kanis

​it feels strange to be back here.

you packed a pile of clothes inside your suitcase. plenty for a few days away from the chaotic atmosphere of your city and right back to where it all began: your birth town. the horrid traffic jam and constant noise— you temporarily left all of that behind for the retreat of your parents’ home.

you crammed everything in a small, pearly white suitcase and straight into the trunk of your car it went— a pair of lacquered pink stilettos and the gorgeous satin dress for the main event, your pajamas, gorgeous clothes and some of them skimpy, for the warm weather and a pair of bikinis. at the bottom, there’s something you weren’t so sure about. lingerie.

it’s all because of leon. you didn’t know if he’d show up, but you assumed he would.

pink pieces of lace sewn delicately around the edge of the balconette bra that meet in the middle, in semblance with a bouquet of white roses: pale sweet satin, brand new, laid neatly in an agent provocateur box, arranged together with the matching panties.

you didn’t text him about it. he didn’t tell you either.

he’d end up looking like a huge asshole and his absence would disappoint your father, especially. you knew he’d show, however. he wouldn’t miss this. he’s not the type to. his reliability is his most predictable asset and that’d be simply out of discussion.

you drove for a few hours in your convertible, a vanilla cream 80’s mercedes benz that you feel in love with at seventeen on a family trip to arizona. you begged your parents for it and they had to comply with their only daughter’s wish to drive around the town in a vintage car.

you tap your nails against the nude steering wheel, vintage— butt sunken in the cushy, cream leather seat, eyes behind a pair of large, cat-eye shades— with your phone on speaker and the highway winds blowing through your hair, dancing and tingling across your bare skin.

“hope i won’t have to talk to all your guests, dad,” you whine.

white slingbacks click against the marble floor when your mother waltzes around the kitchen, with every hurried step she takes. your father talks to the catering staff. his newly found best friend is an old, high quality bottle of bourbon he’s taken from his collection, hidden in his personal study.

it’s a big day, everyone’s stressed.

“c’mon, don’t be like that!”

“anyone i might actually know? at least?”

“well- auntie’s gonna be here. your uncle hasn’t seen you in ages. remember john and georgia? oh well, y’know… their son, pete-”

“your dad’s trying to tell you pete’s single, sweetie pie,” your mother interrupts, “georgia told me he’s been looking to settle down! isn’t that great?”

“how’s that great? mom. dad. please, i don’t need you to be my matchmakers.”

you flick the volume button and turn the music up, plastic fantastic lover. this conversation that won’t lead you nowhere makes you scoff. you take a puff of your cigarette and flick the ash in the car tray with the tip of your fake nail.

“give it a try, sweetie. can’t even remember the last time i saw you with a boyfriend. anyone in the city catching your eye?”

your mother’s insistence feels futile for reasons unbeknownst to anyone you’ve ever known.

except for your father’s best friend.

“honey, i gotta go. drive safely, ‘kay?” your dad walks around the kitchen, “leon’s in the hallway. buddy’s in dire need of some bourbon.”

leon kennedy. your palms sweat with the agony of expectation around the steering wheel— the excitement and simultaneous wave of anxiety of seeing him for the first time in a month. your gaze lingers down to your wrist, the gold bracelet screwed around it, along with a few other bangles.

so, he decided to show up. your press your foot down the pedal and you speed up the highway. you’re not sure if the news make you excited or if you’d rather hide inside your bedroom for the unforeseeable future. at least until leon leaves. on the other hand, he owes it to you.

you sit inside the local bar, sandal heels tapping on the metal foot rest of the bar stool, thighs shut together in your flared jeans. you’re nervous.

leon was just passing by, visiting your city, making sure you’re fine and not feeling too lonely.

his right elbow rest on the bar table. his big, softly defined muscles under his black shirt that looks like it’s going to explode from how ripped he is. he keeps the bottle of beer in his hand, fingers gripped around it, and the index plays around the glued-on label.

his hair, dirt blonde and long falls over his face and it shines under the dim lights. his blue eyes look so warm, soft, despite the natural coldness of his irises. he looks tired. he always does.

if being fine, by definition, of course, implies squirting all over his fingers and getting fucked dirty in the passenger seat of his porsche— sure, you’re just fine and dandy— strong hands around your hips, pulling you closer in a sloppy drunk make-out session, sucking on his tongue. a sort of forgive me from his side. (if the twenty grand cartier bracelet wasn’t enough of an apology for his lack of communication.)

fine, by leon’s definition, would imply making sure you get mind blowing orgasms and that your pussy gets completely filled up to the brim— every inch of of your stretchy walls, with all the length of his thick cock, bent over the counter of your kitchen with his hand pressed flat against your naked back.

your pajama shorts pulled down your thighs, leg climbed up the edge of the wooden counter. right next to your wide open window, under the moonlight, moaning so loud that an entire neighborhood could hear you.

by his definition, you should fine. you think.

then, he puts a plain red bag on the bar, “open it.”

“what’s that?”

he doesn’t vocalize an answer, but raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to look inside the mysterious bag. you shove a hand inside and pull out a red box with engraved golden details and open it.

“oh! wow- cartier?”

a love bracelet.

“can’t do jackshit with my money. don’t care that much either. you deserve it.”

nobody knows. how could they ever find out about this?

“keep it. i mean it, doll. you’re too attached to that car of yours, i get it. you don’t need one. can’t do nothing ‘bout that. can’t get you a new one either. tryin’ to be more creative.”

“i really love my car-“

“yeah. i know. it suits you - gonna let me help you with that?”

“so,” you mumble while he fixes the bracelet around your wrist. he pulls out the golden screwdriver to lock it, “i get dso pays their best agent very well.”

the stark contrast between the bracelet and the bar, which sits around the corner, a street away from your apartment. there’s a few people gathered around the pool table and the some other at the tables in groups to share a couple of drinks.

“you could say that— there you go. how’s it feel?”

“wow! i love it. it’s so… gorgeous. hmm, it’s perfect.”

you throw your arms around leon, around the back of his neck; his warmth engulfs you and breath him in. you pull away, arms still around him and you give him the softest peck on the lips. he pulls you in for another embrace, longer than an usual ‘thank you’ hug and you stay like that for around a minute, before leon breaks the hug and sips out of his beer once.

the air feels crisp with an agonizing desire to hold him longer, but there’s something changing, an awkwardness of some sort. it feels like a farewell gift.

“thanks, leon, really. i- i’m speechless. i-i wish you’d visit more often.”

he shouldn’t.

he keeps you at a considerable distance away from him, yet closer than he ever intended. leon finds himself missing you deeply during his many sleepless nights, sat at the edge of a hotel bed with some whiskey on his tongue and a bottle in his hand.

he buys you gifts each time he visits you— that already happens more often than he wanted to. or even when he’s away from you.

“what’s up with you and this bar, huh?”

“it’s two minutes away from my place.” this place has seen you in your worst possible moments.

“i know, doll. you’re all so beautiful and dressed up to meet me at a cheap bar? have a mediocre cocktail? so i can crack two beers?”

“don’t put this on me, leon. you’re the one who shows up unannounced at one in the morning. every. single. time.”

you feel guilty for admitting this. for criticizing leon, right when he showed up with a cartier love bracelet to surprise you.

but it’s true. he’s a reliable man when he doesn’t get lost in the scarred corners of his mind.

or when he leaves some finished bottles of whiskey or vodka on the floors of his monotonous hotel rooms—some nights he ends up drunk, half asleep, and the feeling of self imposed loneliness creeps up by his window or terrace, where nothing else is laid; fake flowers in dusty vases, if lucky or a bottle of beer, a gun and a dirty piece of cloth he used to clean up his weapons.

his missions only leave him charred. dead. the edges of his soul reach a state of borderline, emotional necrosis, grown insensitive to his own suffering.

he cares, deeply, and he regrets, truly so. but he feels numb. those states exist in contradiction.

nightmares possess him and he secludes. leon’s isolation only turns him caustic to himself and cautious, to an extent that, naturally so, makes him unreachable and cold, despite his caring and altruistic character. he’s truly a good man. of you asked him, he’d deny it. he tries to be good, always, but admitting it— he’d never do it.

he can’t keep you this close. he’d scare you away. and leon’s guilt is hungry for what remains of his consciousness, for you’re his best friend’s daughter and he should know better than to show up with expensive gifts. or expect you to soothe him. he doesn’t know where this is supposed to be going.

the bartender picks up the empty bottle of beer. leon nods and he’s offered a third bottle, “somethin’ for the lady too?”

“no, no- thanks.” you answer, “leon, you need to stop- stop drinking.”

he sets the bottle of budweiser back on the counter, “yes, ma’am”

“i- i know we shouldn’t be seen together. i do. m-my family.. this place sucks. but i don’t know, leon… what’s this? what are we, the bracelet? the shoes? the clothes? it feels like you’re always feelin’ sorry for some weird reason.”

“let me take you on a date.”

he shouldn’t.

“should i expect another 10 grand bracelet?”

“someone’s a spoiled little girl.”

you’re so spoiled and it’s completely his fault. your wardrobe warns to explode from the amount of pretty clothes, bags and shoes he gifted you. you keep everything stuffed in there. get this. get that. in the very beginning, he used to totally suck at this. but with time, he was eager to accustom to your tastes and get you gorgeous pieces of clothing.

he even left you a credit card to use, like some sort of allowance to cover all your monthly expenses and make yourself pretty gifts— so you’d quit the shitty job that you were complaining about and focus on finding your true passion.

you moved away to escape from the influence of your parents and you ran exactly into the arms of the person who is the best friend of your father. but he’s not a snitch. he proved himself many times.

“that’s not exactly my fault.”

he smiles.

“you drank. don’t go- stay with me tonight? it’s friday. we can… watch a movie on my couch.”

“you mean fuck on your couch? ain’t you subtle, sweetheart. i’d rather have you on the counter. or that pink bed of yours.”

“please don’t leave before i wake up.”

“sure, i’ll stay. i’ll even read you a bedtime story- make us some breakfast. pancakes? ain’t you obsessed with them?”

“i do want those pancakes. but… i want you more, leon.”

“i can book us a table for tomorrow, then. deal?”

leon kept his word and he stayed. you woke up to the smell of pancakes. he made you breakfast and you watched him cook, arms wrapped around his torso, pressing your lips against his back.

but something felt strange. like everything was about to come to the inevitable end and this was leon’s apology.

that was a month ago. ever since that night, leon stopped showing up. he came up with excuses and he stopped texting. although, he didn’t take your card away and your expenses were taken care of.

“my- i almost forgot! i got you a pretty dress, sweetie,” your mom’s voice buzzes enthusiastically through the speakers, “you’re gonna love it! i left it in your bedroom. i was looking through your old clothes, georgia is organizing a charity event with some of the other wives. mind donating some?”

“sure, mom. tell mrs.kane she can demolish my old wardrobe for what i care.”

the celebration of your parents’ marriage brought with it enough ex-coworkers, friends and roughly half of the town’s population.

i already have a dress. you want to tell her, but after all, it’s her big day.

they invited plenty of guests to fill up the great room, the enormous backyard with trellis that overviews your mother’s splendid white garden and victorian gazebo— her flowers kept as well as always: pink, white blooming roses and peonies, magnolias and gardenias. her most precious achievement.

a few lilies she takes pride in, and you’d always run around the gazebo, trailing your fingers through the few vines of ivy she’d keep neatly around the white columns.

she’d put a hand on your small shoulder; rub her palm against your sweaty temples, manicured nails painted always in a tone of burgundy at the local salon. her soft eyes would stare down still at the pages of her book, “careful, cupcake. you’re gonna trip and fall.”

the rich sweetness of the flowers used to fill up your bedroom in small bouquets on your window-still often, throughout your entire childhood, redolent in their smell.

she’s always been overly preoccupied with these aspects of life. with beauty and stability. with your father gone for months at times, working for the government, always abroad. she’d bury herself in housework or spend her time in the garden with you– keeping the house alive.

your home remains unchanged— at its core, it’s a golden box of memories, your innocence untouched. a reverie, mostly sweet, but so repetitive and mundane it turned you bitter.

summer evenings have grown warmer. today feels completely different from the rest. you feel different. like you completely outgrew your own roots and what only remained is the countless of memories stuck inside the walls of this gigantic house.

the air smells of flowers and nostalgia and you inhale it with your eyes closed; then the sizzling noise of your now retired father’s grill— he can’t miss the chance of a barbecue, not even when your mother hired a catering firm to handle the big event.

a few toddlers and children run around the backyard, people chat and laugh, reminiscing about their youth, of what’s been long gone. the few waiters stand around or walk around with plates of entrees and glasses of champagne.

the sun sets the more time you spend zoning out.

you rest your feet in the morning cut grass, stilettos in your hand, and the summer breeze washes over your body, through the flimsy ruffles of your pink dress. you look concerningly similar to the housewives your mother spends time with and it makes you wonder if she’s trying to lure you back into this town; marrying peter kane too. you’d hate that.

leon is here too.

he’s been staring at you for hours, right through the buzzing crowd of people standing and chatting, as if it’s only the two of you and the outside world doesn’t exist.

he laid eyes on you from the very moment you set foot right through the front yard next to your mother, his glass fresh with ice cubes and your dad’s bourbon.

“jeez, leon. ain’t you gonna retire soon? get married? have a kid? can’t lie- it’s hard to picture you like that. but it’s worth it, don’t you think?”

“maybe. i wouldn’t know. you seem happy.”

he was talking to your now retired father about middle aged men boring nonsense. the house roof needs to be fixed. your mother wants a new car. leon sucks on his teeth, not fully present, thoughtful— a part of him regrets his life decisions.

“still waiting for the day i’ll see you at the altar, buddy. i ain’t losin’ my hope.” your father smiles, hand on leon’s shoulder.

you wonder if you’ll be present at the wedding too. as a guest. you’re not the type to settle down and not the type you’d usually settle down with. especially not as a man that’s nearing fifty years of life. unless you’re living in some major state of psychosis and have various delusions.

you too, perhaps, present some form of delusion. despite the many times you claimed settling down isn’t for you, maybe, for leon you’d accept the destiny of a happily married woman. with him, you’d feel safe, accepted. adored.

you’re a wild flower that simply cannot be enclosed inside a garden like your mother’s.

you’re not your mother who spends her days drinking mimosas with the local committee of housewives and baking three hundred cookies for the school fair.

leon’s handsome in the way he rests his body weight so naturally on the balustrade, elbows on the white wood. he looks slightly laid back, but always alert, on the verge of reaction, with a holster tightened around his leg still. not even on his best friend’s marriage anniversary he cannot give up on that gun.

he’s never too elegant, but always so sexy, better looking than any man you’ve ever seen, for what it’s worth– his eyes, so blue and his dirt blonde hair arranged for the big event. his grey stubble peaks out short. he hasn’t shaved in about a week. it makes him look his age, forty nine. and his wrinkles, the crow’s feet radiate right in the corners of his blue eyes.

you’d think his age should make him less attractive, that with time, beauty fades and there’s nothing left of it. but he looks utterly beautiful.

he thinks of himself as an old man already, but truthfully, his effortless way of being makes him more attractive than any guy you’ve met. his calmness makes you seek him out and grow obsessed with the layer hiding underneath. his pain.

his presence soothes in ways nobody has ever done it before. you seek his warmth in your worst days, tucked in under your blanket, pretending he's with you, sleeping on the empty side of your bed.

you call him and he picks up, even when it’s best to keep his distance away from you, instead of creating a habit out of your insomniac late nights calls. that pretty much sums leon kennedy up. he’s a reliable man. he feels responsible, despite putting himself in a situation that could cost his life.

of course, he’d take the blame if anyone was to find out about this. and of course, this ultimately makes him feel like masochist.

when you started seeing each other, he’d leave while you were asleep. even after fucking you senseless, he'd rather leave you alone and not invade your space— he wouldn’t even fall asleep your bed. not crossing the line. what line, you wonder, for he consciously visits his best friend’s daughter for the sole purpose of fucking.

you wonder, also: could there be other woman in his life? it makes you ask yourself if you’re some stupid silly girl, part of a list of countless women. he doesn’t look like the type, but appearances can sometimes be deceiving.

he’d wait for you to doze off in his big arms, face down his shirtless chest and he’d sneak off. he’d let you play with his soft hair before and he’d rub your back till your eyes felt too heavy to stay opened, right in the warmth of his hug.

he’d make you breakfast too and leave it on the kitchen table, next to a small note, “EAT ME! :)”

leon wears a white button-up stays tucked in neatly inside his dark blue suit pants— the sleeves carelessly pulled up to his elbows. he left the jacket in the kitchen, uncomfortable from wearing it for a few hours. now, he’s zoning out, very pensive.

“i’m happy, leon. fulfilled. i did it all for my family. look at this house? wife’s happy too- oh! you remember her, right? i told ya she moved away. look how she’s changed.”

they both come down the stairs and your eyes meet so suddenly. it feels like an eternity since you’ve last seen each other, a month precisely.

this month, though, you spent all of it dreaming about leon with your hands inside your panties and fingers pressed down your swollen clit and a dildo stuffed inside your needy, slick cunt. it feels pathetic to admit that you shoved it down your throat, pretending it’s leon’s cock. you moaned his name too many times, your lips glossy with drool, face buried in your pillows.

leon takes a sip our of his glass.

“haven’t seen you in a while. look at you," he greets you, "your dad told me you moved away. how’s the city?”

he says, as if he hasn’t made a habit of visiting you.

“haven’t seen you in a bit, leon. you’re so much older than i remember. a little bit more… wrinkled-” you tease him and his brows furrow, “the city’s great. the traffic kills me.”

“it happens when you get old like me, y’know. can’t run away from aging.”

“how old were you again? fifty nine?”

“forty… nine.”

“christ! don’t mind it leon, please. is the city so boring that you gotta pick on your old man’s buddy? why don’t you go talk to pete?”

“who’s pete?” you ask, acting dumb.

“cupcake, what’s up with you? y’know pete. he’s john and georgia’s only son... our neighbors? they live down the street?” you look at him, with the same faux confusion and he explains, “he’s single! go talk to him.”

great.

“i’m joking, dad! relax. why would i? isn’t he the one looking to marry? shouldn’t he pursue me?”

a brief pause settles between the three of you. a smirk forms in the corner of leon’s mouth.

“what do you think, mr. kennedy? should i go talk to him? that’s kinda lame, if you ask me,” you scoff, “men these days.”

that’s my girl.

“well-“

“jeez, no. where’s your mother?” your dad looks suddenly agitated.

“i can’t do this. leon, buddy, please don’t answer that. you should talk 'bout this with your mother!"

your father leaves in a hurry, looking around backyard to bring your mother to you. leon stays and he crosses his veiny arms around his chest and it only makes him look bigger. sexier.

“pete? should i be jealous?” leon asks.

“maybe.”

“do you even know what he looks like?”

“as a matter of fact i do. i blew him twice right before leaving for college. so, fuck you.”

“don’t tell me he went down on you too.”

“oh my god-“ you shush him, “are you jealous, leon?”

“i've no reason to be jealous, sweet girl. if i were him, i’d never leave you alone.”

“you’re being a hypocrite right now. we're not talking about this here!”

“who do you take me as? i know it’s risky. i’m just bein’… curious.”

“i gotta go, leon. i don’t wanna talk about this here. it was good… seeing you.”

so, you didn’t pawn the bracelet he gave you, leon notices when you turn around angry and frustrated, fists clenched and nails digging into your palm and it hurts. you could almost bleed.

he thought you’d do it to get revenge on him for disappearing. leon doesn’t fully believe his own thoughts, you wouldn’t to that. you value even the smallest gifts you receive.

you hold a glass of white wine close to your chest and with the your other hand, you subtly tug down the ends of your pink halter dress— which, despite being perfectly adequate for the anniversary of your parents’ marriage, it feel shorter the more leon’s eyes undress your body naked.

he’s not that subtle about it. at least to you. he looks away every now and then— a hand is the pocket of his trousers and a polite smile on his lips. he zones out while three city council members enthusiastically gather around to share some ideas with him, for some reason he can’t seem to fully grasp.

his presence alone makes you freeze after what happened between you earlier.

alcohol flows rapidly through leon’s bloodstream and there’s so much restrained hunger in the way he looks at you. you could melt alone from that and your legs feel weaker and weaker.

the many voices dissipate and time slows down. you can hear your own heartbeat, thudding hard and fast inside your chest. the local governor exchanges words with a neighbor on your left and on the right, two old highschool friends babble nostalgic nonsense, which they try to include you in. old memories. something about your gym classes.

you keep a bright smile plastered all over your face. laugh comes out fake, too high pitched, but they wouldn’t recognize your lack of interest or that you fake it, because, last time you talked them was at the local store two years ago.

your conversation lasted around five minutes and the awkwardness of it made you realize how alienated you've become from this town and its community.

you don't have any friends left. you pushed them all away when you left for college three years ago.

except for aileen kane, pete’s younger sister– the twenty year old girl, who doesn't seem to be here for a very obvious reason– she feels the same alienation, but much differently.

she came out as a lesbian right before you left the town and it a caused a gigantic scandal within the community.

everybody knows everybody here. people talk. they gossip and hate. they also love, but they love their sense of belonging to their happy and safe community. loneliness isn’t healthy for the soul.

they love their own idea of normality just as much. unfortunately for her, aileen is still stuck in this town of religious upper middle class and rich people.

you mother was happy to invite her, as the kanes, especially georgia, hold a special place inside her heart. herself too, seems to be obsessed with belonging somewhere and it looks like she’s already found her place in the local group of rich housewives who thrive on mimosas. it feels utterly robotic and mundane.

people come to you every now and then. after all, you’re the daughter of the happily married couple who invited nearly a hundred people over. it was all your mother’s idea. oh, how you’ve grown! is all that you can hear every five minutes.

your feet hurt from wearing the stilettos and the dress feels uncomfortably tight on your body, around your boobs and hips, where leon’s eyes keep roaming insatiably. you’d take it off for him in a millisecond.

you bring the glass of wine close to your lips and you take a huge sip, drowning your throat in the slight sweetness and numbing taste of alcohol. it feels nauseating, because you’re still somewhere between sobriety and complete drunkenness.

another sip follows, and the stem of the glass rests between your fingers, wine almost finished. you could sneak another couple, instead of looking like an alcoholic in front of the entire town and embarrassing your parents.

leon isn’t a big scary monster, but the opposite, despite his muscular build and job or reputation as a one of government’s best agents. he can be soft and calm. but he’s hard to read at times, especially when he becomes aloof and his sarcasm turns bitter.

you’ve done this entirely sober before.

he’s cooed the sweetest words right in your ear back in your city. he showed up with a bouquet of pink roses in his hand and gifts. so many gifts.

fuck me, you take it so well.

leon has the habit of calling you sweet girl. undoubtedly, every single time, you feel like melting under the caution of his guilty touch.

you’re convinced everybody found out. every single person in and outside this gigantic house is aware that you’ve been fucking leon scott kennedy, your father’s best friend.

this is all staged and by the end of the night, your dirty little secret will be revealed and cameramen will come through the back and front doors— your parents will look at you and feel sorry for you and your mother, with pitiful tears in her eyes will wrap her arms around you, thinking you’re some sort of victim.

wouldn’t it be better if you moved back here? and poof, just like that, she’d lure you back into this shit hole of a pretentious town. she’d make you marry peter kane. you can see yourself having your very own garden— deadly nightshades and black dahlias.

and leon— oh, leon. you’d hate if anything happened to him, just as much as you hate being away from him.

leon raises and eyebrow even from the other side of the great room, you can still recognize that look. he looks at you as if he wants you to stop, which,once again, is a bit hypocritical of him, given his history with alcohol and habitual drinking issues.

you chug the rest of the wine so inelegantly. you defy him. he rolls his eyes.

nobody knows.

nobody knows.

you repeat it in your head like a mantra.

nobody knows. except for you and leon.

it’s your dirty little secret.

and the secrecy of your relationship (or whatever this could be) makes you feel so dirty. like a slut. but it makes you feel special too. the burning sensation aches up to your tummy and your needy cunt feels wet just from staring into leon’s eyes. it reminds you of the many night you spent together with him on top of you, kissing your ankles sweetly, balls deep inside you.

you can’t do this anymore. you’ve spent the entire afternoon and evening trying to avoid your own feelings.

the constant tension between you and the look in his eyes leave you confused. you haven’t seen him in a month and that’s a long time. you don’t see any other men. you can’t. you’d feel guilty. he doesn’t deserve that.

you shove your hand inside your small clutch bag, searching for your phone. you quickly find his contact saved under noel. how silly. you empty your glass down your throat; adrenaline and alcohol pump through your body and your fingers get all shaky against the screen when you text him.

YOU: meet me upstairs? please?

YOU: second floor, take right, down the hallway. i’ll be waiting for you!!

YOU: name’s on the door btw.

leon’s phone vibrates in the pocket of his pants, preoccupied by the same discussion with the two council members, “mr. kennedy. you’ve seen the whole world. illuminate us. how can we make this town better?”

“i- well, i’m not really sure. it’s not exactly my field of expertise-“

his phone vibrates again and this time, leon pulls it out the pocket of his pants, “excuse me. might be somethin’ important.

YOU: pls come !!!

YOU: preferably on my face (;

YOU: i miss ur cock ):

his blue eyes widen and when he scans for where he last saw you, right in the opposite corner of the room, but you’re already gone.

you made your way to the second floor, up the white stairs, sliding through all the guests and making yourself invisiblez

“i have to go. please excuse me.”

you lay on your back on the patchwork cover of your bed and your eyes scan the insides of your old bedroom. it all looks the same. it seems that your mother took care of it. she kept everything in place and clean. there’s fresh peonies by the tall windows with white frames, hiding behind the drawn, mauve pink curtains.

right through the space between them permeates the light and down on the window seat, where an old pink blanket stays perfectly folded. the faded voices of the guests fill up the dead silence. you sight in relief the moment you take off your stilettos and throw them on the worn carpet.

leon.

leon.

leon.

he looked so sexy in his white shirt. each time the muscles of his big forearms flexed and veins pulsed with his rough, long fingers, you’d feel a lump in your throat and your breath would slow down.

you’d wrap your tongue around his long fingers— just the way you always do. big eyes and pretty lashes overdone with black mascara that stare right into his, as you let him fuck your throat. he’d have a bulging hard boner under his pants and you’d undo his zipper and suck on his thick cock till he’d cum white and sticky all over your pretty face.

what a pity he seems to have been losing interest in you.

or could it be that he feels too guilty for fucking his best friend’s daughter?

that sounds more like leon. he has this habit of feeling so terrible and guilty.

you pull up your dress and the brand new satin lingerie you’ve been keeping in your suitcase wraps around you perfectly. you keep your legs spread and you slip your manicured fingers down your clit, pressing the tips down to tease yourself.

the door creaks open a big figure casts a shadow all over your body. you know it’s leon. nobody else you know walks this way. so heavy, cautious steps against the wooden floor. the way you know him, he might’ve eavesdropped before even touching the silver door knob, so you let a little moan slip through your lips, just for his perverted mind.

“oh! you came. finally.”

leon shuts the door behind him and he wastes no time, closing the distance between you. he leans down on the bed and the weight makes the frame creak. he traps you under him and your bodies are almost glued to each other. his knee is locked between your thighs to keep them spread out, apart from each other and if almost touches your clothed heat. and so you move until you can rub against it.

leon caresses your burning cheek and so much heat radiates from him. he looks like he’s starving.

“someone could’ve open the door and see you, sweet girl.” he scolds you.

“but they didn’t, right? did i make you jealous, leon?” you pull him in a kiss and he leans into you. he puts almost his entire body weight on you, but he’s still gentle, despite the animalistic way his lips devour yours. you both taste the alcohol on each other.

you feel intoxicated by his presence and your body is on fire from all the wine you chugged earlier.

“huh?” he pulls away from your kiss.

“pete?”

“pete? as in peter kane? peter kane the son of the kanes who live just down the street?” you roll your eyes, “no. fuck if i care ‘bout that guy or what happened between you two.”

“they’re kinda making me marry him. soon i’ll be off the market, who knows? maybe you’re speaking to future mrs. kane.” you tease him, seeking a reaction. a confirmation that he cares about you.

both of you know that’s never going to happen.

not in a million years.

“yeah? and here i was thinkin’ you’d sneak out and run away in that car of yours. pretend it never happened.”

“would you rescue me like a knight in shining armor?” you rest fingers around the back of his neck and you pull him closer for another kiss, sucking on his tongue “i missed you, leon— mmm, hold on. let me… lock the door.”

leon moves to the side and you move right past him, tip toeing to the door for some reason, in complete silence. you make sure it’s closed and turn the key inside to double lock it and the silver door knob a few times. perfect.

you turn around and leon stands right behind you. he undid two three buttons of his shirt and you can see his strong chest under.

he presses you against the door, muscular, rough arms forming a cage around you and he continues to assure you:

“don’t be silly, sweetheart,” he gives you a gentle peck on the lips, “they’d never force you to marry him. your dad thinks you’re lonely. all by yourself in that city. they’re worried.”

“oh, poor, lonely me! but- would you rescue me, though? hmm? hypothetically speaking?”

he smiles, “probably, yeah. as long as you’re happy.”

fuck him. leon can’t believe he said that; he’s completely swooned by a girl half his age. the person who was supposedly off-limits. he truly is the embodiment of masochism.

he feels pulled in magnetically. there’s times when he gives in and he resists you. and times like these, where all he dreams about is burying his mouth down your wet pussy and drown himself inside your sweetness fully, like some crazed addict. addictions can’t be good.

it’s concerning how much leon cares about your happiness. about your well-being. he’s always so self sacrificial about everything. fuck his endless generosity.

“i’d be much, muuch happier if you’d stop resisting me.”

you pull up the ruffles of your housewife looking dress and sink your teeth down your soft lower lip, and you beg, “fuck me, please.”

“are you sure ‘bout this, sweet girl?”

“i’ve never been more sure about anything in my whole life— ahh, leon!” his lips move down your neck, right where your skin feels the most sensitive. his tongue climbs up your jaw and he sinks his teeth softly against your bare skin. it makes you squirm and dig your nails into the wooden door.

“your dad’s gonna fuckin’ kill me, angel. he’ll blow my head off with that goddamn huntin’ rifle i gave him once.”

you pull him in for another kiss— messy and lonely. it’s so disgustingly sloppy. you don’t want to impress him or be the best, you can’t even think about that. all you want is to devour him. you press your body against his, boobs pressed against his chest and arms thrown around his neck. your hands wander around his blushing face, and you mess his blonde, greying hair up.

“don’t care if he’s gonna kill me?” he breaks the kiss, concerned, joking.

“mmm- leon… shh!” you press your index finger against his lips, “he won’t kill you. because- ah!” he finds a way to slip a hand under your skirt. he slides two fingers against your clothed clit, feeling the slickness. you’re dripping wet and he’s barely even kissed you.

“he won’t find out! please— i need you s’much! i can’t stop thinking about you. where have you been?”

you keep your fingers tangled in his hair and your right leg rests on his thighs, sturdy hand keeping if in place.

“forgive me, princess. been busy as hell.”

“busy enough to keep me waiting for so long?”

another kiss.

“can’t live without me for more than a couple of weeks? that right?”

“can you?”

“i missed you a lot.”

he pauses briefly.

“keep sending me those pretty pics while i’m gone. makes me miss you even more.”

he’s jerked off to them multiple times. dirty old man leon kennedy— he drives around the country and he finds himself pulling his porsche to the side, in the middle of nowhere, to fist the length cock and jerk off to your photos. he daydreams, thinking it's you taking all of his girth down you pretty little throat. you’ve altered something inside his brain to the point he's turned into a true pervert.

your dirty nudes reflect in the blues of his eyes while he keeps his phone in his hand— hard, pinchable nipples and the softest boobs, covered in bubbly foam and droplets of hot water from the shower.

he’s such a dirty pervert.

only for you.

“what do you like the most about them, leon?”

“your smile.”

“really?”

“yeah. you don’t do it often. i like seein’ you happy.”

he loves to know you're well too. you send him photos of yourself throughout the day and the gentlest smile forms on his handsome face. you made a habit out of sending him selfies— doing your makeup, walking down the street with an ice cream in your hand and five shopping bags hanging on your arm.

your safety and the fact that you're living such a sweet life makes him relax. he wishes you'd have more friends. he’s aware that despite making so many acquaintances in your new city, nothing feels real. the dinners feel boring. coffee dates are bland. it's all a pure facade.

leon catches your face and he squishes your mouth until your pout and his thumb presses down your wet lower lip.

“been missin’ those pretty lips too.”

“i-i’m so wet right now.”

he kisses you again and this time, he sucks lazily on your tongue. you moan softly against his mouth when he bites your lip too. you feel his grey stubble stinging your skin, but it's so erotic, you have to abstain from moaning louder. imagine if anyone in this would hear you. his fingers wander up your waist and up to your breasts.

“take it off, sweet girl.”

you listen. he unzips the back of the dress for you and you take it off, throwing it on the carpet.

his big hand wanders and brushes hungrily up your inner thigh. it makes your skin tingle with so much illicit pleasure. how much you’ve missed feeling like this.

you feel high with him.

he takes the lace of your panties between his fingers for a few seconds— then, while his mouth is busy kissing you, he pulls them down your legs and they hang around your ankles.

“is that right? let’s see what’s goin’ on down here, sweet girl.”

you bite down on your lower lip. your cheeks are hot from the alcohol flowing freely through your bloodstream and the room has almost turned into a sauna. you keep your hands around his shoulders while leon finds your boobs, covered by the gorgeous satin bra, and he pulls one out to suck on your sweet nipple. he grunts and he takes the other one between his teeth, tenderly, not to hurt you— just because he has an urge, an impulse to devour you whole. he wants you so much.

“you prepared too, huh? you’re so fuckin’ gorgeous in this.”

he gets down on his knee and he adjusts the sleeves of his shirt. his eyes never leave yours. he slides his fingers up and down your folds to feel the wetness oozing out of your slick, warm entrance.

“been waiting all wet for me this whole evening? took your damn time, i see.”

“y-you can’t blame me. it wasn’t easy. thought you’d never come.”

he can tell from the way you act that you're nervous and tipsy.

“stop shavin’ so much. leave a heart for me down there like you used to." he jokes, “it was cute. don’t sha- shh!”

footsteps make the wooden floor creak and the knock on your door vibrates down your spine.

“everything ‘kay, sweetie? you in there? heard your door closin’ from down the hallway.”

sloppy job.

georgia kane herself. naturally a brunette, her grey roots stick out of her head and a similarly toned, simple dress adorns her short body. she’s standing on the other side of the locked bedroom door, knuckle still pressed against the polished wood.

“ah! mrs. kane? no- no, i’m fine! just- i’m overwhelmed that’s all- just… so many people.”

“have you seen your dad? your mom can’t find him anywhere and she begged me to go searching.”

“d-dad? last time i saw him he was talking to mr. johnson. y’know, something about holding their liquor. maybe they’re in his office?”

you cover your mouth instinctively when you feel that you’re about to gasp— you roll your eyes in pleasure when leon pushes a finger inside your pussy, just slightly, allowinf your entrance to stretch.

“he said he was looking for leon. and now? poof. gone.”

fuck.

“handsome guy, leon, by the way. haven’t seen him in a hot minute. him and your daddy used to be together all the time. now he’s always gone. hmm…” she thinks, “don’t tell johnny i said that!”

if only mrs.kane knew that leon kennedy was stuffing his face between your thighs right now.

“c’mon, darlin’, be honest. he’s handsome, isn’t he? must be something wrong with him the way i’ve never seen him with a woman. ya think he’s single?”

“i- i guess? i-i never thought about him t-that way” you stutter.

“and i believe you! if you see dad, tell your momma, m’kay? and if you see leon, you better tell me, hah. don’t tell johnny!” she laughs.

“by the way, sweetie, pete’s been wantin’ to settle down for a while. mind if i set you two up on a cute little date? one of the wives opened a fancy place down on aster street.”

“i-i- i’ll think about it. thanks for the offer, mrs. kane.”

“get down there when you feel like it, m’kay? i brought some homemade cake. keeping it for the after party.” her laugh fades away down the hallway when she leaves.

“you think there’s somethin’ wrong with me, huh?” leon whispers.

“everything’s so wrong with you! are you seeing other women?” you look upset when you say it and leon hates himself for making you think that.

it’s true; you’re not dating. but he spends a fortune on you, despite his tendency to seclude when he feels like shit, you’re the only woman he could think ever think of. every night and day you possess his mind and soul.

“hmm, no. i'm too busy with this pussy to see other women, to be honest. you’re spendin’ all my money too.”

a stupid smile stays plastered all over your face.

“relax, sweet girl. let me take care of you.”

he grips down your thigh again and he rests your leg on his sturdy shoulder, spreading you just enough to have a full view of your pretty pussy. his eyes glow like a predator’s that has finally found his delicious prey and he licks his lip.

“fuck me, you really are so sweet. i missed your jealous pussy.” he sinks his face fully down your wetness, drowning himself into you, just like he wanted to. a gasp escapes shyly past your lips and you cover your mouth again, holding in your slutty moans.

his cock bulges hard and big under his pants. it twitches and his veins pulse just from eating your pussy out.

his tongue moves naturally, up and down your folds and he stuffs it inside your needy pussy— this is for himself. he’s missed your taste like the addicted man you’ve made out of him.

“are you seeing other women?’” he imitates your voice.

he drags his tongue up, spoiling your puffy clit with slutry, slow circles and meticulous licks. he’s got you figured from inside out— a lot of attention to your little clit to make you roll your eyes and sink you nails in his skin or grab onto his blonde hair. he couldn’t care less if leave him bloody or with a few scratch marks.

“l-leon! i’m being serious!” you moan.

then, a finger stuffed inside your strechy walls, coated in your honey juices (that he’ll immediately lick off). he moves in gently, knuckle deep, pressing the tip of his finger on your sweet spot, while his tongue spoils your clit rotten.

you love it when he buries a second finger, so deep and rough, faster.

“i know, sweet girl. feels good?” he stares right into your hazy eyes and back to your cunt and at his own fingers stuffed deeper around your g spot.

and the third one makes you crave his cock, from the way he finger fucks you so hard that you’re not longer fully present. you’re high. you reached a feeling of elation that’s impossible to describe— your mouth wide open, drool slick on your lips, moaning yes. yes. yes. with your eyes rolling. you’re so close.

he fucks you harder, ramming his fingers inside your gummy walls, right while his lips suck on your clit and tongue draws lazy and very drunk circles to make you orgasm. he fucks you even rougher, faster this time, stimulating your spot and stretching you out. you feel so good with him inside you. you ride his face messily, sliding your cunt up and down his face to make yourself come.

you wanna feel like this forever.

you finally orgasm and you knees almost fail you, but leon is right there to hold you. you coat his fingers in squirt and honeyed liquid, and it splashes all over his face. he’s smiling like an idiot and he licks it all.

“i don’t need anyone else. i-i think i might be in love with you.”

he must be insanely drunk.

you can’t answer that. you’re too breathless. you feel dizzy.

he kisses your knees and you’ve never seen his eyes shine so anxiously and vulnerably. you’ve never seen a man— a man twice your age, confess that he might actually be in love with you.

another kiss on your knee, “i’m fucked, right?”

he is drunk.

“mmm. i’m so fucked. this past month- i wanted to come see you. be with you. got shitfaced one night. all i could see was your pretty face.”

he sucks in your inner thighs, taking your soft skin between his lips and the tip of his tongue savors on the juices leaking down your thighs, “you waitin’ for me late at night. i hate makin’ you wait. it makes you all sad. you think i won’t show up for some reason.”

he leave kisses on your inner thighs and he rests his chin on your leg momentarily.

“but i can’t do this to you, sweet girl,” leon sighs, as if he feels defeated, “i’d be a monster. can’t let you go through this.”

the room still smells of flowers and the light shines through the curtains. the sky turned pink and orange and the clouds set over the purple shades.

“i know you won’t marry pete. it’s ain’t like you. you’re not the small town type. you… you won’t settle down.”

it feels like he’s waiting for a confirmation and trying to convince himself that i won’t happen.

“what if i am the small town type?”

“i know what you want me to say. no.”

“but you said you’d do it as long as i’m happy!”

“rescue you? settling down in a town with an old man- apologies- an alcoholic who does the government’s dirty work? sounds more like some evil scheme than a rescue mission.”

“we can make it work! leon, i- i’m in love with you too!”

“stop.” he seems to grow angrier. not with you, but with himself.

“you’re young. you don’t wanna settle down. you have so much ahead of you. you think you want this but- but you like the attention and the gifts i give you. you ain’t in love with me.”

“don’t you wanna see me every time you come home? i’d make a good housewife. not perfect, but i’d try for you. and i’d wait for you. days. weeks. months. i’d wait— and i’d wait and wait again… for you.”

he does.

but you don’t.

“you’d hate that, my sweet doll. you’re not seein’ this through. you moved away for a reason,” he pauses, still down on his knees, “you’d feel like a princess trapped in a tower and i’d be the bastard dragon. i’m not your knight in shining armor.”

“why do you hate yourself so much, leon?”

no answer. you get on your knees and they brush against the beige carpet. you cup his burning cheek gently and he kisses your wrist, right where the love bracelet is.

“i’ll hurt you.”

he would, inevitably. he’s already done it and mostly likely, it’ll happen over and over again until you’ll come to your senses and realize you have no future together.

“i don’t wanna trap you.”

“i’m a big girl. we all hurt each other without meaning to. i- i can handle it.”

we’re all meant to exist with flaw programmed within us.

“yeah? can you? ‘been gone for a month and you’re all sad and whiny. tryin’ to make me jealous, ‘future mrs. kane.’ my ass.”

“trap me. take me. i’ll get over it. let’s get a big house together!” you sink on your knees, “ i’ll be good for you. be selfish for once, leon. if you want me- take me. just do it.”

he’s already being selfish by putting you through this whole ordeal, not stopping this earlier— he can’t deal with that.

“you’ll get bored in a few months.”

“you don’t know me, leon! i want this! with you.”

“fuck, sweetheart, stop lyin’. i know you. for you- i could change. but… but i don’t know how long that’d take. can’t afford to have you waitin’ for me to be a better man.”

it’s easy to figure out a person who ran away from her town. you don’t want to end up like your mother or the other housewives in this town. and with him, you would. there’s two options. you’d either settle down and wait for him to return from his missions— if he returns.

or you’d be on the run for the rest of you life, with a husband who deals with bioterrorism for a living.

and realistically, your dad would shoot leon off the face of the earth if he was ever to find out he even dared to touch you.

“i don’t want you to change!” you put your palms around his face, “i wanna see you happy too, y’know?”

you want to fix him. deep down, you think he’d put away the bottle of whiskey for you.

you want him to fix you— what if he’s been the only cure to your madness until now? what if, deep down, your destiny was to follow into your mother’s footsteps.

you sound insane.

leon wakes up and his strong arms wrap around your waist to pick you up off the floor. he carries you to the bed and with one hand, he moves the patchwork cover aside to tuck you in. he looks around and he grabs an old t-shirt from your suitcase. you lift your arms up instinctively and he dresses you up like you’re a helpless little girl.

he sits on one knee on the floor, right next to you.

“it was never gonna happen. this. us… the bracelet i gave you that night was my parting gift. or so i was hopin’. i wanted to you to figure out that… i’m in love with you.”

he kisses your hand, breathing your sweet perfume one more time, “but even if i’m so in love with you, i can’t put you through this. i’m sorry, sweet girl.”

“do i have no saying in this? i-i don’t want this to end.” you feel a tear pricking down the corner of your eye, “at least— at least come see me?”

“we’ll see each other again if we happen to visit this place at the same time.”

you’re sobbing now. you cry and the tears sting and make your vision blurry. mascara drips down your flushed cheeks and you smudge it even more when you try to wipe your tears with the back of your hand.

“please, be a good girl and go take a long bath. eat somethin’ for me?” he wipes your tears too and you hold onto his wrist, kissing it a few times. it’s so warm and real. it could’ve stayed with you forever. his warmth and manly perfume.

“i-i… i will, yeah.”

“i’d kill myself for hurtin’ you before your dad gets to that rifle. now, if you’ll excuse me. i gotta find your dad. he was lookin’ for me.”

“are you gonna drink again?”

no answer.

“i hate you! why did you come here? oh- let me guess… you’re drunk, right? is that your excuse? that you’re drunk, again? fuck you. leave me alone! leave- just leave, leon. i don’t wanna see you.”

“you’d hate me more if i’d keep feeding into your little fantasy.”

and so, he abandons you and the night settles down inside your childhood bedroom. you don’t bother turning on the bedside lamp— you sit in the dark, not truly capable of processing your emotions. it feels like you’ve been doing this for hours, but it’s been barely half an hour.

you stare at the bracelet one more and the tears keep rolling down your face.

a parting gift. a love bracelet.

because leon kennedy is madly in love with you.

leon was aware you’d never forgive him the moment he abandoned you inside that bedroom.

it’s for the best.

for you.

to be continued in PART II ── THE LUCKY ONES. MASTERLIST.

── ivy’s (very long) note : after SUCH a long time, it’s finally out ! <3 i really wasn’t expecting to end up with (around!!) 10k words ;o part two is already un progress and i PROMISE the sexual tension between the reader and leon will be crazy. this part has nothing compared to what i’m preparing. the reader is going to be a massive pain is the ass and brat for leon. again, i SWEAR it’s gonna be insane and sexual. I'll also explain their first time together.

my wish is to always make everyone feel as included as possible, so i avoid describing my readers outside their personalities and aesthetics. but i do like to mess around and give my readers unique traits and aesthetics. i had so much fun with this one <3 obviously, my readers are always inspired by myself and my own tastes !

i wanna share this fic’s pinterest board here, which i’ll also add to the masterlist when i post it. — SAY YOU WANT ME TOO. and also, credits to melscanvas_ on twt for the original screencap i used for my banner ! !

now, please let me know. would you like me to write a separate fic for the bar date? i can write so much about it, but that part alone can have up to 4k words, i think?

as always, interactions, especially reblogs are always super duper appreciated <3 thank you for reading, angels ! to join the taglist, please only leave a comment on this post. you can also comment on the masterlist post that i’ll link once it’s posted <3 love ya, mwuah!

You actually manage to huff out a laugh at his joke, and once he explains who sent him, with enough detail to be sure he's who he says he is, you let your shoulders fall.

Leon finds something warm and gooey growing within him in the next hours as you traverse the rest of the ghost town with him. You smile at his jokes, you trust him more than he thinks he would in your position. There's something irrevocably empathetic about your nature; a hope that he clings to unintentionally.

And when the two of you hole up in a safe house to shelter from a roaring storm, he knows he's in deep trouble. Because just after he'd fought off the last of a hoard of infected, tripping over debris and falling branches— just after you've piled furniture in front of any doorway and window— you're approaching him cautiously. Like you would a frightened dog.

"I think that tree got you," you mutter, and he's not sure why, but he doesn't flinch away from your touch. Your fingertips are soft and he knows you've just met, but something electric fizzes beneath them. He tells himself it's just been too long since he's been close to someone, that it's hormones. Adrenaline. Whatever.

"You got any bandages in one of those pockets?" It's kind of funny, he thinks. That he's here to rescue you, to guide you out of this hellhole, and yet he's leaned against a wall while you tend to his wound that's probably not even that big of a deal. But apparently it is to you, and you seem satisfied when he produces a few bandages from his belt pocket. You borrow his water to wash the gash as best you can. It's not deep, but it's a risk of infection, nonetheless. You insist as much at his protests.

He tries to hide the shiver in his body when you brush his hair back from the wound to smooth the bandage on. The rain patters against the old house in a dull noise, and all he can here is your gentle breath as you move away with a pleased expression. Leon finds himself wishing you'd stay close.

"Are you okay?" The question catches him so off-guard his brain short-circuits. There's no tone of humor in your voice; no hint of amusement across your features. You're pretty as ever, just as he'd subconsciously noticed the longer he studied you, and the gentleness of your expression brings out a new epitome of beauty that has his pulse thrumming.

"What?" Is all he can manage, and you repeat your question. He doesn’t know how to respond. Nobody’s ever asked him that. What finally comes out is half an answer. “...It’s part of the job.”

“Yeah, but are you okay?” You touch his arm and he flinches a little, but doesn’t move away. “Just because it’s something you have to do, doesn’t mean it’s emotionless.” This was probably the third thing you've done that ruined him. Because it played over and over again in his head. Your lack of hesitation in reaching out to him; like he deserved care or some sense of stability. It wasn't a obligatory offering of therapy from the government; it was a genuine ask. A concern for his well-being, even if you had only met a few hours prior.

And that was only the beginning.

Even after you had returned home safely, Leon still thought of you. In the med-bay while the both of you had been separated for clearance. In the debrief room while he's interrogated by his superiors. In the hallway when he sees you reuniting with your family members. You spot him from over the shoulder of one of them, and his heart skips when your lips curl into a smile. Like you're happy to see him again. Like you appreciate him as more than just a contracted savior.

Leon's twisting his wrist in his hand behind his back as you approach him. Like a nervous kid. You're thanking him again, even after he's told you probably ten times it's not needed. And then you're thrusting your phone towards him and asking for his number. In case he needs someone to talk to. And he's putting it in as you tell him you'd like to buy him dinner. And he swears there's a hint of a flirt in the tone of your voice.

You meet him a few days later at a diner. It's late, and the joint has only two other people seated at the bar. It feels all too much like a date, and the fact that Leon had agonized over what to wear for two hours prior didn't help. Seeing you cleaned up and grinning, smelling of perfume and something sweet makes his palms sweat. He's not sure the last time he went on a date, even if this wasn't that, it made him as nervous as one.

You soothe his nerves easily. Laughing, asking him about work, his nonexistent hobbies. He feels something warm crawl up his neck the more you gaze at him, like you care for him. And even if he won't let himself believe it, you certainly do.

"Your job must be so hard on you," you muse, tracing a finger over the top of your milkshake's glass. It's long gone now, both of you having eaten what seems like an hour ago. But you have yet to move. "I can't imagine the things you see. Having to process that. You're braver than most, you know?"

"Easy tiger, you might hurt yourself stroking my ego that hard." He scoffs, feeling a bit sheepish. You say it like you mean it. Like you're not buttering him up for something in return. And maybe it's because you've been a part of all of it firsthand; maybe because you see right through him. The frowns, the brow twisted in perpetual stress. Shoulders tense and ready for a fight, even now, in a cozy diner.

"You should work on that, tough guy," you raise an eyebrow at him. He meets your gaze steady, for once that night, and feels himself wanting to reach across the table to touch you. To feel your soft fingers against his skin again. You pull him in like you're magnetized to his very being. It's maddening. Leon wonders if it's possible to fall in love this fast. He has to be crazy. He's just lonely. Right? "Letting someone care about you and all. It's not as hard as your broody eyes make it out to be."

Leon's struck silent by your words. They're not a confession, really. Not with the way you say it so easily, like it's obvious and like it wouldn't take him ten years to build the courage to say something like that out loud. And you only worsen his struggle when you're sliding next to him in the booth and reaching for the bandage on his forehead. It'd been replaced during his medical clearance, but he honestly hasn't even thought to check it since then. And god, he's glad he hadn't.

Because you're pushing his hair back again, and you're so warm next to him, and the scent of your perfume is clinging to him. The bandage has already peeled up on the side from being held on too long, and you mumble an ask if you can remove it. Leon barely hears himself say yes. The adhesive goes without struggle, and you smile at the now closed, already scabbed over cut underneath. Your thumb rubs away some of the remnants of the adhesive, and Leon's eyes betray him when they flicker to your lips for half a second.

If it were anyone else, they may have missed it. But you're observant, you care, and you notice. And Leon feels his heart drop to his stomach when you pull away. You're talking to him again like nothing's shifted, a reasonable distance between the two of you now. But you're still at his side.

He loses the fight to pay the check, but doubles your tip before you stand to leave. He walks you to your car, and just before you bid him goodbye, you turn back to engulf him in a hug. He can't make his brain work fast enough to hug you back. Before he can even process it, you've pulled back, planted a kiss on his cheek, and climbed into the driver's seat. He stands there in the moonlit parking lot like a lost puppy.

The next time he sees you in person, it's another date (but not a date) at the same diner. He'd actually managed to ask you, and you'd replied in half a second with an eager yes.

At this point, you'd had what felt like thousands of conversations. Texts and phone calls between work that had the both of you attached to your cells like a lifeline. Every time, you always started the conversation the same. That you were just checking up on him. Like he was the civilian that was rescued, that his experience in that ghost town wasn't just another day on the job.

A few weeks of knowing each other and you were already far removed from that scared mess of a person in the corner of a run-down house. You're a shining star in Leon's vision, a radiating sunbeam that made him feel like he had purpose again. Like maybe he's a person again.

This time, you choose to sit next to him from the beginning of the night. He can smell your perfume again, and he leans just a little bit closer to you. Your heart is pounding in your ears at his presence. Everything is so wonderfully fuzzy. Sugary sweet laughter between the two of you and brushing shoulders. Time flies fast and soon enough it's passing midnight, and he feels a little bad because you're beginning to yawn.

You allow Leon to pay this time. He feels a small sense of pride at being the one to care for you, even in such a miniscule way.

Leon walks you to your car. His hands are behind his back again as you lean against your driver's side door. You could've unlocked it and bid him goodbye by now. As in it's a hypothetical possibility. But you're locked on the way the breeze shifts his hair, and his blue eyes dragging over your face. It's not even an option. You're glued in front of him, asking how work's been. Which is code for are you okay? Always checking in. Maybe if were someone else, he'd have been annoyed by now. But its you. It's you and your caring eyes, your ginger words that are so damn genuine. It's been a long, long time since he'd felt that painted so heavily on him, imbued into his heart.

He's watching you with something close to hunger. There's a softness to it; rounding his sharp eyes and tugging at the corners of his mouth. His hands are twisted behind him, almost shy, and you wish they'd pull you closer to him.

Your features are soft in the glow of the neon sign in the parking lot, lit pink and blue as you peer at him through your lashes.

"It's almost healed," you suddenly say, eyes just above his own. His breath hitches as you brush his hair back, fingers tracing over the baby pink line where the ugly gash used to be. He thinks maybe you've done more brain damage to him than a tree branch ever could, because he feels a little drunk on your encroaching closeness.

You've somehow creeped closer as you look him over, and before he knows it you've placed your palm against his chest.

"Maybe this is forward, but," you brush down the collar of his jacket, dragging your eyes up his face. "I think I could fall in love with you, Leon." His mouth goes dry. Suddenly his heart has flown upwards in his throat.

"Do you want to?" Your smile grows wider and you huff.

"I kind of think I already am," you tilt your head and press closer. He's sure you can feel his heart pounding beneath your fingers curling in his shirt. "You can touch me, you know," you trace a finger across his shoulder, as if giving him permission to free his hands from their nervous bind. He does so ever so slowly, losing any sense of willpower to keep his touch to himself. Foolishly, he thinks steadying his hands on your hips will help him. Instead, he's sent into a dizzyingly warm headspace when you pull him against you. He's caging you into your car door, and the look you give him is as if this is what you've wanted this whole time. "Do you want to?"

God, he does. He's not sure had a chance to stop it. Like doesn't feel like a proper explanation of the pull, the need he has for you next to him. The lift in his spirit when you ask him how he is, when you check in with him because you've been thinking about him. The way you send him falling over backwards to do anything for you, and the way he aches knowing that you've cared for him this whole time. So casually, so fully, even when you barely knew him. It's only grown stronger. His hold tightens on you and he ducks his head with a groan. He nearly keels over right there in the parking lot when you guide his gaze back up to yours with a hand on his cheek. He feels like a whiny dog when he utters his next sentence, but he could care less. It's the only thing that will slow his racing heart.

"Fuck, can I kiss you?"