.”

Your lips move lower. Another pale line near his ribs.

“And that one?”

“Shrapnel.”

You press your mouth to it, slow and deliberate.

“Okay.”

He watches you now instead of the ceiling.

You do not look afraid. You do not look overwhelmed.

You look… tender.

When you reach a thicker scar across his lower abdomen, your fingers pause.

“This one,” you say softly.

His jaw tightens.

“That one’s mine.”

You glance up at him.

“They’re all yours.”

He shakes his head faintly.

“No. That one… that one I messed up. Bad call. Bad timing.”

There it is. The guilt he carries like an extra layer of skin.

You lean down and kiss that scar the longest.

Slow.

Intentional.

Like you are erasing something.

“I love you and I love them,” you whisper against his skin.

His hand comes to your waist immediately. Firm. Grounding.

“You shouldn’t,” he says quietly.

“I love that you survived, I love that you’re still here.”

His throat moves as he swallows.

You move higher, pressing another kiss over a faint mark near his heart.

“And I love this one most.”

He lets out a soft, almost breathless laugh.

“That one’s barely there.”

“I know. Still counts.”

Your lips brush over it.

He closed his eyes.

Leon does not talk about what he has been through. He does not lay it out like a story for sympathy. He does not want you picturing it.

But he lets you see it.

He lets you touch it.

When you finish your exploration, you rest your cheek against his chest.

“I love you,” you say, simple and steady.

Silence.

You feel his hand slide up your back. Feel his fingers thread into your hair. He tilts your head up gently.

He does not answer with words.

He kisses you.

Slow. Deep. And full of emotion.

His other arm wraps around you and pulls you fully on top of him. Like he needs the weight of you there to keep him anchored.

When he pulls back, his thumb traces over your jaw.

"I love you."

His voice is so low, you barely hear him. He presses one final kiss to your lips. Then another to your temple. Then one to the inside of your wrist, right over your pulse.

You understand.

He will never love loudly.

But he loves fully.

And every scar on his body tells the story of how hard he fought to still be here with you.

~Masterlist~

does that explain why he was now stationed on the opposite side of the cafe you and dan heng were seated at?

maybe. 

but it’s okay, he justifies to no one in particular. it's perfectly fine as long as you don’t notice him. he needs to make sure you are doing your job properly, is all.

from his hiding spot behind the wall, he sees you invite dan heng to tea under the pretense of a friendly conversation; wearing the guise of a traveling merchant, you chat enthusiastically with him about trivial matters, your tone disarmingly harmless as you subtly pried for information on the astral express. 

“so the express usually stops by this area for repairs?” you ask, idly stirring your tea. “must be hard to maintain such a big train while traveling.”

he watches as dan heng hesitates before answering, clearly weighing how much to share.

your eyes lit up at his explanations, your head tilting in that familiar way, so similar to the expression you wear on the rare occasions blade speaks about his day.

blade folds his arms and leans against the wall, his gaze never leaving you. from this angle, he can see the way you smile patiently at dan heng, gently coaxing words out of him.

he knows this is all for the sake of the mission, but it still rubs him the wrong way to see you act so close with someone else, especially dan heng, of all people. (not like he’d ever admit that to you though.)

couldn’t you have chosen the trailblazer instead? why did it have to be dan heng? the more he thinks about it, the darker his expression grows, a faint scowl forming as his fingers dig into the rough surface of the wall—

“ah,” an elderly voice chuckles from behind him, amused. “admiring the young couple, are you? they certainly look good together.”

when blade gives no response, the old man follows his line of sight, glancing between you and dan heng. “you know them?”

“they’re my lover”, he wants to say; but he swallows the voice down, and stays fixed on the table by the window.

leaning forward across the table, you prop your chin on your hand, nodding along at dan heng occasionally. and as if he’s examining you under a microscope, blade’s eyes narrow slightly at your every movement. 

it’s not anger, not quite—more of a slow, simmering displeasure. like the faint itch he feels after you bandage his wounds. not unbearable, but all the more aggravating and impossible to ignore.

as if to rub salt into said wound, you reach your hand out, thumb brushing lightly against the corner of dan heng’s mouth, wiping away the faint trace of tea from his lips. the gesture looks to be intimate from your boyfriend’s vantage point, though you probably have no idea.

dan heng freezes. his eyes flicker wide for a fraction of a second before he looks away, ears faintly tinted red. even the old man beside blade can’t hide his reaction, letting out a quiet whistle, “young love these days.”

…

so far, you’re doing well.

your soft smiles and carefully chosen words has dan heng lowering his guard, answering your questions more freely than before.

but he doesn’t like how well it’s working.

he doesn’t like that you’re laughing at dan heng’s unfunny remarks (are they even good jokes, or are you just humoring him? whatever it is, it can’t be that funny.)

seeing your fond expression aimed at him makes blade’s chest tighten unpleasantly, it irks him to the point that he blurts out—

“they don’t look good with him.” the comment slips out in a flat tone, directed to the old man’s previous harmless compliment.

blade imagines you standing beside him instead, fingers intertwined with his, every ounce of your attention focused on him and him alone.

“they look better with me,” he adds, more so muttering to himself.

the man laughs at his reaction, shaking his head. “ah, so you’ve got competition, then.”

his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. competition? what a joke. as if he’d ever allow anyone to take you from him. 

“…do you feel like we’re being watched?” dan heng asks quietly.

you blink, taken aback by his question. “huh? by who?”

you follow his earlier line of sight, gaze drifting toward the wall at the end of the street. there’s nothing there—at least, nothing anyone else would notice.

but you know better. 

the faint traces of spider lilies left behind essentially confirms your guess.

and you can’t stop the small, mischievous smile tugging at your lips.

the mission wraps up smoothly.

you’re the last to arrive at the gaming cafe, spotting blade leaning against the wall near the entrance while silver wolf is still inside, aggressively mashing buttons at a machine.

“took you long enough,” the latter mutters without looking away from her screen.

blade says nothing yet his gaze flicks over you once, making sure you’re fine.

normally, he’d turn away after confirming you’re unhurt. today, he doesn’t. he pushes off the wall and steps closer instead, close enough that his shadow falls over you. 

“we’re meeting kafka and firefly at the shopping channel,” you say, stepping closer. “they’re finished too.”

silver wolf finally wins her round. “ugh fine. but i’m not carrying the bags.”

blade’s hand hovers at the small of your back—

“yo.” silver wolf leans over your shoulder, oblivious to what’s going on, her chin brushing your shoulder as she squints at whatever’s in your hands.

—before it drops back to his side.

silver wolf straightens. “you good?” she asks, tapping your arm lightly. “you froze for like, two seconds.”

“yup, im fine.”

you are absolutely not fine.

out of the corner of your eye, you see blade turn around a little too quickly, like he’s suddenly very interested in anything that isn’t you—conveniently avoiding silver wolf’s narrowing, suspicious stare.

he rubs the back of his neck, and now you can’t stop imagining what might’ve happened if silver wolf had shown up just two seconds later.

the street’s lively, bright lights reflecting off storefront glass. silver wolf skips ahead, hands stuffed in her pockets, rambling about her new console game while you trail behind with blade.

things are quiet between you two, which is unusual since you’re normally the talkative one. but your mind keeps drifting back to earlier; he rarely initiates kisses, so the thought of it now leaves you surprised and honestly, a little giddy.

he shifts slightly, and you notice him starting to take off his coat. “oh, i’m not cold—”

in one smooth motion, blade pulls off his coat and instead of draping it over your shoulders, it lands squarely over silver wolf’s head.

“—what the—?!”

you hear her exclaim in the background but your attention snaps back to your boyfriend almost instantly.

he uses the brief distraction to pull you close, one hand sliding to your waist, the other steady at your back. you barely get a word out before he leans down and kisses you.

“why is it dark—get this off—”

blade pulls back just enough to let you breathe, but his forehead stays pressed to yours.

“missed you,” he whispers.

people usually exaggerate this part in dramas, but somehow, you can actually feel your heart skip a beat.

the moment is abruptly broken when silver wolf finally wriggles free, gasping, half-annoyed. she stops dead in her tracks, staring at the two of you, before recoiling dramatically.

“ew!” she yelps, making an exaggerated gagging motion. “can’t you guys do that somewhere private?!”

you step back quickly, flustered at being caught by your colleague.

blade, however, seems completely unfazed. he takes his coat back from her and slings it over his shoulders with a casual shrug.

silver wolf groans, making another retching noise, and storms ahead. “i’m telling kafka!”

blade doesn’t even flinch at her half-hearted threat, which elicits a giggle out from you. he glances down and you catch the faintest hint of satisfaction lingering in his eyes.

this time, he doesn’t let too much distance form between you as you continue walking.

on your shared bed, your boyfriend lies flat on his back, and you settle yourself atop his lower abdomen.

“blade… i didn’t know you read,” you tease.

a rhetorical statement, of course—you’ve never seen this man pick up a book in his free time, not even once.

“why are you ignoring me?” you press, tilting your head and leaning just enough to peek over the top of his book. “aren’t you the one who said you missed me?”

you tap the edge of the book with your index finger, nudging it down toward him.

he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing, and looks away; revealing the top of his ears just barely reddening under his hair.

“...are you done?”

you ignore his attempt to act indifferent, changing the topic.

“y'know… i have to say, you must be a real genius to make sense of all those words.”

before he can even ask what you mean by that, you reach over and flip the book upside down (or rather, right-side-up). 

"really?"

"..."

it’s not like blade usually pulls stunts like this, you know he’s never been good at putting his feelings into words. but at least he makes them known to you. somewhat.

you’ve gotten good at reading his hints, though really… who could possibly miss them? he’s surprisingly so easy to fluster when it comes to you, even when he tries to hide it, it’s written all over him. only someone dense as a brick would fail to notice.

but you feign ignorance even now, its nice to hear him admit it himself once in a while. 

“is this because you’re jealous of dan heng?”

for the briefest moment, he visibly stiffens. ah. so it is about earlier.

he blinks, gaze traveling slowly from your thighs straddling his lap to your face, taking in every detail as if savoring the view.

“and you still decide to mention his name?”

he doesn't miss the small tug of your lips at his admission. he continues, “then, did your hard work pay off?”

“actually… he already found out a while ago.”

“good,” he says immediately, a not-so-subtle satisfaction threading through his tone. “so he knows you’re mine.”

“yes yes, but that’s not really the point—”

he buries his head in your shoulder, almost nuzzling into your neck. and you can’t help but think he’s just like a black cat staking its claim on its owner. 

“ahem, what i’m trying to say is… i got the info we needed in the end thanks to a source dan heng gave me.”

his hand slides along your side before his lips press against your neck, hair brushing softly against your skin.

you roll your eyes, fully aware he hasn’t been paying attention to your words at all.

instead, he seems far more interested in the way you react—how your shoulders tense when he decides to press a deep kiss under your ear, and how your breath hitches while you stubbornly bite your lip.

the book lies forgotten at the edge of the bed, its pages crumpled where it had been carelessly set aside.

whatever pretense he’d had of reading is long gone now as his fingers curl a little more firmly at your waist, thumb tracing idle patterns against the fabric there as though committing the shape of you to memory.

a faint, smug hum vibrates against your skin. so much for pretending the effect you have on him doesn't work just as well on you.

he still won’t admit it outright; but the little quirk of his lips, the subtle flush at his ears… 

those will have to keep you satisfied for now.

obligatory smau section (click in for full screenshot)

dh pov once he finds out abt your relationship w blade:

(d*n h**g is like a trigger word for ur bf plz dont mention it around him again)

Well, not that you care. These are all things your stoic father constantly goes on and on and on about during family dinners when returning from a meeting with said general. And it's not just your father, but your strict mother, your teeth-grinding annoying older brother, your retired general of a grandfather, your uptight grandmother, your money-hungry aunt and uncle, your bratty blabbermouth of a third cousin, your, quote-unquote, "clique" who foolishly agrees with everything you say, your—

Seriously, what a load of nonsense. He's not even all that, and yet he gets all the approval from everyone around you! You, a duke’s daughter! And he's just some... some muscle-loaded, freakishly strong, happy-go-lucky brute with an annoying laugh! Even in a ballroom packed with gossip-mongering nobles, his unmistakable, “hahaha” still manages to ring clear through the air!

Speaking of that insufferable laugh, you can hear it right now. It booms from somewhere behind you on your left, the area where most of this evening’s party-goers have congregated. Well, you can’t say you’re surprised. Whenever he attends these gatherings everyone seems to flock towards him like some kind of hivemind.

It’s laughable, really, considering how they were the ones who mocked him in the past; how a lowly commoner like he could never become something great, let alone even enter the knight’s academy. Yet now that he has become a living legend, built a name for himself after all these years, all of their past transgressions behind his back seem to have been conveniently forgotten. Like birds of a feather, you suppose. No matter where you go, no matter who the next target is, they’re always the same.

(You would know best, after all.)

You don’t realise you’re staring. At least, not until his eyes catch yours. Champagne bubbles stuck in your throat, you are not even given the luxury of pretending such an interaction never happened when his easy-going smile suddenly turns into that of a beam replicating the watt of a thousand suns, eyes glimmering like the sharp edge of a finely carved diamond caught under the light, as he begins to spew apologies to the crowd around him before steadily making his way over to where you stand.

God, you hope some knight or military official or someone swoops in and takes him away for some urgent business. What a delight that would be, sparing you the—

The ladies around you gasp, blushing gazes drawn to something behind you like moths to a flame. You don’t even need to turn to guess who could be making his way towards you.

Glass creaks under your fingers.

Damn it all.

You really don’t understand this guy’s deal. Have all your previous schemes really had no effect in deterring him away?

Initially, you ignored him and gave the cold shoulder whenever he would approach to try and strike up a conversation of sorts. Honestly, you’re not entirely sure what you thought would happen when he was the man who went from zero to hero in record time and overturned the favour of this snobbish high society. Maybe you thought he would take the hint and leave you alone, but no. He stayed. And even when he did start to maintain a distance after your first and only confrontation, you could feel his gaze linger in the moments when everyone looked away.

It was unnerving, the way it seemed he could see right through you at times when you have spent your entire existence as anything but acknowledged. That’s what you hated about him the most, how he kept his distance not out of respect (though you’re sure he has some strict knightly code he abides by, he certainly seems like the type), but because he seemed know something beyond you. He always had that annoying expression akin to understanding or, worse yet, pity. And who was he to pity you? He may be a hero of the nation, but what right does that give him to play the role in the lives of others? In your life?

So, you resorted to tactics in hopes of driving him away for good. Petty? Sure. But that’s what you are known for, so why not make use of the rumours and reputation already at your disposal to get rid of him before he manages to reach a part of you you’re sure won’t be the same ever again.

Once, you spilled the darkest red wine available on his clean, white ceremonial garb. It was his celebratory banquet for becoming the youngest to inherit the title of Grand Master. Your dress was coincidentally just a little too long, your grip on the glass coincidentally a little too loose, and he just so happened to be there when you coincidentally stumbled and spilled your drink over him, staining his pristine attire crimson. Coincidentally, of course.

Your family gave scathing glares, but what’s new? Well, that foolish general’s laid-back reaction was certainly new. He took one look at his soiled clothes, flicked his eyes over your own attire, before grinning at you, the words, “No need to sweat over it! It was an accident, after all. But now we match!” Much to your immense horror, the crimson bleeding into his ceremonial garb was an almost one-to-one match with that of your dress!

There was also that time when you were — begrudgingly, you must stress — sharing drinks and sneaked in some very potent alcohol, adding it to his cup without anyone realising, confident it would render him sick and unable to perform his duties for a while. You know, just to tell him, “Stay away if you know what’s good for you.”

So imagine your complete and utter bafflement when he drinks the entire thing, licks his lips, sighs in complete and utter contentment, and has the audacity to ask, “Hey, that was pretty good! Mind if I take some with me back to the barracks? I’m sure the others would love it, too! Hahaha!”

Mouth agape, you seriously contemplated the idea he was not human.

(No, genuinely. How can he still be fine after downing such a high alcohol concentration in one go?? Is his liver alien??? How did he not get alcohol poisoning???? What in the world is this man?????)

…and many more failed attempts at getting him to despise your entire being. You've done just about everything you can to throw this stubborn man off your back, yet, much to your complete and absolute horror, he has not relented a single inch. After that last attempt, which has you sick at even the mere thought of consuming a single drop of that near-pure concentrate alcohol concoction, you promptly gave up on tricks and went back to giving him the cold shoulder. A full-circle moment, if you will.

Ugh! Curse this brute and that stubborn smile and stupid laugh of his! Just who does he think he is?!

And, as if to make matters even worse, your father appears by your side, your mother and brother following soon after. Great. Just great.

Tuning out their conversation, you sip on your champagne flute and mindlessly listen to the surrounding chatter. The ladies in your group have gone back to discussing the most recent play by that popular acting troupe from Fontaine, debating whether or not it was better than the last performance. That Furina seems to be making a name for herself lately. Apparently the affairs of the Fontainian nation weren’t doing so great, but things seem to have settled if they are able to travel so often like this, along with that magic group with the three siblings.

Some of the older nobles are discussing the current affairs of Mondstadt, particularly the military and political scenes. There’s some rumours about the Snezhnayan diplomats making their move. Some seem relatively tame, while others have you wondering just what in the world their leader is thinking, letting people like that run free as influential figures. At least they are yet to come here, but who knows how long that will last. You just hope one of the seemingly tamer ones come to Mondstadt for negotiations, like that… that Captain guy? Seriously, why do they all have such strange aliases? You wouldn’t ever agree to being referred to as a child.

Well, whatever. It’s none of your business anyway. The worse that can happen is—

“Your Grace, I would be honoured if you would bestow me your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

This. This is apparently the worse that can happen.

Glass shatters somewhere in the distance. Actually, something tells you it also shattered near you as well, but you have bigger things to worry about than some replaceable material scattered across the floor. This conversation between the general and your father you unfortunately overheard being one of them, with the other constituting of not dying from choking on champagne. (What a mortifying way to go that would be.)

From the corner of your eye, your father tenses. It’s rare to see him in such a state. For all his feats in building the family’s name and further prospering the ducal house and its territory, his stoicism is one of his main traits; a most annoying one, but it’s familiar. Nothing like a certain man’s jolly demeanour; the complete opposite, if you will.

“Grand Master Varka, I am afraid I will have to reject your proposal,” he responds after a few long seconds worthy of baited breaths.

Figures, a commoner like him wouldn't ever be able to gain approval for your hand, no matter how incredible his feats are. Perhaps your father maintains that wretchedly stubborn noble pride of his even in the face of the figurehead he constantly praises in your home. Or perhaps he has some heart in him for you after all. Maybe the thought of his one and only daughter being snatched away by some hulking guy who swings a sword has knocked some sense into him, and—

“I fear my daughter is less than suitable and far too lacking for someone of your calibre.”

...what? You? Lacking? Should it not be the other way around?? And what kind of father says that about his own daughter??? You're his flesh and blood!

It seems your so-called father makes it a point to avoid your glare, if the way he claps a palm over the general's shoulder and treats him so familiarly is anything to go by. Ha! He should just go and take him in as a son then! They can gallop to the registry and have him officially become a part of the family. You're sure everyone would be jumping over the moon with that notion, finally having the golden child they always dreamed of having.

(What were you expecting? You should have never dreamed, should have never hoped for the impossible. You fool. You absolute fool.)

You expect the general to laugh that annoying laugh of his. Does he find this situation funny? Is your complete and utter humiliation that enjoyable to his sick senses? He probably does. Well, if not him, then those around you certainly find amusement in the current scene. You can already see all those two-faced nobles smirking down at you behind their masks. Maybe next time you should go to the black market to put some actual poison in—

“That's not true.”

...come again?

“Lady [Name] is anything but lacking,” Varka continues, as if what he is saying isn’t absolutely ludicrous in and of itself. “She is graceful, poised, and confident in her every manner. There is no one more suitable, and if she is considered as “lacking” as you say, then I’m afraid I will go the rest of my life without marriage.”

You blink. Uhh... is he really talking about you? Has he lost his mind? No, never mind that. What really has you gawking is how flippantly he brushed off your father’s hand from his shoulder; as though the weight that palm carries is nothing but mere dust soiling his clothes.

(…did your father always look so small? What happened to the man whose mere silhouette had your hands clamming up? Was his entire image simply something you made up? What were you always so afraid of? How much of your life have you wasted?)

A dull, prickling pain digs into the base of your palm.

“Even when alone, she tries her best to prove herself. To me, Lady [Name] is someone to be admired, but even more than that,” he trails off, tearing his blazing gaze away from that of your stunned father and instead focusing his sole attention onto you. Within that instant, his features relax, as though his parched throat has finally been relieved with a drop of water.

You want him to stop. To let this whole thing go and to forget this incident ever occurred. Why did he have to bring up such a topic to begin with? Why won’t he stop and just move on?

And then, within a blink, it happens.

One second he is standing, stature tall and posture the epitome of confidence. The next, he swoops down to bend at the knee — left knee flat against marble, one hand splayed across his heart, the other holding yours as he looks up at you in a way which screams warmth personified. When he slowly guides the back of your hand closer to him, clear blue seeking permission to continue, you find yourself unable to tear neither your gaze nor your hand away from him.

Feather-light is the kiss placed atop your gloved hand. Searing is the remnant which lingers when he pulls away.

“You are someone to be cherished; reverently, wholeheartedly, most ardently.” Even with the glove as a barrier, his breath is warm; his eyes even more so when he continues. “I may be lacking in many ways, my lady, but I hope you may give me a chance to love you in the way you deserve.”

He's not putting on a facade, that much you can tell. Then again, when has he ever put one on? You can't recall, and you really don't believe there to be a time where he ever did don a mask of his own. He has just remained as himself; unapologetically so.

...seriously, what's wrong with this guy? How can he be so... so...

Dammit.

And so when you snatch his stupidly large hand in yours and dash out of the ballroom with only the stunned silence of the nobles, the hurried clacks of your heels against polished marble, and Varka's infuriatingly concerned tone when asking if you're alright as if running at this speed doesn't wind him in the slightest, you choose to ignore the searing heat spreading rapidly across your skin, nor do you acknowledge the tears which threaten to spill over after years of repression or the rapid palpitations of your heart you already know aren't from running.

You’re not sure how long you keep running for, but you eventually come to a slow, your huffing figure caring little about what unsightly state you might be in right now. Rows of Cecilia extend as far as the eye can see, glimmering lamp grass lighting up the cobble-squared path further into the palace garden. There is a water fountain beside you, the faint pitter-pattering filling in the silence.

Varka doesn’t say anything. You don’t even look at him, gaze stubbornly fixed to the dampened grass. But he shifts, his shadow moving to enshroud you in your entirety, as if he were blocking anything else from disturbing this space. Feet shuffling, he eventually guides you to sit on the stone ledge of the fountain, his hand still held firmly in yours. You can’t bring yourself to pull away, and yet your eyes refuse to meet his in fear of what would eventually escape through the widening cracks of your composure.

“Why…” Gritting your teeth, you blatantly ignore the warmth of his hand beginning to seep through your gloves. “Why did you say all of that in front of everyone? Why didn’t you…”

“Why didn’t you laugh and mock me like everyone else in that room?” Is what you would have asked had you not bitten back the remaining words, had they not been stuck in the back of your throat like a wedge shoved under a door.

No words are said. Instead, he kneels down once more in the damp grass, and you’re reminded of moments prior in the ballroom. Except, instead of cool, polished marble, a patchy green already begins to bleed into the pristine white of his trousers, the plane of his knee a mini field, matching the blue skies of his eyes and the golden sun of his hair.

…this is stupid. He is stupid. You’re stupid. Everything is stupid.

Him and his stupid messy hair, fanged grin, scar-littered skin, infuriatingly gentle gaze, boisterous laugh, steadfast resolve, callused hands, annoyingly warm voice—

He looks at you then; really looks at you. In a single instant, you have never felt more exposed than you do now under this man’s gaze, as if he himself understands what everyone else never bothered to try like it’s nothing.

A thumb brushes over your knuckles like it’s easy; like it’s second nature. Warm, comforting, gentle — everything you’ve come to associate with the man, and everything you have come to despise him for.

“Because I see you.”

You scoff, disbelieving, heart caught in your throat. “What kind of answer is that?”

It takes a moment for Varka to respond, eyes boring into your own with something secure and assured and utterly incomprehensible to you.

“An answer I believe in, because when you thought no one saw the cracks slowly forming to reveal everything you worked hard to hide, I saw them. Where everyone else saw the contempt and vitriol, I saw someone trying to survive in a room where no one took them seriously — where you were always under constant scrutiny for every minor thing and did all you could just to remain afloat.”

Your lip trembles; his grip tightens.

“I see you,” he reiterates once more, body leaning up until his forehead rests against yours, both of your hands held firmly within his. Strands of gold enter your vision, tickle the skin of your cheek, yet your eyes remain fixed onto his, wondering how someone could look so sure and unwavering in their beliefs. He whispers your name in utter reverence, like silk doused in the sweetest of honey. “If you’ll have me, I will happily spend the rest of my life giving you everything you should’ve had since the moment you blessed this world with your birth.”

Ha. What a fool. What a complete, utter fool.

(Whether that is meant for him or for you... Well, you're not even sure anymore. Perhaps he is a fool. Perhaps you're both fools. But maybe, you're the biggest fool of all for thinking someone as earnest as he could truly be hated; that his sincerity hadn’t reached you through the hairline cracks of your noble composure back during the first time you saw him as a knight-in-training when visiting the palace, swinging that flimsy wooden sword one thousand times.)

(Yeah. You really are a fool. In more ways than one.)