Lynn

The way he said it, so casual, so dismissive, should have made you shut your mouth. Instead, it acted like gasoline on a fire. "Maybe," you retorted, trying for bravado and landing somewhere in the vicinity of pathetic. "What's it to you, anyway?"

He set the rifle down with deliberate slowness, the clatter of metal on wood sounding like a gunshot in the small room. He pushed off the wall and crossed the space in two long strides. He was a tower of muscle and barely contained violence, and you were suddenly aware of how small the bed was and how close he was.

"You sound like a bloody teenager," he rumbled, his voice low and dark. "It's just a fuck. It's not a holy grail."

And that's when it happened. The words tumbled out, a drunken, shameful confession that you couldn't claw back even if you tried. "Well, maybe I wouldn't know, would I?"

The air in the room changed, going from thick with tension to frozen solid. Simon stared at you, his expression unreadable, but you saw the flicker of surprise, the slow-dawning realization, and the subtle shift in his posture.

"Say that again," he commanded, his voice quiet, cutting through the whiskey haze.

You shook your head, a wave of intense heat rushing to your face, your stomach twisting with a mortification so acute you thought you might be sick. "Forget it," you mumbled, trying to look anywhere but at him.

He crouched down in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. His gloved hand reached out, tipping your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. Those eyes were searching, dissecting you.

"You're a virgin." It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with a kind of breathless awe that was somehow worse than mockery.

"Shut up," you hissed, trying to jerk your head away, but his grip was firm. The shame was a living thing inside you, clawing at your throat. You felt exposed and raw, like he'd peeled back your skin and found something soft underneath.

He let go of your chin, but he didn't move away. He just stared, his mind clearly working behind those dark eyes. You expected him to laugh, to call you a kid, or to tell you to get the fuck over it. Instead, he said something that shattered you completely.

"You want me to fuck you."

It wasn't a question either. It was the most terrifying, exhilarating statement you'd ever heard. Your denial was automatic, a knee-jerk reaction to the unbearable vulnerability. "No! I didn't say that. I just..." You trailed off, because what could you say? You did. You wanted it so badly it hurt. You wanted him. The terrifying, scarred, lethal man who now knew your most private secret.

His lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. It wasn't mocking; it was hungry. "You're a shit liar," he murmured. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made your skin pebble. "Is that why you've been lookin' at me like a lost puppy? Hoping I'd bend you over and show you the ropes?"

The crude, direct language sent a jolt straight to your core. You squeezed your thighs together, a pathetic attempt to relieve the sudden, throbbing ache. "Fuck you, Simon," you whispered, but it sounded weak and breathless.

"That's the idea, sweetheart."

So it had started as a joke, a stupid, whiskey-fueled slip-up that you'd both tried to bury under layers of snark and forced professionalism. For a few days, it was like a bizarre, unspoken truce. He didn't mention it, and you tried to pretend you hadn't basically offered up your virginity on a silver platter. You trained harder, kept your head down, and avoided his eyes like they were the abyss.

But the world had shifted on its axis, and you couldn't unsee it.

You started noticing things. The way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he reached for a high shelf, the fabric straining over the solid muscle of his shoulders. The way his tactical gloves creaked when he balled his fists. The scent of him that seemed to linger in the air long after he'd left a room.

His eyes were the worst. Before, his stares had been assessing and analytical. Now, they were heavy, weighted with a new kind of intent. You'd feel them on you during a briefing, a heated, lingering sweep from your boots to your face that made your breath catch and your cunt throb. He was looking at you like he was picturing you naked, and the constant, low-level humiliation of your secret acted as a toxic aphrodisiac.

He was harder on you, too. His critiques in the field were more cutting, his expectations higher. He'd push you during PT until your lungs burned and your muscles screamed, his voice a low, relentless bark in your ear. "Again, Sergeant. Is that all you've got?" It felt like a punishment, or maybe a test, and every time you pushed through it, you felt a flicker of pride, followed by the hot rush of imagining what he'd do to you if you really impressed him.

The tension coiled tighter and tighter, a wire vibrating at a frequency only you and he could feel. It was only a matter of time before it snapped.

It was a normal enough afternoon. The whole team was sprawled in the common room, the low hum of the TV and Price's cigar smoke filling the space. Johnny was recounting some wild story about a bar fight in Prague, his voice boisterous and animated. You were trying to laugh, trying to be normal, but all you could feel was Simon's presence on the other side of the room. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a beer bottle in his hand. He wasn't looking at you, he was looking at Johnny, but you could feel his attention like a physical touch.

Then Johnny, the glorious, oblivious bastard, said something that twisted the knife.

"Aye, but you know what it's like, Si," he said, grinning. "Sometimes you just gotta get in there, get the job done, no matter how tight the fit is. Am I right?"

A beat of silence. Your heart stopped. Simon's eyes, slow and deliberate, slid from Johnny to you. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Yeah, Johnny," he said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that seemed to be directed only at you. "Sometimes you just have to be patient. Make sure they're ready before you... make your move."

Johnny laughed, clapping Gaz on the back. "See? The man's a poet."

But you weren't hearing it. Your blood was roaring in your ears. He was going to tell them. The paranoia, the toxic cocktail of shame and fear, exploded in your chest. He was going to expose you, right here, in front of everyone. He'd tell them you were some pathetic virgin who'd begged for it, and they'd all laugh, and you'd have to leave the task force.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood up, your movements sharp and jerky. "I need some air," you mumbled, not meeting anyone's eyes.

You didn't make it two steps before Simon's voice stopped you. "Sergeant. A word."

Your stomach dropped. You turned to see him pushing off the wall, his expression unreadable. He mystic jerked his head towards the hallway. "Now."

The others were already back to their conversation, but you felt their curious glances as you followed him out of the room and down the hall, your boots feeling heavier with every step. He pushed open the door to his quarters and you followed him inside, the door clicking shut behind you with a terrifying finality.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you hissed, the words tearing out of you the second the door was closed. "Are you going to tell them? Just get it over with and humiliate me, you bastard!"

He turned to face you, his eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "Tell them? What the hell are you on about?"

"Don't play dumb!" you shot back, your voice cracking. "You're going to tell them I'm a... that I'm... that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing!"

His face softened just a fraction. The anger bled out of him, replaced by something that looked uncomfortably like pity. "Jesus," he muttered, running a hand over his masked face. "I'm not going to tell them anything. That's your business, not mine."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?" you demanded, your breath catching in your throat. "Why are you always fucking looking at me?"

"Because you're driving me fucking insane," he ground out, taking a step towards you. "I'm trying to give you space, trying to be a fuckin' gentleman, and you're over here thinking I'm about to announce your sexual history to the whole squad?"

The sheer absurdity of it, the relief mixed with the lingering fear, was too much. The words you'd been holding back for weeks finally burst free. "Just fuck me and get it over with!" you blurted out, the words sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "Just do it so I can stop thinking about it!"

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling with a deep, controlled breath. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then he spoke, his voice quiet, cold, and utterly commanding.

"No."

Your heart plummeted. "What?"

"I said no." He took another step closer, crowding you, his presence overwhelming.

You stammered, your brain short-circuiting. "I-I don't understand. You... you want to, don't you?"

His eyes flashed, a dark fire igniting in their depths. "Wanting to and fucking you are two different things, Sergeant. I'm not going to take your virginity because you're having a fuckin' panic attack. You'll wait."

"Wait?"

"You'll wait until you're sure. Until you can ask me properly." His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "And you'll ask me in my bed, after everyone's asleep. Then, and only then, I'll consider it."

The shift in power was dizzying. He wasn't rejecting you; he was setting the terms. And God help you, you wanted to agree to every single one.

"Okay," you whispered, your voice trembling.

He tilted his head, a gesture of both command and curiosity. "Okay, what?" His gaze was piercing, demanding.

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. The old shame was there, but it was being drowned out by a new, more powerful feeling: a desperate, clawing need to please him. You sank to your knees on the cold, hard floor of his room, the movement feeling both shameful and right. You looked up at him, your heart pounding against your ribs.

"Please, Simon," you whispered, the words barely audible. "Please... fuck me."

A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, visible even around the mask. He reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a surprising tenderness.

"Good girl," he murmured. "Now get up and go back to the others. Act normal. I'll see you later."

You didn't remember much of the rest of the evening. You sat through the briefing, you ate dinner, you even managed a few stilted laughs at Johnny's jokes. But all of it was a blur, the background noise to the roaring in your head. You were going to Simon's room tonight. The thought was a live wire in your stomach, sparking terror and anticipation in equal measure.

Hours later, the base was quiet. The hallway was deserted, the only light coming from the red glow of the emergency exit signs. You moved like a ghost, your bare feet silent on the linoleum as you made your way to his door. You didn't knock. You just turned the handle and slipped inside.

He was waiting for you. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his mask illuminated by the single lamp on his bedside table. He'd taken off his tac vest, leaving him in just a tight-fitting black t-shirt and his cargo pants. He looked human, and terrifyingly sexy.

"Lock the door," he said, his voice soft but firm.

You did, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot. You turned back to him, your body thrumming with nervous energy. And then you noticed the room. It was different. The usually stark, military-neat space was softened. The bed had clean, crisp sheets on it. And there were candles, a few simple tea lights flickering on the windowsill and the dresser, casting a warm, gentle glow over the room.

"You... lit candles," you said, your voice small.

"I wanted you to be comfortable," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He patted the space on the bed next to him. "Come here."

You went, your legs feeling unsteady. You sat down, a careful distance between you, your hands twisting in your lap. He didn't rush you. He just watched you, his dark eyes patient.

"You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "If you've changed your mind"

"I haven't," you said, a little too quickly. "I want this. I want... you."

He nodded slowly. "Good." He reached out and took one of your restless hands, his grip warm and steady. "We'll go slow. We'll go as slow as you need. And you tell me to stop if you want to stop. Understand?"

You nodded, your throat tight. "I understand."

He leaned in, and for the first time, you thought he was going to kiss you. But he just pressed his forehead against yours, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made your eyes sting. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin.

"Relax," he murmured. "Let me take care of you."

Then he did kiss you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It was slow, soft, exploring. His lips were warm and firm against yours, and the fact that you could feel them, that the mask didn't cover them, made it incredibly intimate. You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping out to taste you. He tasted like mint and the faint, bitter hint of coffee, and it was the most intoxicating thing you'd ever experienced.

You kissed him back with a clumsy, desperate enthusiasm, your hands coming up to clutch at his t-shirt. He let you, his own hands moving to your waist, guiding you. He pulled you closer, until you were half in his lap, and you could feel the solid, hard plane of his chest against yours.

"Simon," you breathed against his lips, his name a prayer on your tongue.

"Shhh," he soothed, his hands sliding under your shirt. His fingers were calloused, rough against the soft skin of your back, and you shivered at the sensation. "Just feel."

He kissed his way down your jaw, to your neck, his lips and tongue tracing a path that made you arch into him. He pulled your shirt over your head, his eyes drinking in the sight of you in your simple cotton bra. He reached around and unhooked it with practiced ease, letting it fall away.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," he groaned, his hands coming up to cover your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. The praise, so sincere, so raw, sent a bolt of heat straight to you. You'd been so focused on your own inexperience, you hadn't considered that he might actually want this, want you, with the same desperate hunger.

He laid you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours, and continued his exploration. He kissed every inch of your exposed skin, his touch reverent. He was taking his time, so much time, working you up with a maddening slowness that had you writhing beneath him.

He started kissing your tits, his mouth hot and wet as he closed his lips around one nipple, flicking it with his tongue. The sensation was electric. And in your head, the old, ugly thought surfaced: He's done this a hundred times. He knows exactly what he's doing, and you're just another body in his bed. The thought made you squirm, a mix of jealousy and insecurity twisting your gut.

He must have felt the change in you, because he pulled back, his eyes searching your face. "What is it?" he asked. "Talk to me."

"I just..." you couldn't say it. It was too embarrassing. But he just waited, his gaze patient and unwavering. "I just... I know you've done this before. With people who know what they're doing."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Yeah, I have," he said, his voice a low, dark rumble. "And do you know what I've learned?" He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I've learned that nothing is hotter than watching someone fall apart for the first time. I've learned that I fucking love being the one to make it happen."

He moved down your body, his hands hooking into the waistband of your pants. "I'm going to eat your pussy now," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And you're going to let me hear every single sound you make. No holding back. Understand?"

You nodded, your breath coming in short, shallow pants. He pulled your pants and underwear down in one go, leaving you completely bare to him. He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them apart. He looked up at you, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue on your cunt was like a lightning strike. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, your back arching off the bed. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.

"Fuck, you're wet," he rasped, his tongue lapping at you with long, slow strokes. "So fuckin' wet for me."

He ate you out with a devastating skill, his tongue finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling and sucking until you were a whimpering, moaning mess. You could feel his spit mixing with your own slickness, the obscene, wet sounds filling the room.

While he worked, his hands found yours, his fingers lacing through yours, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your hips. It was an anchor, a connection in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure. He held your gaze, letting you watch him, his eyes dark with lust as he showed you exactly what his tongue was doing to your swollen, aching clit.

"Tell me how it feels," he commanded, his voice muffled against your flesh. "Talk to me."

"It feels... so good," you gasped, your nails digging into the backs of his hands. "Your tongue... fuck, Simon, don't stop."

His grip on your hands tightened, a silent acknowledgment of your plea. Your pussy was burning, a deep, throbbing ache that demanded more. You felt a fullness in your belly, a tightening coil of pleasure that was wound so tight it was almost painful.

He slid a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. The stretch was intense, a dull burn that quickly melted into pleasure. He was watching your face, reading your every reaction, ensuring you were with him every step of the way.

"You're taking my fingers so well," he praised, his voice thick with arousal. "Look at that. So fuckin' tight." He pumped his fingers in and out of his mouth, his tongue still working your clit.

The dirty talk, the sight of him between your legs, the feel of his fingers and tongue, it was too much. The coil in your belly snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you in a blinding wave. You came with a loud, broken moan, your thighs clamping around his head as he worked you through it, drawing out every last shatter of pleasure.

He finally released you, crawling back up your body and kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. You could feel his erection, a hard thick line pressing against your thigh, and you were suddenly desperate to feel it, to feel Ghost.

You reached down, your hand palming his cock through his pants. He hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily. You wanted to make him feel as good as he'd made you feel. You wanted to show him how desperate you really were.

You pushed at his shoulders, surprising him. He let you roll him over, until you were straddling his thighs. You quickly undid his belt and fly, freeing his cock. It was even more intimidating up close, long, thick, and flushed dark red at the tip. A bead of pre glistened there, and you leaned down, licking it off on a whim.

"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide. "Show me," you whispered. "Show me how you like it."

His eyes snapped open, dark with lust. He wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking it slowly from base to tip. "Like this," he said, his voice strained. "Spit on it."

You did, your saliva glistening on the head. He used it as lube, his fist moving in a smooth, steady rhythm. You watched, utterly mesmerized, as he pleasured himself.

"Your turn," he grunted.

You replaced his hand with yours, your grip tentative at first. You mimicked his movements, and he let out a low, encouraging sound. "Yeah, just like that, love. Tighter. Squeeze the head when you get to the top."

You followed his instructions, your confidence growing with every groan you elicited from him. He was leaking steadily now, his pre-cum making your hand slick.

You leaned down and flicked your tongue over the head again, tasting the bitter saltiness of him. He twitched in your hand, a guttural sound escaping his lips. Emboldened, you took him into your mouth, just the tip at first, swirling your tongue around him. The taste, the feel of him on your tongue, the power of having this strong, dangerous man at your mercy, it was intoxicating.

"Jesus, fuck," he gasped, his hand flying to your hair, not to guide you, but just to hold on. "You're gonna make me come, you little minx."

You smiled around his cock, a surge of feminine pride washing over you. You cupped his balls, rolling them gently in your hand, marveling at the weight of them. You even ran your fingers through the coarse, dark hair at the base of his cock, finding the fact that he was unshaven, so naturally and undeniably male, incredibly hot.

"Christ, stop looking at me like that," he groaned. "You're gonna make me blow my load before I even get inside you."

You pulled off him with a wet pop, grinning. "Sorry."

"You're not," he said, sitting up and kissing you hard. He flipped you over again, pinning you beneath him.

He reached over to the bedside table, grabbing a condom and ripping it open. He rolled it on with practiced efficiency, his eyes never leaving yours. He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against you.

"Last chance," he said, his voice serious. "Tell me to stop."

"Don't you dare," you breathed, your legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer.

He pushed forward, slowly, so slowly, the stretch immense. You gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders. It burned, but it was a good burn, a sign of the connection you were making. He paused, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed against yours.

"You're doin' so good," he murmured, his voice strained. "So fuckin' good. Just breathe."

You did, and as you did, he slid in deeper, inch by incredible inch, until he was seated fully inside you. The feeling of fullness was absolute, overwhelming. He was so deep, so much a part of you, it brought tears to your eyes.

He kissed them away, his lips gentle. "You okay?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

You nodded, unable to speak. He started to move, his thrusts shallow and slow. He held your hand, his fingers interlaced with yours, anchoring you as he began to fuck you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It wasn't frantic or rough. It was deep, intimate, and devastatingly slow. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, his lips worshipping your body as his cock worshipped your cunt.

You could tell he was holding back, his body trembling with the effort of not pounding into you. His thrusts were angled perfectly, stimulating a spot inside you that you didn't even know existed. The pressure built again, a slow, rising tide of pleasure that was even more intense than the first.

"That's it," he panted in your ear. "I can feel you gettin' tighter. Are you gonna come on my cock, sweetheart? Gonna come all over me?"

His words, combined with the relentless, perfect pressure, sent you over the edge again. You came with a silent cry, your inner walls clenching around him, your body shaking with the force of it.

"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his rhythm finally faltering. "I can feel you comin'. So fuckin' hot. So goddamn perfect." He slammed into you once, twice, three more times, and then he was coming with a hoarse shout, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled the condom.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, heavy blanket. You lay there, tangled together, your breathing slowly syncing up as you came down from the high. After a long moment, he rolled off you, disposing of the condom before pulling you back into his chest.

You were silent, your mind reeling. You felt different. Changed. The shame, the insecurity, it was all gone, replaced by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction.

Simon pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Stay," he murmured, his voice already heavy with sleep.

You didn't need to be asked twice. You cuddled closer, your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. In the morning, things would be different. But for tonight, in the warm, candlelit glow of his room, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

The only thing more shocking than the fact that you'd just lost your virginity to Simon 'Ghost' Riley was the realization that you wanted to do it again. And again.

The first few days after were a weird, hazy blur. You moved through your training exercises on autopilot, your body aching in places you didn't know could ache. A deep, pleasant soreness that was a constant, throbbing reminder of the way he'd felt inside you, the way he'd held you, the sounds he'd made. Every time you caught sight of him across the compound, a dark, imposing figure against the grey concrete, a jolt of heat would shoot straight to your core.

You expected things to be awkward. You'd braced yourself for smirks from Johnny or a pointed, knowing look from Gaz. But there was nothing. Simon was the consummate professional on the field, his commands sharp, his demeanor as unreadable as ever. If anything, he was a little more distant, a little more controlled, as if he was holding himself back with a supreme effort. And Johnny just thought you were hungover.

That first night back in the safety of your own room, you'd slid your hand into your panties and touched yourself, trying to replicate the devastating pleasure he'd given you. It was useless. Your own fingers were a poor substitute for the thick, insistent stretch of his cock, the expert roll of his hips. You came, but it was a hollow, fleeting thing, and it only made you miss him more.

It took three days of this simmering tension before you snapped. You were in the gym, pounding away your frustration on the treadmill, when he walked in. He was wearing a tight-fitting black tank top and sweatpants, his hair damp from a shower. He didn't look at you, just gave a curt nod and headed for the weights. But you saw the way his jaw ticked, the way his hands flexed at his sides.

You hit the stop button on the treadmill, the machine's whine cutting through the quiet hum of the room. "My room," you said, your voice sounding more confident than you felt. "Ten minutes."

He didn't even turn around. "I have a briefing."

"You'll be quick," you retorted, a sharp heat rising in your chest. You saw his shoulders shake with a silent, dark laugh before he gave you a single, sharp nod.

You were waiting for him, your heart pounding when your door creaked open. He slipped inside, closing and locking it behind him with the same quiet efficiency he did everything. He didn't say a word. He just crossed the room, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.

It wasn't sweet or slow this time. It was a kiss born of days of frustrated denial. His tongue was in your mouth immediately, claiming, possessing, and you met him with equal desperation. You clawed at his tank top, pulling it over his head, and he did the same to yours, his hands rough and impatient on your skin.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you," he growled against your lips, backing you towards the bed. "About this tight little body. About how you felt squeezing my cock."

His filthy words sent a rush of wetness between your thighs. You whimpered, your hands scrambling for the button of his pants. He shoved his trousers down, kicking them away, and then he was on you again, his naked, scarred chest pressing you into the mattress. He was already hard, his cock heavy against your stomach.

Si was tearing at your pants, and you lifted your hips to help him, kicking them away along with your panties. He was between your thighs in a second, his cock nudging at your entrance. You felt the tear of a condom packet and you grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

"Don't," you said, your voice breathless.

He stilled, his eyes searching yours. "You sure?"

"I'm on the pill," you rushed out. "And I trust you. I just... I need to feel all of you. Please, Simon."

He stared at you for a long, tense moment, something raw and vulnerable flashing in his eyes. Then he crushed his mouth to yours, the condom forgotten. He pushed into you in one long, smooth stroke, and the sensation was overwhelming. No thin barrier, just the hot, silky feel of him, every vein, every ridge. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, you could feel him everywhere.

"Fuck," you gasped, your head falling back. "You feel so good."

He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours, the bed creaking in protest. "You feel like fuckin' heaven," he gritted out, his face buried in your neck. "So wet, so bloody tight for me."

You wanted more. You needed to be in control, to set the pace, to take what you needed. You pushed against his chest, and he let you roll him over with surprising ease. You straddled his hips, his cock still buried deep inside you, and braced your hands on his chest.

The sight of him below you was breathtaking. His chest was heaving, his muscles tensed, his eyes fixed on you with a burning intensity. And his mask, it had shifted slightly during the tussle, riding low on his nose, revealing more of his face than you'd ever seen. The sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the scar there. He looked wild, untamed.

You started to move, rising and falling on his cock, setting a rhythm that had you both moaning. His hands found your hips, then slid down to grip your ass, his fingers digging into the flesh as he guided you, helping you take him deeper.

"Simon," you panted, your head lolling back. "I can't... I can't stop thinking about you. You've done this to me. I'm obsessed."

His grip on your ass tightened, his eyes blazing. "Yeah?" he rasped, his voice strained. "Tell me what you're thinking about, sweetheart."

"Thinking about how full you make me," you whimpered, feeling another orgasm coil low in your belly. "How you stretch me so good. Si, please... please don't stop filling me up."

That was what broke him. With a groan, he sat up, wrapping his arms around you and crushing you to his chest. His mouth was on your neck, sucking and biting as he drove up into you, meeting your downward thrusts with powerful, desperate strokes of his own.

His mask was pushed down further, and you turned your head, your lips finding the corner of his mouth, kissing the scarred skin there. "You feel so good, LT," you whispered in his ear. "So fuckin' good inside me."

He came with a roar, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself inside you, the hot, thick flood of his cum triggering your own release. You came with a silent scream, your whole body clenching around him, milking him for every last drop. You collapsed against his chest, both of you slick with sweat, trembling with the aftershocks.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just held each other, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was still inside you, softening but not gone, a warm, comforting presence. He reached up and gently adjusted his mask, pulling it back into place. The intimacy of the gesture, the quiet trust it implied, made your heart ache.

"Now you stay the night," you murmured into his neck, not a question, but a statement.

He didn't answer. He just held you tighter, and that was answer enough. You knew, with a certainty that this was no longer just about getting rid of your virginity. This was something else entirely.

The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception. 

But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. He’d long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.

There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way. 

They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.

Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.

They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.

Stamped, more like. Branded. 

Survived. 

And soulmates shared scars. 

Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasn’t quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didn’t belong to him originally.  

He didn’t like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way. 

It’s ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they weren’t just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadn’t been afforded one. 

There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe he’d been left out of the whole thing. 

Better he was alone. 

The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance. 

A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldn’t be altered—to know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.

A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.  

Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.

And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate. 

Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would. 

But, sometimes, he wondered. 

He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing. 

It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again. 

He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.  

It was a cruelty he couldn’t imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him. 

Simon didn’t want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either. 

If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already. 

He didn’t particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didn’t relish the thought of something he couldn’t control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable. 

It wouldn’t happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent. 

He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.

Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear. 

It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnny’s that he couldn’t stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.

The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soap’s mind, not for the first time. He’d always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldn’t all come to nothing yet.   

Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land. 

A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.

“Lucky that way, Lt,” Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. “Findin’ ‘em will be easier.” 

Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that he’d acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. “What do you mean?” 

Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. “Know ‘em straight away, wouldn’t I?”  

Simon’s own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head. 

Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was. 

No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him. 

But he’d always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds. 

.

.

.

The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them all—the field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices. 

Each place had caveats. 

The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it. 

Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there. 

The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day. 

The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors. 

The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone. 

A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty. 

He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.

Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilarities—names, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the building’s irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasn’t information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didn’t often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators. 

It was a regular, routine, quiet place. 

So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted. 

Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.

The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck. 

The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air. 

Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward. 

There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp. 

Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to. 

It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it. 

You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with something?” 

Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs. 

Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere. 

He would know his own face anywhere. 

He would, apparently, know you anywhere. 

Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat. 

Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didn’t ruin the brightness of it. 

You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs. 

His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart. 

Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone. 

The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain. 

Nausea swept into the back of his throat. 

“Are you okay?” 

He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didn’t avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes. 

You saw him. 

Simon was not to be seen.

Ghost didn’t get caught, didn’t freeze. 

Didn’t feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked. 

Not anymore. 

He was a ghost, a shadow, a silent—

The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace. 

Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“Sir?”

Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat. 

Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.

As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency. 

You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire. 

You hadn’t recognized what he was. 

And he was going to keep it that way. 

.

.

.

It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it. 

He didn’t love you, that’s not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it. 

Better yet, through you. 

Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery. 

One sure way to free himself was your death. 

It was unusual, but it happened—headlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldn’t tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them. 

Simon understood the urge.

He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides. 

Which irritated him. Things like that didn’t bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this. 

It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse. 

It was wrong. 

He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing.  

The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didn’t know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing.  

Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and it’d be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up. 

Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it. 

Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadn’t left him. It had never happened before—not on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling.  

Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light. 

Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp. 

Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were. 

Fuuucking hell. 

Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, back toward the entry point of the room. 

Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal. 

He waited, but you didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache. 

Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders. 

You yawned, eyes still closed. 

He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldn’t admit it then, but he half hoped you would. 

Ghost backed away, left you to your peace. 

The weight in his chest intensified again.

He hated you for it. 

He went back the next day. 

And the day after that.

.

.

.

Anchor might be a better descriptor. 

Hook was too violent.

Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that. 

He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things. 

You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didn’t. 

You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin. 

You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it. 

You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night. 

You didn’t drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didn’t show, but Simon could tell. He didn’t like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else. 

They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you weren’t going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in. 

Absolutely bloody foul. 

Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile. 

And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed. 

You nearly always had headphones on—wired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers. 

You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you weren’t being particularly loud. He didn’t need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you. 

He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous. 

You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough. 

Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them. 

He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once he’d left you for the day, replaying things he’d heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him. 

The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important. 

That used to be more important. 

Now his every thought was asterisked by you. 

Distracted. 

He didn’t do well with it. 

He didn’t like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasn’t near you, suffocating him. He’d felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it. 

Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat.  

He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly. 

After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk. 

Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest. 

It was enough to be where you had once been. 

That was as close as he cared to be. 

He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again. 

.

.

. 

He went by Ghost, you learned eventually. 

His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely. 

It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith. 

It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadn’t been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut. 

Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true. 

Fear, afterward, of course, that you’d missed some kind of order or request. 

It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since you’d felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldn’t have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmate’s scars better than their own, and you were no exception. 

It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didn’t stand out.

When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. “That’s just Ghost. He probably didn’t say anything. You get used to it.” 

The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, “Okay.” 

Laswell had smiled. “You’ll do well here.” 

You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldn’t say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note. 

There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.

You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way. 

Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it. 

You sensed that he’d been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.

You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back. 

“Hi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?” 

This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands. 

The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didn’t leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.

“Have I passed?” 

His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. “Passed?” 

“Your test?” 

“Think I’m testin’ you?” 

“You moved my desk.” 

He didn’t answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldn’t answer at all. “Practically had your back to the door,” he said eventually, as though that explained it. 

It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.   

You nodded and then shrugged instead. “I guess I don’t think about things like that.” 

“Should.”

“Maybe.” 

“Especially in the field.” 

“I don’t do field work.” 

He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond. 

“Welcome to sit,” you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. “Ghost.”  

He didn’t sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office. 

Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company. 

All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone. 

Ghost was strange, slightly off putting. 

You liked him.

Maybe, you thought, he’d come back. 

.

.

.

Ghost visited regularly after that. 

Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work. 

His boots were so silent that you often didn’t know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. 

You didn’t feel watched, so much as observed, minded.

But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him.  

Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind. 

The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things you’d seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.

You were sure he wasn’t actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office.  

The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasn’t the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others. 

Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it. 

You didn’t comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain. 

He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag. 

In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweets— which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently. 

But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him. 

If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didn’t eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. “Don’t have to,” he always said. 

“Want to,” you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.

Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle. 

He didn’t appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon.  

“Sorry,” he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone.  

“Oh,” you answered. “You didn’t have to—“

“Did,” he said simply. “‘ave you eaten?”

“Yep. Got something for you, too.” 

He settled back. “Neighbor still botherin’ you?” 

You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. “Oh. . .I—You were listening.”

He tilted his head. “‘Course I was, bird.” He leveled you with a look. “So?”

“Not recently. Not in a couple days.”

“Good. Let us know if he does, yeah?”

Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway. 

When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed. 

It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.

.

.

.

When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.

You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor. 

It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window. 

In his usual chair, you’d laid a gift. 

He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier. 

“It’s for you. I knitted it.” 

He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. “Just in case you were cold. You’re always so buttoned up after all,” you joked. “And you fixed my radiator this winter. So it’s a thank you, too.”

Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadn’t expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. “How d’you know it was me that fixed it?” 

“Who else would have?” 

He grunted. “You knit?” 

“When I can’t sleep,” you answered. “Keeps my hands and brain busy.”

His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didn’t want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck. 

“Can’t sleep?” His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.

You shrugged. “Must seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.” 

Ghost considered this for a long moment. “It’s not.” 

“What?” 

“Silly.” 

The way he grunted the word made you laugh. 

“Could I ask you something, Ghost?”

“Reckon you just did.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Am I allotted only one question?” 

“Just two.” 

It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. “Guess I’m shit out of luck.” 

“And out of questions.”

You laughed again. 

He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. “Go on, then.” 

“Where are you from?” 

The levity vanished. His brows lowered. “Why?” 

You shrugged. “Just curious. I’m not good with all the accents yet. Just can’t place you.” 

He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer. 

The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back. 

“Why do you come here?” You asked instead. 

This question he answered readily. “It’s quiet.” 

“That’s one way to tell me to shut up.” 

He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. “Not the kind of noise I mean.” 

You decided not to take offense at being called noise. 

You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch. 

“Hungry?” You asked.  

“Tryin’ to see my face?” 

You smiled. “Never,” you answered, “Not sure I want to see what you’re hiding under there.” 

The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off.  

“Why are you here?” He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.

You waved your fork, indicating the office. “Fairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.” 

He sighed, a long suffering sound. “England, smartarse.” 

You smile and dig your fork into last night’s spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. “I’m on loan to Laswell.” 

“On loan?” He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didn’t move it. 

When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning.  

“Temporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,” you explained. “She needed someone quickly, who she could trust.” 

Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. “How long are you on loan for, then?” 

You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. “It’s unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.” You smiled, “Hopefully not through another winter, though, I don’t think I’m cut out for the rain and cold.”

His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it weren’t for all the hours he’d passed in your office, you weren’t sure you would have caught it at all. 

“From somewhere warm?”

“Warmer than here. Especially in the winter.” 

“Must be nice, that.” 

“Has its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.” 

“One you enjoy.” 

“But of course. I like feeling like I’m baking alive.” 

He snorted again.

You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle. 

When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, “Manchester.” 

“Hm?”

“Where I’m from.”

His voice was low; he wasn’t looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead. 

“Manchester,” you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. “And do you all sound sort of like—“

You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. “Are you laughing at me?”

“It’s your fucking accent.”

“My accent?” You asked incredulously. “Have you heard yourself?” 

“Got a thick one, bird.” He imitated your voice. “Manchester.” The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered. 

You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. “Takes one to know one, I guess.” 

“Suppose it does.” 

“Fucking Brits,” you said, without any venom. “I can’t do anything right according to you all.” 

He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. “Who’s tellin’ you you can’t do something?” 

You sighed, long suffering. “My coworkers. Can’t make tea, apparently. I don’t care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.”

“They make it wrong too.” 

You groaned. “Not you too.” 

Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container. 

“I’ll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.” 

You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. “Big fan?” 

“I love tea.” 

It made you laugh. “Of course, English afterall.” 

He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. “Ghost?” You called. 

Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. “For you.” 

He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. “Didn’t have to.” 

“I know.” You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. “I always want to.” 

Ghost moved so silently that you didn’t hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone. 

.

.

.

It should be a good thing. 

You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other. 

But it didn’t sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume you’d be stationed back in the US.

The thought festered, burrowed. 

“Laswell.”

She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner of  her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead. 

“Ghost,” she sighed, “Don’t do that.” 

Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. “How long has she got?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Said she’s on loan. I want to know how long.”

Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldn’t explain himself, and Laswell knew that. 

“Maybe as long as a year.” She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. “Why?” 

Ghost didn’t answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall. 

You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.

As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working. 

When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working. 

He walked you to your car around midnight. 

“Tell us if you’re here this late again,” he said, not looking at you. 

“Ghost,” you said. “It’s almost enough to make me think you like me.” 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he answered. 

You just laughed. 

.

.

.

“Tea?” 

You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didn’t go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain. 

It would need remedied. 

But first, this. 

It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home.  

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Unfortunately not.” 

You laughed; his shoulders eased. “Ghost,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You tilted your head. “I’m starting to think you’re spying on me.” 

“What’re you still doing ‘ere?” 

“What are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?” 

Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.

“Offerin’ to make you a tea,” he answered. “Obviously.”  

“Obviously,” you echoed. “Of course.” 

“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re stayin’ late.” 

“Ghost,” you said seriously, lifting your brows, “I’m here late again today.” 

“Hilarious, you are.” 

You giggled again. “Are you really offering to make me tea?” 

He nodded. “C’mon then.”

You smiled and shrugged the blanket off your shoulders. He waited while you locked your computer and stood.

Simon allowed you to lead toward the breakroom where he’d observed the many cups of tea you’d politely swallowed from well meaning coworkers, who left it to steep for too long or too short, added too much sugar and milk, or left it totally plain. 

The overhead lights were too bright, a blue-white glare that made you frown and squint. Your nose scrunched up in distaste. There were circles beneath your eyes, exhausted loops that matched his own.  

“So,” you prompted, leaning against the counter, “How does one make a proper cuppa?”

“Not bad,” he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. “Little posh.” 

“I’ve been practicing.”

He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but he’d make due with what was available.

“Ah, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.” 

He involuntarily made a pained sound. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, “That your usual method?” 

You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. “I scandalized a data analyst with that joke.” You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. “I do know how to boil water, I’ll have you know.”

“Got a head start then.” 

You laughed again, shoulders shaking. Simon watched the corner of your mouth curl, and it eased something in his chest. You were painfully close, the woodsy, floral scent of your perfume curled in the air. Your elbow brushed his. He didn’t know how you could be unaware of the bond at that moment, when being that close to you felt like being lit on fire. He wanted to reach for you so badly that he had to clench his fist closed to avoid it. 

If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody. 

The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged. 

Simon ignored it.  

When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didn’t mind the scrutiny in it. He didn’t mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw. 

“I like being able to see your eyes,” you said, just as the kettle clicked off. 

He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. “Why?” 

“You have pretty eyes,” you shrugged. “And it’s hard to see you with the other mask.” You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag he’d dropped into it. 

“You can tell me to fuck off, if you want,” you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. “Why do you wear it?” 

Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. “Five minutes,” he nodded at the tea. “Don’t touch it. None of that dunking shite.” 

“Yes, sir,” you agreed. “Five minutes, no touching.” 

He huffed, and your smile widened. You bumped your shoulder against his. The contact only lasted a second or two, but the relief it provided was so intense that he nearly choked on it. 

The pain, softened by your proximity, returned immediately, crept down into the soft ligaments between his bones. He felt the loss in the roots of his teeth, the middle of his chest; it was like losing his breath in a different way, being suckerpunched in the solar plexus, knocked on his ass.

“To hide my face.” 

“Your identity, you mean.” 

“My identity,” he agreed.

“Why?” 

He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how you’d take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop? 

Instead, he said, “There are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.” 

You pursed your lips, fingers toying with the teabag string, flicking the tab at the end with your nail. There was another question swimming in your eyes, but you let it go unasked, dropping your eyes from his instead. 

“You’ve seen more of them than most,” you said. “I would guess.” 

“Part of the job.” 

Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. “Hm. But y’know something? I think I’d know you anywhere,” you said, without a hint of shame or irony. “It’s all in your eyes.” 

Before Simon could respond, you hid a yawn in your sleeve and rubbed your hand over your face, exhaustion layered in thick rings beneath your eyes. “Even if this is gross,” you indicate the tea, “At least it will keep me awake.” 

“I take offense to that.” 

You laughed again. “Hm. Sorry, Lieutenant.” You leaned in, “It smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?” 

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee if it’s shit.” 

“You’re kind.” This time when you leaned your shoulder against his, you left it there. The empty soreness like a bruise inside his ribs loosened again. For the first time in a while, he was left with the absence of pain.  

When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way you’d take it plain and like it, but he drew the line at milk. Especially the blasphemy that was the military issued powdered milk in a canister that sat on the counter. Abso-fucking-lutely not. 

“There you are,” he said, “Cup of tea.” 

“A proper cuppa,” you tried again. It was a little less posh this time. 

He huffed. “Better all the time.” 

“And I have you to thank.” 

Your face creased as you took the cup between your palms, an unreadable expression flitting across your features. Then your mouth twisted to the side, a sure sign you were attempting to keep some emotion or thought in check. 

Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his. 

“Thanks, Ghost.” 

“”S just tea.” 

You shook your head and lifted the cup, blowing gently on the surface before you took a tiny sip. He watched your face, watched your throat move as you swallowed, the flickering web of your lashes. A step up, at least, from all the shit tea from your coworkers that make your brows tense in an effort to conceal a grimace. “One good thing has come of this,” you said after a moment of contemplation. 

“What’s tha’?” 

“I know how to make tea for you now.” 

“Like it?” 

“I love it.” 

You briefly tilted your head onto his shoulder, then pulled away entirely. The flood of discomfort was worse than before. His muscles spasmed around it in a violent convulsion. “I mean that really.” 

He breathed out, through it. “I don’t take honey.” 

You studied the contents of the cup, tilting it one way and then the other, like something important laid at the bottom of the porcelain well. 

“Noted.” 

Sure enough, the next day, a hot cup was waiting for him, which he drank as you chatted from behind your computer, decidedly, pointedly, giving him the privacy to do so. 

.

.

.

Things settled into a pleasant rhythm. 

A regimented, regular existence that you had long ago learned to embrace. The base became home more than the tiny apartment you rented and spent only enough time to sleep, bathe, and cook in. 

You timed your days to the ebb and flow of the base, to visits to your office, debriefings and conference rooms, the restless energy of so many people in one place moving. You breathed around absences, the pockets of emptiness that sometimes cropped up. The loneliness that felt like an unfillable pit in your stomach. 

People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you weren’t meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone else’s. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond. 

You were a stopping off point, a bit of fun, but not someone to invest time and effort into, not when the reminder that someone else might come along and render it all moot was so visible, so literally in their face. To look at you was to be reminded of that bond waiting in the wings, for them and for you, and that you could only ever be temporary. 

It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldn’t be room for anyone else in your life. You were important to no one.

It had been proven to you time and again, and you weren’t sure what kept you hopeful that someone would one day see past it. So when Sergeant Davies stuck his head in your office one Friday afternoon long after Ghost had departed your office for the day, and asked you out, you found yourself saying yes. 

“Would you like to go out sometime?” He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Just round the pub for drinks?” 

“Oh,” you said. “I—” 

It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. You’d only talked to him a few times before, but Davies was handsome in a boyish way and sweet and you liked him well enough, you found yourself hesitating for half a second. To your horror, your mind flashed to Ghost, stomach lurching painfully, a knot of tension fisting itself in your chest. 

You looked at his usual chair, empty now, seeing his large frame sprawled there anyway, thighs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and focused, locked onto you with an intensity and constancy you still weren’t used to.

Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door. 

“Yeah,” you answered firmly. “Sure.” 

“Brilliant,” he grinned. “How about tonight?” 

Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. “I’m free.” 

“Brilliant,” he said again. “I’ll text you.” 

“Okay.” 

His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office. 

So you found yourself walking off the base with Davies later that evening. You found yourself laughing and hopeful in a local pub that you hadn’t gotten the chance to explore yet, busy as you were, the base a tide that tugged you back again and again. Like a magnet, you wanted to be there. 

And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasn’t just your face, it was your hands and arms and chest and belly. Your whole body was marked, dogeared for someone else. He looked down at you in your bed, his head framed by your ceiling fan and you saw the moment it clicked. The moment it wouldn’t work. 

“Someone out there is really looking for you,” he said. “You’re lucky.” 

“No more than anyone else,” you countered. “You know that’s not how it works.” 

“I know,” he said, pulling on his shirt. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated. 

Still, you didn’t sleep, just laid on your side, half undressed, staring out at a sky that slowly lightened, stars fading, wondering if perhaps your truest fate was to be lonely for your whole life. 

You didn’t hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didn’t have one at all. 

.

.

.

Monday. 

There was a knife in Simon’s pocket. 

Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot. 

The one in his pocket, though, was for you.

A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one. 

The knowledge that it was yours was an uncomfortable weight in his chest. It meant admitting he cared enough to procure it, test it, hand it over. 

It wasn’t quite your typical lunch hour, but Ghost was headed to your office anyway. It was sunny, for once, and he expected to find you taking an early break anyway, leaning back in your chair with your headphones on, absorbing the rare rays. 

And, he wanted to be done with it, to stop tapping his pocket repeatedly, checking the blade was still there, like it might have run away. 

Soap had noticed his fidgeting as they all sat through a briefing on intelligence reports with Laswell that morning. Ghost had forced his hand still, exuded a forced calm, but Johnny’s eyes hadn’t turned away. 

When he arrived at your office, deliberately rustling against the doorjamb so as not to startle you, you glanced up and smiled tightly and his plan vanished. 

Something was wrong. The blinds were closed, your office an unusual sea of gray air. Your shoulders were caved inward protectively, your expression wan and closed. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, “Hey, Ghost.”  

Simon took his usual seat, watching you type something, decidedly not looking at him. He watched you, the set of your mouth and eyes. He waited for your chatter to begin but it didn't. 

“All right?” 

“Hm?”

“You’re quiet.” 

“Oh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?” You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.

There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. “What ‘appened?” 

You looked up again, and shook your head. “I’m just tired.” 

“Try again.” 

Frustration crept into your features. “Who said I want to tell you?” With that, you ducked behind your monitors.

Simon waited, but you did not reemerge. 

He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. “Jesus, Ghost—” 

“Nice weather.” 

“I can see that.” 

“And you aren’t out there sunnin’ yourself? Something horrible must have happened.” 

Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. “I. . .I’m just being dramatic.”

“C’mon, then.” 

You blinked up at him. “Where are we going?” 

He didn’t answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket you’d knitted for him months ago from its place along the back of his chair, finally with a proper purpose, and carried it over his arm. 

“Lunch.” 

You grabbed it and followed him down the hall. Simon shouldered open an external door and held it open for you, the scent of your skin, the warm brush of your body so close to his as you ducked under his arm like a beacon, a light he wanted to follow. 

Carefully, you nudged your shoulder against his as you walked. The familiar sharp, sweet pang whenever you brushed too close together settled in his chest. He wondered if you felt it too, if you felt that sickly flutter in your chest, or if his suspicion that he was holding one end of an untethered bond in his hand was right. 

Just his luck. 

Didn’t matter though. 

He ticked his elbow out a little, and after a moment, you pushed your hand against the inside of his arm. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. The pain in his chest settled. 

The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain. 

“So, what are we doing?” 

“Walking.” 

“I can see that.” 

“Why’re you askin’, then, bird?” 

You huffed but didn’t ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway. 

The sky was a flawless robin’s egg blue, only a wispy, thin line of cloud on the very distant horizon. The distant shouts of drill instructors snapped in the warm summer air. Your shoulders drooped as you walked, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds at a time as you tilted your face to the sun, inhaling deeply. 

He led you around the last building in a long line of barracks and brought you to a halt. The only thing beyond was a chainlink fence that marked the edge of the base. A faint breeze coated him in the smell of your skin, settled deep in the well of his lungs. He took a breath, watched your lashes flutter. 

Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. “You’ve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.” 

He didn’t deny it. 

“What are we doing back here?” 

Ghost pulled away from you with some effort and spread the blanket over the grass. He sat on the concrete steps that led to the back door of the unused barracks.

You sat on the blanket, started to open your lunch and then flopped back in the sun instead. “A usual haunt?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“Secret’s safe with me.” 

“Mind if I smoke?” 

“No.” Then, “I won’t look.”  

He grunted in acknowledgement, rolled the bottom of his mask up, carton of cigarettes and lighter pulled from the depths of a trouser pocket. Simon watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracing the latticework of scars over your face. They looked better on you, he decided. Not as noticeable as his own, faded and light, pencil through wax paper instead of the thick groves of his own. 

They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish. 

Your eyes remained peacefully closed, soaking up the sun like a long deprived plant. Sweat beaded along your forehead, and when you pushed up your sleeves, Ghost was reminded that all of you matched all of him.

He recognized a burn mark on your forearm that belonged to him, a cut that wrapped halfway around your wrist. He was pretty sure the burn mark was from a mishandled flare, the wrist scar from a rope that had gotten tangled and burned him. 

Simon wanted to reach down and cup the side of your throat, feel the soft, sun warmed skin beneath his fingers. He wondered if your scars felt the same as his own, rough and grooved. 

Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own. 

He’d like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldn’t have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking. 

He watched the delicate flex of muscle in your forearms. Your shirt was a little askew, more faded marks left like a tracery of veins on your chest and collarbone and shoulder. It was fucking awful, a wrenching feeling in his chest, to know all that had been inflicted on him, had fallen on you too. 

He wondered about the pain again, imagined you writhing with terror and agony and confusion, every gunshot wound and burn and slash he received an echo inside you. Cigarette burns dotting your arms and wrists when you were just a child, months of pain without end when he was captured and tortured and his life was irrevocably changed. 

Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage he’d inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe he’d hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didn’t know it was the man in front of you your hate should be directed at.

When he stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and rolled his mask back down, you blinked into the sun and exhaled, long and slow, and then sat up, leaning back on your palms. 

“What ‘appened?” He asked.

Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. “You’re like a dog with a bone, you know that?” 

“Affirmative,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. “I brought something for you.” 

“Stalling.” 

“Pushy,” you countered, giggling, rummaging around in your bag. Your smile faded as you pulled free one of the usual containers, what looked like lasagne within. He watched the edge of your mouth curl, the scar slitted along one side pulling at your expression. “I went on a date this weekend.” 

Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. “Bad date?” 

“No,” you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. “No, it went really well.” You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. “Until he saw my—” You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. “My marks. My scars.” 

“He’s a prick.” 

“No, he wasn’t,” you shook your head. “It’s happened before. They see the extent of it, and it’s like something biological clicks. I’m off limits.” You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. “Even though I’m no more likely to find mine than anyone else.” 

You looked very small, and alone at that moment. 

“I know it’s not my soulmate’s fault,” you said quietly. “I know that. I know that. And I don’t blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I just—I wish—I wish I didn’t have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.”

The chill spreads outward.  

It was confirmation enough. If you knew, you would hate him. All that repressed, sentimentalized resentment would come bubbling up the moment you were actually faced with the person who so fundamentally changed the course of your life. 

He looked at his scars winking in the sun on your skin and felt a self hatred so intense it nearly made him flinch. He wished he could crawl out of that grave and kill them all over again, slower, just for this. 

You glanced up and smiled tightly. “But I’m a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.” You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. “This helped, though,” you said. “Thank you, Ghost.” You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again. 

And even though you could easily glance at him, Simon pushed up his mask and popped open the lid of the lasagne still warm between his hands. 

You ate together for the first time, in silence in the sun. You closed your eyes, kept your face pointed up and away, a cool breeze ruffling your shirt sleeves. 

“Have you found yours?” 

Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. “Don’t think someone like me is meant for one.” 

You nodded. “Me either.”

.

.

.

He walked you back to your office. 

You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find. 

Ghost smelled like sun and freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke. His shoulder kept touching yours, something in your chest lurching each time, like a rib bone had come loose and was knocking against your heart and lungs. 

Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair. 

You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way. 

Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk. 

Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch. 

A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges. 

He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. “What’s this?” You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side.  

“A knife.” 

“Oh, really? I've never seen one before.” 

He rolled his eyes. “It’s for you. I’ll teach you how to use it.” 

“Why?” 

“In case you need to.”

“Is this about me staying late?” 

“No.” He did not elaborate. 

“You know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isn’t a knife a little—” 

“But you don’t carry a gun.” 

“No,” you agreed. “I don’t.”  

He nodded as though that explained it. “Right.” 

You considered it, flipped it open. Deadly, shiny blade newly sharpened and oiled and well cared for. It was odd to be given a weapon, and yet unsurprising where Ghost was concerned. You glanced up, watched his dark, intense eyes flick over your face. You weren’t sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.

“Okay.”

His shoulders loosened. “Tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow,” you agreed. 

.

.

.

If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didn’t know Ghost very well. 

You only ran drills first, as though Ghost were making sure the physical fitness exam you had to pass once a year was up to scratch. You proved again and again that you could run without getting too winded, disassemble, load, and fire a service weapon. When he was satisfied with that, the real training began. 

You practiced with a rubber blade that bruised when stuck into your ribs. He did not go easy on you. You left the gym battered and bruised, sweaty and just a little bit resentful. But you could break a wrist lock hold, grapple and use your body and size to your advantage. The goal he repeatedly told you, was not to turn you into a fighter or a soldier, but give you an opportunity to get away, to run away.  

What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldn’t begin to imagine. But you enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed being in the gym. You found yourself laughing when you were repeatedly slammed into the mat, knife wrested from your fingers. It was fun. And, it was good for you, you decided, even if you thought his intense insistence was a tad dramatic. 

Ghost was a bit dramatic about certain things, you were coming to learn.

This was one of them. You were, you thought with warmth, one of the things he was a bit dramatic about. For whatever reason, you’ve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow. 

On the third week of relentlessly brutal training, you arrived at the base gym, empty as it always was, to find him holding a length of rope. 

You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. “What do you imagine is going to happen to me?” 

Ghost didn’t answer as you set your bag down and pulled off your sweatshirt. The room was warm, close and humid, the scent of left over dregs of soldiers clogging the room for most of the day. The scent of plastic, lemon disinfectant, and sweat is thick on the air, but when you stepped toward Ghost, his familiar comforting smell of tea and cigarettes washed over you in a vacuous, orbital cloud. 

You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. You’d swear it was a blush if you didn’t know better. “Ghost?” 

“Better to be prepared, yeah?” 

“For what?” All the same, you turned with a sigh. 

After a painfully long moment he stepped close and pressed the dark material around your wrists. His body was warm behind yours for that brief moment even without touching you, like the glow of a heat lamp that made the rest of the room feel cold by comparison. 

His gloved fingers were carefully delicate against your skin. It sent sparks skittering up your arms. What would his bare skin feel like against yours? 

Rough, warm. Safe.  

It’s a thought that had curled its roots into your mind the first time you fell to the mat together and you felt his weight against yours, brief and heavy, but comforting somehow. It wasn’t supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing. 

Stupid, silly. 

If your most recently failed date had shown you anything, it was that feeling anything for anyone that had seen your scars was a failing venture. And Ghost had seen more of them now, than most. Maybe you should start wearing a mask. 

“What’s the goal today?” You asked, feeling a little like you couldn’t breathe. His warmth and scent and the weight of his presence was overwhelming in a way that made you want to curl into him, gladly suffocate. 

“Same as always,” he answered drolly. “To get away.”

“Hm. I keep thinking you’ll challenge me,” you teased.  

“Not a game, bird.” 

“But what am I meant to do? I can’t fight.” 

“Get out of the bindings. Get to the door.” 

“Is that it?” 

You would swear he’s smirking. “Simple enough, aye.” 

It wasn’t easy. 

For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back. 

Ghost’s weight was heavy against you, before it lifted away. Your sweaty skin stuck to his hoodie.

Your breath comes in hard, deep pants. Your wrists ached and panic had begun to set in. 

“On your feet.” 

Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. “You won’t be getting away from me,” he’d said once, “so you’d have a chance.” It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good. 

It didn’t feel like you were doing good now. 

By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasn’t fun; it wasn’t sparring. You couldn’t manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything he’d taught you without your hands. 

“You’re hurting me,” you gasped. 

He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadn’t been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion. 

But you knew instantly that you’d made a mistake, that he would not take it that way. 

“Shit.” 

.

.

.

The window was open and you were not in your office. 

Simon paused in the doorway, noted your bag on the chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt trailing over the arm of your desk chair and spilling onto the floor. His was gone from the chair. You’d been wandering off without him recently. 

He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. “Getting sun, she said,” he said. “Sir.” 

Ghost nodded and shouldered the door open. He found you behind the barracks, lying on his blanket, staring up at a patchy sky, slices of blue peaking from between low hanging gray clouds. 

When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. “Ghost, you’re blocking my sun.” 

“Not much sun to speak of.” You grimace and frown at the sky. “You weren’t in your office.” 

“Sorry, should have left a note.” You patted the blanket next to you. “Sit.” 

Simon sat on the concrete steps. “Where’s your lunch?”

“Forgot it.” 

Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it. 

“Canteen,” he said. “Let’s go.” 

“It’s okay—“

“Wasn’t a suggestion.” 

“You’re bossy,” you said but didn’t move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. “I’ll have a big dinner.” 

He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, content enough to wait you out and smoke. The clouds continued to gather, putting your beloved sun to rest for the moment. The air grew steadily thicker with humidity. 

“Gonna rain,” he commented. 

You ignored him, eyes squinching closed harder, like you could will the sun to return. He watched you, made himself look at the bruises on your wrists and forearms, he knew there were matching ones on your ribs. They were harmless, just the usual consequence of sparring, but the ones around your wrists—that’s a mistake he won’t soon forget. 

When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. “Ready now?” He asked, pulling down his mask again. 

“I can see you won’t leave it alone.” 

“Affirmative,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and started to get to your feet, pausing when he held out a hand to you. You stared for a beat too long before gripping his hand in yours. 

Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted. 

You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. “Your lead,” you said. “I haven’t had the privilege.” 

He grunted, followed you closely back inside. 

As Simon’s misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen. 

He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. “Ach so this is where you’ve been off to LT.”

Ghost herded you into line, a raucous group of new recruits halting their conversation to ogle you before their eyes flicked to his and away, conversation continued at a more subdued level. He shifted closer, between you and them, though you didn’t seem to notice.

“Haven’t been off anywhere,” he grumbled. 

“Who’s this then?” 

You smiled and offered your hand and name. “It’s nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.” 

“John MacTavish,” Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. “Call me Soap.”

“Soap,” you giggled. “I’ve seen you in my reports.” 

Soap’s gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldn’t be in the canteen. “Are they yours?” 

“Sergeant—,” Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice. 

But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. “No. None of them belong to me. They’re nice though, right?” 

Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.

“Very becoming, lass.” 

You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. “Yours?” 

“Aye, all mine.”

“Ah, luck.” 

“Lucky indeed.”

Johnny’s eyes shifted to Simon’s, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.

 “Am I going to get food poisoning from this?” You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat. 

“Probably not,” Johnny answered cheerfully. “Been mostly fine.” 

“Yes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.” 

“That’s for sure, bonnie.” 

“Bonnie,” you said, giggling. “Are you calling me pretty?” 

Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. “You wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.”

“Simon,” you said softly, glancing up at him. “I didn’t think anyone knew your name.” 

Ghost didn’t answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnny’s head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongue—  

“It’s need to know,” he snapped. 

Your expression folded and you glanced away. “Right, of course. Sorry.”

Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. “This way, lass,” he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess. 

“Oh,” you said weakly, “That’s all right. You don’t have to—”

Ghost couldn’t help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into. 

Soap wasn’t listening, already talking your ear off, pulling out a chair for you. You smiled and sat and Simon was left to silently watch it unfold. 

.

.

.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap muttered when they’d safely returned you to your office where a contingent of lesser analysts awaited you. The corridor leading away from the now closed door seemed impossibly long. “D’ya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? You’ve got yours right under your fuckin’ nose and haven’t even told her yer name!” 

“She doesn’t need to know.” 

“Yer name?” 

Ghost leveled Soap with a stare. 

Soap gaped at him. “Steamin’ Jesus. You aren’t plannin’ to tell the lass at all?” 

“Stay out of it, MacTavish.” 

Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. “You know it can kill you?” Simon kept walking. “Simon.” 

He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. “Do ya?”

“It won’t.”

Johnny continues anyway, urgently. “There’s a pain, they say, under the ribs when—“

“Stay out of it, Sergeant,” Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. “It’s nothing.” 

“It‘ll corrode,” Johnny said to his retreating back. “She’ll feel it eventually.”

Simon ignored him. 

But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if you’d feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours.  

Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didn’t sit well with him. 

.

.

.

Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it. 

He regularly and reliably began to show up in your office. More than once, he looped Garrick into accompanying him. Ghost had watched as the same realization Soap had snapped into place on Gaz’s face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too. 

Luckily, they were the only three on the entire base that could make the connection, that had seen his face, so at least it was done with. None of them said anything to him about it, but there were a lot of worried glances being exchanged. 

Ghost felt the edge of his sanity begin to wear thin the longer it went on, not that there was much left of it in the first place.

The disruption, the infiltration, the distraction grated until his insides felt raw with irritation. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didn’t deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you. 

But the way you’d tenderly touched your cheek remains burned into his memory. The soft look in your eye. The gentle way you and Soap always spoke of soulmates whenever they came up, reverent and tender. 

You enjoyed their company, Johnny and Kyle, and seemed all the better for it. It was clear immediately how much you liked both of them. How much you desperately needed friends. 

Ghost was loath to admit there was a seed of jealousy wriggling in his belly. The easy way you got on with them proof enough that a wire had gotten crossed somewhere, that you were more cursed by him than anchored by.

Then, the gifts left at the edge of your desk began to extend to the lads and not just himself, and it felt vaguely as though he were losing a vital piece of himself to it. 

Then, you stopped coming to the gym. You were gone, office dark, before he could walk you to your car. You went on another date. 

He didn’t know what to do with any of it.

One Tuesday at the end of July you were in your office, but Soap was there before him, tearing into a packet of crisps, lounging in Simon’s chair, patchwork quilt flattened beneath him in a heap. It was hot, and humid, a fan in the corner working overtime, window propped open.

You were happily listening to Johnny explain the ins and outs of football. A match was playing on your computer screen which you’d turned back so both of you could see. 

Your eyes found Simon’s when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. “Hi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?” 

A groan from Soap. “Bloody Americans.” 

“Sorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?” 

“Horrendous,” Ghost said flatly.

Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.” 

“Aye and you did lass,” he said solemnly. “Yeh—” 

“Sergeant,” Ghost interrupted loudly. “Aren’t you due for PT?”  

“Ach, right,” he muttered, getting to his feet, “Thanks for the reminder, LT.” 

“Oh, Soap,” you said, “Hold on.” You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. “Your favorite, as requested.” 

“You sweet on me or something, bon?”

You rolled your eyes and said, “Out of my office.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Ghost took Soap’s vacated seat, watched you avoid looking at him as you moved things needlessly around your desk, twisted your monitor back around and muted the match. 

The silence was suffocating. 

“All right?” 

You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. “I wanted to apologize.” Your voice hitched a little. 

He blinked, taken aback. He didn’t like that you could surprise him. “For what?” 

You bit your lip, fidgeted again. “Your name, I guess. You didn’t want me to know.” Your mouth twisted to the side. “And your team bothering you here—” 

“You’re apologizing for Soap?” 

Your brow furrowed. “Well I encourage it—”

“No.” 

“No?” You shook your head, “and that day in the gym—” You opened and closed your hands anxiously. “I think I upset you.” 

He stared across the room, toward your big, sunny window, all those little potted plants that have flourished through the summer months. Your bug lamp seemed to droop in the heat, sad and watchful. He’d hurt you, and you’d taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. “Didn’t. I should have been more careful.” 

“Right,” you said carefully. “So if it’s not that, why are you—” 

He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. “I like you to myself,” he admitted. “Not the best at sharing.”  

“Oh,” you said, voice tender. “Oh.” 

“Mm.” 

“I’ll make space.” 

He didn’t quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him. 

“You’ll come to the gym later, yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good.” He stood, deposited your knife, which he’d snagged early in the morning to clean and sharpen, back onto your desk, along with the new box of tea because he noticed you were out the night before. “And don’t tell bloody Soap.” 

“Aye, LT.” 

He chuckled. “Take care of that.” 

“Teach me how?” 

He nodded. 

“Thanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.” 

“I know.” 

Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier. 

“‘Course you do.” 

.

.

.

Simon couldn’t stop thinking about pain. 

His body functioned at a constant low level of pain, had for years. Maybe it had his whole life, so he tended not to notice it. But the ache you caused had only seemed to grow over time, tendrils spreading to the furthest reaches of his body, the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees, places he didn’t think could hold pain. 

The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to. 

He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. You’re hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.

You said he didn’t, after,  but he didn’t relish the thought of the possibility. Accidentally hurting you, hurting you on purpose. He thought of his mother, doing her best with a brutal man. He was afraid of unknowingly stepping into a cycle, to find himself standing above you one day, drunk, mean, angry. 

You’re hurting me.  

It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable. 

You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. He’d rather die; he’d rather be burned alive; he’d rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over. 

He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain. 

His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men he’d ever known, every bloody fist. Simon’s scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls. 

There was one person who had a preoccupation with soulmates who was likely to know, who badgered him regularly about eroding the bond, about bond tears and pain. Simon could know, once and for all, if he was the cause of the indirect pain, at least. His own imposed on you, pushed into your skin like a punishment. He could cross that off his long list of sins. 

Johnny, when Simon finally tracked him down, was sat in the armory cleaning a rifle. He watched over his Sergeant's shoulder for a long moment. The methodical movement soothed him, brought his heartrate down a little. 

“Johnny.” 

Soap jumped and glanced around. “Spooky fucker. Should put a bell on ye—” 

“Does she feel it?”

“What—”

He exhaled long and slow. “My pain. If I’m shot tomorrow, would she feel it?”

Soap glanced around, brows raised. “Ye don’t know?” 

“Say I don’t.” 

“No, the lass doesn’t feel it.” Soap turned his wrist, pointed to a scar that was lighter than some of the others, a pale tracery that slipped from the inside of his elbow to mid forearm. “Not mine. Watched it fade in one mornin’. Didn’t feel a thing.” 

Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. “Tha’ why you haven’t—”

“No.” 

“Why?” 

“Deserves better.” 

Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. “Thing is, LT. She doesn’t. That’s the point.” 

Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father. 

Fucking perfect. 

.

.

.

Two months deployment.  

The pain in Simon’s chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldn’t sleep, pain meds did nothing for it. 

He could only wait it out, wait until he was back on base and hope you were in your office, that the solace of your presence in that warm yellow light would be waiting for him. The pain would recede. He needed a plan, though. Clearly it wasn’t fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore. 

Maybe, he didn’t really want to.

Maybe, Johnny was right. 

He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because you’d been posted somewhere else the last two months and you were further away than ever. Your office would be empty. This was just an agony he would have to learn to live with. 

Finally, though, they were going home. Intel secure. One last building to sweep. Empty. A loaded silence that made the back of his neck prickle. 

Not as empty as they thought. 

Soap steps quickly into the last room ahead of him, gaze sweeping from one side to another before he lowered his weapon and stepped forward. 

Ghost followed quickly, lowered his gun when he saw what Johnny had. Civilians. One curled around the other, sobbing so hard she made no noise. 

When she lifted her face, Simon sucked in a startled breath. She looked like you, only without his scars. There was a mark slowly bleeding into place on her temple, one that matched the gunshot wound of the woman beneath her. 

The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang. 

Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didn’t exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes. 

“I thought you said they couldn’t feel it,” he barked. 

“What?” 

“Soulmates.” 

Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes. 

“They can’t, LT,” Soap said without glancing at him. “It’s no’ that. It’s just—” 

Grief. The unbearable snapping of a fated cord. The tether in his own chest pulsed, ached. He thought of it breaking cleanly in two, as though it never existed, your light snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again. 

It wasn’t pain she was feeling, it was the absence. 

“Ghost,” Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side. 

It wasn't worth it, he thought. None of this could be fucking worth it. He was left with the sinking sense that all he could ever do was hurt you. 

All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers. 

Just to be sure. 

It took them a long time to get her to leave the body. 

.

.

.

Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months. 

September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag. 

You developed a pain in your side, a stitch from taking it too hard in the gym you assumed. But nothing seemed to help it. The pang became a prick became a small misery that the base medical staff couldn’t pinpoint the origins of. 

You missed Ghost, and Kyle and Johnny, tolerated the terrible tea your coworkers made for you, went on another series of failed dates, and finally became friends with your cross-hall apartment neighbor. Months of baked goods and hellos finally coming to fruition. Pieces of a life were falling together. 

Finally, they were coming home. You left your offer that night with the assurance that they were uninjured, that Ghost, and likely Soap, would be in your office by noon the next day. 

But Simon still managed to reappear as he always did, silently and without warning. A shadow crossed your back as you were locking your office near midnight, a hand grazed your back. You followed the series of steps you’d been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turn—

Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip.  

You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. “Ghost,” you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, “You aren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.” 

“That disappointed to see me?” 

No. Never. But he was still in full tactical gear. The skin around his eyes was still layered with eyeblack, exhaustion and an acid tension rolling off him in a thick wave. His gaze was heavy, but steady, assessing you in turn. He smelled like diesel and cigarettes and gun powder. You lifted your chin. “Surprised to see you. Glad to see you.” 

He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. “Nice work.” 

You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. “You’re making me paranoid, I think.” 

“Good. Paranoid keeps you alive.” 

His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldn’t be sure. He stepped closer, until you were forced back against the door. He towered over you, corralled you back against the cool wood. Soft, dark eyes like wells of ink in the shadow of the hood pulled over his head, searched long enough that you began to worry something was wrong. 

You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. “Ghost,” you said gently, carefully. “Are you okay?” 

He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained. 

He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand. 

“Why don’t you cover ‘em?”

Your belly clenched. “Cover what?” you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question. 

“Scars.” 

You went still, looking down at your skin. You had rolled up your sleeves earlier in the evening when furious typing had required it. They glinted silver in the low light of the hall. Pretty and delicate as dragon scales. 

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. 

Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them. 

“Why would I?” You rubbed your wrist. “I don’t want to. They belong to my soulmate.”

He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. “You actually believe in that shite?” His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. “It’s a bloody children’s tale.”  

You bristled, felt something hard and mean well behind your breastbone in a tight knot. The pain that had been kicking you in the ribs lately reared again, made you wince and cover your side. “Well,” you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, “these aren’t mine, so I guess I have to.”  

He scoffed and you felt your heart lurch, hurt settling in your gut, twisting an invisible knife that much deeper. You tried to side step him but he didn’t move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle and—anger? Irritation? You couldn’t tell. “What the fuck do you care? Maybe you’re ashamed of yours,” you said roughly, “But not all of us are.” 

His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. “Oh, come off it.” 

“What?” 

“You’re tellin’ me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldn’t hate him?” 

Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. “You don’t get to do that,” you said lowly. 

“You didn’t deny it,” he said. “You would.” 

“No,” you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. “No, of course I wouldn’t. It wasn’t done to me, it—” 

But Simon was determined, his mind set. 

“He hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. You’ll hate him for it, love.” 

“For something he went through?” You asked incredulously, defensively. “Do you know how scared I was?” 

Ghost’s eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. “Of him,” he said viciously, like something terrible he’d always known had been confirmed. 

“No,” you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. “You aren’t listening. For him.” Your ribs ached, your breath came in short bursts. He was too close, the clashing sensations of safety and agitation calcifying the tension between you into a solid, immutable wall. 

You inhaled shakily through the sudden distress. Your lungs hitched and spasmed before you could suck in a proper breath, feeling faint, glad for the wall behind you. 

He blinked, looked down at you again. “Hey—” 

“I was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldn’t have meant that he—so that he wouldn’t have been—” Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights you’d sat awake watching scars bleed into your skin. Your parents had been unable to look at you in the morning, wondering what the future held for you. What kind of person that child would grow up to be. 

The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly. 

You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck. 

“Once,” you continued shakily, “they just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didn’t know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldn’t help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.” 

You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught. 

You aren’t sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they. 

It suddenly didn’t feel like you were talking about someone you hadn’t met yet. 

You thought of how strangely intense he was about you. How you had felt so strongly about him immediately. How the only bit of his skin you’ve ever seen has been around his eyes; the delicate veins at his wrists.

You thought of him making you tea and teaching you to defend yourself. You thought of him walking you to your car and pulling you into sunny days. You thought of all the cups of coffee and boxes of tea, the gentle way he handled the blanket you made him from cheap cotton like it was spun gold. 

You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after you’d been personally introduced to the rest of the 141 for no discernable reason. How they checked on you. How they were probably the only people that knew what Ghost’s face looked like. 

“No,” you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind. 

You opened your eyes.  

“Ghost?” you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand. 

He jerked back. “Don’t do that,” he warned.  

You stepped closer, knowing you were playing with fire, that he might burn you, lash out like a dog with its leg in a trap. 

But if he was yours—

If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him. 

He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear. 

You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. “I see you,” you said gently. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“You don’t understand,” he rasped.  

“You survived.” You backed away. “That’s enough. To know you’re okay.” 

The empty spot in your chest ached, seemed to grow tendrils that wrapped around your heart. A bond so close and not latched. Because you haven’t seen him. He has to let you in.

“When you’re ready. If you’re ever ready. I'm here.”

He finally returned his gaze to yours. 

“Did it hurt?” 

“Did what hurt?” You tilted your head but he didn’t answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. “Oh, you wouldn’t know, I guess.” You shook your head, “No I was just scared. Just worried. It didn’t hurt. You’ve never hurt me.” 

He moved so quickly and silently that you jumped when his hand curled around your wrist. Light enough that you could pull away if you wanted.  

“You don’t have to. You never have to. I don’t want to take anything else from you.” 

Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Do I have any of yours?” The question was quiet, almost reverent.  

You nodded, “‘Course you do. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Gave me a nasty scar on the back of my elbow. I landed on a rock.” 

His eyes flicked away, like he was trying to imagine it. You twisted your arm, showed him the thick line of scar there, totally different than the lighter version of his on your skin. “See? You’ll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since you’re so pale.” 

Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.

“It’s not fair to you.” 

“What isn’t?” 

“To bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?” 

You didn’t admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldn’t help anything. “When have you ever cared about fair?” 

He made a pained sound. “Don’t.” 

“I’m okay. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything from you.”

“You’re supposed to need things from me.”  

He peeled his gloves off, tucked them into his back pocket. The hall was still and silent aside from your combined ragged breathing. It sounded like you’d been running a marathon. “Ghost—” 

“Simon,” he said. “Please, call me Simon.” 

You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. “Look at me, sweet’eart.” 

“I can’t.” Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat. 

“Can.” 

Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours. 

You shuddered and swallowed and stepped closer. Simon curled his arms around you, pulled you into his chest. He was so broad and tall, you felt swaddled against him, warm and secure. His scent wrapped around you like ribbons holding you together. “No point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.” 

“How long?” 

“The whole time,” he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. “First time I saw you.” 

“You have had this pain for almost a whole year—” 

“Not your fault,” he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. “Not your fault.” 

You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. “I’m sorry anyway.” You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didn’t want to let you go. “Is there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?” 

“No.” 

“Would. . . would you want to come to mine—” 

He reached under your arm and plucked your keys out of the lock before you could finish, guiding you down the hall, his hand never leaving your skin. 

You had never seen Simon outside the base, you realized suddenly, and everything felt vastly more fragile. It also felt as though that hollow pulse in your chest would tear if you were asked to walk away at that moment, something real and physical would tear and drop out of you, an irreparable part of your soul. 

You weren’t sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you. 

In your apartment, you hesitated, not sure where you belonged in your own space anymore. Simon looked strange in your tiny living room, among soft blankets and years of collected books and knicknacks. An all consuming shadow. You wondered if this would end like all those dates, just another failure, another loss. 

When you started to step toward the lamp, Simon’s fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. “No.” 

“Just turning on the lamp.” 

He released you.

As you stepped away, a hollow pulse in your chest retched with pain that made you gasp and clutch the edge of the sofa. It felt real, like something was breaking, jagged edges clawing at the inside of your skin. You wondered what Ghost’s self imposed distance might have done to the bond. There were stories, albeit few, of corrosion. The bond literally rusting out, slowly poisoning the soulmate and their pair. 

“Come ‘ere,” he muttered. “Sit down.”

When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa. 

Your hands shook when he released you, making quick work of the lamp. The room flooded with soft yellow light. He glanced around. Art on the walls, forest green rug over hardwood floor, molding you had painted a delicate gold. You felt embarrassed of it all suddenly. 

“God,” you muttered. He didn’t seem to feel the pain at all, which made your chest ache in a different way and guilt pool heavily between your bones for it. You didn’t want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. “How have you dealt with this?” 

“Worse now,” he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth. 

He sat next to you, reached for you, then faltered, unsure. You closed the space, folded your fingers between his. The scars made a fucked up little mirror when you looked down at your hands. They matched exactly. “I’m sorry.” 

Simon didn’t answer, but stayed close to you, letting you hold his hand. Even the smallest amount of space between you seemed to burn, a brazier that flared hot and demanded attention. But it was better; just having his bare hand in yours helped. 

“Nothin’ t’be sorry for.” He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers. 

“You don’t want me.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours. 

“You don’t have to—We don’t have to bond,” you tripped over the last word. “It’s okay.” 

“Obviously it’s not, bird.” 

Your heart sunk and you glanced away. A one in eight billion chance was sitting under your nose for months, and he wanted nothing to do with you. He was being forced into it.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured again. “Ghost, I’m—”

“Simon,” he corrected.  

“Simon,” you echoed. 

He curled his hands around your wrists, lifted your palms to the bottom of his mask. He let your hands settle at the base of his throat, eyes never leaving yours. “I didn’t want you,” he said plainly. “I never wanted you to know.” 

You swallowed and nodded. “I’m s—” 

“No.”

You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You don’t expect a speech and he doesn’t give you one. “You deserve better,” he said. “But I’m all you get.” 

His knee touched yours. Your faces were tilted together, so close that the only thing you could see were the soft depths of his eyes reflecting the gold light.

It didn’t feel close enough. 

You wished it were all different. 

That he didn’t feel forced, that you were what he wanted. 

“I deserve you. Isn’t that the point?” 

He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded. 

“Go on, then.” 

Your throat felt tight as you tugged the mask upwards, heart lurching when you recognized the same scar on your throat on his. You pushed the fabric over his chin and mouth, up until you could pull it over his head. 

You looked at him, the same scar over his mouth, along his cheek, the bridge of his nose was nicked, the outline of burn scarring crossed the edge of his jaw and neck. When you looked past that, you saw him. Crooked nose, thick, furrowed brows, dark eyes you’d loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling. 

Something seemed to. . .snap then. A warmth broke between you, filled that awful, dark, pained well in your chest. It hurt, but the pain was brief, like stitches done by a seasoned medic. 

Breathing was easier. You could feel the pulse of him without the threat of imminent pain. It was a warm, comforting, safe thing in your lungs. You inhaled, attempted to stand, to give him a bit of space. “Should be able to separate now. Shall we test it—” 

You didn’t get a chance to move away, tugged suddenly from your seat and into his lap. You fell heavily against his chest, wrapped tightly in his arms, foreheads slanted together. 

“No,” he said, sounding, for the first time since you’ve known him, breathless. “No.” 

“I don’t want to.” 

“Good.” 

“Can I touch you?” 

“Can do anything you like to me, bird.” 

You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. “Well, I won’t. Not anything.” 

He made a content noise of agreement. 

You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that you’d never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. “You’re beautiful.” 

“Lookin’ in a mirror, are you?” 

“Sort of,” you answered. “A little.” 

His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little. 

Disappointment that it was over so soon pinched at your throat but you backed off, attempting to slide from his lap. His hand caught at your hip. “Stop trying to bloody move.” 

“What—” 

He was only taking off the vest, which probably should have been left at the base. It dropped heavily to the floor as he pulled you against his chest. It was warmer, softer like that, thick muscle coiled beneath your cheek when you rested it against his shoulder, heartbeat hard against yours.  

“No more pain?” 

“None.” 

“Good.” 

You pushed your face against his throat, felt him tense and then uncoil. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you there. You brushed your lips against his pulse point, felt a scarred flutter against your mouth, a muted grunt.

“You’re all I want,” you admitted quietly. “I think I knew. I think everyone knew. I’m sorry,” you finally said, “that I’m not who you need.”  

His hand squeezes your neck and then he’s pushing you down against the cushions, pressing one massive thigh between your legs, hauling you closer like it could never be close enough. The space between your bodies would always be too large, because you couldn’t climb into his chest, nest among his veins. 

It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips. 

“You are, sweet’eart,” he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly. 

He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples. 

Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.

“Simon,” you murmured against his mouth. Just to say it, just to be rewarded with a shudder.

The kiss slipped into something more desperate, your hands felt the skin of his back, your own scar on his elbow, and you thought, maybe, you could become what he needed.  

There's a quiet kind of anticipation sitting in his chest, steady and familiar. You'll probably be asleep by now, or pretending to be, maybe upset because he didn't text you.

He can already picture it, the faint glow of the lamp, the way you'd shift when he walked in, like you always knew it was him even before he said a word. Maybe you'd mumble something about how late it is, voice thick with sleep, but your arms would still find him anyway. That part never changed, even if you were upset.

Leon exhales, long and slow. He's tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes in a single night, but the kind that lingers in the muscles, in the back of the mind, in the quiet spaces between thoughts. The mission hadn't been catastrophic, nothing that would make headlines or stick with him for years, but it had been enough. Enough to leave his shoulders tight, his reflexes still a fraction too sharp, his awareness just slightly out of step with the calm around him. It takes time for that to fade. It always does.

But you help. Just being near you does something he can't name. Like his body remembers how to stand down, how to unclench, how to exist without scanning every shadow for movement. It's a rare thing; he doesn't take it for granted.

The houses sit quietly, windows dark, the world settled into that deep, unmoving stillness that only comes in the middle of the night. No movement, no noise, just the low hum of distant electricity and the soft crunch of tires against pavement.

Leon slows as he pulls into the driveway, engine idling for a second longer than necessary. The engine clicks as it cools, metal ticking softly in the quiet. His gaze drifts to the front door. Something in his chest tightens. The porch lights are off. He knows you better than that. You'd never shut the porch lights off before he's home.

He lingers for a moment longer than necessary, fingers still resting on the wheel, that feeling brushing again at the edges of his awareness. It would be easy to dismiss it, to chalk it up to fatigue or the remnants of adrenaline that haven't quite settled yet. That happens sometimes. The body takes longer than the mind to understand that it's safe.

"Get a grip," he mutters under his breath, voice low and rough in the confined space of the car.

The night air is cool when he steps out, sharp enough to cut through the lingering haze in his head. It grounds him, brings everything back into focus as he shuts the door and starts toward the house. The walk is short and familiar, each step guided by routine more than by conscious thought. He's done this hundreds of times, returning from missions at odd hours, slipping back into a life that exists in the spaces between everything else.

His keys slide easily into the lock. The mechanism turns with a soft, familiar click. The door opens, and something shifts. It isn't immediate, not something loud or obvious. There's no sign of forced entry, no overturned furniture, no visible disruption waiting to greet him. At a glance, everything is as it should be. The entryway is intact, your shoes still near the door, your jacket hanging in its usual place. The house looks lived in, normal, untouched.

Leon pauses just inside the doorway, one hand still resting lightly against the door as it swings closed behind him. The silence presses in, thicker than it should be, carrying a weight he can't immediately explain. It isn't just quiet, it's still, the kind of stillness that feels unnatural in a space that's usually shared. His gaze moves automatically, sweeping the room with quiet precision. Every detail registers. Every shadow is accounted for. He doesn't think about it. He never has to.

"Hey," he calls out, his voice steady but low, carrying just enough to reach the next room. "I'm home."

The words settle into the silence and go unanswered. That, on its own, isn't unusual. You could be asleep, the house wrapped in the kind of quiet that comes with it. It wouldn't be the first time he's come back late enough to find you already resting, the world reduced to soft breathing and dim light.

Leon steps further inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seems louder than it should. The sound echoes faintly, swallowed quickly by the stillness. He shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair without looking, his attention already shifting past the entryway and into the rest of the house.

The living room is undisturbed. The couch sits as it always does, a blanket folded neatly over the arm, the pillows on either cushion are perfectly shaped in the corners, and the remote rests in its usual place on the table next to your book.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly as he moves past, his focus narrowing toward the kitchen. There's a light on. It's a small detail, the kind most people wouldn't think twice about, but it stands out to him. You don't leave lights on when you go to bed. You never have. It's a habit, one of those small, consistent things that become part of a person without them realizing it.

Leon slows as he approaches, his steps quieter now, more deliberate. "You still up?" he calls again, softer this time, the words carrying less distance.

No answer.

He crosses the threshold into the kitchen and stops. At first, it doesn't fully register. His gaze catches on the shape, the disruption in the otherwise clean lines of the room, but his mind takes a fraction of a second longer to process what he's seeing.

A mug lies shattered on the floor. The pieces are scattered unevenly, some larger, some reduced to sharp fragments that catch the light at odd angles. A dark stain spreads beneath them, long since dried, its edges faintly dull against the tile. It's been there for a while.

Leon doesn't move. His attention fixes on it, sharp and unblinking, his mind beginning to assemble the details whether he wants it to or not. The position. The spread. The way the pieces fell. You dropped the mug. You didn't set it down or knock it over. You dropped it. His mind is already working, already assembling the sequence of events in the only way it knows how, reconstructing motion from stillness, cause from aftermath.

His gaze shifts, slow and deliberate, tracing the subtle disruption in the room. The chair. The scuff along the floor. The angle of it was just slightly off, like it had been forced back rather than pulled. There's no sign of a prolonged struggle, nothing overturned, nothing chaotic. Whatever happened here was quick. His realization settles somewhere deep, heavy, and unwelcome.

Leon exhales quietly, the sound barely audible, and steps further into the kitchen. His boots avoid the larger shards without thought, his path instinctively careful as his attention moves beyond the obvious, searching for what doesn't immediately stand out. That's where the truth usually hides.

His fingers brush lightly along the edge of the counter as he passes, grounding, steadying, before his gaze catches on something near the sink. At first, it doesn't register as anything unusual. Just another piece of the kitchen, another detail in a space he knows well enough to navigate in the dark. But something about it holds his attention a second longer than it should.

Leon steps closer, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as the details come into focus. It's a casing. Metal, cylindrical, no larger than his thumb. Clean. Intact. Deliberately set, not dropped or discarded.

He doesn't touch it immediately. Instead, he studies it, his gaze narrowing as recognition begins to surface, slow and unwelcome. The design is subtle, almost unremarkable to anyone who doesn't know what they're looking for. No obvious markings, no bright identifiers.

But Leon knows better. He's seen something like this before. His hand moves then, precise and controlled, fingers closing around the casing with practiced care. It's lighter than it looks. His thumb turns it slightly, just enough for the faint etching along its side to catch the light. It's small. Nearly invisible unless you're looking for it. Not exactly Umbrella's symbol, but something newer, built from the debris.

Leon's jaw tightens, a muscle in his cheek flickering once as the last piece slides into place. This wasn't random. It wasn't a break-in. It wasn't chance, or opportunity, or someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was deliberate, targeted, and whoever did it wanted him to know.

The air in the room feels different now, heavier, like the walls themselves are closing in around the realization. Leon's grip on the casing tightens just slightly before he forces it to ease, control reasserting itself with practiced precision. Emotion can come later.

Right now, he needs clarity. He sets the casing back down exactly where he found it, careful not to disturb its position any more than necessary, and reaches for his phone. The motion is smooth and efficient, his mind already several steps ahead, pulling threads together and mapping out what comes next.

There are only a handful of people in the world who would leave something like this behind. Fewer still would dare to use it as a message.

The phone rings once. Twice.

Leon's gaze drifts back to the shattered mug on the floor, to the silence that's settled into every corner of the house, and for a brief moment, something flickers beneath the surface. It's cold and dangerous, leaving no room for panic.

The line clicks, and he wastes no time. "I need everything you have on Victor Gideon."

THREE HOURS EARLIER

The quiet in the house isn't unsettling. It settles around you like something familiar, something earned after a long day, the kind of silence that doesn't press too heavily but instead exists in soft layers. The lamp in the living room casts a warm, golden glow that pools gently over the couch and the edges of the coffee table, leaving the rest of the house in a comfortable dimness. Outside, the night has already taken hold, the world reduced to distant sounds that barely reach you, a passing car, the faint whisper of wind brushing against the windows, nothing that demands your attention.

You sit curled into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked beneath you, a book open in your hands. The pages shift slightly under your fingers as you read, though your focus drifts more than it settles. Your eyes move across the lines, but the words don't always stay with you, slipping away as your thoughts circle back to the same place they've been returning to all evening. You glance at the clock without fully meaning to, then back down at the page, then toward the door, a quiet, unconscious pattern that repeats itself before you even realize you're doing it.

Sometimes he doesn't have a chance to tell you he's going to be late. You knew that. You told yourself you wouldn't wait up this time. But here you are.

A small breath leaves you, something softer than a sigh, as you tilt your head back against the couch cushion. The book dips slightly in your hands, your thumb still marking your place even as your attention drifts completely away from it. It's not worry that keeps you awake, not exactly. You're used to this part of his life, the late nights, the unpredictability, the quiet spaces between when he leaves and when he comes back. It doesn't scare you the way it might have once. Not anymore. But that doesn't mean you don't feel it.

You sit up a little straighter after a moment, closing the book carefully and setting it aside on the table. The room feels just a touch too quiet now, the kind of quiet that makes you aware of your own breathing, your own movement, the small sounds that would normally go unnoticed. Your gaze drifts again, this time lingering on the front door, as if you could will it to open just by watching it long enough.

You push yourself up from the couch instead, the fabric shifting softly beneath you as your feet meet the cool floor. You fix the pillow in the corner of the couch, pushing it back and fluffing it up. The movement feels natural, easy, like slipping into a routine you didn't realize you'd already decided on. If you're going to stay up, you might as well make it count for something.

The kitchen light clicks on with a soft snap, brightening the space in an instant. The contrast from the dim living room is enough to pull you fully into the present, your surroundings sharpening into focus as you move further in. Everything is where it should be. Clean counters. Familiar shapes. The quiet hum of appliances that fill the silence just enough to keep it from feeling empty.

The coffee maker hums to life as you set it going, the low, steady sound filling the room in a way that makes it feel less still. You lean lightly against the counter while you wait, arms folding loosely as your gaze drifts again, unfocused now, pulled back into thought.

You wonder how the mission went. Whether it was one of the easier ones or something that left its mark in quieter ways. Leon never comes back unchanged, not really. Even on the good days, there's always something lingering beneath the surface, something in the way he holds himself, the way his eyes settle on things just a second longer than they should. You've learned to read those details over time, to understand them without needing him to explain.

Your expression softens without you realizing it. You'll see it the moment he walks through the door. You always do. And you'll meet him there, the way you always do. Sometimes with quiet, sometimes with warmth, sometimes with both. It's never something you plan out, never something you rehearse. It just happens, instinctively, the same way breathing does.

The coffee maker clicks softly as it finishes, the sound pulling you gently back into the present. You reach for the mug, wrapping your hands around it as the heat seeps into your skin, steady and grounding. For a moment, you just stand there, letting the warmth settle into your palms, letting the quiet exist around you again.

Your gaze drifts toward the doorway, toward the darker stretch of the hallway beyond it, and a faint smile touches your lips, subtle enough that you barely notice it. "C'mon," you murmur under your breath, your voice soft in the stillness. "You're taking too long."

You hear a soft tick against the window, like maybe a branch in the wind tapping against the glass. You look over, a weird feeling pooling in your stomach. At first, it's just a feeling, a subtle shift that brushes against your awareness without fully forming into thought.

You straighten a little, your fingers tightening just slightly around the mug as your gaze moves across the kitchen. Everything looks the same. Nothing has changed. The counters are clean. The light is steady. The space is exactly as you left it. And yet, the feeling lingers.

You listen more closely this time, your attention sharpening as you try to pinpoint what caused it. For a moment, there's nothing. Just the quiet hum of the house, the faint buzz of electricity, the soft settling of something far away.

Another sound. It's faint. Quick. Easy to miss if you weren't already paying attention.

Your head turns toward it immediately, your brows knitting slightly as your pulse gives a small, unexpected jump. "Leon?" you call, the name leaving you instinctively, hope threading through it before you can stop it.

The silence that answers is immediate.

Your grip tightens around the mug, the heat suddenly too noticeable, too sharp against your skin as your awareness shifts, sharpening into something more alert. "Hello?" you try again, quieter now, your voice carrying less distance, less certainty.

No response. But the silence has changed. It isn't empty anymore. It feels occupied. Your breath slows, shallow without you meaning it to be, as your eyes move carefully across the room, tracking shadows, edges, the negative space between things. Your body has gone still, instinct taking over in a way your mind hasn't quite caught up with yet.

There's a presence here. You can't see it. But you can feel it. A subtle awareness presses at the back of your neck, a quiet, unmistakable certainty that settles in before you can rationalize it away. You're not alone.

The realization doesn't come all at once. It unfolds slowly, like something being revealed piece by piece, each second stretching just long enough to let it sink deeper. Your heart picks up, not racing yet, but faster, heavier, each beat more noticeable than the last.

You take a small step back without thinking, your fingers brushing against the edge of the counter as if anchoring yourself to something solid. The kitchen suddenly feels too open, too exposed, every angle unfamiliar in a way it never has before.

There's a shift behind you, closer this time, unmistakable. Your breath catches as you start to turn, instinct finally overriding hesitation. But you don't get to finish turning.

The movement behind you is faster than your body can react to, faster than your mind can process, a sudden shift in the air that collapses the space between awareness and action into nothing. One second you're standing there, breath caught somewhere between instinct and realization, and the next there's a hand on you, firm and unyielding.

It clamps around your arm and wrenches you backward with a force that steals the ground out from under your feet. The world tilts sharply, your balance gone before you can even try to recover it. The counter digs briefly into your hip as you're pulled away from it, your body twisting on instinct, a startled breath tearing from your chest before you can stop it.

The mug slips from your hand. You don't feel it leave your fingers so much as realize it's gone, the warmth vanishing in an instant as gravity takes over. There's a split second where it hangs in the air, suspended between what was and what's about to happen.

Then it shatters. The sound is sharp. Violent in the quiet. Ceramic breaking against tile in a way that feels far too loud, far too final, the pieces scattering outward in a jagged arc as dark liquid splashes and spreads across the floor. It happens in the background of everything else, but it sticks, imprinting itself in your mind even as everything around you spirals out of control.

Your hands come up instinctively, grabbing at the arm holding you, fingers digging in as you try to twist free, your breath coming faster now, sharper. "Hey!" The word breaks out of you, half-formed, more reflex than intention, your voice catching as your body fights to regain control.

It doesn't work. The grip on you tightens, not frantic, not rushed, but controlled in a way that's somehow worse. Whoever is behind you knows exactly what they're doing. There's no hesitation in the movement, no wasted motion, just precision.

Your shoulder is forced back, your balance shifting again as your heel catches against the tile. For a brief, disorienting second, your gaze catches on the floor, on the shattered remains of the mug, on the dark stain already beginning to spread outward between the pieces.

Your heart is pounding harder now, the rhythm uneven, loud in your ears as adrenaline begins to surge, your thoughts scrambling to catch up with what's happening. You're not confused anymore. This is real, and this is happening to you.

You try again to pull free, your other hand coming up, reaching back, searching for anything you can grab onto, anything you can use. Your fingers brush fabric, then something harder beneath it, but before you can react, before you can even see, something presses against your face.

A cloth, rough and sudden. Your breath catches as the smell hits you, sharp and chemical, unfamiliar and immediately wrong. You jerk back on instinct, your body reacting before your mind can fully understand it, but the hold on you doesn't falter; it tightens.

Your lungs burn as you try not to breathe it in, your head turning sharply to the side, your movements desperate now, less controlled. Your hands come up again, grabbing, pushing, nails digging into anything they can find as panic begins to break through the edges of your control.

"Stop—" The word comes out strained, uneven, your voice already weakening as the world tilts again, the edges of your vision beginning to blur.

The room starts to slip, the sharp lines of the kitchen softening, distorting at the edges as your strength begins to falter. Your movements slow, not by choice, but because your body is betraying you, your limbs growing heavier with each passing second.

Your gaze drops again, unfocused now, catching one last glimpse of the floor. The shattered mug. The spreading stain. A moment frozen in place, already turning into something that will be left behind.

Your chest tightens as you try to pull in one more clean breath, but it doesn't come the way it should. Everything feels distant, like you're being pulled away from it piece by piece, your awareness slipping no matter how hard you fight to hold onto it.

The last thing you feel is the grip on you shifting, steady, controlled, as your body gives in. The last thing you hear is the quiet sound of movement in the house that was never empty, and then nothing.

Consciousness doesn't return in a clean, merciful line. It comes apart and back together in fragments, thin slivers of awareness pushing through a heavy, resistant fog that clings to you no matter how hard your body tries to surface. At first, there's no sense of where you are, no clear thought to anchor to, only sensation. A dull, distant awareness of your own weight presses against something solid beneath you, your limbs feeling slow and unresponsive, as though they belong to someone else entirely. There's a strange disconnect between intention and movement, like the signal is there but the response is delayed, muffled.

Sound finds you next, seeping in gradually rather than arriving all at once. A low, mechanical hum settles into your awareness, steady and unwavering, its presence so constant it almost feels like part of you rather than something external. It doesn't fluctuate or shift in tone. It simply exists, filling the silence in a way that makes the space feel controlled, contained. Beneath it, there's something softer, less predictable, a faint, irregular noise that might be water or machinery or something else entirely. It's too distant to identify, but close enough to remind you that you're not in a place meant for comfort.

Your breathing deepens unevenly as your body begins to catch up, each inhale dragging in air that feels heavier than it should, as though it carries a weight your lungs don't quite know how to process. Your chest rises a little too quickly, then steadies, then falters again as your system struggles to find a rhythm that feels natural.

When your eyes finally open, the light doesn't welcome you. It hits too harshly at first, blurring your vision into indistinct shapes and washed-out edges that refuse to settle into anything recognizable. You blink slowly, your lashes dragging as if even that small movement requires more effort than it should. The second attempt is steadier, your vision beginning to sharpen in reluctant increments until the ceiling above you comes into focus.

It's all wrong. That realization settles almost immediately, cutting clean through the haze with a clarity that feels almost jarring. The surface above you is smooth and industrial, broken only by faint seams that run in measured lines across it. A light fixture is embedded neatly overhead, its glow sterile and uninviting, casting illumination that feels functional rather than warm. There is no softness to it, no variation. It simply exists to reveal.

Your stomach tightens. Memory doesn't return gently. It forces its way in, sharp and fragmented, each piece colliding with the next in a way that leaves no room for denial. The kitchen. The quiet. The shift in the air. The hand. The smell. The mug.

Your breath catches, the reaction immediate and involuntary as your body attempts to respond before your mind can fully process. You try to sit up, the movement sudden, instinctive, driven by a need to orient yourself, to do something. The world tilts in response, your equilibrium failing you for a split second as your muscles protest the motion. A wave of dizziness pulls at the edges of your vision, the room threatening to slip out of focus again as your body struggles to cooperate.

Something stops you. The resistance is immediate, firm enough to halt your movement without jerking you back. It takes a second for your mind to catch up, for your gaze to drop and register what your body has already begun to understand.

Your wrists are bound. The realization lands heavy and cold, your pulse spiking in response as your hands instinctively pull against the restraint. The movement is quick, uncoordinated, driven more by reflex than thought, but the result is immediate and unchanging. There's no give, they're tight, and hold you down exactly like they're supposed to.

You slow, not because you want to, but because you have to, your breathing sharpening as you force yourself to look more closely. The material is unfamiliar, smooth against your skin but unyielding beneath your grip. It is not rope, not anything improvised or hastily applied. It feels intentional and manufactured. Meant to hold without question.

Your fingers flex against it again, more deliberately this time, searching for a shift, for anything, any weakness in its structure. There are none.

A slow breath moves through you, deeper this time, though it still catches slightly at the end as your chest tightens. Panic presses at the edges of your awareness, sharp and insistent, but it doesn't overtake you. Not yet anyway. You hold it there, contained, forcing yourself to focus on what you can control instead of what you can't.

The room is small, but not claustrophobic. Contained in a way that feels deliberate rather than accidental. The walls match the ceiling, the same sterile material, seamless and uninterrupted. There are no windows, no variation in texture or color, nothing to suggest time or place. The space feels isolated, cut off from anything beyond it.

Across from you, a door is set into the wall. It's solid, featureless from your side, with no visible handle or mechanism to open it. It blends almost too well into its surroundings, as though it is meant to go unnoticed until it becomes relevant.

Your shoulders tense slightly as your gaze drops again, taking in your position more carefully now. Your arms are secured in front of you rather than behind, which feels intentional in a way you don't like. It allows for movement, but not freedom. It gives the illusion of control while ensuring you have none.

A slow, measured breath fills your lungs as you force your body to settle, your thoughts beginning to align despite the lingering fog. You swallow, your throat dry, the motion grounding in its simplicity.

"Think..." you whisper, barely audible.

You piece it together as best you can, working backward from what you know. You were at home. You were waiting. You were safe until you weren't. The shift from one to the other had been fast. Too fast to fully process, too controlled to have been random. Whoever took you knew what they were doing. There had been no hesitation and no fumbling.

Your chest tightens again, thinking of Leon. The thought of him lands heavier than anything else, threading through the fear and the confusion with a sharp, undeniable weight. He wasn't there. He didn't see it happen. He doesn't know where you are. But one thing is certain, he'll know something is wrong. He'll know it the second he sees the porch lights off and the shattered mug.

Your eyes close briefly, not in defeat, but in focus, as you draw in another slow breath. He'll see it and he'll understand. And when he does he'll come looking.

The thought isn't really hopeful in the way you might expect. It's not fragile or uncertain either. It's something you hold onto without question. He will come.

Your eyes open again, sharper now, your awareness settling into something more controlled, more deliberate. Your gaze moves across the room once more, but this time with purpose, taking in every detail, every possible variable: the walls, the door, the light, the sound.

You're not safe. But you're not helpless. And whoever brought you here? They made one simple mistake, and that was taking you away from Leon.

The kitchen doesn't change. Even as Leon steps back, even as he forces himself to take in the full space again from a distance, nothing shifts, nothing rearranges itself into something easier to accept. The shattered ceramic still litters the floor in the same uneven arc, the dried coffee staining the tile in a way that speaks too clearly of time passed. The chair remains slightly out of place, the scuff mark near its leg catching the light just enough to make it impossible to ignore.

Everything is exactly as it was. And that's the problem. Leon's gaze moves slowly, deliberately, retracing the scene with sharper focus now that the initial shock has burned away into something colder. He doesn't rush. He never does. Every detail matters, and he knows better than to miss something because he moved too fast. His eyes track the path of disruption, from the counter to the floor, from the chair to the empty space where you should be.

He reconstructs it without thinking.

You were standing here. The mug in your hand. The machine still warm, recently used. You hadn't been waiting long. Maybe you were thinking about him, maybe you were distracted, maybe you didn't hear the first movement behind you. That's when the contact must have happened.

The mug drops. Shatters. You don't get the chance to react properly before you're already being restrained. There's no sign of prolonged struggle, which means whoever took you didn't need one. They knew exactly how to handle it. How to end it before it could escalate. All signs point to Victor.

Leon's jaw tightens slightly, the muscle flickering once as the image settles into place.

Staying won't give him anything new.

Finding you will.

He moves with purpose now, the transition so clean it almost feels like a switch has been flipped somewhere beneath the surface. The part of him that came home, the part that allowed himself to think about warmth, about rest, about you waiting on the couch, is gone. What's left is sharper, focused. Built for this, but wishing it wasn't you he was looking for.

"I need everything you have on Victor Gideon." Leon says, his tone even, stripped of anything unnecessary. There's no hesitation in it, no lead-in, no explanation offered before the request.

"That's not a name you drop casually," Hunnigan replies, quietly. "What happened?"

Leon steps out of the kitchen as he speaks, his gaze sweeping once through the living room, not searching anymore, just confirming. The space feels wrong now in a way that can't be fixed, the absence too loud to ignore.

"She's gone."

Hunnigan doesn't respond right away. He can hear it in the silence, the shift from listening to processing, the moment where this stops being a call and becomes a situation.

"When?" she asks.

"Within the last few hours," Leon answers, already moving toward the door. His free hand reaches for his jacket without looking, pulling it back on in one smooth motion. "It was a surprise attack."

"You're sure it's him."

Again, not a question.

Leon's expression doesn't change, but something in his posture tightens, something subtle that only shows if you know where to look. "I'm sure."

There's the faint sound of keys on the other end, fast and efficient, the rhythm of someone digging through things that aren't meant to be found easily. Leon steps outside as she works, the cool air hitting him again, sharper now, more grounding. The quiet of the neighborhood hasn't changed, but it feels different to him now, like a layer has been stripped back.

"Gideon's been buried for years," Hunnigan says after a moment, her voice threading through the line with a tighter edge. "Everything tied to Project Elpis was wiped or sealed. Official channels won't give us much."

"I don't need official," Leon replies, already moving toward his car. His steps are quick but controlled, each one placed with intent. "I need what slipped through."

"You'll have it," she says. There's no hesitation there, no pushback. She knows how this goes. "Give me a few minutes. I'll start with old Umbrella splinter data and see what overlaps."

Leon opens the car door but doesn't get in right away. His hand rests briefly against the frame, his gaze lifting toward the dark stretch of road ahead, his mind already moving beyond this moment, beyond this place.

"Leon," Hunnigan adds, her tone shifting just slightly. Not softer, but more deliberate. "If Gideon's involved, this isn't just leverage. He doesn't operate like that."

Leon's grip tightens almost imperceptibly against the door. "I know." Which means this isn't just about taking you. It's about using you.

The thought settles in without resistance, cold and immediate, but it doesn't derail him. It sharpens him further, narrows his focus into something that doesn't leave room for hesitation.

"I'll send you anything I find," Hunnigan continues. "Locations, contacts, even rumors. But Leon... don't disappear on me."

He exhales quietly, the sound barely audible over the line, more a release of breath than anything else. "I won't."

The line goes silent, an understanding quiet from Hunnigan as she works on her end. She'll dig, pull threads, and find what she can. Leon doesn't wait for it to be enough. He gets into the car, the engine turning over with a low, steady sound that cuts clean through the stillness. His hands settle on the wheel, familiar, steady, but there's a difference now in the way he holds it, a tension that wasn't there before, something coiled beneath the surface.

The car pulls out of the driveway, tires rolling over pavement with quiet intent as the house disappears behind him, shrinking into the dark like something already past. Somewhere out there, you're still breathing, and Leon is going to make sure it stays that way.

Time doesn't move the way it should in a place like this. It stretches, folds in on itself, becomes something difficult to measure without anything familiar to anchor it. The steady hum in the room never changes, never rises or falls, and without windows or shifting light, there is no natural rhythm to follow. You're left with your own breathing, your own thoughts, the subtle shifts in your body as the only markers that time is passing at all.

You've tried to count it. At first, it felt like something you could control, something to hold onto. Seconds stacking into minutes, minutes into something longer, a quiet attempt to impose order onto a place that clearly wasn't designed to have any. But the effort didn't last. Your focus slipped, your thoughts pulled elsewhere, and somewhere along the way, the numbers stopped meaning anything.

Now, you rely on smaller things. The way the air feels against your skin. The slight stiffness settling into your shoulders. The faint dryness in your throat that comes and goes in waves. They're not precise, but they're real, and right now that's enough.

You shift slightly where you sit, the movement careful, deliberate, testing the limits of what the restraints allow without drawing unnecessary strain. They haven't loosened. Not even slightly. Whatever they're made of, whatever mechanism holds them in place, it was designed with intention, with the expectation that resistance would come.

Your gaze drifts across the room again, slower now, more practiced. The walls haven't changed. The door remains closed, silent, offering nothing in the way of clues. There are no seams visible from this side, no indication of how or when it might open. The light overhead continues its steady, sterile glow, unchanging, indifferent.

It would be easy to let the stillness get to you. Easy to let your thoughts spiral, to fill the silence with fear, with everything you don't know, everything you can't control. The uncertainty presses at the edges, persistent, waiting for an opening.

Leon is still on your mind. But the thoughts come quieter than before. You picture him the way you last saw him, not physically, but in memory, in the small details that always stick. The way he moves when he's tired but trying not to show it. The way his voice softens just slightly when he's talking to you, even if he doesn't realize it. Surely he's on his way by now. He has to be looking for you already.

A sound breaks through your thoughts. It's subtle, like a door somewhere else in the building closing. Your body stills instinctively, your breathing slowing as your focus sharpens, every sense narrowing toward the source.

It's nearly silent, the kind of movement designed not to draw attention, but you feel it more than you hear it. A faint change in pressure, a slight adjustment in the air as the seam of the door separates just enough to allow it to open.

The light in the hallway beyond is dimmer, cooler, casting a muted contrast against the sterile brightness of the room. A figure steps through it, their movement unhurried and controlled, immediately setting the tone of the space. He's in no rush. And he probably doesn't need to be.

The door closes behind him with the same quiet precision, sealing the room again as if it had never opened at all. Your gaze lifts to meet him fully now, your posture tightening despite your effort to remain composed. Every instinct in your body sharpens at once, awareness spiking as you take him in.

There's nothing subtle about the wrongness of him. He stands just within the light, and it reveals too much all at once. His frame is tall but uneven in a way that isn't immediately obvious until you look closer, his posture held upright with deliberate control rather than natural ease. The long coat he wears hangs heavily from his shoulders, patterned and textured in a way that feels almost ornamental at a distance, but up close only adds to the sense that everything about him has been chosen with intention rather than comfort.

His skin is the first thing that truly settles in. It's pale, but not in any natural sense of the word. The color sits wrong, stretched thin across his face and neck with a texture that looks almost brittle, as if it might crack under pressure. Faint, branching lines run beneath the surface, subtle but visible, like fractures that were never meant to heal properly. They trace along his jaw, disappear beneath the collar of his coat, and reappear again near his mouth, where they pull slightly when he speaks, distorting the movement just enough to make it feel off.

Your focus shifts higher to his eyes. Or what's been done to them. Metal curves along his temple and cheek, anchoring multiple lenses over one eye, each one different in size, each catching the light in a way that makes it impossible to tell where he's actually looking. One lens glows faintly, a dull, artificial point of red that remains steady even as he moves, unblinking, unchanging.

"You're awake," he says finally.

Your jaw tightens slightly, but you don't respond immediately. You hold his gaze instead, steady despite the tension coiling beneath your ribs, refusing to give him anything more than what he can already see.

He takes a step closer. Then another. Each one is deliberate, controlled, the distance between you closing in a way that feels calculated rather than threatening. He stops just outside your reach, his attention never leaving you, his expression unchanged.

"Good," he continues, as if confirming something to himself rather than speaking to you directly. "That makes this easier."

Your fingers curl slightly against the restraint, the motion subtle, controlled, as your mind begins to work again, piecing together what you can from what little you've been given.

"Where am I?" you ask, your voice steady despite the dryness in your throat.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, his gaze shifts briefly, taking in your position, the restraints, the room, as if reviewing something already familiar. When his attention returns to you, there's something faintly different in it now. Interest.

"That's not the question you should be asking," he replies. A small pause follows, just long enough to make the silence feel intentional. "You should be asking why."

Your stomach tightens, but your expression doesn't change. You don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction, even as the weight of his words settles in. Because he's right. You know as well as he does that this was planned.

His head tilts slightly, studying you in a way that feels less like observation and more like evaluation, as though he's measuring something you can't see.

"Tell me," he says, his tone still calm, still clinical. "How long do you think it will take him to find you?"

Your breath steadies, your shoulders squaring just slightly as you meet his gaze without hesitation.

"...Not long," you answer.

For the first time, something shifts in his expression. It isn't a smile, but it's damn close.

"Good," he says quietly. "Maybe he will enjoy this show."

Even as every instinct in your body urges you to, even as the weight of his attention presses heavier with each passing second, you hold your gaze steady. There's something instinctive about it, something that refuses to give him more than he already has. If he's studying you, measuring you, the least you can do is make sure what he sees isn't fear.

His head tilts slightly, the movement small, almost thoughtful, as though he's adjusting his perspective rather than reacting to anything you've done. The lenses over his eye catch the light as he shifts, reflecting it in fractured pieces that make it impossible to track where his focus truly settles.

"Confidence," he says quietly, more to himself than to you. "Interesting."

The word doesn't sound like praise. It sounds like a note he says out loud.

Your fingers tighten slightly against the restraint, the motion subtle, controlled, your body grounding itself in something physical as your mind continues to work. Every word he says matters. Every reaction, every pause. You don't know what he's looking for yet, but you can feel the structure of it, the way this interaction isn't random. It's being observed.

"People tend to default to fear in unfamiliar environments," he continues, his tone calm, measured in a way that never rises or falls enough to offer you anything to read. "It's efficient. Predictable. Useful, in its own way."

He takes another step closer, closing what little distance remains between you. Not enough to invade your space completely, but enough that you can see the fine details more clearly now, the unnatural texture of his skin, the faint pull of those fractured lines when he speaks, the stillness of him that never quite resolves into something human.

"You didn't," he adds.

You don't respond immediately. Your throat is still dry, your body still adjusting, but your mind is sharper now than it was when you first woke up. You weigh your words before you let them go, not out of fear, but out of instinct.

"I don't know what you want yet," you say finally, your voice steady despite the tension coiled beneath it. "Seems like a waste to panic before I do."

There's a pause. It stretches just long enough to feel intentional, to make you aware of the silence again, of the hum threading through it, of the way his attention sharpens just slightly in response.

"Efficiency through restraint," he murmurs, almost thoughtfully. "You're already adapting."

Your chest tightens slightly at that, the implication settling in before you can stop it. This isn't just a conversation. It never was. Every response, every choice you make, is feeding into something larger, something you still can't fully see.

"You're trying to understand the situation before reacting to it," he says. "That's... uncommon, given the circumstances." Another small pause. "Encouraging."

Your jaw tightens, but you don't let it show beyond that. You don't give him the reaction he might be looking for, even as your mind starts connecting pieces you didn't want to consider.

Encouraging. Not for you. For him.

"For what?" you ask, the question leaving you before you can stop it, quieter than before but no less steady.

This time, he doesn't answer immediately. His gaze shifts, not away from you, but through you, as if he's considering how much to say, how much to reveal. When his focus settles again, there's that same faint edge of interest behind it, something clinical and precise.

"You're not here by accident," he says. "Of course, I'm sure you've noticed that already."

Your breath slows, just slightly, your body stilling in a way that has nothing to do with the restraints. He knows you knew that already. You felt it the moment you woke up, the moment everything about this place told you it had been planned.

"That still doesn't explain why." Another pause, longer this time.

He studies you in silence, the kind that feels less like hesitation and more like calibration, as though he's deciding how to frame something in a way that serves his purpose best. When he speaks again, his voice hasn't changed, but the weight behind it has.

"Your physiology is unusual," he says, the words chosen carefully, deliberately. "Your system doesn't respond the way it should. Exposure markers without degradation. Cellular stress without collapse. You maintain equilibrium where others don't."

Your stomach drops. You don't interrupt him, but your mind begins to run wild.

"You've been exposed before," he continues, his voice lowering just enough to feel more precise, more deliberate. "Not directly. Not in a controlled environment. But enough to register. Enough for your body to adapt."

"That's why you were viable," he continues, stepping just slightly closer again, close enough now that there's no distance left to soften the details of him. "Your body doesn't reject. It regulates. That makes you exceptionally useful."

"And Leon?" you ask before you can stop yourself, the question slipping through the cracks of your control, quieter now, edged with something you don't fully let surface.

His gaze sharpens just slightly. The reaction is immediate, though subtle, the kind you would miss if you weren't already watching for it. For the first time since he entered the room, his focus shifts in a way that feels more deliberate, more precise.

"Ah," he says softly. He's not surprised. "So that's where your thoughts go."

Your chest tightens, but you don't look away. You won't give him that. He watches you for another moment, that same quiet assessment settling back into place before he continues.

"He is not the reason you're here," he says. "He is the reason this works."

The distinction is small, but it changes everything. Your breath catches, just slightly, the meaning threading through his words before you can fully stop it. This isn't about leverage. Not in the way you expected. Not in the way it should be. This is something else.

"You're measuring him," you say, the realization forming as you speak it, your voice quieter now, more focused. "Through me."

That almost-smile returns faintly.

"Not just him," he replies. "Both of you."

The room feels smaller now. Tighter, like the walls have shifted inward without actually moving.

"You are the constant," he continues, his tone returning to that same calm, clinical cadence. "He is the variable. Time, distance, stress. All measurable. All predictable to a degree."

Another pause.

"But what interests me," he adds, his gaze settling fully on you again, "is where those predictions fail."

The hum in the room seems louder now, but maybe you're just more aware of it, more aware of everything. Whatever this is, it didn't start when you woke up. It started without your knowledge, without Leon's knowledge, long before this kidnapping.

The road stretches forward in a long, unbroken line, disappearing into darkness that feels thicker the further it goes. The headlights carve a narrow path through it, illuminating just enough of what's ahead to keep moving, but never enough to feel certain about what comes next. It's the kind of drive Leon has made countless times before, late hours, empty roads, the quiet space between one mission and the next. Usually, it gives him time to think, to let the tension settle, to put distance between what happened and what comes after.

Tonight, though, it does none of that.

The engine hums steadily beneath his hands, the vibration traveling up through the steering wheel and settling into his arms, a constant, grounding presence that does little to ease the pressure building in his chest. His grip is firm, controlled, but tighter than it needs to be, the leather faintly creaking under his fingers before he forces it to relax again. His gaze stays locked on the road ahead, sharp and unwavering, but his mind isn't there.

It keeps going back to the house, the silence, the space you were supposed to be when he came through the door. He's already reconstructed it more times than he can count, every detail, every shift, every second leading up to the moment you were taken. Not because he doubts what happened, but because that's how he works. He breaks things down until there's nothing left to question, nothing left to guess.

But there's still something missing. A gap he can't quite fill yet. And until he does, everything feels slightly out of reach.

His phone cuts through the silence. The sound is sharp against the steady hum of the engine, immediate and unwelcome, and Leon answers it without hesitation, his thumb moving across the screen before the second ring can finish.

"Talk to me."

On the other end, Hunnigan wastes no time. There's a tightness in her voice that wasn't there before, something controlled but unmistakable, the kind of tone she uses when what she's about to say matters more than the way she says it.

"I found something," she says. "But you're not going to like it."

Leon's expression doesn't change, but his attention sharpens, narrowing further as his grip adjusts slightly on the wheel. "Start talking."

There's a faint pause, the quiet sound of keys in the background as she pulls something up, cross-checking even as she speaks.

"I went back through what's left of the Elpis records," she says. "Most of it's been scrubbed, but there are fragments, overlapping data sets that didn't get fully erased. Personnel logs, incident reports, civilian exposure lists."

Leon's jaw tightens just slightly. "Get to it."

"Your wife's name is in one of the files."

Leon doesn't respond immediately. His grip tightens without permission, the leather pressing back against his palm before he forces his hand to ease again.

"That's not possible," he says finally, his voice low and even, but there's something under it now. Not disbelief.

"It shouldn't be," Hunnigan replies. "But it is."

The silence that follows stretches just long enough to make it feel heavier than it should.

"There was an incident," she continues. "Years ago. Small-scale containment breach tied to an off-site Elpis facility. It never went public. No major outbreak, no media coverage. It was contained quickly and buried even faster."

Leon's eyes flick briefly to the side, catching his own reflection in the mirror for a fraction of a second before returning to the road. His focus splits, part of him still driving, the rest already moving through what she's saying, fitting it into something that makes sense.

"Location?" he says.

"I'm sending it," she replies. "But listen first."

He doesn't interrupt again.

"There was a civilian exposure list," she says. "People in proximity to the breach. Most of them showed standard symptoms. Some didn't survive. A handful were flagged for follow-up monitoring and she was on that list."

The confirmation settles into him slowly, like something sinking deeper the longer it stays there. It doesn't hit all at once. It builds, piece by piece, until there's no space left to ignore it.

"She never told me," Leon says.

The words are quiet, more to himself than to her, but they carry weight all the same.

Hunnigan exhales softly on the other end. "She might not have known the full extent of it," she says. "Or it was downplayed. Low-risk exposure, no visible symptoms, something they monitor quietly and then classify out of relevance."

Leon's jaw shifts, tension settling in his shoulders as he processes that. It doesn't sit right. None of it does. "Define monitored."

"Periodic evaluations," Hunnigan answers. "Bloodwork, cellular scans, long-term observation. Nothing invasive on record, but enough to track irregularities."

Irregularities.

"What kind?" Leon asks.

There's the sound of keys again, faster this time. "Adaptive response markers," she says. "Her system didn't react the way it should have. No degradation, no instability. It just stabilized. Balanced itself out."

Leon's grip tightens again before he reins it in, the motion controlled but deliberate. The road ahead blurs slightly at the edges, not from distraction, but from the weight of what's settling into place.

"She was exposed," he says, the words quieter now, more grounded.

"Yes."

"And he knows."

"That's the part we can't ignore," Hunnigan replies. "If Gideon has access to those records, or if he's been tracking survivors from that incident, then this wasn't random."

Leon doesn't need her to finish. He already understands.

"There's more," she says after a moment. "The facility tied to that breach... it was never fully decommissioned. Officially, it was abandoned. Unofficially, there are signs of recent activity. Power draws. Data pings. Someone's been using it."

Leon's focus sharpens instantly, something locking into place with quiet certainty. "Send everything."

"I just did."

The phone vibrates in his hand, the incoming data lighting the screen briefly. He glances at it just long enough to confirm coordinates, then looks back to the road, his path already adjusting in his mind before the turn even comes into view.

"If her biology is what we think it is, then she's not just leverage."

Leon cuts her off, his voice sharper this time, but not raised. "I know what she is."

There's a brief silence after that, not tense, just understood. Because to him, none of that changes the only thing that matters. You're still you.

"Be careful," Hunnigan says quietly.

Leon doesn't respond. Instead, his foot presses down on the accelerator, the car surging forward just slightly as the dark road stretches ahead, no longer empty, no longer uncertain. Now it leads somewhere. All that's left is direction. Somewhere at the end of it is you.

Gideon's hand doesn't move quickly. There is no rush in him, no sudden motion that might trigger instinct before thought. Everything he does is measured, deliberate, as if even the timing has already been calculated. His fingers close around your wrist with quiet precision, the contact firm enough to hold, but not forceful enough to bruise. It's control without struggle, restraint without effort.

Your shoulders tense, your muscles tightening instinctively as your other hand pulls once against the restraint before you force it still again. You don't give him more than that.

"Try to remain still," he says, his voice low, even, not unkind but entirely without comfort. "Movement interferes with consistency."

Instead, you focus on the pressure of his hand, on the grounding weight of it, on the way your breathing moves in and out of your chest as you force it to slow. You tell yourself to watch. To remember. If this is happening, then it matters how.

His other hand comes into view. A small device rests between his fingers, compact and precise, more clinical than threatening at first glance. The casing is metallic, clean, designed for efficiency rather than intimidation. A narrow chamber holds a clear substance that catches the light just enough to make it visible without revealing anything about what it actually is.

Your stomach tightens. "What is that?" you ask, the question quieter than you intend, but steady enough to hold.

Gideon doesn't look at the device. He's watching you.

"A variable," he says.

Your grip tightens slightly against the restraint, your breath slowing again as you brace yourself without meaning to. Your body knows before your mind fully accepts it. There's no time to argue, no space to negotiate. 

He adjusts your wrist, turning it just enough to expose the inside of your arm. A sharp, precise pressure breaks the surface of your skin. A quick, controlled intrusion that sends a reflexive jolt through your system before you can stop it. The substance pushed into your system with practiced ease before the device withdraws just as smoothly as it entered. Gideon releases your wrist immediately after, stepping back without hesitation.

You don't speak. You can't even really try. Any words dissolve somewhere between your chest and your throat as the sensation deepens, spreading through you in a way that is impossible to ignore now. What began as something subtle, something easy to question, shifts into something far more defined, far more present. Heat blooms beneath your skin, not sharp or burning, but insistent, like your body is trying to correct something it doesn't understand.

Your breathing falters, then steadies, then falters again as you try to regain control over it. Each inhale feels just slightly heavier than the last, your lungs working harder for something that should come naturally. Your shoulders tense, pulling inward without permission as your muscles react to the unfamiliar strain. It doesn't hurt but the sensation is wrong.

Your fingers curl against the restraint, tightening instinctively as your pulse begins to climb, each beat more noticeable than the last. You can feel it in your wrists, in your throat, in the space just behind your ribs, a steady, growing rhythm that feels just slightly out of sync with everything else.

You force a breath in slowly, deliberately, holding it for a second before letting it out through your nose, trying to anchor yourself to something familiar, something controlled. It works, for a moment. The sharp edge of the sensation dulls just slightly, enough to give you the illusion of stability.

Gideon watches all of it. He hasn't moved from where he stepped back, his posture unchanged, his gaze fixed on you with that same clinical precision. There's no urgency in him, no concern, only observation, as though everything happening is exactly as expected.

"Elevated response," he says quietly, almost to himself. "But contained."

The words settle into the space around you, detached and measured, like he's reading from something already written rather than reacting to what he sees.

You swallow again, your throat tightening as the heat shifts, pulling inward now, concentrating somewhere deeper in your chest. For a brief moment, it feels like your body is bracing for something worse, something sharper, something that hasn't fully arrived yet. Your shoulders draw back as you try to sit straighter, your body instinctively fighting the sensation, pushing against it rather than giving in. Your breath comes faster for a second, then you force it to slow again, dragging it back under control one piece at a time.

Another wave moves through you, stronger this time, your muscles tightening in response as the heat spreads again, this time more evenly, less chaotic. It rolls through your arms, your chest, your core, like something searching for imbalance and failing to find it.

Your brow furrows slightly.

That's new. The initial spike of discomfort doesn't escalate the way you expect it to. Instead of building into pain, it... evens out. The sharp edges smooth, the irregular rhythm of your pulse settling into something steadier, something controlled despite the foreign presence still threading through your system.

Gideon's head tilts slightly as he watches the shift happen, the lenses over his eye catching the light as he adjusts his angle just enough to follow the change more closely.

"There it is," he murmurs.

The words are quiet and they carry something like confirmation in them. You feel it too. The wrongness doesn't disappear, but it changes, becoming something your body can hold rather than something it's fighting. The heat lingers, but it no longer spikes unpredictably. Your pulse steadies, your muscles easing just slightly as the initial strain fades into something more controlled.

The realization settles in slowly, unwelcome but undeniable.

You draw in another breath, deeper this time, testing it, measuring it the same way he is. It comes easier now. Not normal, not entirely, but closer than it should be given what just happened.

"What did you do?" you ask again, your voice quieter now, steadier despite everything.

Gideon doesn't answer immediately. His gaze remains fixed on you, tracking every shift, every subtle adjustment in your posture, your breathing, your expression.

"A baseline disruptor," he says after a moment. "Something that should introduce instability."

Your jaw tightens.

"Should." His head tilts again, that same small, thoughtful motion.

"In most cases, it does," he replies. "The body rejects it. Overcompensates. Breaks equilibrium in an attempt to regain it."

His gaze sharpens just slightly. "Yours didn't."

You swallow again, your throat less dry now, your body still humming faintly with the aftereffects of whatever he introduced.

"You're watching for failure," you say, the realization forming as you speak it, your voice gaining a slight edge despite your control.

A faint shift crosses his expression again, not quite a smile, but something that acknowledges the accuracy of it. "Yes."

The answer is simple.

"And when you don't get it?" you press, your fingers tightening slightly against the restraint again, grounding yourself in something solid as your mind continues to move.

"Then I adjust," he says.

Your chest tightens again, but not from the lingering effects of whatever he gave you. This could be just the beginning. Gideon steps back slightly, creating distance again now that the immediate observation is complete. His attention doesn't leave you, but his posture shifts just enough to signal that this phase, whatever it was, has reached its conclusion.

"For now," he adds quietly, almost as an afterthought, "you stabilize."

The second time, there is no warning. You see it in the shift of his posture, in the way he reaches for the panel again with the same precision, but there's something different now. Not in his movement, or in his expression, but in the certainty that settles into the space around him.

He's no longer observing you. He's about to escalate this.

Your body tenses before he even turns back toward you, every muscle tightening instinctively as your pulse begins to climb again. The lingering effects of the first injection haven't fully faded. You can still feel it beneath your skin, that faint, controlled hum of something unfamiliar that your body has somehow contained.

Gideon steps back into your space, the device in his hand similar in shape to the first, but not identical. The chamber holds something darker this time, the liquid catching the light in a way that makes it impossible to mistake the difference.

"That one didn't break me," you say quietly, your voice steadier than you feel. "So now you're going to try harder."

He doesn't deny it. "Adjustment is necessary," he replies, his tone as calm as before. "The first response confirmed baseline stability. This will test the limits of it."

You close your eyes and think of anything else. Home. Leon. He'll be here soon, you know it. Your fingers curl against the restraints again. 

"He's still a variable." Gideon adds, almost absently.

"You mean me," you say.

"No, you're the constant."

Before you can respond, before you can push back against it, his hand closes around your wrist again, firm and controlled. This time, you don't pull away. Not because you don't want to, but because you already know it won't matter.

You brace. The injection comes faster. The pressure is sharper this time, the intrusion deeper, less subtle. Your breath catches immediately, your body reacting before you can suppress it, a sharp inhale breaking through your control as your muscles tense hard against the restraint. 

It hits hard. There's no delay this time, no gradual creep. The sensation floods through you all at once, a violent surge beneath your skin that feels like your body is being pulled in two different directions at the same time. Heat spikes instantly, sharper than before, not spreading evenly but crashing through your system in jagged waves that refuse to settle.

Your breath breaks. You don't mean to. You want to keep quiet, composed. But the sound tears out of you anyway, raw and uncontrolled as your back arches slightly against the chair, your muscles tightening in a way you can't stop. It hurts and it hurts deep. Your chest constricts, your lungs struggling to pull in air as your pulse spikes violently, each beat slamming harder than the last. The heat turns into something sharper, something that burns through your limbs and settles in your core, like your body is trying to reject something it can't.

You try to fight it instinctively. Your hands clench, your shoulders pulling tight as you try to force your breathing back under control, but it slips, stutters, breaks again as another wave hits. Another sound escapes, and you don't recognize it at first, then you realize it's you.

Leon continues moving in. There is no space for distraction, no room for anything beyond the task in front of him. His breathing is steady, his pulse controlled, his body moving with the kind of precision that comes from years of experience and instinct working in perfect alignment.

When he reaches the door, he waits, listens. At first he hears nothing and reaches for the handle. Just the faint hum of something internal, too low to identify clearly from outside, too consistent to ignore completely. It's the kind of sound that suggests machinery, containment, something running beneath the surface where it can't be seen. 

Then he hears it. Faint, distant, but unmistakable. A sound that doesn't belong to the building. His body stills instantly, every sense sharpening as his head tilts just slightly, his focus shifting inward, past the walls, past the structure, toward the source.

It comes again. Muffled and broken. Something in him snaps. He knows that sound, even distorted beneath layers of concrete and distance. He knows your voice, and you're not speaking this time, you're in pain.

Leon's hand closes around the handle, the controlled precision changing into something sharper, something faster as his entire focus locks onto one singular point. You're here. And you're close enough to hear.

Inside, the pain doesn't fade. It only builds. Another wave crashes through you, harder than the last, tearing through whatever control you managed to hold onto as your body fights something it doesn't understand. Your breath fractures again, your chest tightening painfully as you try to pull in air that won't come fast enough. Your vision blurs at the edges, the room tilting slightly as your muscles strain, your entire body reacting in ways you can't stop.

Gideon just stands there watching. Unphased by your struggle. Focused on whatever it is he's trying to figure out now.

"Instability present," he murmurs, his voice distant against the rush of sensation flooding your system. "But not catastrophic."

Your hands clench harder, your body trembling now, caught between resisting and adapting, between breaking and holding. Another scream tears from you, louder this time, less controlled. Somewhere beyond the walls, Leon is moving as fast he as can, getting closer with every second.

The door doesn't creak. It opens easily. Leon notices as he slips inside, his movement controlled and immediate, his body already adjusting to the change in the environment before the door fully closes behind him. The night are disappears in an instant, replaced by something cooler, denser, the faint sterile scent of filtered air layered over something metallic and difficult to place.

The darkness inside isn't complete. Low-level lighting runs along the edges of the corridor ahead, thin strips embedded into the walls that cast a dim, clinical glow across smooth surfaces. It isn't enough to illuminate everything, but it doesn't need to. It's designed for navigation, not comfort.

Leon pauses just inside the threshold out of instinct. His gaze moves quickly, but not carelessly, tracking the length of the corridor, the corners, the ceiling, the floor. Every surface is too clean, too controlled, the kind of space that isn't meant to be lived in, only used. There are no visible cameras, no obvious surveillance, but that doesn't mean he isn't being watched.

Leon steps forward. His footfalls are silent against the smooth flooring, his weight shifting with practiced precision as he moves deeper into the corridor. The hum he heard outside is louder now, no longer distant, but integrated into the structure itself. It vibrates faintly through the walls, through the floor, through the air.

Every doorway he passes is closed, seamless against the walls, giving nothing away about what might be behind them. There are no signs, no labels, nothing to indicate function or direction. The only thing that keeps him directionally bound is the sound of your pained screams.

Leon's jaw tightens slightly as he continues forward, his mind mapping the space as he goes, committing every turn, every distance, every possible exit to memory. If something goes wrong, he needs a way out. He needs a way to you. The thought sharpens his focus further.

Another scream escapes you. Leon stops. Not abruptly, but enough that his entire body stills, his head turning just slightly as he isolates it. The corridor stretches ahead in two directions at the next intersection, identical in structure, identical in lighting, offering no immediate indication of which path leads where.

Something shifts in Leon instantly, something deeper than instinct, something that bypasses thought entirely. His chest tightens hard, his breath shortening for a fraction of a second before it steadies again, forced back under control through sheer discipline.

He moves faster now, but not reckless, his steps still placed with precision as he turns down the corridor where the sound came from. The distance closes quickly, the hum of the facility growing louder as he goes, layered now with something else.

Every second stretches. Every step matters. He passes another door, then another, his gaze flicking briefly toward each one, searching for anything that stands out, anything that breaks the pattern. Then he sees a difference.

One of the doors ahead is slightly recessed compared to the others, its surface broken by a narrow panel along the side, faintly illuminated in a way that suggests active use. It isn't obvious. It isn't meant to be.

Leon slows as he approaches, his body lowering just slightly, his hand moving instinctively toward his weapon as he positions himself beside the frame rather than directly in front of it. His breathing steadies again, controlled, measured, his focus narrowing to a single point.

Another pained sound escapes your throat and Leon knows that you're in the other side. For a brief moment, everything compresses, the space, the sound, the distance between where he is and where you're collapsing into something immediate and undeniable.

He reaches for the panel. His fingers hover for half a second, assessing, calculating. Locked, most likely. Secured in a way that won't respond to a simple override. So he doesn't try. Instead, he shifts his stance slightly, his weight settling, his grip tightening as he prepares to force it. Inside, the sound rises again. Sharper. More raw. And that's all it takes.

Leon moves. The impact is controlled, precise, his force directed at the weakest point of the frame rather than the center. The panel cracks first, a sharp fracture that breaks the seal just enough to compromise the structure. He doesn't stop there. A second, stronger hit. The mechanism gives. The door buckles inward with a dull, heavy sound, the controlled quiet of the facility breaking for the first time since he entered. Leon doesn't wait for it to settle. He pushes through.

Inside, the world doesn't make sense all at once. It comes in fragments. The dim lights are too bright. The air is too cold. The sound of your own breathing breaking apart as another wave crashes through you, your body no longer able to hold the same control it did before. The heat has turned into something sharper, something that burns through your system in uneven pulses that refuse to stabilize.

Your hands are clenched tight enough to ache, fingernails cutting through your palm, your muscles trembling under the strain as your chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow.

The door breaks. The sound cuts through everything. Sharp. Violent. Wrong.

Your head jerks instinctively toward it, your vision struggling to focus, the edges still blurred, the room tilting just slightly as your body tries to keep up with everything happening at once. For a split second, you don't understand what you're seeing. A familiar shape, quick movements. Another yell rips through you, the pain washing through your entire body again.

Gideon turns slightly, a full smirk playing on his lips as he recognizes who came through the door. He doesn't startle and doesn't retreat. He wanted this moment, he waited for this moment.

Leon.

The room seems to hold itself in suspension, the harsh overhead light cutting everything into sharp, unforgiving clarity. There is no shadow deep enough to hide in here, no corner untouched by the sterile brightness that reveals every detail whether it should be seen or not. The hum of the facility continues beneath it all, steady and mechanical, a constant reminder that this place was built for function, not for the moment unfolding inside it. The only sound to be heard now is your panicked breathing between screams.

Leon stands just inside the broken doorway, his body angled slightly forward, not quite advancing, not quite holding back. His breathing is controlled, but not calm, each inhale measured, each exhale tight, like something is being forced into place rather than settling naturally.

His gaze doesn't go to Gideon first. It goes to you. It finds you immediately, as if there was never any question where you would be, as if every step he took through the facility had already narrowed down to this exact point. His eyes move over you quickly at first, instinctively checking, assessing, searching for what's been done, what's still happening, what he might already be too late to stop.

He sees the tension in your body, the way your hands are clenched too tightly against the restraints, the uneven rise and fall of your chest as your breathing struggles to keep pace with something inside you that hasn't settled. The faint tremor running through your muscles isn't subtle enough to miss, not to him.

His jaw tightens. Something shifts behind his eyes, something darker, sharper, but it doesn't break through his control. Not yet.

"Leon—" Your voice doesn't come out the way you expect it to. It catches halfway, thinner than it should be, pulled tight by everything still moving through your system. Even saying his name takes more effort than it should, your breath hitching slightly as you try to push past it. But he hears it.

"I've got you," he says, his voice low, steady in a way that feels deliberate, like he's anchoring both of you at the same time. There's no hesitation in it, no question, just certainty, even if the situation in front of him doesn't offer any.

Gideon moves, turning with the same measured precision he's carried through every moment so far, his posture unchanged, his attention shifting from you to Leon as though the interruption is simply another variable entering the equation.

He studies Leon in silence for a moment, his head tilting slightly as if adjusting to a new data point rather than reacting to a threat.

"Earlier than projected," he says, his words calm. Observational.

Leon's attention shifts then, just enough to acknowledge him, but not enough to lose sight of you. His body remains angled between you and Gideon, instinctively placing himself in that space, that line, even before he's fully closed the distance.

"You picked the wrong person," Leon says, his tone controlled but edged now, something tight beneath it that doesn't quite surface but doesn't hide either.

Gideon doesn't react to the threat. If anything, his focus sharpens.

"No," he replies. "I selected precisely the right one."

Leon's gaze flickers back to you, just for a second, taking in the way your shoulders tense again as another wave moves through you, the way your breathing stutters despite your effort to keep it steady. Grunts of pain escape your lips.

"What did you do to her?" he asks.

There's no softness in his voice. Gideon doesn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze shifts between the two of you, not weighing, not comparing, but observing, as if this moment itself is something worth studying.

"A controlled introduction," he says finally. "A stressor designed to disrupt equilibrium."

Your fingers tighten again as another pulse moves through you, your body reacting despite your efforts to contain it. You try to steady your breathing, to keep yourself grounded, but the sensation hasn't fully faded. It lingers beneath your skin, quieter than before, but still present, still wrong.

"And?" he presses, his voice lower now, more dangerous.

Gideon's expression doesn't change. "She stabilized. Handling it quite well actually."

The words hang in the air. Leon's jaw tightens harder, his focus snapping fully to Gideon now, the meaning settling in faster than it should.

"That wasn't supposed to happen," he says.

Gideon's head tilts again, that same small, deliberate motion.

"Not typically," he agrees. "But she is not a typical subject."

Your chest rises sharply again as another smaller wave moves through you, your body still adjusting, still reacting in ways you can't fully control. You grit your teeth against it, forcing yourself to stay present, to stay aware, because Leon is here now, and that changes everything.

Leon takes a step forward slowly. His attention splits again, half on Gideon, half on you, calculating distance, timing, risk. Every movement is deliberate, every shift controlled, but there's something coiled beneath it now, something that's getting harder to keep contained the longer he stands there.

"You're done," Leon says.

Gideon doesn't move to stop him. Doesn't reach for anything. Doesn't even step back.

"If that were true," he says quietly, "you wouldn't have made it this far."

Leon moves again, faster this time. He closes the distance between you in a matter of seconds, his focus narrowing completely as he reaches your side. His hands come to the restraints immediately, his touch careful despite the urgency behind it, his fingers checking the mechanism, the material, the way it's secured.

"Hey," he says, softer now, his voice dropping just enough to reach you through everything else. "Stay with me, alright?"

Your head tilts slightly toward him, your vision still not fully steady, but clearer now than it was before. Being this close to him, hearing him, it cuts through some of the noise, some of the disorientation.

"I'm—" You try to answer, but the words falter as your breath catches again, your body still not fully cooperating.

"I know," he says quietly. "Just breathe."

Behind him, Gideon watches. Unmoved. Uninterrupted.

"Observe," he says softly. The word is almost lost beneath the sound of your breathing, but Leon hears it.

"I'm not part of your experiment," Leon says.

Gideon's gaze doesn't waver. "You already are."

Leon's grip tightens slightly against the restraint before he forces it to ease, his focus snapping back to you, back to what matters. The mechanism gives slightly under his touch, not completely, but it gives you some relief.

"Almost there," he murmurs, his voice low, steady, meant for you alone.

Your breathing hasn't fully settled, but it's better than it was. The violent spikes have dulled into something more contained, your body still reacting, still adjusting, but no longer overwhelming you completely. You hold onto his voice, onto the presence of him beside you, grounding yourself in something real while everything else still feels just slightly out of place.

"Leon..." Your voice is quieter now, strained but clearer, your fingers twitching faintly against the restraint as you try to steady yourself.

He glances at you briefly, just enough to confirm you're still with him, still holding on. "I've got you," he says again. And for a second, you believe it.

His hands still against the restraint, his body pauses just long enough to register the change before his head lifts, his attention snapping back toward Gideon. "You should have left when you had the opportunity, Leon."

Leon's jaw tightens, his posture shifting almost imperceptibly as he angles himself more fully between you and Gideon, his body placing itself there without thought, without hesitation.

"You're done," he says, quieter now, but edged with something harder, something less controlled.

Gideon's head tilts slightly. And then he moves. There's no warning, no buildup. One moment, he stands across the room, the next, he's there, the space between them collapsing in an instant. Leon reacts on instinct, his body turning, his arm coming up to intercept. But Gideon doesn't strike. He grips Leon's shoulder, then the force hits.

Leon's footing breaks as he's yanked sideways with a strength that doesn't belong to anything natural. The world shifts violently, the ground slamming into his back with a force that knocks the breath from his lungs before he can brace against it.

The impact echoes through the room, sharp and final.

"Leon!" The sound leaves you before you can stop it, your voice breaking through the space with a sharp edge of fear you can't contain this time.

Even as the air rushes back into his lungs in a strained inhale, his body rolls with the impact, momentum carrying him through the motion as he pushes himself back up. There's no pause, no recovery beyond what's absolutely necessary. His focus snaps back immediately, locking onto Gideon with a precision that overrides everything else.

Something in Gideon begins to change. A tension that wasn't there before, something coiling inward rather than expanding outward. His posture tightens, his shoulders drawing slightly as though containing something that no longer fits cleanly within him. The fractured lines beneath his skin darken, spreading in faint, branching patterns that pulse subtly with something alive.

You gasp because you can see it now. Something moving under his skin.

"Adaptation requires progression," Gideon says, his voice lower now, heavier, as though it's being pulled from somewhere deeper.

The mechanical apparatus over his eye flickers, the lenses shifting rapidly, adjusting in small, precise movements as if recalibrating to match whatever is happening inside him.

Leon's stance lowers instinctively, his weight settling, his body aligning for impact as his gaze tracks every shift, every unnatural movement.

"Yeah," he mutters under his breath, quieter, sharper. "Saw that coming."

A sound comes next. It's wet and wrong. A tearing pressure beneath the surface that builds for just a second too long before it breaks. His arm jerks slightly, not in pain, but in adjustment, his fingers flexing once, twice, before something forces its way through. The fabric of his sleeve splits as dark, sinewy appendages push outward, emerging from beneath the skin with a violent, organic motion that defies anything natural.

They unfurl rapidly, extending outward with unsettling control, each one moving with a purpose that suggests awareness rather than randomness. 

Leon doesn't wait. He moves first.

The moment the tendrils fully extend, he closes the distance, fast and direct, his movement cutting through the space before Gideon can fully settle into whatever he's becoming. His strike is precise, aimed to disrupt, to interrupt the transformation before it completes.

But one of the tendrils reacts faster. It lashes out, snapping forward with unnatural speed, wrapping tightly around Leon's arm mid-motion. The grip is immediate, constricting hard enough to halt him completely, the pressure sharp and unyielding. Leon's jaw tightens as he tries to pull free, his muscles straining against it.

You see it before it happens, faint arcs of electricity flickering along the length of the appendage, gathering, intensifying, the air around it crackling with something volatile. You try to call to Leon but another wave of pain rushes through you, head to toe, halting everything and stealing your voice, your breath, your mind.

The discharge hits. It tears through Leon in a sharp, violent burst, his body locking for a split second under the force of it before the sound breaks from him, low and strained, forced out despite his control. The tendril releases him just as quickly. He's thrown back, his body hitting the ground hard enough to echo again, the impact reverberating through the room.

Leon lies unmoving on the floor and it's the most helpless you've ever been. Restrained with no way to help your husband, who is only here to save you.

His hand presses against the floor, his body pushing up again, slower this time, but no less determined. His breathing is heavier now, sharper, each inhale drawn in with effort, but his focus hasn't shifted a single time.

Across from him, Gideon stands taller. The human shape is still there, but it's no longer dominant. The tendrils move slowly behind him, shifting, adjusting, as if testing their range, their strength, their control. The air around him feels charged now, faint arcs of energy flickering intermittently, unstable but contained.

"This is where it becomes meaningful," Gideon says, his voice steady despite everything else.

The room doesn't hold its shape for long. It gives in stages, like something under pressure, finally reaching the point where it can no longer hold.

At first, it's only the sound. A low, strained groan somewhere deep within the structure, metal bending where it was never meant to, the clean lines of the facility distorting under the weight of what Gideon is becoming. The sterile hum that once filled the space flickers, falters, then surges unevenly, as if the systems built to sustain control are now struggling to contain it.

Gideon stands at the center of it, no longer still in the way he had been before, but not uncontrolled either. The transformation does not make him wild. It makes him larger, more present, more impossible to ignore. The tendrils extending from his body shift with a purpose that's no longer exploratory. They coil and stretch in slow, deliberate motions, each movement accompanied by faint arcs of electricity that crackle through the air and dissipate against the walls in sharp, fleeting bursts of light.

Leon watches him without retreating. His breathing is heavier now, his chest rising and falling with effort, but there's no hesitation in the way he holds his ground. His body adjusts in small, precise ways, weight shifting, stance lowering, every muscle aligning with instinct and experience. He's already recalculating, already adapting to something that should not exist, because that is what survival has always required of him.

Gideon tilts his head, the mechanical lenses over his eye flickering rapidly as they track Leon's movement. "You continue to respond within projected thresholds," he says, his voice altered now, layered faintly with something deeper that resonates beneath the words. "Even under escalating conditions."

Leon doesn't answer. There's no space for it, no value in it. The moment Gideon's tendrils shift inward, drawing close to his body as the electricity along them intensifies, Leon understands what's coming. The air sharpens, the faint scent of ozone thickening as the energy builds, no longer scattered but concentrated, focused into something far more dangerous.

He moves before it releases. The discharge tears through the space where he stood a fraction of a second before, a violent arc of electricity that slams into the far wall with enough force to fracture the surface, the impact flashing white-hot before fading into smoke and sparks. The light burns briefly across Leon's vision, but he doesn't slow. He uses the opening created by the attack, the brief window where Gideon's focus shifts to recalibrate, and closes the distance instead of retreating.

The first strike lands cleanly. It snaps Gideon's head to the side, not with enough force to drop him, but enough to confirm what Leon needs to know. The thing in front of him can still be hit. It can still be interrupted. It can still be fought.

The response is immediate. The tendrils lash outward with far less restraint than before, their movements sharper, more aggressive, each strike aimed not just to stop Leon but to overwhelm him. He pivots through the first, deflects the second, the impact sending a jolt up his arm that he absorbs without breaking rhythm. The third comes from behind, forcing him to drop low, the appendage slicing through the air just above him before slamming into the wall hard enough to crack it further.

The room is coming apart now. Panels loosen and fall, fragments of the controlled environment scattering across the floor as the fight pushes beyond anything it was designed to contain. The hum of the facility distorts into something uneven, lights flickering in brief, erratic pulses that cast the entire space in shifting brightness.

It's all too much for your body as you fight whatever is coursing through your veins. The flashing lights, the pain bursting in waves. Darkness creeps at the edges of your vision as you watch Leon try to take down Gideon.

Gideon steps forward into the chaos, his movement heavier now, less human in its weight but no less precise. "Damage acknowledged," he says, the words strained slightly as the transformation continues to push through him. "Adaptation required."

The tendrils retract again, but not in retreat. They coil tightly around him, drawing inward as the electricity intensifies along their length, brighter now, more volatile. Leon recognizes the shift immediately, his posture tightening as his focus sharpens further. This is not another strike. This is an escalation.

Gideon's body convulses with sudden force, the remaining structure of his human form breaking further as the mutation surges forward. The tendrils expand again, thicker, longer, their movement more erratic as the transformation accelerates. His frame distorts, growing beyond its original shape, the balance of control giving way to something far more aggressive, far less contained.

The walls crack under the pressure. Metal groans and bends as the space struggles to hold him, the controlled environment collapsing into something unstable and dangerous.

He moves through the chaos, faster now, more direct, his path cutting between the snapping tendrils and crackling arcs of energy with a precision that leaves no room for hesitation. One shot strikes his shoulder as he passes, the impact heavy enough to stagger him a step, but he doesn't stop. He can't. Another slams into the ground beside him, sending debris upward in a sharp burst that grazes his side, but he pushes through it, closing the distance before Gideon can fully adjust.

This time, Leon commits. There's no testing strike, no probing movement. Everything aligns into a single, decisive action as he drives forward, his focus narrowing to a singular point. The moment opens, brief and dangerous, and he takes it.

The shot lands. The sound cuts through the chaos, sharp and final, the impact hitting with enough force to break through what remains of Gideon's structure. For a fraction of a second, everything seems to hold, the movement, the sound, the space itself pausing as the effect settles in.

Gideon collapses. The tendrils recoil violently, the electricity along them snapping out in erratic bursts before dying completely. Gideon's form distorts further, not expanding now but breaking down, the structure of it failing in on itself as the mutation loses cohesion. The surface of him shifts, softens, destabilizes, the defined shape melting into something unrecognizable. He doesn't fall, but dissolves.

The mass that was Gideon collapses inward, losing form, losing structure, the remnants of his transformation breaking apart into something viscous, unstable, spreading across the fractured floor in uneven, darkened pools. The last of the energy dissipates into the air, leaving behind only the fading hum of a facility no longer fully functioning.

The silence that follows doesn't feel real. It settles too suddenly, too completely, pressing in around the room like something waiting to be acknowledged. Moments ago, everything had been noise and motion and impact, the air alive with electricity and strain, the structure itself fighting to hold together under the weight of what had been happening inside it. Now, all of that is gone, leaving behind only the faint, uneven hum of failing systems and the quiet drip of something cooling against the fractured floor.

Leon doesn't move right away. His chest rises and falls with heavier breaths than he'd allow himself under normal circumstances, each inhale dragging in air that still smells faintly of ozone and heat. The tension hasn't left his body yet. It lingers in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way his fingers flex once at his side like they're still expecting resistance.

His gaze remains fixed for a second longer on what's left of Gideon, the dark, formless remains spread across the floor where something controlled and deliberate once stood. There's no movement there now, no sign of reformation, no indication that anything is coming back from it. Just the aftermath of something that pushed too far and lost its shape completely.

Only when that certainty settles does Leon turn. Everything that had been held tight during the fight, all that focus, all that precision, redirects in an instant, snapping back to you with a force that feels almost physical. His eyes find you quickly, already expecting to see you where he left you, restrained, struggling, still fighting through whatever Gideon put into your system.

You're there. You're upright. The restraints still hold you in place, your body angled slightly forward where you'd been straining against them earlier. But the tension is gone. The movement is gone.

Leon's chest tightens sharply.

"Hey..." The word leaves him before he's even fully crossed the distance, his steps closing the space between you faster now, no longer measured, no longer cautious. The control he held onto through the fight slips just enough to let urgency through.

He reaches you in seconds, hands coming up to your cheeks. "Hey, hey—" His voice drops, softer but edged now, the words coming quicker than before as he leans closer, his gaze scanning your face, searching for any sign of response. "Come on, stay with me."

Your skin is warm beneath his hand, warmer than it should be, the heat lingering from whatever Gideon forced into your system. Your pulse is there too, faint but steady against his fingers, a rhythm that reassures him just enough to keep moving, to keep focused. But your eyes don't open.

Leon exhales through his nose, the breath sharper than he intends as he shifts his grip, his hand sliding more securely along your arm as he checks you over with quick, practiced movements. There are no visible wounds beyond the restraint, no obvious signs of physical damage from the outside, but that doesn't mean anything here.

"What did he do to you..." he mutters under his breath, the question not meant for an answer, just something that slips out as his mind tries to piece together what he's seeing with what he already knows.

He adjusts his position, moving closer, his hands returning to the mechanism with more urgency than before, but not less care. His fingers find the weakened point he'd started working earlier, the subtle give in the structure that hadn't been enough then but might be now.

"Alright," he murmurs, quieter again, as if you can hear him even like this. "I've got you, sweetheart. Just hold on."

His grip tightens slightly as he applies pressure, shifting his angle and forcing the mechanism in a way that strains against it rather than working with it. The material resists at first, holding firm like it was designed to, but Leon doesn't stop. He adjusts again, changes direction, increases force just enough to push it past its limit without snapping it in a way that could hurt you.

Finally, the first wrist comes loose. Leon doesn't hesitate. He works the opening immediately, pulling it wider, freeing your other wrist carefully but quickly, his hand catching yours the second it's loose, steadying it before it can fall.

"Got it," he breathes, more to himself than anything else.

For a second, he doesn't move you.

He just stays there, one hand still around yours, the other hovering near your shoulder like he's bracing for something, like he's expecting you to wake up, to react, to do something. When you don't, the tension shifts again. Softer this time. More careful.

Leon slides his arm behind your back, supporting your weight as he eases you forward, out of the position the restraints held you in. Your body doesn't resist. It leans into him instead, unsteady, the lack of awareness making the movement feel heavier than it should.

"I've got you," he says again, quieter now, the words closer to a promise than anything else.

He adjusts his hold, one arm secure around you, the other steadying your head as he lowers you just enough to get a better look at you. His thumb brushes lightly along your cheek without thinking, grounding himself in the contact as much as he's checking you.

Leon's jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn't let it spiral. Not now. Not when you're right here, when you're breathing, when he can still do something about it.

"Come on," he murmurs, his voice low and steady again as he shifts his grip, preparing to move. "You're not staying here."

The facility groans faintly around them, a reminder that whatever stability it had before is gone now, systems failing slowly in the aftermath of Gideon's collapse. The lights flicker once, then again, the hum dipping unevenly as something deeper in the structure begins to shut down.

Leon doesn't wait to see how far it goes. He gathers you more securely against him, lifting you carefully, mindful of your condition, of the way your body still hasn't fully recovered from whatever was done to it. His movements are controlled again, but the urgency is back, sharper now, focused entirely on getting you out.

As he turns toward the broken doorway, his grip tightens just slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to make sure you're there.

The facility doesn't sound the same on the way out. What had once been a steady, controlled hum has fractured into something uneven, strained, like the structure itself is struggling to keep up with systems that are failing faster than they can compensate. The lights flicker overhead in irregular pulses, casting the corridor in shifting bands of brightness and shadow that make the space feel unstable, unfamiliar, even though Leon had just moved through it minutes before with absolute clarity.

Your weight is secure against him, one arm braced firmly around your back, the other supporting you beneath your legs as he moves through the corridor with controlled urgency. Every step is precise despite the pace, his body adjusting instinctively to keep you steady, to minimize the jarring motion that might make things worse.

Your head rests against his shoulder, your breathing warm against his neck, uneven but present. He keeps track of it without thinking, each inhale and exhale a quiet reassurance that cuts through everything else.

"Almost out," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his voice low and steady even as the world around him shifts.

The door he forced open earlier hangs unevenly now, the frame warped just enough to leave it partially ajar. Cool night air seeps through the opening, cutting through the sterile atmosphere behind him and bringing with it the scent of damp earth and open space.

Freedom.

Leon doesn't hesitate. He pushes through, stepping out into the night in one smooth motion, the shift in environment immediate and grounding. The air is colder here, cleaner, and for the first time since he entered the facility, his lungs pull in a breath that doesn't feel heavy.

The car is exactly where he left it, partially obscured by the treeline, its dark silhouette blending into the surroundings. He heads straight for it, his pace steady but urgent, every second outside the facility a step further away from everything that just happened.

Your body shifts slightly in his arms. At first, it's subtle. A change in weight. A small, uncoordinated movement that could easily be dismissed as nothing. But Leon feels it immediately. His grip tightens just slightly, enough to steady you as his gaze drops briefly, searching your face for confirmation.

Your brows furrow faintly as your breathing changes.

"Hey," he says, softer now, his voice dropping instinctively as he adjusts his hold just enough to support you better. "Easy. You're alright."

"...Leon?" The word comes out quiet, rough around the edges, like your voice hasn't fully returned yet.

He hears it immediately.

"I'm here," he answers without hesitation, his voice closer now, steadier, like he's anchoring you through the haze. "I've got you."

Your eyes open slowly, the night sky above you blurred at first, shifting slightly with each step he takes. It takes a second for things to settle, for your vision to catch up enough to focus, and when it does, you see him again. Up close and real, not the image you forced yourself to see while Gideon was tormenting you.

Your fingers twitch weakly against his jacket, the movement small but intentional as you try to ground yourself in something you recognize.

"I told... told him you'd save me." You barely get out. "You're... okay?"

"I'm fine," he says, though it's not the point. "You're the one I'm worried about."

You let out a faint breath, something that might almost be a laugh if your body had the strength for it. It fades quickly as a dull ache rolls through you again, your muscles tightening instinctively before easing.

"Feel like... a million bucks..." you murmur.

Leon reaches the car quickly, shifting his hold just enough to open the passenger door without setting you down, his movements efficient despite the care behind them. He lowers you into the seat gently, one hand steadying your back as the other guides your legs in, making sure you're settled before pulling back.

For a moment, he doesn't close the door. His hand lingers briefly against your shoulder, his gaze scanning your face again, checking, confirming, making sure you're still with him.

"I'm right here," he says quietly, reaching up to caress your cheek.

You nod faintly, your head resting back against the seat, your body still heavy, still not fully your own, but more present than before.

Leon closes the door and rounds the car quickly, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine without hesitation. The headlights cut through the darkness ahead, illuminating the path back in a way that feels far more real than anything inside that facility ever did.

As the car pulls away, the building disappears behind them, swallowed by the trees and the night as if it was never meant to be found. For a few minutes, there's only the sound of the road under the tires.

Leon taps a few buttons on his infotainment screen. The dial tone sounds in the car.

"Leon?" Hunnigan's voice comes through, alert immediately.

"I found her," he says.

There's a pause. Then relief, quiet but unmistakable. "Is she—"

"She's alive," he cuts in, glancing briefly toward you before returning his focus forward. "But Gideon got to her first. He injected something. I don't know what."

Your eyes shift toward him slightly at that, your focus hazy but present enough to follow the conversation. There's a brief sound of typing on the other end.

"If it's Elpis-related, it's not going to be simple," Hunnigan says. "You need to get her checked out as soon as possible. I can pull what I have on Gideon's compounds, but if he refined anything—"

"Bringing her now," Leon says, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument.

There's a pause.

"Understood," Hunnigan replies, quieter now. "Monitor her until then. Watch for instability, changes in heart rate, neurological response, anything abnormal."

Leon's grip tightens slightly on the wheel. "Yeah," he says. "Already am."

"I'll send you everything I find," she adds. "Leon, you did well."

He doesn't respond to that. He ends the call a second later, the quiet of the car settling in again as the road stretches ahead.

Your head turns slightly toward him, your voice softer now, more grounded despite the lingering exhaustion. "...You always do that," you murmur.

He glances at you briefly. "Do what?"

"Act like... you weren't worried," you say, your words slower now, but clearer.

Something in his expression softens, just slightly. "I was," he admits.

The answer is simple. Honest. And it sits between you in a way that doesn't need anything added.

The road carries you forward, the distance between where you were and where you're going growing with every second. It still feels longer on the way back. The distance hasn't changed, but every second now carries weight Leon didn't have time to feel before. The urgency hasn't left him. It's just changed shape, sharpened into something quieter, more focused, more dangerous in its own way.

He doesn't take the direct route home. He turns off sooner than expected, the car shifting onto a narrower road that disappears deeper into the trees. The headlights carve through the darkness in long, steady beams, illuminating a path that doesn't look like it leads anywhere permanent.

You notice the change, even through the lingering haze. Your head shifts slightly against the seat, your eyes half-lidded but tracking the unfamiliar surroundings as best you can.

"This isn't home," you murmur, your voice still softer than usual, weighed down by exhaustion and something else you can't quite place.

Leon glances at you briefly, just long enough to confirm you're still with him.

"No," he says. "Not yet."

The road narrows further before it opens into something unexpected, a structure set back from the tree line, low and unmarked, its exterior deliberately unremarkable in the same way the facility had been, but cleaner, maintained. A single light glows near the entrance, steady and controlled. Safe. Or as close as it gets.

Leon pulls up without slowing more than necessary, the engine cutting the moment the car stops. He's out of the vehicle in seconds, moving around to your side, the door opening before you fully register the shift.

"I've got you," he says again, quieter now as he reaches in, one arm sliding behind your back, the other beneath your legs as he lifts you carefully from the seat.

Your body responds this time. Weakly. Your hand finds his jacket again, fingers curling into the fabric without thinking, holding on as the ground shifts beneath you.

"Leon..." you breathe, your voice unsteady but present.

"I know," he murmurs. "Just trust me."

The door to the building opens before he reaches it. Hunnigan stands inside, already moving and prepared. There's no surprise in her expression, no wasted time on relief, just immediate focus as her eyes take you in, assessing faster than words could keep up.

"This way," she says, stepping aside.

Leon doesn't stop. The interior is brighter, cleaner, the air carrying that same clinical sharpness, but without the wrongness that clung to Gideon's facility. This feels controlled in a different way. Not experimental. It's protective.

He follows her down a short corridor and into a room already set up, equipment active, monitors ready, everything positioned with intention.

"Set her here," Hunnigan directs.

Leon lowers you onto the table with care, his hands lingering just a second longer than necessary as he makes sure you're stable before pulling back. He doesn't step far and doesn't look away.

A nurse comes over immediately, her hands steady as she begins checking vitals, attaching sensors, her focus sharp and efficient.

"Heart rate elevated but stable," she murmurs, more to herself than to either of you. "Temperature's up, not unexpected."

You flinch slightly at the contact, your body still sensitive, still not fully under your control as the lingering effects of the injection continue to hum beneath your skin.

"What did he give her?" Leon asks, his voice low, controlled, but tighter than before.

She doesn't answer right away. She moves quickly, pulling a sample, running it through a portable analyzer already humming to life on the counter beside her.

"Give me a second," she says.

The machine processes faster than anything standard, its quiet mechanical sounds filling the space between your uneven breathing and the tension settling heavier in the room.

Leon's attention doesn't leave you. Your eyes drift toward him, unfocused at first, then clearer as your body fights its way back toward something resembling normal.

"I'm okay," you try, your voice softer now, but he doesn't buy it.

"I know," he says, but it doesn't sound like agreement.

It sounds like reassurance for himself more than anyone.

The machine beeps. Hunnigan's attention snaps to it immediately, her eyes scanning the results as they populate across the screen. Her expression tightens, just slightly, something small but enough for Leon to catch it.

"What is it?" he asks.

She exhales quietly. "It's a modified Elpis compound," she says. "Derivative strain. Designed to destabilize cellular response and force rapid adaptation."

"And?"

The nurse looks at you, then at the screen, chiming in. "It should've caused systemic failure," she says. "Organ stress, neurological breakdown... worst case, full collapse."

Your stomach drops faintly, even through the haze.

"But it didn't," Leon says.

"No," Hunnigan replies. "It didn't."

She taps the screen lightly, pulling up another set of data.

"Her system compensated," she continues. "Regulated instead of rejecting. It's stabilizing the compound instead of letting it spread."

"What does that mean?" you ask.

"It means you're not in immediate danger," the nurse says. "But it also means whatever he put into you isn't gone."

Your fingers curl slightly against the surface beneath you, your breathing steadying more now as the worst of the earlier effects fade into something duller, more manageable.

"...so I'm not dying tonight?" you ask, your voice quiet, but clearer now.

Hunnigan looks at you directly.

"No," she says. "You're not."

Leon exhales, probably louder than he intended. It's the first real release of tension since he found you. Hunnigan's gaze shifts back to the screen.

"But we're going to need to monitor you," she adds. "Closely."

The house is quiet when the door opens. Not the heavy, suffocating quiet Leon had walked into earlier, the kind that had pressed in on him with something wrong beneath it. This is different. Softer. The kind of quiet that belongs to a place waiting to be filled again, not one that’s already been emptied. Still, when he steps inside with you in his arms, something in him tightens.

For a split second, the image overlaps, the broken stillness from before, the absence, the space where you should have been. It flickers through him before he can stop it. Then you shift against him.

Leon exhales slowly, the breath quieter this time, less controlled, as he nudges the door closed behind him with his foot. The soft click of it sealing shut sounds louder than it should, final in a way that settles something deep in his chest. You're here, and that's what matters.

“I can walk,” you murmur against him, your voice still a little worn, a little softer than usual, but stronger than it was before.

He doesn’t answer right away. His grip doesn’t loosen either.

“I know,” he says after a second, glancing down at you briefly. “You don’t have to.”

You huff a faint breath that turns into a smile, your hand shifting slightly where it rests against his jacket, fingers brushing the fabric like you’re reminding yourself he’s real, too.

“You’re stubborn,” you mumble.

“Yeah,” he replies. “You married me anyway.”

You break out into a sleepy grin. He carries you further into the house, his steps slower now, no urgency pushing him forward anymore, just care. The rest of the house comes into view, familiar in a way that almost feels surreal after everything that came before it.

Then he stumbles upon the kitchen. The light is left on, the chair is still slid out, and the broken mug is still there. Ceramic shards scattered across the tile, the dark stain long since dried where coffee had spilled and been left behind, frozen in the moment everything went wrong.

You follow his gaze, your brow knitting faintly as your eyes settle on it, memory catching up in pieces, the last normal moment before everything had been ripped away.

“And that was my favorite one too,” you murmur quietly.

Leon exhales, something in his chest shifting again, not sharp this time, not panic or urgency, just something quieter, something closer to relief tangled up with the remnants of everything else.

“I’ll get you a new one,” he says.

He carries you past the kitchen, leaving the broken pieces where they are for now. It can wait. None of that matters in this moment, not compared to the weight in his arms, the warmth of you against him, the quiet proof that he didn’t lose you.

When he reaches the couch, he finally lowers you carefully, his movements slow and deliberate as he eases you down into the cushions. This time, he doesn’t pull away immediately. His hands linger on your, one at your back and the other at your arm. He's not ready to let go just yet.

Instead, your hand finds his wrist again, your fingers curling lightly around it before he can step back, holding him there in a way that’s gentle but unmistakable.

“Stay,” you murmur.

He shifts instead, sitting beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch, his body angled toward yours without thinking. For a second, neither of you says anything, the quiet settling in around you again, but this time it feels different. It's safe and full.

Your head tips slightly toward him, your body leaning just enough that he reacts without hesitation, his arm coming around you instinctively, pulling you closer, steadying you against his side. You melt into him naturally, more dramatically than usual.

His hand moves slowly along your back, his thumb brushing lightly in absent, repetitive motions that feel more like habit than thought.

"When you weren't home, I thought..." his words drop quietly. They don't come easily.

You tilt your head slightly, your cheek brushing his shoulder as you glance up at him. “I know,” you say softly.

You don’t make him finish it. You don’t need to. His jaw tightens faintly, his arm around you pulling just a little closer, like the thought alone is enough to make him hold on tighter. You shift slightly, turning more toward him despite the lingering heaviness in your body, your hand sliding up from his wrist to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric there as you steady yourself.

“I’m here,” you murmur.

This time, it’s for him. His gaze drops to you, something in it softer now, less guarded, the edges worn down by everything that’s already passed.

“I know,” he says.

You study him for a second longer, then lean in, closing the small space between you. The kiss is gentle, slow, less about reassurance and more about presence. Your hand stays against his chest, grounding yourself in the steady rhythm beneath it as his hand comes up to your jaw, holding you there with quiet care. There's no urgency; it's just warmth and you.

He leans into it fully this time, the tension finally easing from his shoulders as he lets himself settle into something that doesn’t require fighting, doesn’t require thinking, doesn’t require anything except being here with you.

When he pulls back, it’s only slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath steadying in a way it hasn’t since before any of this started.

“Next time,” you murmur softly, a faint hint of teasing threading through the exhaustion, “I’m making tea instead.”

That almost makes him laugh. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Safer choice.”

The quiet stretches around you, soft and steady, the kind that doesn’t press in or demand anything. It just exists, wrapping around the two of you like something familiar, something earned.

You don’t realize how heavy your body feels until you try to move again. It’s subtle at first, a shift against him, your muscles protesting just enough to remind you that you’re still recovering, still not fully back to yourself. The exhaustion settles deeper now that everything else has quieted, pulling at you in a way that’s harder to ignore.

"We have to get cleaned up, sweetheart," he says, kissing your head.

"Okay," you reply, half asleep.

Before you can argue, before you can insist on anything else, his arm shifts around you, steady and sure as he moves to stand. The motion is smooth, practiced, like he’s done this before, like taking care of you has always come this naturally. Your arm slides around his shoulders without hesitation, your body settling against him with a quiet acceptance that feels as natural as breathing.

“You’re really not going to let me walk, are you?” you murmur, your voice softer now, edged with tired amusement.

“No,” he replies simply.

The two of you move together down the hall, slowly, quietly. The bathroom light flicks on, warm and soft, filling the space in a way that feels almost jarring after everything else. It’s normal, ordinary, safe. He sets you down on the closed toilet lid. Leon moves ahead just enough to start the water, adjusting it carefully, testing the temperature with his hand before letting it run. Steam begins to rise slowly, curling into the air and softening the edges of the room.

You lean lightly against the counter, watching him through the haze of exhaustion, the small, familiar movements grounding you in a way nothing else quite has yet.

“You do this a lot,” you murmur faintly.

He glances back at you, brow lifting just slightly. “Take care of you?” he asks.

You nod once. Something in his expression softens, just a fraction.

“I always will,” he says quietly.

He steps back toward you then, slower now, his hands gentler as they come to rest at your arms, steadying you again. His gaze flickers briefly over your face, checking, making sure you’re still with him, still present.

“Can you stand?” he asks.

You nod. “I think so.”

He doesn’t completely take your word for it. He stays close anyway. Careful and patient. There’s no rush in what comes next. Just a quiet understanding between you as he helps you out of your clothes, his movements respectful, unhurried, like this isn’t something to get through, but something to do right. His hands are steady, never lingering where they shouldn’t, never pulling away too quickly either.

When you step into the bath, the warmth surrounds you immediately, sinking into your muscles in a way that makes your breath catch softly in your chest. You lower yourself slowly, the water rising around you, easing tension you didn’t even realize you were still holding. It’s not just relief, it’s release.

Your shoulders drop, your head tipping back slightly against the edge as your eyes close for a second, letting yourself settle into it. Leon stays close. Not in the water yet, but right there beside the tub, one hand resting lightly along the edge, his attention still entirely on you.

“Too hot?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head, your voice softer now. "Perfect."

He nods once, then reaches for the shampoo, his movements slower, more deliberate as he shifts closer. His hand brushes lightly against your shoulder first, a silent check, a pause to make sure you’re with him.

You tilt your head slightly in response, and that's all he needs. His fingers move through your hair gently, working the shampoo in with care that feels like heaven. There’s no rush, no distraction, just the steady rhythm of his hands, the quiet presence of him there with you. The tension leaves you in pieces. 

Your head leans back a little more, your eyes slipping closed again as you let yourself relax into it, into the warmth of him.

“You’re really good at this,” you murmur, your voice barely above the sound of the water.

When he rinses your hair, one hand steadies at the back of your neck, careful, protective, making sure the water doesn’t hit too hard, doesn’t pull you out of the quiet you’ve finally found. You lean into that touch without thinking.

By the time he's done, the air feels different. You feel lighter, cleaner, safer. He lingers for a second, his hand still resting lightly along the edge of the tub as he watches you settle deeper into the water. The tension that had been sitting in your shoulders has eased; your breathing is slower now, your body finally beginning to let go of everything it had been holding on to.

His gaze shifts, thoughtful. “You sure you’re steady?” he asks quietly.

You open your eyes just enough to look at him, the faintest hint of a smile returning. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur.

He exhales softly, then moves, slower this time. There’s no hesitation in it, just a quiet decision as he steps back, shedding the last of his own clothes with the same unhurried care he showed you. It’s simple, practical, like this is just the next step.

Then he steps into the bath behind you. The water shifts around him, rising slightly, warmth settling over both of you as he lowers himself carefully, mindful of your space, of your balance, of everything you’ve just been through. His movements are controlled, even here, even now, but there’s something softer in them too, something that isn’t about precision anymore.

You feel the warmth of his chest against your back. His arm comes around you almost immediately, instinctively, resting lightly across your middle, not pulling you in too tightly, just enough to steady you, to keep you anchored there with him.

You exhale, slow and quiet. “That’s better,” you murmur.

A faint breath leaves him, something just short of a laugh. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, it is.”

The water laps gently against the sides of the tub, the only sound in the room aside from your breathing, which has finally evened out into something calm, something steady. The warmth sinks deeper now, loosening what little tension remains, dulling the last edges of pain into something manageable.

Leon’s hand shifts slightly against you, his thumb brushing absent, slow patterns along your arm. It’s not deliberate, not something he’s thinking about. It’s just there, familiar, grounding, something he’s done a hundred times before in quieter moments.

“You still with me?” he asks after a while, his voice low, close to your ear.

You nod faintly, your head tipping back just enough to rest lightly against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just tired.”

“I know.”

His hand tightens just a fraction, then eases again, like he’s reminding himself you’re here, that he doesn’t have to hold on so tightly anymore.

You reach back slightly, your fingers finding his arm where it rests around you, tracing lightly over his skin without thinking. It’s a small movement, but it’s enough to pull his attention fully to you again.

“You okay?” you ask, softer now.

There’s a pause. “I am now,” he admits.

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him, your gaze meeting his in the soft, warm light of the room. For a second, neither of you moves, the space between you close but unhurried.

Then you lean in. The kiss is gentle, slower than before, your hand coming up to rest lightly against his jaw as your lips meet his. There’s no urgency in it, no need to prove anything, just quiet reassurance, the simple fact that you’re both here, both real, both okay.

He responds just as softly, his hand shifting from your arm to your side, holding you there with a steady, careful touch as he leans into it. It lingers just long enough to mean something, to settle into something real, before he pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours.

"I was scared," he murmurs.

"I know," you whisper. "Me too."

His eyes close briefly at that, his breath steadying as he leans into your touch for just a second. The water cools slowly around you, but neither of you moves right away. There’s no rush to leave this moment, no urgency pulling you forward. Just warmth, and quiet, and the steady presence of each other. Eventually, though, he shifts.

“Come on,” he murmurs gently. “Let’s get dried off and get to bed.”

Leon reaches for a towel immediately, wrapping it around your shoulders before you can even think about it, his hands moving with that same practiced gentleness as he draws you closer, drying your hair first, slow and careful, working through it like he had in the water.

Another towel follows, this one warmer, softer as he drapes it around you and guides you to sit on the edge of the tub for a second, making sure you’re steady before stepping back just enough to grab fresh clothes.

He helps you again, keeping you steady as he eases the fabric over your arms, adjusts it at your shoulders, and makes sure you're comfortable before moving on. By the time you're both dressed, the whole world has softened. The sharp edges from before have faded into something else.

Leon’s hand finds yours without thinking as he leads you back toward the bedroom, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as you walk. You don’t pull away. If anything, your grip tightens slightly, grounding yourself in the warmth of him, in the steady presence that hasn’t left your side since he found you.

When you reach the bed, he slows, turning slightly toward you instead of immediately guiding you down. For a second, you just stand there.

"Thank you, Leon," you say quietly, looking at his tired eyes.

The words are simple, but they carry everything behind them, everything you don’t need to explain because he already knows. Leon’s expression softens in that small, almost imperceptible way it does when something gets past his guard. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his free hand comes up, resting gently at your jaw as he leans in just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

“I love you, okay?” he murmurs against you, his voice low, steady, like he needs you to hear it, to hold onto it.

Your breath catches just slightly, something warm settling in your chest as you meet his gaze.

“I love you too,” you reply, just as soft.

He leans his forehead briefly against yours, then shifts, guiding you gently down onto the bed, his hand never quite leaving you as he settles beside you moments later.

You turn toward him instinctively. He meets you there. His arm wraps around you, pulling you close, your body fitting against his like it always has, like it always will. The exhaustion is heavier now, pulling at you in a way that’s impossible to fight, but it doesn’t feel overwhelming anymore.

Your hands come up to rest against his chest, and you listen to the steady sound of his heart where your head lies near his chest. Leon’s hand moves once along your back, then stills, holding you there as the quiet settles in fully around you.

When sleep finally comes, it's gentle and safe. And this time, home finally feels like home again.

-----

My requests are open! <3 I would love to hear from you!

He treats you so delicately as if you’re made of something so tender and fragile, but he doesn't treat you as if you're completely incapacitated.

He's made aware by your doctor that pregnancy can be very stressful for a woman, but with the right care and support, it can be a wonderful journey that all expecting parents can come to enjoy and appreciate. So far, you haven’t been struggling at all, except for the occasional morning sickness or two.

Your pregnancy journey’s been smooth, and the doctor often mentions that you’re practically glowing with life.

With every doctor’s appointment you’ve had, Leon does his best to be present given the nature of his work, always away in the field, working at headquarters—it does hinder him from being present all the time at every appointment.

But by the third appointment he’s missed during your second month, you’re extremely surprised by the big decision Leon’s made to accommodate this new adjustment in your lives.

Leon decided to retire early from the DSO.

He returned from work one evening, carrying a box filled with papers and items from his office, and when he set it down, he told you those words you didn’t think would materialize from your husband’s mouth.

“I’m retiring, love.”

You almost forgot how to breathe.

There were so many things to consider with Leon’s decision, and you almost feel very disappointed he hadn’t consulted you or told you about this. But even then, he already opened the idea to you, even before you were pregnant. He had told you he wanted to focus on the life you were building with him, without the constant worry of being away for work, or taking a lot of time in the office instead of being at home with you.

Leon had also been planning this for a while. He explained to you that because of his years of service rendered to the government, along with the numerous hazard pay and bonuses he’s accumulated over the years, you’re basically set for life, and that doesn’t even include his monthly federal pension and health insurance, which includes you and your future kids as dependents.

Should Leon want to return to the DSO, there will always be an opening for him, not as an agent, but maybe something less dangerous like a consultant, an advisor, or a training officer—teaching anti-bioterror units, survival tactics, or just even on field operations.

But for the most part, he had traded the chaos of field missions for a quieter life at home with you and your unborn baby.

It was a well-calculated plan. Because Leon considered you and your baby for most of his decision, you knew that this was perhaps the right call for the situation which would allow Leon to be present for you during your pregnancy, and even after that. Even more when you’ve already given birth to your child. Especially then.

You didn’t want to doubt him, but you half-believed, half-expected that Leon would want to return as an agent, will crave the missions again, but by the time your seventh month rolled around, you were completely, utterly wrong.

You were grateful for his patience and love for the past six months, because he’s been more present in everything, whether it be appointments or simple late-night cravings. But he’s become more dedicated towards you and your baby when he found the joy of creating do-it-yourself projects at home.

“What are you doing?” You ask as you open the door to the nursery, finding Leon sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor, a screwdriver in one hand and a shaft of wood on the other. “You’re already working on the crib?”

You’ve only bought it a while ago.

“Hm?” Leon looked up, his hands stilling. “You said it’ll take a while to build, honey. The model we picked out… it’s secure, yes, but I want to make sure it’s all properly assembled. I’ll start on the rocking chair afterwards, and maybe you could try it out, what do you say?”

“Sounds great,” you answer him, your hand falling over your belly, feeling a soft kick from your little one. “Can I do anything to help?”

Leon instantly shakes his head. He drops the tools first on the floor, before standing up and making his way towards you. Once he reaches you, he places a gentle palm on top of your belly above your sweater.

“I just want you to rest,” Leon says in earnest. “We walked around a lot at the store today, plus you’ve worn out your feet checking one shelf after another for baby clothes.” He chuckles softly.

You playfully roll your eyes. “You’re the one who indulges me, Leon. We basically brought home at least fifteen bags from earlier.”

“Hey, I just want to be prepared for our little girl.” he rubs delicate circles over the top of your belly. “Plus, remember that pinterest board you showed me with a ton of do-it-yourself-ers? That’s basically my entire to-do list right now.”

You can’t help but laugh softly. “Well you don’t have to make all of them, you know. I just have a few I want to have for our baby.” You explain.

“Well tell me all of them, and you’ll have them as soon as possible.” Leon promises, planning a soft kiss at the top of your head. “But for now, get some rest, okay? I’ll call you when the rocking chair’s done so you can try it.”

“Okay.”

You watch as he returns to his earlier spot, this time with more focus than you’ve ever seen, and he’s just attaching pieces of wood together. It endeared your heart to see him this dedicated. You love him more for it.

—

One evening, you wake up with the urge to pee. You open your eyes, adjusting to the dim light in your bedroom. When you turn to the side, you’re quite surprised to see that Leon’s awake at this hour, holding his tablet while he scrolls with his finger. He’s wearing his glasses, and when you stir, he looks at you immediately.

“Hey… do you need anything?” He sets the tablet down, turning towards you. “Water? A snack? A back rub?”

You shake your head, pushing yourself up to sit down. “No, I’m okay… I just need to pee. Why are you still up?”

“I’m on these parenting forums. Just reading a couple stuff, nothing too fancy. I’ve been looking at DIY projects too… I saw this portable diaper caddy and also a playpen, but I’m thinking I should start installing baby monitors first.”

He continues, his voice focused but also intrigued. “I also read somewhere about how to install baby monitors the right way so their signal doesn’t get jammed. I’ll work on it later.”

You blinked, too sleepy to comprehend much of what he’s telling you right now. But you know he’s excitedly (although subtly) rambling on about the baby projects he’s been planning on making, and you know he’s got a list somewhere that includes all the things he wants to prepare before the baby arrives.

You lean down to kiss his cheek. “Mmm… you’re such a handyman.” You murmur. “But don’t lose sleep over it, ‘kay? I’ll be down to help you later in the morning if—”

“No, baby… you just need to rest, yeah? Let me handle the woodwork and the heavy lifting. I want to do this, so please, let me?” He looks at your eyes, almost insisting, if not subtly pleading for you to let him be with his creative ambitions.

You chuckle sleepily, before nodding. “Hmm… okay, if you’re sure. But if I want something done, you better make sure you’re doing it,” you tease him.

Leon nods, smiling at you before pecking your lips. “What my wife wants, she will get. And that goes for our baby too.”

With that thought in mind, he returns to scrolling through online parenting and baby forums and even pinterest, even as he struggles to navigate it. You, on the other hand, waddle to the bathroom so you could use the toilet.

When you return and climb onto the bed, you merely kiss his cheek before you lie down again, this time, snuggling close to him, even as he stays awake, his mind alert and working more than ever.

He’s already bookmarked a couple websites, and later, he’s set to work on the baby monitors and he’s going to double check the hinges on the crib.

He’s not an overexcited dad-to-be, isn’t he?

He doesn’t think so.

—

After he installs the baby monitor, he tests it multiple times, going in every room inside the house because he wants to make sure that the signal works everywhere, even in the basement or outside in the backyard.

He’s also mounted blackout curtains in the nursery for the baby, since he read somewhere that babies sleep better in darker rooms. He used thicker curtain rods to make sure they’re locked into place.

The crib has been successfully assembled, and even the rocking chair you bought a few days ago sits still by the window of the nursery. Slowly but surely, the room is starting to come alive with the preparations you’ve been making, especially Leon, who insists on assembling everything so you don’t have to lift a finger.

The next time you find your husband working on a project, you see him in the backyard, smoothing and polishing off pieces of wood. You bring him a glass of iced tea, setting it on a nearby table before walking towards him.

Leon is shirtless, only wearing his jeans and boots, and you can see the veins in his arms and the muscles of his chest and abdomen in broad daylight. The sight makes your tummy flutter. He’s always been this attractive to you, but right now, it’s just messing with your hormones just a bit.

“Hey there handsome,” you greet, bringing him the glass of iced tea. “You’re working pretty hard… what are you making?”

Leon smiles as soon as he sees you approaching, and he sets down his tools before wiping his hands with a rag. “Hey yourself, beautiful. I’m just working on the dresser you showed me the other day. Figured you’d need some place to put baby clothes in. I’m just makin’ sure it won’t splinter or anything.”

“You know you don’t actually have to build everything I show you,” you say to him with a smile.

Leon polished another piece before tossing it slightly onto the table.

“Too late.”

You chuckle at him. “Well here’s something for you since you’ve been out all day here,” you hand him the glass, your eyes ogling his shoulders, his arms, his happy trail… but you catch yourself. “I made you iced tea.”

“Mhmm… thank you, angel. You’re so sweet to me.” Leon takes the beverage from you, sipping from it before he groans. “Now that’s nice.”

“You deserve it, after the hard work you’ve been putting into the nursery, the dresser, even the crib and the rocking chair and so much more,” you answer him, standing on your tip toes to plant a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, honey.”

“Don’t mention it, baby. For you and our little girl, I would build anything.”

“Just don’t overdo it okay?” You remind him gently. “I don’t want you straining yourself.”

You know he isn’t straining himself. You know this is what he needs after he retired from the DSO. You know Leon’s changed his purpose in life, from saving those around him from evil, to making sure your baby has the best life possible, and that you’re comfortable and safe at every stage of your pregnancy, and even after that.

“The only strain I’ll be doing around here is when my neck hurts from looking at you all day.”

—

By your eighth month into your pregnancy journey, Leon has successfully babyproofed your entire house.

He has installed outlet covers, cabinet locks, furniture anchors, and even corner guards on tables, which are all essential in making sure your home is safe and sound for a baby coming soon.

You watch him pour hours into every project, and he’s been rather thorough in reading safety guidelines for the furniture you bought, and even the other electronic devices that you will be using for the baby’s arrival. The nursery was ready—and Leon checked it everyday to see if he had missed something, which he hadn’t. He had basically memorized the layout of the nursery, of where you placed the items and all that whatnot.

He was attaching a few shelves to the walls which he made himself without breaking a sweat. You showed him a tiktok video of it the other day, something with a cream color with hooks to where you can hang the baby’s outfit for the day, and other items.

Pushing the door gently, you lean against the doorframe, you and that belly of yours that protrudes every shirt you have. A sliver of skin peeks from underneath the fabric of one of Leon’s old, smaller shirts that you love wearing because it smells like him, and it’s so much comfier.

You fold your arms across your chest, waiting for Leon to finish adjusting the shelves and decorating them with a small, pink stuffed animal and some baby books you bought last week, something about baby ducks and baby bears and the stars that twinkle high in the sky.

“Looks good in here,” you muse at him, your lips curling into a delicate smile. “Are you almost done there, honey?”

Your eyes scan the room, taking in the shelves, the dresser he’s made, the changing table he assembled along with a bunch of other small furniture. There’s the rocking chair and the crib, and the rug that he insisted he wash thoroughly to make sure it didn’t bring any outside bacteria in the nursery.

The milk bottles are ready, along with diapers and baby wipes that you have stashed underneath the changing table, inside its compartment. Baby clothes are folded neatly inside the dresser, and even your breast pump has been tinkered around with by Leon, making sure it won’t make you feel uncomfortable.

The only thing missing is your baby, who will arrive soon in just a couple of weeks.

Your eyes fall onto Leon once more. His brows are furrowed in concentration, hands adjusting the shelves until they are at least zero degrees flat. Then, he turns towards you, his expression softening as he sees you, especially in his shirt.

“Hey angel,” he cooed, dusting his hands off his jeans before walking towards you. Leon embraces you then, burying his face into your neck, inhaling deeply. “How are my favorite girls doin’, hm?”

“We’re okay, we just miss daddy,” you answer softly, taking one of his hands and leading them to your tummy. Your baby is clearly kicking. “We’ve been waiting for you since a while ago.”

Leon pulls away, lightly apologetic. “Sorry baby, I got distracted, just wanted to put up these shelves and then I’m all yours.” He murmurs against your neck, the stubble of his jaw tickling your skin. “But I’m done now.”

You melt into his embrace before pulling away after a couple of seconds. Leon straightens up, before he looks around, and you can see something unreadable in his expression. Something akin to longing, but filled with so much more love.

He’s thinking about your daughter.

The baby growing inside your tummy.

“I’ve double-checked everything. The baby monitor, the mobile hanging over the crib, the bassinet, even the car seat’s already installed… I think we’re all set, angel. I don’t think we’ve missed something,” he says, his voice oddly wistful.

You recognize it immediately. You reach up and squeeze his arm reassuringly. “We’ll have so much more to work with once the baby’s here. You don’t have to worry about running out of things to do.” You laugh quietly.

Leon gives you a wry smile. “I know that… but these projects, it’s okay for me to make a mistake because I can just start over or see where it went wrong. But not with our baby. Not with our little girl. I can’t afford to make a mistake. What if I gave her the wrong formula? Or what if I ended up hurting her—”

“Hey, none of that,” you cut him off gently, reaching out to cup his cheek, turning his gaze towards yours. “We’re first-time parents, Leon. We’re bound to make mistakes, but at least we’re in this together, right?”

When he nods at you, you continue, thumb circling his cheek. “I know you’re anxious, love. I’ve seen you read a lot of those online parenting forums, but you don’t have to worry much because each parents’ experiences are unique. We’ll be alright, hon. I know we will be. Because you’re here for me and I’m here for you. We’re in this together. All three of us.”

Leon exhales a sigh before he pulls you into an embrace once more. He pecks your temple, his breath ghosting over your ear after. “I don’t say this much, but I’m scared shitless of screwing this up… I don’t always make the best decisions, but I married you, and now we’re having a baby together, and I’d like to think that you’re singlehandedly the best decision of my entire life.”

You almost tear up at his words.

“I love you so much, Y/N. I will do my best to become the best father to our little girl, and the best husband to you. You have my word for it.”

You bury your face into his chest and hold onto him like he’s your safe anchor. “I love you too, Leon… always.”

The past couple of weeks have been a whirlwind of emotions for Leon as he prepared for your baby’s arrival. He’s gone through a series of feelings, from feeling focused, to determined, then to anxious and worried. He knows he’s gone through a lot worse, but nothing ever prepared him for when your daughter will finally be in the outside world with you.

Leon has made many mistakes in the past. Mistakes that cost him more than he can explain. Mistakes that still keep him up at night.

But with all the wrongs he made in his life, you are the one right thing that counters all of it.

You, and the miracle he calls your soon-to-be daughter.

this is for the anonymous person who requested for retired-from-the-dso leon to be a complete handyman husband at home with his wife 😁 i hope you like it!

also, thank you for all the positive notes on all my other fics so far, i can't wait to share more of my fics with you guys! expect more to come in the following weeks ♡

if you have any requests or would like to stop by and chat, feel free to send them! i love reading your requests and messages 🫶

thank you so much again for reading, have a wonderful day, wherever you are! 🤍

— aali 𑣲

Leon moves ahead of you with that familiar economy, every step deliberate, shoulders slightly rounded forward as if he's braced against a wind no one else can feel. Years ago, you would have called it tension. Now you know it's simply how he stands when he's ready to protect something.

You.

He lifts one hand without looking back. Two fingers. Hold. You stop immediately, rifle angled down but ready, covering the rear out of habit. Your breathing slows to match his. In the quiet, you can hear it, the faint rasp of fabric as he adjusts his grip, the tiny click of leather at his wrist. He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes catching red light, and the corner of his mouth tilts.

"Tell me you hear that too," he murmurs.

"Ventilation system struggling to keep up with poor life choices," you whisper back.

His mouth twitches a little more. "Comforting."

"Very."

He turns forward again, advancing with a careful sidestep around a fallen gurney. You follow close, boots landing where his did, stepping into the spaces he clears without thinking. Years of missions have worn this path between you into muscle memory. You could navigate a battlefield blind if he were moving ahead of you.

Sublevel three, quarantine wing. The official report had said that the outbreak was contained. Minimal hostiles. Data retrieval only. You and Leon had both read that and packed extra ammunition.

Something scrapes faintly above you. You both stop again. A wet sound follows, soft but unmistakable, like raw meat dragged across tile. Leon's shoulders go rigid. He tilts his head, listening, then slowly raises his pistol toward the ceiling vent ten feet ahead.

"Don't," you breathe.

Too late. The grate explodes outward in a shower of dust and rusted screws. A shape drops hard onto the floor between you, limbs hitting at angles that don't belong to anything living. The body spasms once, twice, then snaps upright with a sound like tearing cloth. Its eyes are wrong. Its mouth is wrong.

Leon fires twice. The creature barely stutters before lunging. You're already moving. Your rifle cracks, recoil thudding into your shoulder as you pivot left to avoid Leon's line of fire. The rounds chew through rotten muscle, splashing something dark across the wall. The thing keeps coming anyway, a puppet yanked forward by invisible strings.

"Persistent," you mutter.

"Understatement."

It reaches Leon first. He sidesteps, grabs a fistful of its ruined jacket, and uses the momentum to sling it into the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Before it can recover, he drives a knife up under its jaw with brutal precision. The body convulses, fingers clawing weakly at his sleeve, then goes slack. 

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing and the slow drip of something unpleasant onto the tile. Leon exhales through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. He wipes the blade on the creature's shirt before sheathing it, movements efficient, practiced, almost weary.

"You okay?" he asks without turning.

"Fine."

He turns anyway, eyes scanning you head to toe, checking for tears in fabric, blood that isn't yours, the small tells you can't hide from him even if you tried. His gaze lingers on your face a second longer than necessary.

"Your heart rate's up."

"So is yours."

"Occupational hazard."

You step closer, bump your shoulder lightly against his arm. "You jumped."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I adjusted my stance."

You snort. "Sure you did, hero."

His hand comes up automatically, settling at the small of your back as he guides you past the body. The touch is brief, grounding, gone almost before you register it. He does it all the time now, in doorways, on stairs, whenever the path narrows. Years ago he used to keep that kind of contact locked away behind professionalism. Marriage burned that barrier down to ash.

"Remind me why we didn't retire somewhere with a beach," you say quietly.

"You hate sand."

"I could learn."

"You said that last time. Then you threw a shoe at a seagull."

"It started it."

He huffs, a sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. "We're not buying a coastal property just so you can wage war on wildlife."

"Coward."

They're soft words, familiar words, the kind that live comfortably between you, even in places like this. Especially in places like this. If you stop talking, the silence fills up with too many ghosts.

Ahead, the corridor splits. One path descends into deeper shadow. The other ends at a reinforced door marked MEDICAL ISOLATION.

Leon studies it, jaw tightening slightly. "That's our best bet for antiviral storage."

"And our worst bet for everything else."

"Probably."

He reaches for the panel. It flickers, unresponsive.

You lean in, shoulder brushing his. "Stand back."

"I am standing back."

"Further."

He sighs but obeys, stepping aside as you pull a compact breaching charge from your pack and set it against the seam. Your hands move quickly, efficiently, though you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.

"Try not to blow yourself up," he says.

"Try not to worry so loudly."

"I don't worry."

You glance up. "Leon."

"...I worry a normal amount."

You smile despite yourself. "Uh huh."

You trigger the charge and pivot away, grabbing his vest to pull him with you behind the corner. The explosion is sharp, contained, dust puffing into the air like a violent exhale. When the ringing fades, the door hangs crooked on shattered hinges. Leon looks down at where your hand is still gripping his gear. His expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with combat.

"You can let go," he says gently.

You realize you're still holding on and release him, suddenly aware of how solid he feels under your fingers, how warm even through layers of tactical fabric.

"Right," you say, clearing your throat. "Professional."

"Very."

But he brushes your knuckles once before moving past you, so quick it could almost be an accident.

Inside, the medical wing is colder, air conditioning still struggling on backup power. Cabinets hang open, supplies scattered across the floor as if someone had tried to pack in a hurry and failed. A hospital bed sits abandoned in the center of the room, sheets twisted into ropes. You sweep left. Leon sweeps right. The familiar dance resumes. For a few seconds, nothing moves.

Then something thumps weakly from behind the bed. You both pivot, weapons raised. A figure drags itself into view, lab coat smeared dark, face gray with fever. Human. Barely.

"Help," he croaks.

Leon lowers his weapon first, but doesn't relax. "You're infected?"

The man nods frantically, clutching his side. "Bite... hours ago... there's... antivirals... storage fridge... code..."

His hand trembles as he points toward a small sealed unit in the corner.  Hope flickers, fragile and dangerous. You step forward. Leon catches your arm immediately.

"Careful," he murmurs.

"I know."

His grip tightens just a fraction before he lets go, thumb brushing your sleeve as if memorizing the texture.

The man coughs wetly, body shaking. "Please... I don't want to... turn..."

Leon's jaw flexes. You can see the calculation in his eyes, the grim understanding of how this story usually ends. You move past him anyway, crouching by the fridge, fingers already working the manual override. The seal pops with a soft hiss. Inside, rows of vials gleam faintly in the emergency light, liquid clear and precious as water in a desert.

"Jackpot," you whisper.

Behind you, the man makes a sound that isn't quite human.

Leon's voice snaps sharply. "Back."

You turn just in time to see the change sweep across the man's face, muscles locking, eyes clouding over like frost creeping across glass. Too fast. Leon fires once. The body collapses before it can lunge.

Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute. Your hands are still wrapped around the cold vial when Leon steps in close, one hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin. He leans his forehead briefly against your temple, a gesture so intimate it almost hurts.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Stay with me."

"I'm here."

"Good."

"Leon," you say, unable to keep the lift out of your voice. "We've got—"

The ceiling tile above the doorway caves in with a thunderous crack. Something drops through in a tangle of limbs and teeth. Leon fires before it even lands.

The room detonates into motion. Another body slams through the door behind it, then another, drawn by noise or scent or whatever twisted instinct drives them now. The first infected hits the floor crawling, jaw snapping, fingers scrabbling for purchase on slick tile.

"Back!" Leon snaps.

You're already moving, grabbing the case and pivoting away from the fridge as gunfire shatters the sterile quiet. Your rifle kicks against your shoulder, rounds punching into torsos that refuse to care. The air fills with the acrid stink of cordite and something fouler underneath.

One lunges for your legs. Leon intercepts it, boot driving into its chest hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. He doesn't even look as he fires downward, ending it with clinical precision. 

More are coming. The hallway beyond the ruined door is a writhing mass of shapes pushing over each other, hungry, relentless. The lab equipment rattles as something heavy slams against the wall.

"Too many," you shout.

"Move!"

You sidestep, firing, trying to carve space, trying not to hit Leon as he crosses your line. Your shoulder clips the edge of the bed. The case slips in your grip for half a second.

A larger infected barrels through the doorway, body swollen, movements jerky but powerful. It collides with a rolling cart, sending metal instruments clattering across the floor like thrown knives. Leon pivots to engage, emptying three rounds into its upper chest. The creature staggers backward. Straight into the open refrigerator. Glass explodes.

The sound is high and crystalline, almost delicate beneath the gunfire, like a chandelier being smashed in a ballroom no one will ever dance in again. Vials shatter against metal shelves, against tile, against each other. Clear liquid splashes across the floor, instantly indistinguishable from the spreading mess of everything else. You see it happen in horrible, slow clarity. Hope, reduced to glittering debris.

"Leon!"

He fires again, dropping the brute for good. The body collapses forward, crushing what remains of the storage rack beneath its weight. For one stunned heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then another infected claws over the fallen bulk, and survival yanks you back into motion. You fire. Leon fires. Bodies drop. The noise is deafening, claustrophobic, relentless until at last the hallway falls silent again, littered with unmoving shapes.

Your ears ring. Smoke hangs in the air like a dirty veil. Slowly, cautiously, Leon lowers his weapon. His gaze drifts past the carnage to the refrigerator, to the floor, to the glittering field of broken glass and spilled medication soaking uselessly into grout lines and fabric and things you don't want to identify. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. The man on the bed has gone very still. His eyes stare at the ceiling, clouded over, whatever fragile thread holding him to himself finally snapped in the chaos. A drop of liquid slides off the shelf edge and hits the tile with a soft, final tick.

Leon exhales, long and controlled, like he's forcing the air out through a space too small for it. "...We'll find more," he says quietly.

He steps closer to you, one hand settling on your shoulder, firm and grounding. His thumb moves once, a brief stroke through dust and sweat, as if confirming you're still solid beneath his palm.

"You hurt?" he asks.

You shake your head, throat tight. "No."

"Good."

His hand lingers a moment longer, then drops. He scans the room again, already shifting back into mission mode, but the tension in his jaw has sharpened, lines around his eyes etched deeper by the red emergency light.

"Storage areas are usually clustered," he says. "If there was one unit, there are probably others."

You nod because he needs you to nod. Because forward is the only direction that exists anymore.

Together, you step around the shattered glass and the ruined promise it once held, boots crunching softly with every movement, and head back into the corridor where the dark waits patiently for you to return.

The corridor beyond the lab is narrower, older, the walls traded from clean hospital white to poured concrete stained by decades of leaks and neglect. Emergency lights hum overhead, casting everything in a tired amber glow that feels less like an alarm and more like a dying sunset that forgot to go away. Your boots echo differently here. Hollow. The sound carries too far.

Leon slows without saying anything, adjusting his pace until you're shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. His arm brushes yours with each step, solid and reassuring in a way that feels deliberate without calling attention to itself. After a minute, you realize he's listening to your breathing.

"You know," you say quietly, "most couples go to dinner."

He huffs under his breath. "We tried that."

"You got a call."

"We both got a call."

"I didn't even get to eat my pasta."

"You ordered something with fourteen ingredients I couldn't pronounce."

"That's not a crime."

"It should be."

You bump his shoulder lightly. "You promised dessert."

"I'll buy you dessert."

"You said that last time."

"I meant it last time, too."

His hand comes up automatically, resting on your back as the corridor narrows, guiding you around a fallen chunk of concrete. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.

"When this is over," he adds quietly, "we'll go somewhere that doesn't have reception."

You glance at him. "You're serious."

"Dead serious."

A small smile pulls at your mouth. "You'd last two days."

"I'd last three."

"Two and a half."

He considers it like it's a tactical estimate. "Two and a half."

The next door is heavier than the others, industrial steel with a small wired-glass window clouded by years of grime. A faded placard reads BIO STORAGE B in letters that have peeled into something ghostlike and hard to trust.

Leon raises a hand automatically, stopping you just short of the threshold.

"Hold."

You halt with your boot inches from the seam, rifle angled down but ready. He steps past you, placing himself between you and the door without thinking about it. He always does that. As if the hinge of the world were located somewhere in his spine.

He wipes a sleeve across the glass and peers through, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the dim interior. "Don't see movement," he murmurs. "Shelving units. Containers. Could be clear."

"Could be."

He glances back at you, reading your face the way other people read weather. "You good?"

"Always."

One eyebrow lifts. Not convinced.

You roll your shoulder where your gear has started to dig in, trying to work out the stiffness before it becomes a problem. "Just cramped."

"Switch packs with me."

"I'm fine."

"That wasn't a suggestion."

"It wasn't an order either."

For a moment, you just look at each other, the quiet argument unfolding in expressions instead of voices. Married diplomacy in a war zone.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, conceding the point without admitting defeat. His hand comes up instead, settling briefly at the side of your neck, thumb brushing the muscle there in a grounding stroke.

"Tension," he says softly.

"Observation skills of a seasoned agent."

"Comes with the badge."

"You don't even carry a badge."

"Metaphorical badge."

You lean into his touch for half a second before you can stop yourself. He notices. His thumb stills, then presses lightly once more before he lets his hand fall away.

"Stay behind me on entry," he says, voice shifting, professional edges sliding back into place.

"I take left. You take right," you counter automatically.

He gives you a look. You give him one right back.

"...Fine," he mutters at last. "But if I say fall back, you fall back."

"Yes, dear."

His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't 'yes, dear' me in a mission."

"Yes, sir," you salute.

Leon grunts and shakes his head, trying not to smile. You reach past him to test the handle. Locked.

"Stand clear," you say.

He moves aside this time without commentary, covering the door while you pull a compact bypass tool from your vest. The metal is cold against your fingers, humming faintly as it interfaces with the ancient locking mechanism.

For a few seconds, the only sounds are the tool's soft electronic chirp and your breathing. Then the mechanism clicks. You don't open it immediately. Instead, you glance sideways at him. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tiny scar along his jaw, the exhaustion he carries like a shadow that never quite detaches.

"After this," you say quietly, "we're getting that dessert."

He studies you for a long beat, something unspoken passing through his expression. A deep, stubborn refusal to imagine a future where that doesn't happen.

"Yeah," he says at last, voice low and certain. "We are."

Your hand brushes his wrist as you shift your grip on the handle. He turns his palm just enough to catch your fingers, squeezing once, firm and warm. A promise disguised as reflex. Then he releases you, raises his weapon, and nods.

"On you."

You pull the door open. Cold air spills out, stale and chemical, carrying the faint scent of something spoiled long before anyone stopped coming down here. The room beyond is a maze of tall storage racks and plastic containers, shadows pooling thick between them like standing water.

Leon moves through the doorway first, silent, precise, clearing angles with ruthless efficiency. You follow a half-step behind despite earlier negotiations, covering what he can't see, trusting him to do the same.

All you hear is the hum of failing lights. The soft creak of metal settling. The distant, almost inaudible drip of water somewhere in the dark.

Leon lifts two fingers, signaling pause. You freeze. He tilts his head, listening.

"...Thought I heard something," he whispers.

You hold your breath. The room holds its breath too. Then, very softly, something shifts deep between the shelves. A scrape. Leon's posture tightens, every line of him sharpening toward the sound.

"Stay close," he murmurs.

You move in beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him grounding against the cold air of the room.

"Always do," you whisper back.

The air grows colder the farther you go, heavy with the stale tang of chemicals and something faintly organic beneath it, like fruit left too long in a sealed container. Your flashlight beam skims across plastic bins, sealed crates, labels bleached into illegibility. Dust floats in slow spirals each time you move, disturbed ghosts reluctant to settle again.

Leon advances at a measured pace, weapon steady, shoulders tight enough to telegraph that he hasn't liked this room from the moment the door opened. You mirror him, covering the angles between shelving units, eyes darting through the narrow gaps where shadows knit together into something almost solid. Another scrape, closer this time.

A container shifts on a shelf to your left with a soft plastic thud, tipping just enough to rock in place. Your rifle swings toward it automatically.

"Probably just settling," you whisper.

Leon doesn't answer. He takes one careful step forward, angling to get a better view past the rack. The beam of his light cuts across the gap, illuminating stacked boxes, a collapsed cart, nothing that looks immediately threatening.

Your shoulders start to loosen. That's when the hands shoot out of the darkness. They clamp around your calf, iron strong, nails digging through fabric as something drags itself from beneath the lowest shelf with a wet, hungry sound. You don't even have time to shout before you're yanked off balance.

"Leon—!"

He pivots instantly, dropping his aim to avoid hitting you as you hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The infected is half-crushed, lower body mangled, but its arms work just fine. Its mouth snaps inches from your boot, teeth clacking together with a sound that vibrates up your bones.

You kick, connecting with its face, but it barely registers the impact. Its grip tightens, hauling you closer, closer, jaws opening wide enough to show the slick black of its throat. 

Leon moves. He doesn't fire. Too risky. Instead, he lunges forward, grabbing the back of your vest and hauling you backward with brutal force. The infected comes with you, still latched on, dead weight and fury combined.

"Let go!" he snarls, driving his boot into its shoulder.

Bone cracks. The grip loosens just enough for him to wrench you free, dragging you behind him as he finally gets a clear shot. Two rounds. Point-blank.

The body jerks, collapses, and goes still. For a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the thunder of your pulse. Leon stays crouched in front of you, one arm braced across your chest like a barricade, gun still trained on the corpse in case it decides death is negotiable.

"Hey," he says, voice low, urgent. "Hey. Look at me."

You blink, vision swimming, lungs finally remembering how to work. "I'm... I'm good."

His eyes scan you anyway, fast and thorough, hands already moving, checking arms, shoulders, gear, the way he always does. Routine. Training. Care disguised as procedure. Then his hand stops at your leg.

The fabric of your pants is torn where the creature grabbed you. Dark spreads through the rip, wet and unmistakable even in the dim light. Leon goes very still. Slowly, carefully, he pulls his glove off with his teeth and tosses it aside. His bare hand is warm when it closes around your ankle, steady but not gentle as he angles your leg into the beam of his flashlight.

You follow his gaze. For a second, your brain refuses to interpret what you're seeing. Just shapes. Color. Shine. Then it resolves. Deep teeth marks on your ankle. Blood wells from the punctures, thick and bright, running down into your boot.

"Oh," you say softly.

Leon doesn't speak. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle jumps along his cheek. His thumb presses near the wound, not enough to hurt, just enough to assess depth, damage, and reality.

"How bad?" you ask, because someone has to.

He inhales slowly through his nose, like he's trying to pull the air all the way down to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore.

"...Through the muscle," he says at last, voice roughened at the edges. "No arterial spray."

You almost laugh. Of course, that's what he notices. Of course, he frames it in survivable terms.

"Good news," you murmur.

His eyes snap to yours, sharp, bright, furious at something that isn't you. "Don't."

The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Silence floods back in, thick as the dust hanging in the air. Carefully, he releases your leg only long enough to tear open a pouch on his vest. Gauze. Compression wrap. His hands move with practiced efficiency, but there's a tremor there now, small and stubborn, like a fault line threatening to split.

"This won't stop it," you say quietly.

"I know."

He presses the gauze down anyway, firm, unyielding, as if pressure alone could force time to behave.

"You didn't get grabbed anywhere else?" he asks without looking up.

"No."

"Scratch? Contact with fluid?"

"No, Leon."

He nods once, wrapping the bandage tight enough to hurt. You don't complain. Pain feels reassuringly human. When he finishes, he doesn't pull away. His hands remain braced on your leg, head bowed slightly, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. From this angle, you can see the faint silver threaded through his hair, the lines carved deeper by worry than age. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his jaw. He freezes.

"Hey," you say softly.

His eyes close for one heartbeat, leaning just slightly into your touch, like a man starving who just found water. Then he opens them again, focus snapping back into place with visible effort.

"We're moving," he says, voice low and absolute. "There will be another storage area. Another lab. Something."

You nod because you believe him. Because you have to. Because you don't want this to be the end. Because you don't want Leon to have to go through that. Because you want your dessert.

He rises first, then offers you his hand. When you take it, he pulls you up carefully, keeping his other hand hovering at your waist in case you falter. You put weight on the leg. It holds, though pain flares hot and sharp.

"Can you walk?" he asks.

"Yeah." A lie. A manageable one.

He doesn't call you on it. Instead, his arm slides around your back, anchoring you against his side as you take your first step. Protective. Supportive. Refusing to let distance exist.

"Stay with me," he murmurs.

Your head rests briefly against his shoulder, just for a second.

"Always," you whisper.

Adrenaline still burns hot in your veins, dulling the edges, convincing your body it can outrun consequences if it just keeps moving. Leon keeps his arm locked around you, pace adjusted to match yours without comment. Not slow enough to feel patronizing, not fast enough to make you stumble. Perfect. Infuriatingly perfect.

"You don't have to babysit," you murmur.

"Good," he says quietly. "Because I'm not."

His hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading as if to support more of your weight without making a show of it. The corridor slopes downward. Each step sends a dull shock up your leg, deeper now, heavier, like the pain has roots instead of edges. You grit your teeth and keep going. After a dozen paces, something else creeps in. A warmth. Not the healthy kind. Not exertion. This feels wrong, thick and syrupy, pooling under your skin like fever deciding where to settle. You swallow. Your throat feels dry. Too dry.

"Leon," you start, then stop, because you're not sure what you were going to say.

He glances at you immediately. "What?"

"Nothing. Thought I heard something."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he shifts you a little closer, your hip brushing his with every step now, a steady rhythm of contact that keeps you oriented.

The lights flicker overhead. For a split second, the world tilts. You blink hard, waiting for it to right itself. It does, but not completely. The edges of your vision feel soft, as if someone smeared petroleum jelly across reality.

"Hey," Leon says quietly.

You realize you've slowed. "I'm fine."

He stops anyway.

"No," he says, voice calm and immovable as bedrock. "You're not."

Before you can argue, a shape lurches from a side passage ahead. Its movements are jerky and uneven, its head twitching like a broken marionette. Leon eases you behind him with one hand, weapon already up. He takes it out, waiting a few seconds to make sure it's down. 

When he turns back to you, his focus narrows, shutting out the rest of the world. "Sit," he says.

You shake your head. "We don't have time."

"Sit."

There's no edge in it. No raised volume. Just absolute certainty that this is happening. Your legs decide for you. The moment you stop resisting, they wobble, knees threatening to fold. Leon catches you instantly, one arm wrapping around your back, the other under your uninjured leg, guiding you down against the wall with careful control.

The concrete is cold through your gear. It feels strangely good. He crouches in front of you, close enough that your boots nearly touch his knees. Up close, you can see every tiny tension line in his face, every sleepless hour etched into skin that has forgotten what "rested" means.

His bare hand comes up again, settling against your neck, fingers sliding to your pulse point. You shiver.

His brows draw together. "You're burning up."

"Shock," you say weakly.

"You know that's not true."

His thumb presses lightly, counting. You can feel the rhythm under his skin, your heart hammering like it's trying to break out of your chest.

"Too fast," he murmurs, mostly to himself.

A tremor runs through your hands. Small at first, then stronger, fingers twitching against your thigh as if they belong to someone else and forgot to tell you. You curl them into fists, but it doesn't help. Leon notices. He reaches down slowly, deliberately, and wraps his hand around yours. Not restraining. Anchoring. His grip is warm, solid, impossibly steady compared to the jitter under your skin.

"Look at me," he says softly.

You do. Blue eyes. Tired. Fierce. Terrified in a way he would deny under oath.

"We're going to fix this," he says.

"You don't know that."

"Yes," he says, so simply it almost hurts. "I do."

Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, but the edges keep fuzzing out like a badly tuned signal.

"Everything's... weird," you admit. "Like I'm underwater."

His jaw tightens. "Any nausea?"

"No."

"Dizziness?"

"...Maybe."

"Confusion?"

You hesitate.

His expression darkens. "How long?"

"Ten minutes."

He leans forward suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is gentle, deliberate, his eyes closing for a brief moment like he's drawing strength from proximity alone.

"You stay with me," he murmurs. "You hear me? No drifting."

"I'm right here."

His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there. Making sure you don't slip away. For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Somewhere far off, metal clatters. A distant echo of something collapsing. The facility settling into deeper ruin. You swallow. Your throat feels raw now, like you've been breathing dry air for hours.

"Leon."

"Yeah."

"If I start to..."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sharp. "Don't."

"You need to be ready."

"I am ready."

"That's not what I mean."

His hand tightens at the back of your neck, just enough to stop you from looking away.

"I'm not leaving you," he says quietly. "Save it."

Your chest aches, and not from the bite. You nod because you don't trust your voice. He studies you another moment, memorizing something only he can see, then exhales slowly and shifts back into motion.

"Okay," he says, tone sharpening into mission focus again. "We move in short intervals. Next sector should have auxiliary storage or research offices. More supplies. Maybe antivirals."

"Maybe," you echo.

He rises, then hesitates, looking down at you like he's recalculating physics.

Without warning, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees.

You blink. "Leon—"

"Save your strength."

"I can walk."

"I know."

And that's the end of the discussion. He lifts you with controlled ease, settling you against his chest. Your head ends up tucked under his chin, close enough to hear his heartbeat, steady and stubborn as a drum calling soldiers back to formation. You don't argue again. Your hand fumbles for his vest, gripping the fabric as another wave of heat rolls through you, deeper this time, almost nauseating in its intensity.

"Still with me?" he murmurs into your hair.

You nod weakly. "Yeah."

"Good."

He adjusts his hold, one hand splayed protectively across your back, and starts down the corridor again, footsteps measured, unhurried, as if he has decided that time itself can wait its turn. The world sways gently with each step. Your eyelids feel heavy.

Leon's voice cuts through the fog, low and insistent. "Stay awake."

"I'm trying."

"Talk to me."

"About what?"

"Anything."

You think for a long moment, chasing thoughts that scatter like startled birds.

"...Dessert," you mumble finally.

A soft breath leaves him, almost a laugh, almost something else entirely.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."

You clutch his vest a little tighter, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.

"Don't let me fall asleep," you whisper.

His arms tighten around you, careful but unyielding.

Leon adjusts his grip as you shift in his arms, not because you're heavy, never that, but because your body no longer anticipates his movement the way it usually does. You used to lean into turns before they happened, tighten your hold when he stepped over debris, and match his rhythm without thinking. Now you lag by half a second behind every motion, like your connection to gravity is buffering. He notices. He notices everything.

Your skin is too hot even through layers of fabric. Heat seeps through his sleeves, through his gloves, into his palms like you're burning from the inside out. Your breath ghosts unevenly against his throat, sometimes shallow, sometimes too deep, like your lungs can't agree on a pattern. Fever, he tells himself. Infection. Not the other thing. Not yet. Your fingers twitch where they clutch his vest, loosening, tightening, loosening again.

"Hey," he murmurs quietly. "Still with me?"

A pause. "...Yeah."

The word is slurred at the edges, dragged through molasses. His jaw tightens. He keeps moving.

The corridor stretches ahead in dim amber light, empty except for the occasional smear on the wall or abandoned equipment pushed aside by people who ran out of time. His footsteps are steady, deliberate, conserving energy, minimizing jostling. He's carried wounded before. Teammates. Civilians. Strangers. None of them felt like this. None of them felt like carrying his own heartbeat outside his body.

Your head shifts, cheek pressing against his collarbone. For a moment you go very still, so still that something cold claws down his spine.

"Talk to me," he says, softer now. "You promised."

A long silence. Then, faintly, "Cold."

He stops. A clean halt, like someone pulled a lever inside him. Cold is wrong. You're burning up. He lowers you carefully to one knee without setting you fully down, keeping one arm wrapped around your back so you don't tip sideways. His other hand comes up to your face, bare fingers brushing your cheek. Your skin is blazing. But you're shivering. Small, violent tremors run through you, teeth chattering softly against each other, lashes fluttering as if your body can't decide whether to wake or sleep.

"Hey," he says, sharper now. "Open your eyes."

You do, slowly, unfocused at first. Your pupils look blown wide in the low light, swallowing what little color remains in your irises.

"It's... dark," you mumble.

His chest tightens. The lights are still on.

"I'm right here," he says. "Look at me."

Your gaze drifts, struggles, and finally locks onto his face. Recognition flickers there, fragile but present.

"...Leon."

Relief hits him so hard it almost feels like pain.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, it's me."

Your brow furrows faintly, confusion knitting your expression into something painfully vulnerable.

"You look... tired."

He almost laughs. "Occupational hazard," he says quietly.

Your hand lifts weakly, fingers brushing his jaw as if you're mapping terrain you've walked a thousand times but suddenly don't trust your memory of.

"You should sleep," you whisper.

The tenderness in it is what breaks him a little.

"Soon, sweetheart," he says.

Your hand slips, falling back against your chest. Silence stretches. Your breathing grows uneven again.

Then you say, very softly, "Did we make it home?"

The words land like a physical blow. For a second, he can't answer. His throat closes around something sharp and unmanageable.

Home. Not the facility. Not the mission. Not the outbreak. Home. He swallows hard, forcing air back into his lungs.

"Not yet," he says, voice low and steady by sheer force of will. "Working on it."

Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, as if you're looking at something over his shoulder that isn't there.

"...Smells like coffee," you murmur. "Burned it again."

His vision blurs. He blinks hard, refocusing on the concrete wall behind you. You're not smelling coffee. There is no coffee. There hasn't been coffee in hours. Just dust and chemicals and rot. Hallucinations, a cold voice in his mind supplies. Neurological involvement. He hates that voice. 

Your lips curve faintly, a sleepy little smile that belongs in a sunlit kitchen, not here. "You always do that," you mumble. "Say you're watching it, then forget..."

Your head tips sideways, resting against his arm. Your eyelids droop. Panic slices through him, clean and immediate.

"Hey," he says sharply, fingers tightening on your shoulder. "No. Stay with me."

You stir weakly. "...'m tired."

"I know."

"So tired."

His thumb presses against your pulse again. Still fast. Too fast.

"You can sleep when we're home," he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to something rough and urgent.

Your eyes open a sliver.

"...Promise?"

The question is so small it barely exists.

He bows his head until his forehead rests against yours, eyes closing for one heartbeat, he allows himself.

"Yeah," he whispers. "I promise."

He doesn't know if he's promising sleep, survival, or something else entirely. It doesn't matter. Your breathing evens out a little, not better, just slower, drifting toward something that looks dangerously like unconsciousness. Not yet, he thinks fiercely.

He slides one arm under your knees again and lifts you back against his chest, more carefully this time, as if you might come apart if handled too roughly. Your head lolls against his shoulder, then settles in the hollow of his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin.

"Stay with me," he murmurs into your hair. "Just a little longer."

Your fingers twitch weakly against his vest, not gripping anymore, just resting there like they forgot their job.

"...Love you," you whisper, so faint he almost thinks he imagined it.

He stops breathing. The entire world narrows to the weight in his arms and the fragile thread of sound still hanging in the air. His hold tightens, protective, desperate, careful all at once.

"I know," he says quietly, voice breaking on the edges despite his best effort. "I know."

He presses his cheek briefly against your hair, eyes closing, grounding himself in the reality of you. The heat. The softness. The terrifying fragility. Then he straightens and starts moving again, steps faster now, less cautious, urgency bleeding through the discipline he's clung to since this began. Somewhere ahead, there has to be another lab. Another storage room. Another chance. There has to be. Because the alternative is unthinkable, and Leon Kennedy has built an entire life on refusing to accept those.

"Hang on," he murmurs. "I've got you."

The corridor opens into what used to be a patient ward, rows of metal-framed beds bolted to the floor, privacy curtains hanging in limp, dusty folds like flags after a lost battle. Most of the mattresses are stripped bare, plastic covers cracked with age, but the room is quiet. No movement. No shuffling breath. Just the low electrical hum that seems to haunt every corner of this place.

Leon slows, scanning automatically, mapping exits, sightlines, choke points. Good visibility. Single main entrance. Minimal clutter. Defensible. More importantly, close.

A reinforced door at the far end bears a faded hazard symbol and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled beneath it. The hinges are external. The frame is thicker than standard interior construction. Lab access. Or something close to it.

"Okay," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "This'll do."

He crosses to the nearest intact bed and lowers you with painstaking care, one arm supporting your shoulders, the other guiding your legs so the injured one doesn't twist. The mattress sighs softly under your weight, springs complaining but holding. For a second, he doesn't let go. Your head rolls slightly to one side, hair falling across your face. Your eyes are half-open, unfocused, lashes trembling like you're dreaming with your eyes still in the world.

"Hey," he says quietly, brushing the hair back with fingers that are gentler than anything else he's done today. "Stay with me."

Your gaze struggles to find him. "...Hi," you whisper.

"Hi," he echoes, voice rough.

Your hand lifts weakly, searching. He catches it immediately, folding his larger one around yours, grounding you with solid pressure.

"Where are we?" you murmur.

"Almost there," he says. Not a lie. Not quite the truth. "I need to check something."

Your fingers twitch in his grip, barely there. "...Don't go far."

His throat tightens.

"I won't," he says. "You'll be able to hear me the whole time." That seems to satisfy something in you. Your eyes drift closed, not fully unconscious, just sliding along the edge of it.

He gently lowers your hand to rest against your stomach, then hesitates. After a moment, he reaches up and unzips his jacket, shrugging it off despite the chill. He drapes it over you, tucking it around your shoulders, creating a cocoon of familiar warmth and scent. Leon rests his palm against your cheek one last time, thumb brushing your skin in a soft arc.

He forces himself to stand. Every instinct screams not to leave you. To pick you up and run until the world ends, the cure appears, or both. But the door at the end of the room waits, silent and stubborn, and something in his gut tells him that whatever hope exists is behind it.

He moves. Slow at first, reluctant steps that keep him within arm's reach, then a little farther, turning back every few seconds to make sure you're still breathing, still there, still you. Halfway across the ward, a shape shifts behind a curtain. Leon's weapon is up before the fabric finishes swaying.

A figure stumbles out, skeletal, skin pulled tight over bone, eyes reflecting dull amber in the emergency light. Its mouth opens in a soundless snarl as it lurches toward the nearest movement. Leon intercepts it before it gets anywhere. Two suppressed shots. One to the chest, one to the head. The body collapses in a boneless heap, momentum carrying it forward until it skids to a stop across the tile.

Another groan answers from somewhere deeper in the room. He pivots, firing again, dropping a second infected as it claws its way over a bedframe. Efficient. Controlled. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. Three heartbeats of silence. He listens, counting breaths. Nothing else rises. Only then does he glance back. You haven't moved. Relief floods through him so sharply his knees almost unlock.

"Still here," he murmurs under his breath, as if confirming it makes it true.

He reaches the reinforced door and tests the handle. Locked. Of course it is.

Up close, the barricade becomes obvious. Heavy shelving units have been shoved against the interior side, metal edges visible through the narrow seam where the door meets the frame. Whoever sealed this room meant to keep something out. Or in.

Leon leans closer, ear to the cold steel. Nothing. No breathing. No scratching. No shifting weight. He steps back and scans the frame. Electronic panel. Dead. Manual override slot intact. Hope stirs, cautious and unwelcome.

He glances over his shoulder again. From here, he can still see you on the bed, small beneath his jacket, chest rising and falling in shallow motions that make his own lungs ache in sympathy.

"Almost there," he says quietly, whether to you or himself, he doesn't know.

From a pouch on his belt, he pulls a compact breaching tool, the metal catching the light as he slots it into the override housing. The device hums softly, vibration traveling up his wrist.

Behind him, the ward remains still.

Then your voice drifts across the room, thin and fragile. "...Leon?"

He spins instantly. Your head has turned toward him, eyes open again, unfocused but searching, panic flickering in the small movement of your hands against his jacket.

"I'm here," he calls, already crossing back toward you. "Right here."

You stare at him as if trying to memorize his face before it disappears. "...Too many," you whisper. "They're everywhere."

"There's nothing here," he says gently. "You're safe."

Your head sinks back into the thin pillow. Consciousness slips away from you like water through open fingers. Leon stays there a second longer than he should, watching your chest rise, fall, rise again. Then he stands and turns back to the barricaded door, something steely settling over him, heavier than anger, sharper than fear.

The tool in his hand whines as it bites into the locking mechanism, sparks spitting in brief, angry bursts. Metal protests. Screws shear. The smell of hot circuitry fills the air.

"Hold on," he murmurs, not looking back this time because he won't stop if he does. "I'm getting us in."

Behind him, the bed creaks softly as you shift in fevered sleep. Ahead, the door shudders as the final bolt gives way. Leon shoves the door inward, the weight of it grinding against the barricade until the gap is wide enough for him to slip through sideways. Inside, a toppled shelving unit leans against the opposite wall, confirming what he already suspected. Whoever sealed this room did it from within and didn't plan on leaving.

The air is colder here. Cleaner. Sterile in that artificial way that smells faintly of alcohol wipes and plastic, like illness reduced to a controlled environment.

Emergency lights glow a sickly green, illuminating rows of lab benches, overturned stools, racks of glassware frozen mid-experiment. Papers lie scattered across the floor, curling at the edges. A monitor flickers weakly on one station, casting a pulsing rectangle of pale light that feels almost alive in the otherwise stagnant room.

Leon clears the space in seconds, weapon sweeping corners, checking behind doors, under desks, anywhere something could hide. Nothing lunges. Nothing breathes. Just abandonment, sudden and absolute, like the people who worked here evaporated mid-sentence.

He lowers the gun a fraction, chest rising and falling a little too fast to be purely tactical.

"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough in the quiet. "Okay."

He moves to the nearest workstation, scanning labels, cabinets, drawers. Chemical reagents. Disposable supplies. Data drives. Everything except what he needs. Another bench. Same story. He opens a refrigerated unit. Empty trays. Frost buildup. Power too low to maintain temperature.

His pulse hammers harder.

Not here. Not here. Not here.

"Come on," he mutters, rifling through containers faster now, less methodical, more desperate. Glass clinks sharply as he shoves aside vials of things that don't matter, powders with long names, syringes sealed in sterile plastic. Nothing labeled antiviral. Nothing labeled serum. Nothing labeled hope. A cold weight settles in his stomach.

He moves to the flickering computer, fingers flying across the keys, waking it from whatever half-dead state it's been trapped in. The screen brightens sluggishly, revealing a login prompt already bypassed, system hanging on by a thread.

"Don't do this to me," he whispers.

Folders populate slowly. Research logs. Incident reports. Containment protocols. He scans titles with ruthless speed, opening anything that looks remotely relevant, eyes burning as line after line of technical jargon scrolls past.

Mutation rates. Transmission vectors. Failure rates. 

Failure rates.

His jaw tightens.

A crash echoes faintly from the ward beyond the door. His head snaps toward the sound. Silence follows. He waits three seconds. Five. Ten. No approach. No impact against the door. No dragging footsteps. Still there, he tells himself. She's still there.

He turns back to the screen, forcing his focus to narrow again. A document catches his eye.

ANTIVIRAL DISPERSION PROTOCOL – EMERGENCY USE

He opens it. Paragraphs of dense instructions spill across the display. Stabilization procedures. Delivery methods. Storage warnings. STORAGE LOCATION: SECURE BIOCONTAINMENT VAULT B-2. His stomach drops. Not here.

Coordinates blink uselessly on the screen, pointing deeper into the facility, farther than he wants to think about, farther than you may be able to survive the trip.

Something inside him finally gives. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, shoulders bowing as if someone just added fifty pounds to his back.

"Damn it," he breathes.

The word fractures on the way out, barely more than air. He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping toward his clenched fists, fighting the surge of helpless fury that threatens to tear through discipline, training, every wall he's built over years of surviving the unsurvivable. Not enough time. Not enough distance. Not enough anything.

Out in the ward, you lie alone on a metal bed, burning up, slipping further away with every second he spends standing here empty-handed. His chest tightens until breathing feels optional.

For one dangerous moment, he imagines walking back out there, picking you up, and never stopping. No cure. No mission. Just distance and denial. Just the selfish hope that if he runs fast enough, the virus won't catch you.

He exhales sharply, dragging himself back from the edge. Running never saved anyone.

"Think," he mutters hoarsely. "Think."

His gaze drifts across the lab again, slower this time, less frantic, searching for patterns instead of miracles. That's when he notices it. A sealed medical kit is mounted on the wall near the exit. Standard emergency issue. Bright white casing. Untouched, pristine compared to the chaos everywhere else. Too pristine. He crosses the room and pops it open. Bandages. Burn gel. Basic trauma supplies. Nothing else.

His shoulders slump. Then his eyes catch a thin seam along the back panel, almost invisible unless you're looking directly at it. Not part of the original design. Too clean. Too deliberate. He taps it with his knuckle. Hollow. Hope flares, sharp and painful.

He wedges a knife into the seam and pries. The panel resists for a second, then snaps free with a brittle crack, revealing a narrow cavity hidden behind the kit.

Inside rests a single reinforced container, matte gray and no bigger than a paperback book, sealed with a biometric latch long since disabled. Not government-issue, but research-grade. Whoever put this here didn't have the chance to get it.

Leon's hands shake as he pulls it free. The lid pops open. Nestled in foam are two glass syringes pre-loaded with clear liquid, labels printed in blocky lab script:

ANTIVIRAL SERUM — FINALIZED STRAIN

For a second, he just stares, brain refusing to trust what his eyes are telling it. Air leaves his lungs in a sound that might be a laugh or might be something closer to a sob strangled before it can exist.

"Okay," he whispers, voice breaking anyway. "Okay. We're good. We're... we're good."

He presses his forehead briefly against the cool plastic case, eyes squeezing shut, letting the relief hit him in one violent wave before he can stop it. Shoulders shake once, twice, a tremor he doesn't bother to control because no one is here to see it. No one except the person who needs him most. He straightens abruptly, wiping a hand across his face, composure snapping back into place like a mask he's worn too long to misplace.

"Hang on," he says, already moving for the door, clutching the case like it's made of glass and prayers. "I'm coming back."

Your skin is still hot. That's the first thing he registers when his palm cups your cheek. Heat floods into his hand, fever-bright, but there's a wrongness to it now, a brittle quality, like warmth without life behind it.

"Hey," he says softly. "I'm back."

No response. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, unmoving. Your mouth is slightly open, breath slipping in shallow threads that barely stir the hair at your temple. The shivering from before has stopped. Your body lies too still beneath his jacket, as if it finally decided movement was optional.

A cold spike of terror drives straight through his chest.

"Hey." Louder this time, but still gentle, still careful, as if volume alone might break you. "Come on. Open your eyes for me."

Nothing. He slides his hand to your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point. It's there. Fast. Thready. Irregular in a way that makes his own heartbeat stumble trying to match it.

"Okay," he breathes, more to himself than to you. "We're okay."

His other hand trembles as he fumbles the case open, snapping it back with a soft plastic crack. The syringes gleam under the emergency lights, their clear liquid looking impossibly calm compared to the storm in his chest. He sets the case on the bed beside you, movements deliberate, controlled, forcing precision where panic wants chaos.

"You're gonna hate this part," he murmurs, fingers working to clear space at your collar, tugging fabric aside so he can reach skin. "But you can yell at me later. I'm counting on it."

Your head lolls slightly with the movement. No protest. No reflexive tension. He swallows hard.

"Hey," he says again, softer now, thumb brushing your jaw in a slow arc. "Stay with me, okay? You don't get to check out early. We still owe each other dessert."

His voice catches on the last word. He pushes through it.

"Remember that place downtown? The one with the ridiculous chocolate cake you said was worth the calories?" A shaky breath. "I figure we'll go there."

He presses his forehead briefly against yours, eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second.

"You hear me? We've got plans."

Your breathing hitches faintly, a tiny irregular stutter that might be a coincidence or might be something else. He latches onto it anyway, desperate for anything that looks like a connection.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Right there. Stay with me."

He lifts the syringe, checks it automatically, habit stronger than fear. No air bubbles. Fluid clear. Needle steady despite the tremor in his hand.

"Okay," he whispers. "Here we go."

He slides his arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough to support you against his chest, cradling you there so the injection won't jostle too much. Your head falls against him, cheek resting over his heart, breath warm and frighteningly faint through the fabric of his shirt.

"You're doing great," he says softly, even though you're doing nothing at all. "Almost there."

The needle presses into your skin.

He hesitates.

Not because he doubts the serum. Because once this is done, there's nothing left to do but wait, and waiting is the one thing he has never learned to survive gracefully.

"Don't be mad," he murmurs. "I'm not giving you a choice."

He depresses the plunger slowly, watching the liquid disappear into you, as if he can track hope molecule by molecule. His other arm tightens around your back, holding you upright, holding you together.

"All right," he says, voice barely above a breath. "You did good. See? Easy."

He withdraws the needle and sets it aside with mechanical care, as if any sudden movement might undo what he's just done. Then he just holds you.

Seconds crawl past, each one stretching thin as wire. Nothing happens. Your breathing remains shallow. Your pulse, when he checks again, is still fast, still erratic. His chest starts to feel tight, air coming harder, like the room has quietly stolen oxygen while he wasn't looking.

"Okay," he says hoarsely. "Sometimes these things take a minute."

He shifts you slightly, thumb stroking your arm in absent circles, the same motion he uses when you're half asleep on long flights or bad nights. Comfort muscle memory kicks in even when the situation is far beyond comfort.

"You're not allowed to do this," he whispers. "You hear me? Not now. Not like this."

Your hand slips from where it rested against his vest, sliding down between you, fingers loose and unresponsive. He grabs it instantly, folding it back into his palm, pressing it against his chest.

"Come back," he says, the words fraying at the edges.

Another long stretch of nothing. Fear blooms, cold and suffocating, filling every hollow place in him. Too late, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. Too slow. Too far gone.

He shakes his head sharply, jaw clenching.

"No," he mutters. "No, you don't get to do that."

He bows over you, pressing his forehead to your hair, eyes squeezed shut, breathing you in like oxygen.

"You promised," he says roughly. "You don't break your promises."

Your pulse stutters under his fingers. He freezes.

There it is again. A strange hitch, a pause that stretches too long, then a sudden rush, as if your heart forgot the rhythm and is trying to find it again. His own heart stops in sympathetic terror.

"Come on," he whispers. "Come on..."

Your body jerks. A sharp, involuntary spasm that arches you slightly against him before you go slack again. Leon sucks in a breath, half panic, half hope colliding in his chest.

"That's it," he says urgently. "That's something. That's good. Keep going."

Your brow creases faintly, expression tightening as if pain is finally breaking through the fog. A weak sound escapes you, barely audible, more exhale than voice. His grip on you tightens, careful but fierce.

"I know," he murmurs. "I know, sweetheart. It's okay. You're okay."

Your breathing changes, deepening suddenly, as if you're pulling in air like someone surfacing from underwater. It catches, stutters, then comes again, stronger this time, dragging oxygen into lungs that finally seem interested in using it.

"There you go," he breathes, voice shaking openly now. "That's it. Stay with me."

Your fingers twitch weakly against his chest. He presses his cheek against your hair, eyes closing, holding you like you might still vanish if he loosens his grip.

"I've got you," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you."

He keeps you cradled against his chest, one arm locked around your back, the other braced across your shoulders, hand splayed as if shielding you from something that no longer exists. His cheek rests against your hair, breath uneven, dragging in through his nose, out through parted lips like he's relearning how to do it.

Your pulse is stronger now beneath his fingers. Still fast, still fragile, but steady enough to count. Steady enough to believe in. Only then does the tension start to bleed out of him. It comes all at once.

His shoulders shudder. Not violently, just a small, contained tremor that he tries to swallow down and can't. A sound escapes him, rough and broken, something halfway between a breath and a sob he never intended to make. He tightens his hold instinctively, pressing his face into your hair as if hiding there makes it less real.

"Okay," he whispers hoarsely. "Okay... you're okay."

Warmth hits your scalp. At first, your fogged mind can't place it. Wetness. A second drop follows, sliding along your temple before disappearing into your hair.

Leon doesn't notice. Or he does and can't stop. He bows over you, forehead pressed to the crown of your head, shoulders shaking in small, uneven pulses he's trying desperately to keep silent. Years of training, years of surviving, years of holding everything inside, finally cracking under the simple fact that you are still here.

"I've got you," he murmurs, voice wrecked, words stumbling over each other. "I've got you, I've got you..."

Your fingers twitch. This time, the movement is stronger, a weak curl against his shirt, fabric bunching slightly in your grasp. The sensation filters through layers of fog, heat, exhaustion, and the lingering echo of pain. Consciousness creeps back in like dawn through heavy curtains.

Your throat burns. Your body feels impossibly heavy, as if gravity doubled while you were away. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-level fatigue that sleep alone could never fix.

Sound reaches you first. A heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Close enough to be yours, except it isn't. Breath above you, hitching, uneven. Fabric shifting faintly with each inhale.

Someone is holding you. You force your eyes open.

The world swims into view in slow, watery shapes. A blurred patch of green light. A shadow that resolves into the curve of a shoulder. Blond strands of hair brushing your cheek.

Leon.

He doesn't notice you're awake yet. His face is buried against your head, one hand cupping the back of your skull with fierce gentleness, thumb moving in tiny, repetitive strokes like he's soothing a nightmare that hasn't ended for him yet.

Your voice comes out as a rasp. "Leon...?"

He freezes. Absolute stillness, like a statue suddenly unsure whether it's allowed to move. Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are red. Not just glassy, not just tired, but openly, unmistakably wet. Tracks of tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, catching the light as he blinks hard, as if blinking might erase evidence before you can register it.

For a second, he just stares at you, something raw and disbelieving cracking across his face, like he expected this moment and still isn't sure it's real.

"You're..." His voice fails. He clears his throat roughly. "Hey."

You try to smile. It feels wobbly, incomplete. "Hi."

Relief hits him so visibly it's almost painful to watch. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him like someone cut the strings holding him upright.

"Hey," he repeats, softer this time, thumb coming up to brush your cheek in a careful sweep, as if confirming you're solid. "You're back."

"Was I... gone?"

His jaw tightens. "Not allowed."

You attempt a small laugh. It comes out as a weak breath. His hand slides to the side of your neck, fingers resting over your pulse again, counting, grounding, refusing to trust his eyes alone.

"You scared me," he says quietly.

Your gaze drops to his chest, to the wrinkled fabric where you must have been gripping him earlier. "Sorry."

His head snaps slightly. "Don't."

The word is sharp, then softens immediately.

"Don't apologize," he adds, voice rough. "Just... don't."

You nod faintly. Even that feels like work.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there in his arms, breathing the same air, sharing the same small pocket of reality after hours of separation that happened without distance. Then you notice how tightly he's still holding you.

"Leon," you murmur, "I can't breathe."

He releases you instantly, horror flashing across his face. "Sorry. Sorry."

He shifts his grip, supporting you more carefully, one arm still behind your shoulders but no longer crushing you to him. His other hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as if he can't quite stop touching you.

"You're okay?" he asks, scanning your face like he's looking for cracks. "Dizzy? Nauseous? Vision?"

"Everything hurts."

He exhales, something that might be relief ghosting through the pain in his expression. "I'll take it."

Your eyes drift past him, taking in the ward, the beds, the dim light. Memory trickles back in jagged pieces. Teeth. Heat. Falling. Darkness.

"...You found it," you whisper.

He nods once. "Yeah, told you we would.

Your mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Yeah. You did."

You study him more closely now, the red around his eyes, the dampness he hasn't fully wiped away, the way he keeps blinking as if his vision is unreliable.

"You were crying," you say softly.

Immediate denial rises to his lips. You can see it form. Then he looks at you. And whatever excuse he was about to give dissolves.

"...Yeah," he admits, voice low. "Maybe a little."

A tear slips free anyway, tracking down before he can stop it. He doesn't bother hiding it this time. Doesn't look away. Just lets it exist.

"You weren't waking up," he says, as if that explains everything. It does.

Your chest aches in a different way now. You lift your hand slowly, muscles protesting, and touch his face. Your thumb brushes the damp track on his cheek, wiping it away with clumsy tenderness.

"I'm here," you whisper.

He leans into your hand without thinking, eyes closing briefly, relief and exhaustion and something deeper collapsing together inside him.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."

He covers your hand with his, pressing it lightly to his skin as if anchoring himself. After a moment, his gaze sharpens again, mission awareness bleeding back in. 

"We need to move," he says gently. "Facility's not stable, and we don't know how long before more of them wander in."

You nod, though the idea of standing feels ambitious at best. He notices the hesitation immediately.

"Hey," he says softly. "I've got you."

He shifts, sliding one arm behind your back again, the other under your knees, lifting you with the same careful strength as before, only this time you help a little, arms coming up weakly around his neck. Your head settles against his shoulder.

"Still getting dessert?" you murmur against his collar.

A real smile breaks through at last, small but bright as sunrise after a storm.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."

He turns toward the exit, steps steady, protective hold unyielding but gentle now that he knows you're truly there.

Three days later, the world smells like coffee and clean laundry instead of antiseptic and decay.

Sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, laying soft gold across the rumpled bedspread and the tangle of blankets around your legs. The air is warm, carrying the faint hum of city life from outside, tires on pavement, a distant horn, someone laughing somewhere far below.

Leon sits beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, watching with that quiet intensity he hasn't quite learned to turn off yet. He looks cleaner than before, shaved, hair damp as if he showered quickly and came right back, but the exhaustion still clings to him in the set of his shoulders.

"You're staring," you murmur.

"Monitoring," he corrects.

"You blink?"

"Sometimes."

You huff a small laugh, the motion tugging at sore muscles that remind you exactly how recently everything went wrong. His gaze sharpens instantly, concern flaring before you even realize you winced.

"I'm okay," you assure him.

He searches your face a moment longer, then nods, not convinced but willing to accept it for now.

"You hungry?" he asks.

"Always."

He disappears into the kitchen and returns with coffee and a plate of pancakes that look slightly uneven but deeply sincere. You eat, he watches, tension slowly unwinding from him with each bite you take.

When you finish, you lean back, warm and heavy with food, eyelids drooping in content exhaustion.

"So when is our dessert date?" you ask softly.

Leon goes still. Then he stands without a word and leaves the room again.

You hear the soft thud of the door opening, the faint clink of something ceramic, the careful movements of someone handling something fragile. When he returns, he's holding a small white bakery box tied with a thin ribbon, the bow slightly crooked as if it had to survive transport in a large, impatient hand. He sets it on the bedside table with surprising delicacy.

"I didn't make this," he says gruffly. "Figured we've both suffered enough."

Suspicion and curiosity spark together. You pull the ribbon loose, lifting the lid. Inside sits a slice of decadent chocolate cake, glossy frosting catching the sunlight, layers dark, dense, and unapologetically indulgent.

Your chest tightens.

"You remembered," you whisper.

He shrugs, looking suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. "You seemed pretty sure it was worth surviving for."

You lift the cake plate slightly and notice something tucked beneath the ribbon, partially hidden against the cardboard.

An envelope. Your fingers hesitate, then slide it free. Leon doesn't look at you. He's staring out the window now, jaw set, shoulders a little too rigid, like he's bracing for impact.

Inside the envelope are two plane tickets. Beach destination. Departure in two weeks. Round trip. Vacation time from work. A hotel confirmation tucked behind them.

For a long moment, you can't speak.

"You said somewhere boring," he mutters quietly, still not turning around. "Figured that would be perfect."

"Leon..."

He finally looks back, expression carefully neutral, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something that says this mattered more than he wants to admit.

"You don't have to go," he adds quickly. "If you're not up for travel yet, we can postpone, or cancel, or—"

You set the tickets down and reach for him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer until he's standing right at the edge of the bed, close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat.

"Thank you," you say softly.

Not just for the vacation. Not just for the cake. He understands anyway. His face softens, tension draining into something warm and quiet and deeply relieved.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Anytime."

You pick up the fork, take a small bite of cake, then hold it out to him. He leans in, accepting it, eyes never leaving yours. For a second, neither of you pulls back, the space between you charged with something gentler than urgency, heavier than simple affection.

"Worth it?" he asks.

You nod. "Absolutely."

You set the plate aside, your hand finding his again, fingers threading through his with familiar ease. He squeezes back immediately, grounding, protective, like he did in the hallway, only now there's no fear behind it. You both crave this closeness after it was almost ripped away just days before. 

You tug lightly, coaxing him down to sit beside you on the bed. He goes without resistance, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically, careful of lingering soreness. Your other hand lifts, brushing his cheek where faint redness still lingers if you look closely enough.

"I love you," you whisper.

His eyes close briefly, leaning into your touch in a way he never would in public. Just here, just now, where it's safe to be human.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I love you too."

Leon leans in first. The kiss is slow, gentle, nothing desperate or urgent, just warm lips and shared breath and the simple reassurance of contact. He stills for half a heartbeat, like he's afraid you might break, then melts into it, one hand cupping the back of your head. When you pull back, his forehead follows yours, resting lightly against it, eyes still closed.

"Careful," he murmurs. "Doctor said no overexertion."

You smile. "Pretty sure that wasn't what they meant."

"Still."

His arm tightens around you, drawing you closer until your head rests against his shoulder, fitting there like it always has. His chin settles lightly against your hair, breath warm, steady.

Outside, the city moves on. Inside, time slows to match the rhythm of two people who fought hard for the right to sit in a quiet room and eat cake.

"Two weeks," you murmur.

"Yeah."

"You think you can handle boring?"

He huffs softly. "I'll manage."

You laugh, the sound light and real and alive. His chest rises under your cheek, its vibration grounding you in the best possible way. For a long moment, neither of you says anything else. You just sit there, sunlight warming your skin, fingers loosely entwined, the promise of salt air and quiet days waiting ahead like a horizon you can finally see. Sharing cake, and kisses, and being alive, and together in your home.

Dividers by @uzmacchiato <3

I wanna make things with my hands!!

You used to squeal as a child whenever someone asked what you wanted to be when you grew up. The laughter that followed always left you quietly confused.

What a cutie.

Wait till she grows up.

As if you weren't standing right there. As if it really was unattainable.

As you got older, that desire only split open and spilled into everything else—into baking, painting, shaping.

Anything that lets your hands create something beautiful. Something meaningful.

Over time, you realized it wasn't just about making things. It was about the space to make them—to exist without being watched, corrected, rushed. To live somewhere quiet enough that your thoughts could finally settle.

It wasn't that you were a complete introvert. You loved people—you loved the ones who mattered. But there was always that persistent pull, that quiet urge to disappear for a while. To exist in a world that belonged only to you. You would spend days on end just imagining.

And lately, that wasn't enough anymore.

You didn't just want escape. You wanted peace. Quiet.

Which was why you took the first opportunity to leave everything behind—a small farming town in rural England, offering work in exchange for relocation. Painting homes. Restoring old businesses. Fixing what had been forgotten.

Everyone had something to say about it. Your family. Your friends. Even your professors warned you against it.

But you didn't hesitate.

You've technically been here for a week already. Long enough to learn the unfamiliar quiet by heart, to wait while the cottage was cleared and signed off and made official. This is the first time you're really standing in front of it.

Ideas crowd your mind faster than you can catch the—paint, repairs, small changes that would make it yours. Your chest tightens, heart swelling, a quiet certainty settling in.

The place is neglected. Weathered. Clearly left behind.

And yet, all you can see is possibility.

For the first time in a long while, it feels like everything is falling into place.

"Excuse me?"

You're pulled from your thoughts by the soft voice beside you. You blink, realizing the man has been standing there the entire time.

He smiles, polite but tentative. "I just wanted to make sure everything was to your liking. It's an older cottage, so...lt isn't exactly our best."

"No," you say quickly, unable to stop yourself from smiling. "It's perfect."

Something about your response seems to catch him off guard. He clears his throat.

"Right. Then there are just a few things we should go over before we-"

A sound cuts him off.

An animalistic, sharp, distant squeal loud enough to make you flinch, the noise carrying unnaturally through the trees. You turn instinctively, scanning the hillside.

Up the slope, partially hidden by the trees, stands a barn. One you hadn't noticed before. The doors open with a loud thud.

For a split second, you don't register what you're seeing—only that something too big has stepped into the light.

Then your stomach drops.

The man fills the doorway, massive shoulders nearly scraping the frame, his silhouette swallowing what little light spills out behind him. He's enormous-not just tall, but wide, built thick and heavy like he was carved for brute force rather than grace.

He's covered in blood everywhere. Dark, soaked into his clothes, smeared across his arms, clinging in thick, ugly patches that glisten wetly in the sunlight. There's a faint metallic smell that drifts through the air, making you scrunch your nose.

To top it off, he had a skull—patterned balaclava covering the lower half of his face.

The printed grin feels out of place against the quiet countryside, against the green fields and open sky. You can't see his mouth. Can't read his expression. Just the size of him, the way he carries himself like nothing around here surprises him anymore.

Your shoulders tense on instinct.

It was straight out of a horror movie.

"Um," you let out a small laugh, more nerves than humor honestly. "Is that... normal?"

"Oh—yeah." The man beside you clears his throat.

"Yeah, that'll be Simon. Local butcher." He gives a small, awkward laugh. "Looks worse than it is."

Suddenly, you remember everything they warned you about.

A woman alone in the woods.

Right.

You watched cautiously as the man walked toward the cottage right next to the barn, slightly more hidden in the woods than yours, slightly smaller as well.

His steps are steady, boots pressing into the dirt with an easy familiarity, like he's walked this path a thousand times.

Halfway there, he slows and glances over.

Just a look - brief, assessing—the kind of look anyone might give when they notice someone new standing where no one usually does. You tell yourself that immediately.

Still, your chest tightens in an unsettling way.

Even from this distance, his attention feels heavier than it should. He doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. Just takes you in for a moment longer than you're comfortable with.

"Don't mind him. He's a private bloke—won't be any bother."

You nod slowly as you turn, stepping back toward the cottage, the normal sounds of the countryside slowly filtering back in—though the image of him, bloodstained and broad-shouldered against the barn, stays longer than you'd like.

His view of you was completely different.

All he saw was a small figure standing out in the open.

Too small for this place.

You were dressed simply, soft neutral colors that didn't draw any immediate attention—yet somehow, you managed to draw it anyway. A long skirt brushing your ankles. A fitted tube top clinging in all the right places, bare skin catching the last of the daylight. Gold glinting faintly at your throat and wrists.

He has been watching you since the moment you arrived.

Could see you almost too clearly.

The thought settled heavy in his chest. The cottage next to his. Empty for years.

And now occupied.

His hand tightened around the handle of the front door as he went inside, the knowledge of you settling somewhere in the back of his mind.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You wake up before the sun does.

The room is still dark, the cold from the night before still lingers stubbornly around the corners. The smell of wood and damp earth seeps into your space as you lie still beneath the covers, listening to the sound of your breathing and distant chirping of birds.

The nerves you thought you left behind start to stir low in your stomach. You barely slept, drifting in and out of shallow rest. It's funny how the waiting -the planning and the packing was easier than actually waking up inside this new life. A whole week spent imagining, filling the gaps with maybes and what-ifs, had felt gentler than this moment.

But now, lying in your own bed, on the edge of your first real day here, the anxiety creeps back into you like it never really left.

You force yourself up, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to shield against the morning cold. The wooden floor bites at your bare feet as you cross the room.

You move through your room on autopilot. Pushing aside clutter and digging through your box filled with your things to wash up. You pull on a simple black crop top and black leggings—easy and practical, something you don't mind making a mess out of. You fix your hair the way you always do before big jobs, muscle memory taking over as you gather your tools, hand steady despite the tight, resistant pull in your chest.

Your first job is a simple mural for a little flower shop in town.

You'd already been introduced earlier in the week.

Names, faces, smiles. Florence, the owner, had shown you the wall, fingers dusted with soil, excitement bright in her eyes. They'd given you free rein over the design, only asking that you keep to a preferred color palette.

"Okay," you mutter to yourself, crouching by your supplies. "One, two, three-"

You line the cans up on the floor. Reds. Yellows. Whites. Count them twice. Then again.

"Four."

You tap each lid as you go, checking them off in your head like that'll keep your nerves in place. Everything's been ready since last night. Packed. Repacked. Adjusted.

You're stalling. You know you are.

Keys cold in your palm, you stand by the door longer than necessary. Your hand rests on the handle. You inhale once before stepping out.

A loud, wet huff greets you immediately.

You freeze.

Right behind you—way too close—is a dog. If you could actually call it that.

He doesn't look very friendly. Honestly, you can't even process whether or not he is friendly by the way he stands there.

He's massive—thick-chested, broad, and you're pretty sure you saw veins popping out of his shoulders, only reinforcing how strong this dog could be. His paws dig heavy into the dirt at the bottom of your porch. Drool clings to the sides of its mouth, slipping free as it stares at you.

And for a fleeting second, the image of yesterday resurfaced. Barn doors, and a blood covered man standing in the middle of the field.

Your heart jumps straight into your throat.

You lift your hand instinctively, bending just slightly at the knees before you can stop yourself.

"Oh-okay," you breathe. "This is... fine."

"Hi," you try, softer. "Hey, puppy."

The dog doesn't move, just tilts his head to the side.

You glance around, suddenly very aware of how quiet it is. No neighbors. No cars. Just you and the beast blocking your path.

The distant sound of a truck came before you could react, stopping abruptly in front of you.

"Oi," the voice is rough and hoarsed.

"Mate. What'd I tell you?" He reaches over and pushes the door open from the inside.

The dog perking up instantly before running toward him obediently, tail wagging like nothing just happened.

It's only then you realized who it is. Who's standing in front of your door.

The butcher straight out of a slasher movie.

"You botherin' this bunny?" he asks the dog while scratching the back of his ears, happily wiggling his short tail.

Bunny?

"No bunny, just me," you laugh awkwardly before you step down off the porch, forcing yourself to stand straight even though your grip tightens on your bags.

He huffs, something close to a chuckle. "Right."

"Sorry about him," he adds.

"He likes to wander."

"You sure about that?" you ask, looking at the dog.

"Because he looked like he wasn't planning on leaving."

His lips twitches, eyes glinting with amusement.

"Saw you movin' your things yesterday," he says. "The place's been empty for a long time."

"Yeah," you reply quickly. "Feels a little weird, but I'll make it a home."

"Takes time," he shrugs, watching you for a second longer than necessary.

"You heading into town?" he asks, pointing at your bags in hand.

You blink. "Yeah. I was just—"

"Hop in," he says, nodding toward the passenger seat.

"I'll take you."

You hesitate, words catching. "You don't have to—"

"Already going," he replies simply.

You pause for a moment, eyes lingering down the road, wondering whether or not you should climb into this stranger's truck. The bark of the dog breaks your thoughts, deciding to climb in anyway. The smell hits you all at once—raw meat, metallic and heavy, softened slightly by the clean interior and a faint pine-scented freshener.

Large freezers are secured in the back.

The dog squeezes itself between the two of you, panting proudly. Still massive. Just... not focused on you anymore.

cute, you think.

"Simon,"' he introduces himself.

»Y/n."

The car ride is silent, tires crunching over gravel as the hills roll out around you. Fields stretch wide and open, cows grazing lazily, sheep dotting the landscape like pale stones. Trees sway gently in the breeze.

You watch it all pass, mesmerized. Though your thoughts are running wild, thoughts going back to the sellers words.

Private bloke

Not private enough clearly.

Your gaze shifts from outside to his truck, trying to catch a glimpse at the man.

Simon drives easily, his hand on the wheel completely scarred, you wondered if he got it from his line of work or something else, the other holds a cigarette out the window. He looks different like this—clean, relaxed, almost ordinary. He looks handsome. In a rough, rugged way.

"Need somethin'?" he asks, eyes still on the road.

"Sorry," you say quickly, eyes snapping away "Just— thinking."

"Didnt scare you too much yesterday, did i?" he asks, looking at you briefly. "You seem slightly jumpy,"

Your neck snaps almost instantly toward his hard face.

"No of course not!" You reply hurriedly,

He hums in understanding.

The truck slows outside the shop, gravel crunching under the tires.

"This good?" he asks.

You nod, already reaching for the door. "Yeah. Thank you."

He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then gives a short nod.

"I'll be back," he states.

You hesitate, but smile anyway. Shutting the door with a loud thud.

You can feel his eyes on you until the bell above the shop door rings and the world shifts back into place.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The day goes by quicker than you expect.

One moment you're unpacking your things, the next you're moving on instinct alone. You work mindlessly— sketching, painting, letting your hands take over where your thoughts would only get in the way. People drift past on the sidewalk, slowing as they pass, curious eyes gazing at your art. A few linger. Most keep walking. You trade small smiles, nods of acknowledgement.

"Lovely," some say as they walk past.

It brings you back to before, when this was only just a distant dream.

At some point, you stop paying attention to the time.

By the time the sun begins to sink, warm light stretching long across the street, you finally step back.

The mural sits before you—unfinished, but already alive.

You begin packing up your supplies. Brushes rinsed.

Papers stacked. Movements slow, trying everything to not break the spell of the day just yet.

"Alright, Miss Florence," you call out as you step inside, setting your things down on the shop's counter.

"I'll be back around the same time tomorrow."

"Of course, love," she says easily, looking up from where she's standing. "The mural's coming along quite nicely. I'm impressed."

You smile at that, a quiet swell of pride warming your chest.

As you turn to say your goodbyes, her hand comes to rest gently on your shoulder.

"Is everything alright, love?" she asks, concern written plainly across her face.

You pause, staring at her, head tilting slightly in confusion. "Of course," you say. "Why?"

She doesn't answer right away-just nods toward the door, past the front window.

You follow her gaze.

A small sound of surprise slips from you at the sight of the red pickup truck parked outside. The big dog hangs halfway out the open window, tongue lolling as he pants happily. And leaning back against the hood is the man himself—somehow larger than he'd been in your memory. Smoke curls lazily around him, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

"He's been waiting out there a while," she says, careful.

"Oh, we live on the same road. He's just doing me a favor." You smile reassuringly.

That doesn't ease her expression the way you expect it to.

"Why?" you ask, lowering your voice without thinking.

"What about him?"

"Oh—nothing," she says. "He's just a private man, is all.

We were a bit surprised seeing you come out of his truck... and now."

"That's all?" you press, eyes flickering towards the truck.

She pauses long enough that you lift your brows.

"Not much to him, really," she says finally.

"He's been up there longer than most people remember. Bought that land years back. Kept it when no one else wanted it."

"He's the butcher, though, right?" you ask, still trying to understand the wariness.

"He is. But it's odd," she admits. "He doesn't hire out.

Doesn't expand. Doesn't sell beyond what he needs to." She presses her lips together.

"Most folks around here like things that grow, y'know? But he stays exactly the same."

You wait for more. It doesn't come - and the lack of it frustrates you more than anything she's said.

Someone near the counter clears their throat. Another voice adds, quieter, "Never missed a delivery, though."

Florence nods in agreement. "Meat's always clean. Always fresh."

You let out a small, incredulous laugh. "So... he's just serious about his work?"

She clicks her tongue.

"He's particular," she says. "About his space. His time."

"And people?"

She doesn't answer right away.

"He doesn't come into town unless there's a reason," she says instead.

"And he doesn't wait around for nothing."

You glance back toward the window, toward where the truck had been.

"Oh," you say softly.

Florence squeezes your arm once before letting go.

"Just... take care, love."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

On the laptop by the counter, your mom watches you with that same careful look she's had since you told her where you were moving.

"So," she says, folding her hands together. "How was your first real day?"

You laugh a little. "Good. Actually... really good."

"The shop was busy enough to keep me distracted. People came in and out all day. A lot of staring at first, but not in a bad way." You popped a grape into your mouth.

"More curious than anything."

She hums, unconvinced but listening.

"They let me set up like we talked about," you continue. "People stopped to talk. Asked where I moved from. What I do. It felt nice." You glance toward the window. "Normal."

"Were you nervous?" she asks, giving you that look you know so well.

"I was," you admit. "But once I started working, it faded. I kind of forgot about everything else."

Her eyes soften at that, just a little.

"You didn't sleep much last night, though," she says. Not a question.

You pause, then shrug.

"Not really. New place. New sounds."

You smile like it's nothing. "I'm sure l'll get used to it."

She presses her lips together. "That's what worries me. You out there by yourself, in the woods."

"Mom—"

"I know," she sighs. "You're an adult. I just don't love the idea."

"I get that," you say gently. "But it's fine. Really. It's hidden, yeah—but not in a scary way."

There's a beat of silence before you add, almost offhand, "Although... people in town do talk."

Her gaze sharpens immediately.

"About?"

"About my neighbor," you say, a small laugh slipping out. "Apparently he's been up there forever. Everyone has an opinion, but no one says much."

"That doesn't make you uneasy?"

You pause, just for a second. "Not really. I mean, I met him yesterday. He was... normal. A little intense, maybe.

She doesn't look convinced.

"He even gave me a ride into town this morning," you add quickly, like it's no big deal. " ...and back

"A ride?" she repeats.

You stop to look up at the screen, finally aware of how that must sound.

"Mom, it was fine," you say. "We live on the same road. It was convenient, truly”

She exhales slowly. "I just don't like you being so isolated. Especially with people you don't know."

"I know," you say softly. "But today was good. I promise."

She studies your face through the screen, searching for something you're not even sure you could name.

"Just be careful," she says. "That's all I'm asking."

You nod.

"I will."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You're not sure when it became a routine.

At first, it was just convenience. You'd step outside and Simon would already be there, his red truck waiting at the end of the driveway.

Then it happened again.

And again.

Waking up. Getting ready. Eating breakfast standing by the counter because you never quite sit down anymore. Stepping outside into the cool air and the familiar sight of Simon and his dog waiting patiently for you.

Somewhere along the way, you started bringing him breakfast.

You didn't plan it. It just... happened. A plastic cup balanced carefully in your hand, still too hot to hold properly. And a sandwich wrapped in foil. You remember the first time you handed it to him-how he paused, just for a second, fingers hovering before taking it. His eyes flicked down to the cup, then back up to you.

"Didn't have to," he muttered, voice rough with sleep.

You shrugged it off, like it was nothing.

You did it again the next morning.

And the one after that.

Soon, it felt strange not to. Like something was missing when you stepped outside empty-handed.

Simon never commented on it again. He just took what you gave him every morning. Always made sure the dog stayed put while you climbed in. Always waited until you were settled before pulling away from the driveway.

"Hi baby," you'd coo, rubbing the happy dog's ear as you settle into the familiar leather of his car. Shadow-you'd come to learn the scary dog's name.

You don't remember when that became part of your normal either.

By the sixth day you stopped questioning it.

Simon always said he had business in town. Always said it like it was obvious. Like it explained everything.

And maybe it did—except some mornings, when you glanced toward the back of the truck, the bed was completely empty.

No freezers. No crates. Nothing.

You noticed it once.

Twice.

Then you stopped looking.

It was true what everyone said about him—he was private. Didn't speak unless necessary. Most of your rides passed in silence, broken only by the sound of tires on rocks and dirt and your small comments about whatever you saw outside.

He was intense in ways that was hard to ignore.

On the way he watched the road, eyes steady, barely blinking. The way his jaw tightened when he smoked, like he was holding something back even when he was alone with you.

But there was softness there too-and that was the part that caught you off guard.

It slipped in when he spoke to Shadow, voice dropping low, careful, like the dog was something fragile instead of built like a tank. The way his scarred hand reached down without him even looking, fingers rubbing the dog's belly in slow, absent strokes, like muscle memory.

Even the way he asked about the radio. Not choosing for you. Just a quiet, "What d'you want to listen to?"

You didn't know when you'd started noticing these things. Only that once you did, you couldn't stop. The intensity didn't scare you—it made the softness feel deliberate.

It was.... pleasant.

Comforting even.

Two weeks had passed before someone finally said something.

"Sure looks like Simons has a sweet spot for the new girl in town," a voice from behind the counter says, making you instantly perk up.

"Hm?" You look up, paintbrush still in hand.

They nod toward the window.

Outside, the red truck waits.

"Hes my neighbor," you shrug.

the comment lingers, even after the conversation ends.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

"You should speak more to everyone," you murmur later that night, leaning your head against the window, tired and worn out from the day.

"You eaten yet?" He asks without glancing over, completely ignoring your comment.

"You really do need to learn how to have a conversation Simon," you roll your eyes, shifting your position to where your knees are facing his side, careful not to bother the sleeping pup in the middle.

"Don't know what you mean," he hums.

You smile to yourself, eyes on the road ahead. After a bit, you add, the interaction from later that day crossing your mind, "Someone mentioned you've been acting... different lately."

He glances over for half a second. "Different?"

"Mmhm." You nod.

He doesn't say anything after that, just nods once and keeps driving.

"Have you eaten?"

You click your tongue.

"No."

The car slowly comes to a stop in front of you home, and so does the engine.

This wasn't part of the routine.

You look at him confused, head tilted to the side.

"Worked on a fresh cut today." He says, reaching forward to take the keys out. "Wanted you to have it,"

You blink, caught off guard. Before you can decide what to say, the truck door opens and he's already stepping out, calling Shadow after him with a short sound.

You watch him circle the hood, a flicker of something tightening in your chest when he reaches for your door.

It opens before you can protest. You hesitate before swinging your legs out anyway, letting him guide you without quite remembering when you agreed to it.

He doesn't crowd you. Just walks ahead, like he expects you to follow.

And you do.

When you stop at the door, keys cool in your palm, he stays a step behind you. Close enough that you're aware of his presence, the quiet weight of it pressing between your shoulder blades as you unlock the door.

You glance back once. He meets your eyes, unreadable.

Inside, you barely get the chance to say anything before he turns to the dog.

"Stay," he says—low and firm by the door.

"Simon—he doesn't have to" you say, too soft to be much of a protest.

Shadow listens anyway.

Your house oozes warmth. Simon thinks.

Not just heat—the kind of warmth that settles in your chest comfortably. It's nothing like his place. His is all cold surfaces and silence, everything where it's supposed to be, like no one's meant to linger too long.

Yours doesn't try to hide you.

There's stuff everywhere. Half-finished things. A stack of sketchbooks by the couch, paint-stained rags shoved into a corner, a couple of framed pieces leaning against the wall because you haven't decided where they go yet. It looks like someone keeps starting things and coming back to them.

It smells like you.

Not perfume. Not candles. Just you - soap, clean fabric, something faintly warm. Simon notices it as soon as he steps inside. It's different from his place.

His house never really smells like anything at all. It's just... neutral.

The kitchen's small. He isn't.

He fills the space without trying, shoulders close to the cabinets as he reaches for your drawers to find what you need. Most of them are empty. Just spices. The basics. He sets the steak down, still wrapped in paper.

You begin fixing things that don't need fixing to distract yourself. Sliding a notebook out of the way. Moving a mug. Your chest stays tight. It's the first time he's been inside your house, and the thought sits heavier than it should.

This is definitely not how you pictured your night ending.

The butcher up the road, in your kitchen. Talking about a fresh cut like it's nothing. Like this isn't strange. Like he hasn't just stepped into your space and started moving through it with quiet ease. The shift from how the night should've gone to how it's unfolding now hits you all at once, sharp enough to leave you reeling.

You reach for the remote, turning the TV on just to break it. The sound. The stillness. Anything. You crack a window open too, breeze slipping in as you step back, giving yourself something else to focus on.

"Do you need help?" you ask finally, mostly to fill the space.

"Mmm," he hums, "Where do you keep your pans?"

"Oh." You move on instinct, opening drawers, pulling things out. A pan. A cutting board. Knives. Setting them down beside him without thinking twice.

He works quietly. Salt first. Pepper. The sound of it hitting the meat sharp in the small kitchen. He heats the pan, waits for it, tests it with a flick of water that hisses and disappears.

You lean back against the counter, watching.

The steak hits the pan and the sound fills the room - loud, immediate. He doesn't rush it. Just let's it sit, pressing it down once with the tongs, then leaves it alone. The smell starts slow, then builds. Rich. Savory.

It crawls through the air until your stomach reacts before you can stop it.

You laugh under your breath, hand pressing briefly to your middle.

"That smells amazing," you beam.

He flips the steak once. Cuts into it to check. Juice beads along the surface, catching on his fingers as he pulls a small piece free.

He lifts his hand without comment, holding it out toward you.

You swear you short-circuit for a second before leaning in, taking the bite he's offering, your lips lightly grazing his finger.

He stares at you—openly this time. Long enough that it makes you shift, a shiver running through you before you look away with a quiet, breathy laugh.

"Wow," you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as you chew, letting the taste settle properly this time.

You swallow, then glance back at him, still leaning against the counter. "That's... fucking incredible, Simon."

It slips out softer than you mean it.

For a second, you forget about everything else-the tightness from earlier, the fact that he's here, in your kitchen. There's only the warmth on your tongue and the way the moment hangs between you.

"How long have you been in this business?" you ask after a pause, watching his face like you're checking for a reaction. Questions aren't usually part of your routine. Neither is this.

"Long time," he answers simply as he fixes the plates.

"Old man ran the business. Guess I kind of inherited it."

You hum, thinking it over. "Must keep you busy.

Between the shop and... everything else."

"Enough," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "Mostly keeps me close to home."

That's when he adds, almost as an afterthought,

"Don't like going into town much."

You snort softly. "Could've fooled me."

You meant it as a joke-only half truth.

He exhales through his nose, something like a huff, and shakes his head once before turning back to the plate.

The conversation ends there, easy and unspoken.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The better part of your day had been spent exploring and wandering the area. Something you haven't gotten to properly do since you got here.

Bare feet planted right on the grass as you wandered into the field behind your backyard, the earth cool and uneven beneath you. You kept breathing in deep without really thinking about it—grass, dirt, something clean in the air. Birds flew low overhead, noisy and playful.

The trees out here were huge. Like, old old. Thick trunks, branches stretching everywhere. You caught yourself staring up at them, wondering how long they'd been standing there, what they'd seen before any of this existed.

You kept walking, pencil moving absentmindedly as you added loose doodles to the sketchbook tucked tightly under your arm. Shapes. Lines. Little half-ideas you'd probably forget later.

You explored every area you could think of, picking rocks and flowers as you went.

Every area except one.

You didn't mean to head that way at first. It just... happened. Your steps slowed as the land subtly shifted, the trees thinning just enough for a familiar structure to come into view.

The closer you got, the clearer it became.

Simon's barn sat just beyond the tree line-close enough that if you turned around, you could still see your cottage. The roof peeked through the branches, almost reassuring. Close enough that you told yourself it didn't really count as trespassing.

The barn itself was a faded, rusty red, the paint chipped and sun-worn, like it hadn't been touched in years. It clearly needed a new coat. You filed that thought away automatically, like you did with everything else.

You slowed your steps, circling wider instead of heading straight toward it.

For some reason, your mind kept dragging you back to the first day you'd seen him there. Bloody. Intimidating.

Almost unreal. The unease returned now, settling low in your stomach as uou get closer.

You'd been sneaking glances at the place ever since, careful not to get too close. Careful to remember that conversation.

"So will I ever get to see your workplace?" you'd asked once, half-teasing.

All he'd given you was that small, almost-missed smile.

"S'not meant for a bunny like you to see."

Today, though?

Today, you wanted that angle.

Simon be damned.

You huffed softly to yourself, shaking your head as you settled into the grass and opened your sketchbook. He really did have a way with words.

You started with the barn first-loose lines, quick strokes-then added his cottage beside it. It stood only a few feet away, smaller than yours, but somehow cozier. It looked like him. Minimal. No decorations. No unnecessary clutter. Just a single chair on the lawn, a small table beside it, an ashtray resting on top.

You shaded, erased and worked until the world narrowed down to paper and graphite.

You looked like a lost bunny.

The thought crossed Simon's mind as he watched you move along the upper slope behind the barn. Delicate sundress, sketchbook tucked under your arm, hair pulled back out of your face. Careful steps, like you weren't sure you were meant to be there.

He paused what he was doing and just stared.

You'd been out since early. He remembered you mentioning you had a few days free from work, maybe more, before someone else found something for you to fix or soften or make pretty. You didn't seem like the type who sat still for long. Always moving. Always making.

Simon hadn't meant to care. He usually didn't.

Years of work had trained that out of him. Grind. Routine. Blood when there had to be blood. He liked his life simple, contained, predictable. The land. The barn. The quiet. When he heard the house down the hill was being rented, it pissed him off. Change always did. New noise. New eyes.

Then you showed up.

He didn't know when exactly he started noticing the warmth—your laughter carrying up the hill, music bleeding out of your windows, sound settling into places that had been empty for too long. It didn't belong here. Neither did you.

And yet.

You stopped near the side of the barn, turning slowly, taking it in. He watched you look around like you were measuring the space, committing it to memory. You could still see your cottage from there - close enough that you were probably telling yourself it didn't count as trespassing.

He wiped his hands, stripped the gloves off, and stepped outside.

By the time he rounded the corner, you were already sitting, sketchbook open on your lap. Pencil moving.

Focused enough that you didn't notice him right away.

You were so in deep you didn't even notice the shadow towering over you at first.

He stopped a few feet in front of you-close enough to notice the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers smudged charcoal without you realizing it.

"Can I help you."

You startled—not badly, but enough that he knew you'd forgotten the rest of the world existed.

You looked up at him, your eyes flicking briefly over the apron, the stains, the evidence of the day's work.

Your pulse jumped—he could see it—but you held his gaze anyway.

"Just….. scoping the area," you say easily, like you hadn't been caught at all, even though your heart was pounding. "Gaining inspiration."

He exhaled through his nose.

"Told you," he said. "This place ain't meant for a bunny like you."

He meant it.

Your cheeks warmed. You didn't deny it.

"I didn't walk in, though, did I."

Silence settled between you —thick, but not uncomfortable. Your pencil resumed its quiet movement against the page. He stayed where he was. Didn't tell you to pack up. Didn't step back either. You took it as a good sign.

He watched you for another moment, then shifted-just slightly. Half a turn. Enough to give you a better angle.

He didn't comment on it, but you noticed anyway.

He stayed like that—half-turned, broad shoulders cutting against the quiet of the field.

The contrast caught you off guard.

He didn't belong in a place this calm, you thought. Not with the way he was built-all sharp lines and restrained violence, hands stained from work that wasn't meant to be pretty. And yet the grass bent easily around his boots. Wildflowers pushed up near the barn wall, soft and careless, brushing against wood that had seen such degeneracy.

Sunlight filtered unevenly through the trees, catching the edge of his jaw, the scar across his face, the quiet tension in the way he held himself like he was always braced for impact.

Your pencil hovered uselessly above the page.

This—this—was the angle you hadn't known you were looking for. The way he looked out of place and perfectly rooted all at once. Feral, yes—but framed by something gentle. Something alive.

The thought settled before you could talk yourself out of it.

"Let me draw you," you said suddenly, not even pausing to think.

"Now?"

"Like this?" he asked, glancing down at his clothes.

Your cheeks warmed, suddenly aware of how dirty he must feel.

"Right-sorry, that was a weird ask," you laughed it off.

"I'll just draw your house." You shrugged, getting up from the grown and walking past him.

"Fine,” he said. "I'll do it."

You stopped short and turned back to him.

"You sure? I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I'm not the fastest-,"

He started walking before you could say anything else, already heading toward the cottage like the decision had been made the moment you asked.

You look around for half a second furrowing your brows before following.

The ground changed under your feet as you left the grass, dirt packed firmer near the house. Up close, his place felt even smaller than it had from afar. The door stood open just enough for the smell of him to drift out—wood, smoke, something iron-sharp beneath it.

He stopped at the steps and sat, elbows resting loosely on his knees, forearms bare. The position looked natural on him.

You looked at him properly then.

The daylight caught his face in a way that made you pause.

You noticed things you hadn't before.

The tattoo peeking from his neck and rolled sleeves. The way his jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly, every few moments.

He looked. feral. You weren't sure that was the right word. Beastly, maybe. Grounded. Dangerous in a way that made your thoughts take a turn you didn't want to examine too closely.

You tightened your grip on the pencil, your eyes drifting despite yourself.

Brutal. Masculine.

Your heartbeat picked up as unholy thoughts flashed through your mind.

"You alright, bunny?" he asked.

You froze-caught, like a deer in headlights. Heat rushed to your face.

"Yeah," you laughed softly, shaking your head as you forced your gaze back to his face.

"Here" you say, already leaning closer before he could answer. You reached into your bag for one of the flowers you picked earlier. Small and delicate.

As you lifted your hand toward him, he tensed and leaned back slightly.

You were about to apologize when he spoke.

"Careful. Don't want you getting all dirty."

You blinked-then laughed again.

"Can I?" you asked again.

This time, he stayed still.

You tucked the small white flower behind his ear, fingers brushing skin warmed by the sun. He watched you closely, eyes tracking every movement.

The contrast—him and the delicate bloom resting there—felt almost cinematic.

"You have soft hands, bunny." he says, dead serious.

"Thanks." You breathed out, not realizing you were holding it in.

"Why do you call me that?" You ask after a few minutes.

He shrugged, like it had never needed explaining.

"Because you look like one."

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head—but you stayed. Kept drawing. Like the answer was enough.

You went back to his face. Really focused. Honey-brown eyes. Thick brows. Plump, chapped lips. The scar cutting across him, running from one eye, down his nose, into his cheek like a map of where he'd been.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip on the pencil as you leaned closer, angling the page to catch the light.

Your knee brushed the step without you noticing.

"You got a boyfriend?"

Your hand stilled mid-line.

"Why the sudden question?"

"Well," he said evenly, "you asked one. Now it's my turn."

You laughed at that.

"No," you said. "I don't."

He hummed in acknowledgement.

Silence settled again, filled only by the pleasant sound of trees moving with the wind. You wanted to keep talking. Wanted to know him. But you weren't sure where the line was.

"You," you started. "How long have you been up here?"

"Mmm. Couple years."

You click your tongue.

"Couple years? I didn't know vague answers were allowed."

He shrugged.

"You can allow whatever you want."

You smile at that, soft and a little crooked, and let your pencil move again.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

The sounds around you settle into something easy— the wind threading through the trees, the faint creak of the barn in the distance, the quiet scratch of charcoal against paper. Simon stays still on the steps, only shifting when his knee starts to ache, careful not to disturb your line of sight.

He glances down at the page after a minute, curiosity getting the better of him.

"So," he says, casual, like it just occurred to him. "You always draw scenery?"

You hum thoughtfully, eyes never leaving the sketch.

"Sometimes. Helps me understand how things fit together."

"People included?"

"Especially people," you admit.

He watches the way your mouth curves around the words, the focus in your eyes. There's something intimate about being studied like this—not in the way people usually look at him, measuring or wary.

"You any good?" he asks.

You laugh quietly. "Guess that depends who you ask."

"Hm." A beat. "You don't look like you're guessing."

You glance up at him then, catching the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. Not quite a smile. Something warmer than indifference.

You go back to drawing.

Time slips by without either of you noticing.

The light shifts gradually, the sun lowering behind the trees, turning the field gold and then amber. Shadows stretch across the ground, softening the sharp edges of everything around you. The flower behind his ear wilts a little, petals curling inward, but you leave it there.

Simon moves once when his leg goes numb, rolling his shoulders, flexing his hands. Letting out a low groan of discomfort. You adjust without thinking, tracking the movement, adapting your lines.

"You don't have to stay still," you say after a moment of watching him.

"I know," he replies. Then, quieter, "I don't mind."

You chuckle to yourself, heat creeping up your neck as you look back down at the page.

"You're a good model," you say, a little too quickly.

The breeze cools as evening creeps in, brushing over your bare arms and drawing a light shiver from you.

You shift your weight, knees stiff, and finally lean back, lowering the sketchbook into your lap.

"I think that's enough," you say softly.

Simon straightens a little. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You hesitate before standing, brushing grass from your dress. There's a strange reluctance in the air now, like neither of you wants to be the one to end it.

You step closer, tearing the page free and holding it up beside his face. The distance shrinks without you meaning it to.

You tilt your head, eyes flicking between him and the sketch, comparing angles and the way the light catches him in real time versus graphite.

"Here."

He grabs it without question. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything.

That usual uneasy feeling in your stomach creeps up slowly, the one that shows up every time you finish a piece. Like you did something a little too personal and now it's just... out there.

Then, quietly, "You see a lot."

"O-oh," you say, eyes wide in surprise. "Only what's there." You lift a hand, brushing the comment off like it's nothing.

He nods once.

"Thank you," he says.

The words hang steady.

"Of course!" You smile softly.

The sun has dipped low now, the sky washed in muted pinks and purples. You step back, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

"I should probably head back," you say. "Before it gets dark."

"Yeah." He stands as well. Drawing still in hand.

"You can keep that, if you want," You call out.

"I owe you a better one, though." you laugh lightly-but the sound fades as soon as it leaves you, suddenly aware of how that might've come out.

Before you can overthink it, you give a quick wave and head down the slope, not waiting for his reaction.

His eyes linger a bit longer till you fully disappear from his view, gaze dropping to the piece of paper then back at you, breathing out slow.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It's been a month now since you've settled into your new life. A month of building and creating and slowly disappearing into your little cottage, filling it with your things until it felt like a place you'd lived in for years instead of weeks.

A month, too, of growing closer to the local butcher.

The one who had a reputation for keeping to himself. For not interacting with anyone. Somehow, that rule never applied to you.

You were almost inseparable now. Him showing up unannounced to fix small things—a loose lightbulb, a squeaky door-like he'd been waiting for an excuse.

Any time you needed something from town or had a job lined up, he'd already be outside your door, keys in hand.

Sometimes he'd bring uncooked steak even when you'd try to refuse. Fresh cuts wrapped in paper, held out with a casual shrug. He'd say it didn't fit in his fridge. Leftover. No big deal.

A stupid white lie. One that worked every single time.

He'd gotten softer, too. Softer than you suspected anyone else had ever seen him. Letting you borrow his thick coats—or leaving them behind and claiming he'd forgotten them. When you tried to give them back, he'd just shake his head, lips pressed into that tight little smile, like the conversation was already over.

"It's cold, bunny. Shouldn't be wearing that outside," he says immediately, voice stern and low, eyes cutting straight through you.

You swallow, feigning innocence as you shrug one shoulder.

"I thought it was just gonna be a light storm,"

you reply plainly—ignoring the warning as you lean back on your hands, legs crossed, chest subtly pushed forward while you look up at him.

He scoffs and drops down beside you with an exaggerated huff, his damp shoulder bumping into yours. He's close—close enough that you can feel his heat, the steady pull of his breath. It makes your head spin.

His forearms rest on his knees as he settles in, but his eyes never leave you. Those same hungry eyes that have been plaguing your thoughts every night.

"It's gonna get really cold," he repeats, quieter now, looking straight at you.

You swallow thickly before standing, deliberately slow, giving him a full view.

"I can handle a little cold," you tease.

You barely make it inside before you're running, laughter spilling out as you hear his heavy footsteps thudding after you.

Now you're stuck inside, alone, heavy rain hammering against the roof and rattling the windows. Moisture beads along the glass near the heater, the room dim and warm. You sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your body and hair, picking at a bowl of cut fruit balanced on your thigh.

It's one of those nights.

The kind where loneliness creeps in quietly, twisting into something darker. Where your mind betrays you with memories of every interaction you've had with him.

You'd wanted to relax. Wash the day off, eat fruit and watch tv.

But moments like this don't let you.

They turn that restlessness into something else entirely.

It makes your cunt ache.

Your thoughts drift back to the time when he showed up unannounced, claiming your grass was too high. Brought his own tools, mowed the lawn like it was nothing. Sweat clung to his skin as the sun hit him, shirt damp and sticking in all the wrong places.

You'd worn an incredibly short sundress. The kind that shows off every inch of your curves.

You remember the way he wiped sweat from his forehead with the thin fabric, lifting it just enough to give you a glimpse of his hard bulging stomach. The sight had made something low in your belly twitch.

The way his hand rested at the small of your back when you brought him cold lemonade. How close he stood. The smell of him-clean and earthy. The way his Adam's apple bobbed with every swallow.

Fuck.

Your left hand drifts down without thinking—first over your chest, then higher, barely grazing your nipple. A quiet sound slips from your lips.

Your body feels overly sensitive. Needy.

You picture his hands on you—large, rough—teasing your skin, gripping your waist, your ass. Your free hand slides between your thighs and you gasp when your fingers brush against your slick heat.

You barely touch yourself at first. Just graze your clit. Then down your folds. A soft hiss escapes you.

You're already a mess. You have been since you stepped out of the shower.

His image won't leave your mind. Everything he'd do to you. Everything you'd let him do. You saw him differently today, and it did something to you. It was something you feared from the moment you started becoming close. But you pushed that thought down.

Your fingers begin to move in slow circles, the other hand latching onto your hardening nipple as your thoughts spiral. His hands. His weight. Him bending you over, tugging your hair.

Your thighs squeeze together.

You wonder what he'd smell like fresh from a shower. What he'd look like with water clinging to his skin, a towel slung low on his hips. The thought makes your toes curl.

Your breathing picks up as pleasure builds, slick heat spreading with every movement of your fingers.

A moan slips free.

"Simon," you breathe, barely above a whisper, like saying it out loud makes it too real.

Your hand moves from your nipple to your breast, groping desperately, trying to recreate the way his scarred hand would feel. Would he pinch you? Roll it between his fingers? Replace his hand with his mouth?

Your breaths turn uneven. Your hand between your thighs moves faster.

The image of today is burned into your mind-him rough and bloodied from work, yet speaking to you so softly. It's overwhelming. He consumes your thoughts until you nearly forget why you're even here.

"F-fuck," you moan, eyes falling open as you look down at yourself—naked, wet, undone. Your hips lift, chasing the sensation.

"Si-"

Boom.

The crack of thunder is immediate, violent, followed by sudden darkness that steals the air from your lungs.

You jolt upright with a gasp, heart slamming against your ribs as if it's trying to escape. For a second you just sit there, frozen, the rain pounding against the roof like it's trying to cave it in.

"Oh-fuck," you whisper, the word shaky.

Your body catches up a second later. Awareness hits all at once and sends a fresh wave of panic through you. You scramble, grabbing the towel from the foot of the bed and wrapping it around yourself clumsily, hands trembling as you try to ground yourself. The room feels too quiet without the hum of electricity, the shadows stretching and shifting with every flash of lightning outside.

"Y/N!"

The sound of his voice cuts through the rain.

You fumble for your phone, fingers slick as you swipe the flashlight on, the harsh beam making you squint.

You don't stop to think—just move. Sweats and a tshirt. You tug them on hastily, heart still racing as you rush down the hallway, the floor cold under your bare feet.

The power's out.

When you pull the door open, rain mist clings to the air immediately. Simon stands on your porch, shoulders damp, flashlight in hand, Shadow pressed close to his leg. His face shifts the moment he sees you-concern sharpening, eyes flicking over you like he's checking for injuries.

"Hey," he says, firm but low. "You okay?"

“I—yeah” you nod too quickly, suddenly very aware of how warm your face feels, how close he is. "The power just…went out."

"Yeah." His gaze lifts briefly to the dark windows behind you before settling back on you. "You're coming with me."

"What?" You blink. "Simon, it's really not-"

"Not up for discussion," he cuts in, already stepping past you like he owns the place. He moves with practiced ease, flashlight sweeping through the room as he heads for your bedroom. "Storm's getting worse.

This place isn't insulated well enough for it."

You trail after him, flustered, hugging yourself as you watch him grab a few essentials—your charger, a hoodie, shoes—moving through your space with unsettling familiarity.

"I'll be fine," you insist, even though your voice lacks conviction. "It's just for the night, plus my things are here. I need to make sure everything's in order."

"Y/n," he replies, glancing back at you. His tone softens, just slightly. "Humor me."

You don't argue after that.

The rain blurs everything on the drive over. The road glistens under the headlights, water streaking across the windshield in uneven patterns as the wipers struggle to keep up. The cab of the truck is warm, quiet except for the storm and the low hum of the engine.

Every now and then, lightning flashes bright enough to turn the inside of the truck white, and you catch him glancing over at you like he's checking you're still there.

When you finally pull up to his place, your nerves spike all over again.

You swallow as you step out, rain speckling your skin, heart pounding harder with each step toward his door. This would be your first time inside. After everything. After all this time.

He unlocks it and nudges the door open, motioning you in first.

The warmth hits you immediately.

The house smells like him—burnt wood, something clean and sharp, iron underneath it all. It's quiet, small, almost stark. The living space is simple: couch, TV, dining table pushed close to the kitchen. No decorations. No clutter.

And then you see it. Your drawing. The same one you drew of him months ago.

It sits on the side table framed neatly. It surprised you. Your steps slow without you meaning to, something tightening in your chest as you stare at it. It's not really a big deal but, seeing your drawing there—framed, dusted, given a place—feels strangely intimate. Like walking into someone's thoughts and realizing you've been there longer than you thought.

"Oh my god," you laugh softly, reaching for it. "I can't believe you kept this."

"Hm?" He glances over, distracted at first. Then he sees what you're holding. "Oh. Yeah." He shrugs, like it's obvious. "You make beautiful art."

The words hit harder than they should.

Your face warms instantly as you duck your head, pretending to inspect the frame. "This was so long ago. I thought you'd thrown it away."

"I would never," he says, without hesitation.

Something short-circuits in your brain at that. You clear your throat, setting the drawing back where it belongs before you can overthink it.

"That's... sweet," you say, lighter than you feel.

You move toward the couch, perching on the edge at first before letting yourself sink back. It's smaller than yours, but comfortable.

Simon disappears into the kitchen for a moment, and you hear the faint clink of a kettle being set down. You sit on the couch, hugging the mug when he hands it to you, grateful for something warm to hold onto.

"Wait," you frown slightly, glancing toward the dark kitchen. "How'd you even make tea if the power's out?"

He pauses for a second before answering. "Backup electric stove,"

"Keep it around for storms." He adds

You blink. "Of course you do."

He almost smiles.

The silence that follows is comfortable, not awkward. Just the storm outside and the low crackle of the fire starting to catch as he moves to the hearth. You watch him from the couch as he kneels, stacking logs with practiced ease, striking the match. The flames take quickly, casting a soft orange glow across the room.

"There," he says, standing again. "That'll help."

He grabs his coat from the back of a chair as he passes, hesitating only a second before draping it over your shoulders. The weight of it makes you exhale.

"You don't have to—"

"I know," he says quietly. "Drink your tea."

You do, pulling the coat tighter around yourself. It smells like him. When he sits down beside you, it's close but not pressing. His knee brushes yours. Just once. Neither of you move away.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," you nod. "Just... settling."

"Mm." He leans back slightly, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. Not touching you. Not yet. But there, like an open invitation you don't acknowledge out loud.

You shift a little closer anyway, more instinct than decision. The fire pops softly. The storm fades into background noise. For a moment, it almost feels like you've done this before—like this is normal.

"You're quiet," he says after a while.

"Oh my god," you scoff softly. "Are you calling me annoying?"

He looks at you, eyebrows furrowed, and then his shoulders shake with that quiet laugh you've come to love.

"No," he says. "Just noticing."

You smile into your mug, cheeks warm.

"Y'know, i never really liked tea till i met you," you mention out of nowhere.

And he looks at you with an almost blank expression, it would've made you nervous if it was for the twitch to the side of his lips.

"Tea's good for you,"

The fire crackles. The coat stays around your shoulders. This is definitely not how you imagined your night going, but you couldn't really complain.

The quiet stretches again, but it's different now. He's closer than before-not just beside you, but aware of you in a way that makes your skin prickle. When you shift, he shifts too. When you breathe, he seems to notice.

"You're shaking," he says softly.

"I'm not," you lie automatically.

He doesn't call you on it. He just reaches out, tentative at first, resting a hand on your arm. It's warm, and it has you spiraling. Just a minute ago you were talking normally to each other, but the air shifted.

"Come here," he murmurs.

It's not an order. Not this time. Just an invitation.

You hesitate for half a second before leaning into him, your temple brushing his shoulder. His arms come around you slowly, careful, like he's giving you time to change your mind. When you don't, he tightens his hold just a little.

This is new for the both of you.

Your heart starts to race, loud in your ears, the warmth of him seeping into places you weren't prepared for.

His hand moves absently, rubbing small circles into your back. Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking. This isn't just friendly anymore.

You pull back slightly, laughing under your breath as if that might diffuse the moment. "Okay," you say, voice a little breathless. "I— I need a second."

He releases you immediately, hands dropping, but his eyes stay on you.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you nod quickly, already stepping away.

You turn toward the kitchen, more to put space between you than because you actually need anything.

The counter is cool under your palms when you brace yourself against it, breathing in slowly, trying to stop your heart from beating out of your chest.

You're raking your brain trying to put yourself back together, breathing in the cool air when you hear his footsteps behind you.

"You don't have to run," he says gently.

You glance over your shoulder—and that's when you realize how close he is again. Not pressing. Not touching. Just close enough that the room suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.

You straighten without thinking, taking a step back.

The space behind you disappears faster than you expect, the counter cold against your lower back. You didn't mean to corner yourself, but Simon always had a way of filing a room without ever touching you.

He's only a hair away from you. You could feel his warm breath with a hint of black tea.

Your hand comes up on instinct—flat against his chest.

He stops immediately.

"Simon," you say, quieter than you meant to.

His eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. He waits.

"If we do this," you say, swallowing, "I don't want to pretend it's nothing."

A beat passes.

Then he nods once. Slow and certain. It's crazy how quickly your nerves and fears ease.

"It's not," he says.

His hands settle on your waist, firm, pulling you flush against him. The contact knocks the air from your lungs, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

His mouth finds yours slowly this time-testing, deliberate. Like he's giving you a chance to pull away.

You don't.

The kiss deepens, unhurried but heavy, his lips moving against yours with a pressure that makes your knees soften. He kisses you again. And again. Each one lingering longer than the last.

His hands stay at your waist, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you he's there, holding you in place.

You breathe him in-cigarettes, beer, heat-and it makes your head spin. Your fingers curl around his neck, tugging him closer when he pulls back, chasing his mouth without thinking.

"Taste so fucking good," He exhales against your lips, a low sound, before kissing you again—rougher now.

Hungrier.

As the kiss deepens and your thoughts start to slip, you barely register his hand moving-gliding over your chest, your stomach—until it slides into your shorts with ease. You're already wet.

"Fuck, bunny—you're fucking soaked," he grunts, hands gripping you, making you gasp in surprise. He doesn't pull away, just uses the moment to kiss you again, shoving his warm tongue into your mouth.

He sucks and licks, messy and unrestrained, saliva slipping down your chin as he keeps you close, like he can't get enough.

You feel your knees buckle as he begins rubbing your clothes core with the palm of his hands, his lips trailing down your neck.

"Ah-" you squeal in surprise, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it.

"Hump on me, bunny," he murmurs, low and steady, stilling his hand just enough to make the words land harder.

"W-what?" You blink, pulled back into yourself by his voice, trying to make sense of it as you look up at him.

His expression doesn't change.

"Want you to grind this wet cunt on me bunny," he pressed his hand harder into you.

"Oh my….. god," you breathe, the words barely there as you roll your hips down, tentative at first, trying to find your rhythm. You gasp when the pressure shifts, when his hand flexes and your body lights up in response.

Your thighs start to tremble, weak and unsteady, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself as your movement grows more desperate.

"Thaaat's it," he encourages, his voice rough, threaded with something that sends a fresh wave of heat down your spine. "Just like that. Feel good for me."

Your hips move on their own now, chasing the sensation without thought. One hand grips the back of his neck, fingers digging in as you struggle to stay upright. You're acutely aware of yourself-too warm, too sensitive, skin slick with sweat, the contrast of cool air and burning need making everything sharper, more overwhelming. The pleasure is dizzying, addictive, pulling you further out of yourself with every movement.

You can't imagine what you must look like right now.

You're sure you wouldn't recognize yourself—messy, unfocused, clinging to him as your body reacts faster than your mind can follow. Every shift makes your breath hitch, every second stretching thinner than the last.

The pressure suddenly increases, firmer now, more insistent. A broken moan spills from you before you can stop it, your hand flying to your mouth to stop the embarrassing sounds coming from you.

"No," he mutters, catching your wrist and pulling it away, pinning it above your head with one strong grip.

His other hand doesn't slow. If anything, it moves with more purpose, stealing the strength right out of your legs. Your head tips back against the wall as you let him take over completely, your body yielding without protest.

Your vision blurs. Everything goes white at the edges, your mouth falling open on a silent gasp as you cling to him, holding on like he's the only solid thing left. The sensation rolls through you in waves, too big to process all at once, leaving you breathless and shaking.

He keeps you close, holding you steady as it passes, murmuring praise against your skin—soft words, grounding words—until your breathing slowly evens out again. Your chest feels tight, full in a way you don't quite understand yet.

"I-" you try to speak, but the thought slips away before you can finish it.

Without warning, his arms hook behind your knees and lift you effortlessly. You gasp, startled, hands flying to his shoulders as you cling to him, eyes wide, your body leaning into his instinctively despite the shock.

"What are you doing?" you ask, breathless.

"M'gonna take care of you properly, bunny."

His room is simple. A bed. A chair. A small desk. No TV.

No pictures. Exactly what you expected.

He lays you down carefully before gripping the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. Moonlight spills through the open window, tracing every scar and mark along his skin, the faint trail of hair leading up his chest. It makes you press your legs together, biting your lip.

"Like what you see?" he teases.

"Shut up," you mutter-cut off when his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is hard, wet, unrelenting. He doesn't hesitate, tugging the flimsy top over your head and tossing it aside, leaving you bare beneath him.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and you catch the strain in his pants, dark and obvious. Your mouth goes dry at the sight.

His hands slide up your stomach, stopping at the hem of your panties. He doesn't pull them down. Just hooks his fingers there, eyes roaming over you like he's taking inventory. It almost makes you self-conscious.

The hunger in his gaze burns through you, settles low in your belly, makes you feel exposed in a way that's almost empowering.

Your hands fall uselessly to your sides as you whine softly, body arching. Back arching as you expose yourself more to him. You want his weight back on you—his warmth. You need it.

"Look at you, bunny," he murmurs, hands coming back to grip your stomach before leaning up to cup your breasts. "So fuckin perfect."

Your head tips back at the sensation, a soft, surprised sound slipping from your throat. Heat coils tight in your lower belly, dampness clinging to the fabric between your legs. The cool night air brushing over your skin only makes it sharper.

His eyes rake over you, eyes shining as he takes you in.

Your chest rises and falls unevenly, skin flushed, lips swollen from biting and kissing. He leans down, mouth trailing from your neck to your chest before closing around your nipple.

You moan, fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue circles, sucking hard. His other hand grips your opposite breast, kneading, rough enough to make your breath stutter. Dark marks bloom in his wake.

"Si-" you swallow hard, hands clutching his shoulders as his mouth drags lower, down your stomach, lingering before pressing against your soaked panties.

He inhales deeply.

You're so sensitive it makes you shake, his touch warm and overwhelming, like he knows exactly how to pull every reaction from you.

His lips brush your thighs, soft at first, teasing. His tongue slips out, tasting you through the fabric, biting and nibbling while his hands draw slow circles along your legs. Your thighs tremble, the sensation sharp enough to sting your eyes.

"Smell so fucking good," he mutters.

"Please," you whisper, lifting your head to look at him.

"Need you."

Your body burns with want, embarrassment mixing with it until you don't know which is worse.

"Be patient," he groans, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

"I'm gonna take my time with this sweet cunt."

You whine, defeated, frustration curling tight in your chest.

True to his word, he doesn't rush. He kisses, licks, bites—taking his time, savoring every sound you make. You can hear it in his breathing, feel it in the way his grip tightens.

Your hands fly everywhere, unsure where to land as his mouth traces every freckle, every curve, every soft stretch of skin.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, thick and rough, pausing there. The thought of how easily he could tear them away makes your breath hitch.

"Don't zone out on me," he murmurs, tapping your hip before hooking his fingers properly into the fabric. He looks at you, waiting.

"Please."

He kisses your stomach once before tugging them down, tapping your ass so you lift for him. He slides them off with practiced ease, tucks them into his back pocket without a word.

You instinctively try to close your legs, face burning— but he grips your thighs, forcing them apart. His stare is slow, intense as he takes you in, swollen and slick, clit peeking out, folds glistening in the moonlight.

"Prettiest fuckin' pussy l've ever seen," he groans, hands rubbing up and down your thighs, gaze burning into you until you tremble under it.

"Stop messing around," you reply, tummy filled with butterflies as he continues to watch you with mindful eyes. You lift your hips up, wanting any sort of friction from the man.

He smirks, leaning down without breaking eye contact.

His tongue slips out, presses flat against you—covering you fully, dragging over your hole and your clit before he seals his mouth around you.

The contact steals the breath right out of your lungs.

You throw your head back instantly, overwhelmed by the heat of his mouth—warm, wet-slick with his saliva and your own juices. It's too much all at once, your body reacting before you can even think.

He takes his time with it. Licking. Sucking. Lapping at every sensitive spot, tongue tracing your folds with intention. A low moan leaves his throat, vibrating straight through you, sending a sharp jolt up your spine.

He grunts into you, fully focused now, like nothing else exists. His tongue doesn't stop, doesn't rush—just works you steadily while his cock strains hard and aching beneath him. Every sound you make matters.

Every moan, every broken whine, every shaky plea. You feel it in the way he presses closer, the way his breath stutters.

You were a weakness he learned to accept the moment he met you.

He pulls back just long enough to make you shiver before pressing a finger against you. Your mouth snaps shut as you watch, breath caught. His fingers are thick. Calloused. The stretch alone makes you slicker.

One finger pushes in. Slow. Then a second, following behind it, filling you deeper.

"Oh my god, Simon—"

They're big. So big it takes a second for him to settle, fingers stopping fully buried inside you before his mouth drops back to your clit, sucking it in again like he's been waiting for it.

Your thighs start to shake. Your end is nearing embarrassingly quick. But you didn't care, only focusing on the immense pleasure he was giving you.

"C'mon, give it to me," he groaned against your cunt, fingers rubbing inside you faster, harder. Your thighs shook, and the room filled with the sound of your squelching. "Gimme your cum."

It hits you in waves—fast, blinding, overwhelming. You cry out, tears slipping free as your body tightens around his fingers, pleasure tearing through you in a way that leaves you sobbing. You've never felt anything like this. Never been this far gone.

The world narrows to sensation. Sound. Heat.

He laps it up like an animal, only adding to the sensitivity of your core. He doesn't let you come down.

"Si-" you whine, hands pushing at his head just enough to make him look at you.

"Hmm?" he hums, lips brushing a soft kiss where he just had you before standing up off the bed.

Your ears are still ringing from the mind-numbing orgasm, head fuzzy, body slow to catch up. Your eyes are wide as you stare at him, at the way his cock twitches between his thick thighs like it's got a mind of its own. You didn't even notice when he had fully undressed himself.

It's huge.

So thick it barely holds itself upright.

Your brain scrambles, a thousand thoughts crashing at once. There's no way. That can't possibly-

Would this even fit inside you?

But your body doesn't care what your mind thinks.

Your heart kicks up again, anticipation curling low in your stomach, your still—sensitive, drooling mess aching for more even after everything it's just been through. The sting is still there. The fullness lingers. And somehow, you want it again anyway.

The tip of his shaft catches the light, a thick vein running along it, pulsing. His balls hang heavy and full beneath it. Trimmed hair. Thick, solid thighs flexing when he shifts his weight.

You're pretty sure you're drooling when you're ripped out of your thoughts when he speaks.

"You think you can take it, bunny?"

Your body burns, but you nod nonetheless. The arousal you felt was almost too much to bare.

"Let me see that pretty cunt," he lifts your knees up, exposing both of your holes.

Your arms hook beneath your knees, making it easier for him to position himself, lining his cock right at your greedy hole. Your heart pounds in anticipation, lip caught between your teeth hard enough you're sure you might draw blood.

He drags the head along your clit first, smearing you with his precum—then taps it there. Hard.

"Hurry-" you whine, brows furrowed in frustration.

"Just the tip, baby," he breathes, more to himself than you. "Just the tip."

For a split second, you think you understand what he means. Then he pushes in.

"Fuck-" you cry out, sharp and startled, your body locking up on instinct as your walls convulse around him, struggling to take his size. The sensation borders on too much immediately—too full, too sudden. It pulls a low grunt from his chest as he freezes, every muscle in his body going taut.

No. He can't do that. Can't hurt you.

"Shhh," he soothes quickly, voice dropping, steadying.

His hand moves where you need it most, rubbing slow, gentle circles, grounding you while your body panics around him.

Your head feels fuzzy. Like everything is happening underwater.

"Si-ah-too-" you babble, words falling apart as your eyes roll back, fingers digging into his shoulders. You can feel him inching deeper, barely moving, and every fraction of an inch feels like your body is being asked to do something impossible.

Too big. Too thick. There's no way this should fit.

He's not even halfway there, and you already feel stretched past anything you've known. Your mind flickers in and out—whines and broken cries are the only sounds you can make as he keeps going slowly, carefully.

Your hands slide down to his, gripping tight like you're anchoring yourself.

"Hey," he whispers. "Breathe for me."

You try. A shaky inhale. Then another. Tears slip down your temples as you force your body to listen.

He looks nothing like you feel.

He's calm. Focused. Completely present. Sweat beads along his forehead, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths, eyes locked on where you're taking him in.

Then warmth—unexpected.

You jolt lightly as he spits, the heat of it hitting your clit before spreading where you're connected, slicking things enough to take the edge off.

"Too big," you cry, lifting your head to look.

You almost wish you hadn't.

It looks unreal. Wrong. Your body stretched wide around him, doing something you don't understand how it's doing. You swear you can feel him everywher—high, deep, overwhelming.

He hasn't looked away once.

"Almost in, baby," he tells you.

Then he stops. All the way in.

You lose your breath completely. You've never felt this full—like there's no space left inside you at all. His body presses close, skin slick with sweat and your heat, and you can't tell where you end and he begins anymore.

Everything inside you feels pulled tight, stretched to its limit. He's so deep you swear you feel him kiss your cervix.

Your eyes squeeze shut as you cling to his shoulder, focusing on the slow movement of his hands as they slide up your sides, steady, reassuring. You breathe again slowly . Letting your body adjust inch by inch.

Letting the shock fade.

"Tell me when to move," he says quietly.

You don't answer right away. Just a quick nod after a while of feeling his body pressed to yours.

When he finally does move-just barely-the discomfort softens into something else entirely.

Something deep and rolling and unfamiliar. Pleasure replaces the sting in waves, so intense it makes your toes curl.

He moves at a languid pace, dragging himself out of you just a bit before pushing back in. Slowly. Making you feel everything.

You're growing desperate. All the pent—up tension you've been carrying for months finally spilling over, burning hot and restless.

You want him. So bad.

"You can be rougher-ah,"

"Rougher?" he chuckles, lifting a hand to wipe the tears from your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, so gentle it makes you purr. "You don't want me to be rougher, baby."

His hips snap forward sharply, pulling a surprised gasp from your throat.

"I do!" you say breathless.

You see it then-the veins standing out along his arms, the way his jaw tightens as he clenches his teeth. He's losing it. Barely holding on anymore.

And you don't want him to.

"Please," you whisper, voice low, rolling your hips just enough to make him groan.

His hands fly to your hips, pinning them hard against the bed.

"You don't know what you're asking for."

The smile on your face disappears just as quickly as it came when he snaps his hips forward again—harder this time. The movement is rough and powerful, stealing the air from your lungs.

"You ever had your neck squeezed before, bunny?" His large hand comes up loose at first, fingers barely resting against your throat, and your breath already hitches. Then he squeezes harder, thumb pressing into the side of your neck.

Your vision blurs around the edges, pleasure shooting straight through you. You don't hear a word he says after that, though the soft smile that creeps on your face doesn't go unnoticed.

Something flips inside him.

He's not the caring giant anymore-the one coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you, softly rubbing your side and clit to ease the stretch of his cock. No. This version of him is different. Rougher. Bolder. It makes your toes curl in the best possible way.

All you hear is ringing and the sound of his hips hitting your ass.

Your mouth hangs open in a perfect O, no sound coming out except the faintest whimper dragged from you with every thrust. Your eyes cross as you let him do whatever he wants with your body.

You're a drooling mess. Nothing but babbles and broken cries spill from your lips as your eyes roll back, nails clawing at the messy, wet sheets that smell like nothing but you and him.

"Stupid thrust fucking thrust bunny thrust."

The sound sends a warm, overwhelming rush through your stomach, like the drop of a roller coaster. His hips don't falter, and neither does his grip.

With every movement, he rolls his hips in slow circles, making sure you feel every inch, every vein dragging against your sensitive, gummy walls. His hand loosens at your throat only to slide down and grab your tits hard.

"Simiiimon-ah—ah-ah," you cry, voice breaking with each powerful snap of his hips. Short, deep thrusts. His pubic bone slamming into your swollen clit every time.

"So fuckin' tight," he growls. "You feel so fuckin' good一fuck.”

He lets go of your neck, hands moving down your body as his hips slow, grinding into you instead. "I'm gonna rip you in half," he mutters to himself, the rumble in his chest deep and dark.

You don't hear him.

You're too busy gripping the sheets for dear life as the sinful sounds of skin slapping, cunt squelching, and your broken moans fill the room.

The sounds you make only fuel the heavy throbbing of his cock. "Feel good, baby?" he breathes, chest heaving as he looks down at your fucked-out expression, a small smile pulling at his lips.

"Yesyesyes," you babble, drool slipping from your mouth, eyes fluttering as you struggle to keep them open.

"Please-" Your cheeks are wet with tears, hair a mess, body buzzing with heat and pleasure. "Please go faster."

You lift your hips, digging your heels into the mattress, grinding back into him with everything you have left.

He lets out a deep grunt-surprised, pleased.

"Yeah, baby," he teases, thumb sliding down to rub your clit. "You want me to go faster?"

"Please, need it," you sob pathetically. The only thing you care about is pleasure—coming apart on him and letting him ruin you again.

"Work for it, then," he pants, chest rising and falling as he watches your blissed—out face. Beautiful. Fucking wrecked.

Your hips jerk erratically now, calves trembling, sweat slicking your skin as he lets you use him to get yourself off.

"You're-ah-being—mean," you sniff, your legs giving out slowly.

The familiar pressure coils tight in your stomach. Your clit is red and angry with every twist of his thumb, his free hand coming up to squeeze and play with your tit.

Before you can stop it, another orgasm washes through your whole body.

"Fuck," he he throws his head back when you clamp around him, tight and desperate, refusing to let go.

It takes everything in him not to come right then and there, buried deep inside your hot, gummy walls.

You're left gasping, clutching the sheets to your chest like you need something solid as you come apart on his cock.

As you come down, he slowly pulls out of you.

"Ah—" you yelp, the sudden emptiness uncomfortable, almost cold without him.

"Bend over."

His eyes are completely dark as he steps back, cock twitching and leaking. Before you can even lift your head, he's gripping your thighs, dragging you forward and flipping you onto your stomach, then onto your knees. The sheets beneath you are soaked.