a.

“What do you have there?”

His head turned to the side at the sound of your voice, more so feeling your breath on his neck as you peered over his shoulder. Holding up the red lollipop for you to study, you took it from his grasp, the very tips of your fingers barely touching his before you held the wrapped candy.

“Leon, do you even know what this is?”, your eyes held that same mischievous gleam it always did when you were with him, and simply gave you a shrug. “It’s a candy gram silly”

“What? Someone just put a lollipop in my locker?”, Leon didn’t get why someone would even bother putting something like this for him to find.

“It’s for Valentine’s Day, something that the precinct wanted to do to celebrate. If you get one of these, it means someone is your secret admirer”, the way you described the entire ploy was almost comical to him, and he only chuckled.

“So it’s like a crush type of thing?”

“Sort of. Did you even read the note?”, and from the way he looked like a deer in headlights you knew he didn’t. You motioned over to the small red note that was hidden underneath the piece of candy. Carefully, he went to unfold it and read over the words that were written in cursive black ink.

I can’t turn water into wine, but I’m hoping to turn you into mine.

You watched as Leon quickly became flustered at the funny pick-up line, rolling his eyes and trying to hide the subtle blush he got from reading the words over and over again.

“I don’t like this game”, Leon grumbled under his breath, trying to shake off his embarrassment and scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Oh cmon, it’s supposed to be funny. But listen, if you don’t want your lollipop I’ll gladly take it”, you smirked as his eyes met yours, pink lips curling up to match your grin.

“What? You didn’t get any candy grams of your own so you have to steal mine?”, he unwrapped the lollipop, popping it into his mouth and humming as he approved the taste. Cherry, his favorite.

“For your information, I got three. I just munched on all of the candies already I wanted another”, you placed your hands on your hips, the uniform only accentuating the curvature of your figure that Leon tried his hardest not to notice.

“Really? You got notes too or were you too busy eating your lollipops you forgot to notice”, he was teasing you now, going into his locker to put on his tactical belt and wrapping it around his hips. It fit snugly on his body, the leather belt he wore underneath to hold up his cargo pants seemed to add to his slim figure. Not that you were paying attention either. 

“I did, but didn’t pay too much attention. I got a nice one though, said something like My candy heart is all yours. Real cute stuff”, you leaned against the wall as you waited for Leon before going on patrol. He was one of the only good things working at the R.P.D. had to offer, and coincidentally it just helped that he was also your friend. Having known each other for a while now, being like this came naturally, remembering how easy it was to be with him when you two first clicked. 

“Sounds corny”, he said with a shake of his head, closing the metallic door and gesturing the both of you to start walking out of the room and into the main hall.

“Yeah, you’d know everything about being corny wouldn’t you?”, you taunted him back as you walked through the halls of the precinct, keeping track of all the patrols you had on the board today.

“Yeah yeah, whatever. Are you coming on this patrol with me or what?”, he already knew the answer, didn’t have to so much as second guess to know that you’d be riding along with him.

“Of course I am. Who else will bother you with their favorite pop songs?”, you walked ahead of him, and his gaze went down your back to look at the handcuffs that jingled every time you took a step.

He definitely wasn’t looking at anything else.

-

It was a long day of work patrolling the city before Leon finally had some time to himself to relax. Thankfully, he didn’t have to work the overnight shift and could lounge at home to watch some shitty reality TV or whatever tickled his fancy. Of course, that was before he got a text message from you, ever the pest constantly wondering what he was up to. Not that he complained.

There’s a whole theme night going on at the local bar. Free shots at 10:30 pm. Bring your ass over here, and wear red!

Drinks? With you? That wasn’t anything out of the ordinary considering how familiar it felt to be around you, but he still couldn’t think of anything else he wanted to do for the night. So, he pretended like he didn’t want to be dragged out of his small apartment as he trudged his feet toward the shower to get dressed. He shouldn’t have cared so much about being presentable, usually, he never did. But for you, he was willing to try new things.

For the first time in probably ever, he’s forgone his usual color palette and took out a red button-down, rolling the sleeves up towards his forearms. Leon was always more fond of shades that reminded him of the sky, blues, greens, and white. Red was out of his comfort zone, but going out on Valentine’s Day night was enough to make that ball of anxiety tighten in his gut. Topping it all off with a bomber jacket, he left the keys to his jeep behind and took a cab instead, playing it safe if he ended up drinking something that would surely knock him off his feet.

He seemed to be counting down the minutes to the moment he walked into the bar. Scanning the area, he looked for any sight of you amongst the crowd, walking past several pairs of people lip-locking and downing shots in groups. The energy was electric, the music was lively, and as he continued to trek further into the bar that’s when he spotted you.

There you were, sporting a red deep-cut blouse and leather pants that were tight along your thighs. He caught the glossy red lipstick you put on for the occasion that only brightened your teeth as you laughed with those around you. And when you turned your head to find him standing there, he gulped down the pang he felt in his chest.

Yeah. He’s screwed.

“Finally, I’ve been waiting for you for so damn long. Good to know you listened to me for once”, you walked up to him, grabbed a hold of his wrist, and pulled him toward a corner of the bar where your other friends were sitting. Unless you cared to look for it, his pulse spiked when your fingers wrapped around his wrist. Maybe you felt it, maybe you didn’t, but that brief touch was cut short when Leon was brought to the table.

Most of the newfound gang was there, Chris and his sister Claire were there sharing a beer, while Rebecca was forcing Jill to be a bit more social. It was supposedly a normal night even though you were out of your uniform, forcing Leon to find a point on the wall to avoid peeking over in your direction. Chris kept him occupied, offering him a drink that he sipped to ease the nerves he felt, all while Claire teased him about wearing red instead of his usual navy. This wasn’t so bad, I’ll make it through the night, he thought to himself. 

It only took a few drinks for everything to spiral out of control. The blame is to be put on tequila. It was always tequila, but thank god it was the weekend. 

Just like you warned him, 10:30 pm rolled around and the bar burst into cheers as servers carried shot glasses filled with red liquid. Everyone at the table had one, and Leon watched as you downed the shot with ease, a wild grin on your face as you did. With your encouragement, and Claire’s taunting, he drank the shot and winced at the stinging of the liquid going down his throat. He hated taking shots, that you knew, but he’d do it so long as it made you happy.

This is why you leave the clear liquor to me and you stick to your beer. He remembered hearing you say that to him one night when you made him drink vodka, the raging hangover he got in the morning only further proved your point.

He’s lost count of the number of shots you consumed, splitting them between Jill and Claire, and an extra you forced Chris to take despite him sticking to his beer. Rebecca remained as the group chaperone, making sure nobody did anything too embarrassing tonight. Hearing a particular song that brightened your mood, you brought Claire towards the middle aisle where others seemed to follow you to dance in the small space.

Propping his elbow up against the wooden table, Leon leaned back to simply watch you move to the music. His whole body felt warm at the sight, seeing how you swayed your hips to the beat of the song and Claire did the same. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, his eyes ran up the stitching of your leather pants, over the deep v-line cut of your blouse, and again towards your face. Sure, you were attractive, he wasn’t blind. But what he was the most fond of was your smile, all cheery and wide to the point where the corners of your eyes crinkled.

He could see that look all the time and never get sick of it. The only thing he’d change was that he was the reason why you beamed like that.

“You’re doing it again”, Chris said out loud with a smirk, knocking Leon out of his little fantasy before meeting eye to eye again.

“I’m not doing anything”, he challenged in denial, Chris only chortled and shook his head.

“Unless you’re watching Claire dance, you know exactly what you’re doing”, the brunette matched his sister in humor, Leon exasperating in disbelief and took another sip of his beer. “You like her. You should do something about it”

“Chris…”

“C’mon, man. How much longer are you going to stand on the sidelines and just watch? Even I’m getting tired of the tension, it’s killing me”, ever the dramatic man, he wrapped a thick arm around Leon’s shoulder, bringing him in closer as if he were telling him a secret.

“You had a chance with the candy grams you realize that right? Sure, free candy but why not make it special?”

“Who says I didn’t do just that?”, the blonde said before it could be filtered out properly, sighing and downing the rest of his bottle.

“You’re joking. Seriously? She got like three of those things”, Chris’s brown eyes widened the slightest bit, not wanting to believe the truth.

“Does it look like I’m laughing right now?”, Leon chuckled incredulously at the realization that these feelings he’d been harboring for so long were starting to pour out of him the more he drank. “I don’t know how to talk to her. Besides, it doesn’t matter anyway, she’s not into me”

“Leon, you must be an idiot or something because she is into you. Who do you think gave you the candy gram?”, Chris muttered, probably not meaning to say it the way he did but it sounded like a confession.

Leon didn’t have time to ask for more details when you came back to the table on his side, an energetic Claire going towards Jill who was down three margaritas and growing sleepy. He could practically smell the perfume off of you, jasmine and soft vanilla, things that he found comfort in and sought after through his day-to-day.

“I think that’s enough dancing for me, I got dizzy”, you said, finishing the last bit of your watered-down drink and slamming the glass down on the table. From the way you were standing, your body almost leaned against Leon’s, ever inching closer toward him.

“Do you want to leave?”, Leon asked you, ever the concerned friend and partner despite the fact the alcohol was starting to get to him too.

“Nah, I’ll stay a little bit. Do you want to go?”, the way your eyes were hazy when you spoke to him brought that same twitch in his chest he usually ignored when he was around you.

“If you’re good, then I’m good. I’m not leaving without you”, he didn’t mean to say it in a different context outside of friendly, or maybe he did, but when he avoided a visceral reaction from you he figured he was in the clear.

“You got it boss”, you joked with him, but your hand lightly skimmed against his by accident, a shock running through you from the light touch. You didn’t meet his eye, instead, you felt the way his pinkie came closer to your own, discreetly curling around the digit.

It was a shy touch as if to gently test the boundaries of what was other than a cordial relationship. Leon started to grow anxious, thinking maybe he messed up, his mind beginning to spiral until you squeezed his finger back in silence. He tried not to make it obvious, but he looked over at you to see you smiling, and for that second he thought his small dream had come true.

“Another drink and then we’ll call it quits”, Chris’ voice popped the bubble that you were both in, but your hands didn’t move from where they were.

Yeah, one more drink couldn’t hurt, so long as you two remained like this for the rest of the night. 

-

Leon regrets having that one last drink. The world around him was spinning, and his feet were lugging across the floor as if he was going to sink into the Earth any minute now. He nearly forgot that he wasn’t going home alone, that you were beside him, doing your best to support his body as you brought him over to your place like you had done a few times before.

Unlocking the door to your apartment and walking inside, Leon was hit with the same scent of jasmine and soft vanilla that he recognized as your own, faint layers of cinnamon engulfing him when you brought him over to your couch in a slump.

“I’m never letting you drink that much again”, your voice sounded almost distant, but it was comforting nonetheless. You walked away from him, your footsteps growing faint until you came back with a glass of water he graciously chugged.

“Wasn’t so bad, I can handle my liquor”, he slouched further into your couch, his head beginning to whirl from everything he drank.

“Leon, I had to carry you inside. You’re drunk”, you glanced at him with that same mischievousness you always had reserved just for him. Even if you had a better alcohol tolerance than he did, your pupils being dilated told him that you were in the same predicament

“Not complaining”, he was damn near mumbling now, his head pivoting to look at you fully. You were right there next to him, all dolled up in a way he hadn’t seen before. In the back of his mind, he imagined you did it just for him.

So pretty.

“You think so?”, your voice brought him out of his current haze, watching as he blinked once or twice before realizing he said his inner thoughts out loud.

“I-I…huh?”, Leon was stuttering now, looking towards the floor and growing embarrassed at the slip-up. You couldn’t help but giggle under your breath, and he prayed to God it wasn’t at him.

“Leon…I don’t know if you can tell but I’ve been trying to send you signals that I like you for months now. You’re a tough nut to crack”, you were speaking, but your words stopped filtering through his brain the moment you said the words ‘I like you’.

You like me?

“Yes, you cornball, I do”, you answered him anyway, catching him off guard at the response. At this rate, he’ll spill his deepest darkest secrets because he can’t tell the difference between what he’s thinking and what he’s saying. “The candy gram, that was me. Thought it might register in your head but it didn’t”

Leon looked like he had uncovered the biggest truth known to man. It was astonishing to witness, how he couldn’t process the thought that you were actually interested in him. You could see the gears starting to turn in his head, and once the revelation settled in his mind his lips were formed in a gentle smile. 

“That was a really bad pick-up line”, Leon said, making you laugh even harder. Your hand made contact with his chest, patting against his body with every sound that slipped past you. 

“And yours was any better?”, your hand didn’t move from where it sat on his chest, mindlessly caressing the material of his red button-down. 

“Yeah, I think ‘my candy heart is all yours’ is one of my best works”, he was almost cocky when he talked, but his facial expression was anything short of dorky. You both looked like a bunch of love-drunk idiots waiting for one to say what the other wanted to hear. 

“Hmm, that sounded like you. Is this you admitting that you gave me that candy gram?”, you were leaning on him, shifting so your body was closer against his. The tequila still running through your system heightened your senses, the natural scent of Leon’s cologne was enough to make your heart flutter. 

“Something like that”, he grinned bashfully, blue eyes looking at you intensely. He took in every detail of your features he could get, moving some of your hair out of your face and curling it behind your ear. His hand didn’t move too far, resting his palm against your cheek and running his thumb against the warmth of your skin.

“Would it be bad to kiss you?”, he whispered his words to you, as if his feelings would only be safe in the four walls of this room. 

“No, I’ve been waiting for you to ask me”, you moved so your chest was pressed against his, hands moving up towards his neck and caressing the hair at his nape. 

Leon didn’t have to wait too long to feel your lips meshing with his, sighing in what he could only describe as pure satisfaction. A shiver rushed down his spine and broke off into the rest of his body, blood pulsing through his veins at rapid speed the more his heart pumped in his chest. He pressed your body against him, wrapping an arm around your waist and keeping his other hand on your cheek.

Leon felt drunk, both literally and figuratively off of you and everything that you were. Things made sense for the first time, having you like this here with him. It was all he wanted, all he needed, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough. Against his wishes, he pulled away for air, staying close by to rest his forehead against yours. 

“About damn time Kennedy”, you teased him again, but your expression was tender. You noticed how your red lipstick stained his lips, no doubt leaving barely any left on your mouth. “Red looks good on you”, you put a thumb against his lips, rubbing at the plush skin you just felt for the first time.

“Does this mean I get to ask you to be my Valentine?”, he looked so cute when he asked you, rolling your eyes at his question, but you found it endearing.

“You’re two hours too late, but I’ll happily be your Valentine anyway”, you gave him one more smooch on the lips, and the happiness on his face was damn near palpable. “But you owe me a better one next time, you hear me?”

Next time.

“Loud and clear. I’ll have a better pick-up line to use on you”

“If you start getting corny, I will leave you on the couch”, the playful threat didn’t worry Leon in the slightest, his smile getting wider with every passing second he spent with you.

“Awe come on, I meant what I said. My candy heart is all yours”, his nose nuzzled into your neck, kissing your soft ticklish skin and breathing you in, marking your scent into his memory.

This time around, he thinks he’ll thank the tequila instead. Perhaps Cupid is real, a little overdue, but he still got the job done in the end.

Exactly how you’d left it yesterday: reports stacked in descending order of priority, pen jar turned with the labels facing out, a closed file where you’d stopped mid-sentence, and your mug, handle to the right, tilted just so. No one touched your desk. Not because anyone was afraid of you (though some were), but because after a while people learned, you kept things the way you kept them for a reason.

You dropped your bag under the desk, slid into your chair, and pulled the top file toward you. Break-in, residential, no forced entry, no usable prints, witness half-drunk. You’d read this case a thousand times in a thousand neighborhoods. It didn’t matter. You still read it. Because sometimes there was a pattern. Sometimes someone else missed what you didn’t. That was the part you secretly liked, the puzzle-hunting.

The clock above the copier clicked over to 6:10 a.m.

Good. That gave you maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes before the rest of the department began to stagger in, grumpy and loud and full of fresh disasters. If you were disciplined, and you were, that was enough time to clear two, maybe three reports before people started asking for things.

You stood, crossed to the communal coffee pot, and poured the first cup of the day. It was the kind of coffee that hated you and wanted you to fail: thin, bitter, scorched. You drank it anyway. Two sugars, exactly. Stir twice clockwise, once counter. Not superstition, not really, just rhythm. Ritual was the thing between you and the noise. Ritual meant you were the one in charge.

The first sip burned your tongue, and some half-dormant part of your brain purred at the heat. Alert, now. Ready.

A floorboard or a pipe groaned somewhere behind the records room. You didn’t even flinch. The building did that sometimes. Old bones popping. You were the one who had to read the “I heard something” reports, half of them were the plumbing, the other half were bored officers, and the last 3% were actual problems. Today, it was the first category. Not worth getting up.

You sat again, tapped your pen twice, and sank into the silence. It wrapped around you like a worn-in jacket. In here, this early, you weren’t the one people whispered about or asked for or rolled their eyes at. You were just another pair of eyes on paper. It was almost… nice.

The phone on your desk blinked once, red. Voicemail, 3:42 a.m. You ignored it. If it had been a real emergency, it wouldn’t have waited for voicemail. Let Morning You deal with that.

Outside, behind the blinds, the sky was doing its best imitation of morning, but Raccoon City was stubborn about sunlight. Thin gray light seeped in anyway, making the dust in the air glow. Another day. Another pile of things broken by other people that you’d have to fix.

You flipped a page. Evidence chain incomplete. Of course it was. You circled the line and scrawled in the margin: Follow up with Miller. AGAIN. You sighed through your nose.

Rookies.

Always rookies.

They came in waves, faces that looked too young to hold a gun, all posture and big talk. They asked where to put their lunch, how to log evidence, where the clean cups were, who had the good chair. They were excited, hopeful, romantic about the job. You’d been like that once, maybe, the memory was fuzzy. Now it just got in the way.

You’d told the sheriff two years ago you weren’t training any more of them. They burned time, they burned energy, and half of them quit when they realized this wasn’t an action movie. “They learn more from getting it wrong,” you’d said. “I don’t have the hours to hold hands.”

He’d agreed. Or at least, he’d stopped asking.

So when the front doors creaked open too early, when footsteps sounded way too fast and way too upbeat for 6:15 a.m., you already knew who it was.

Leon Scott Kennedy. RPD’s newest golden retriever.

The kid who smiled at everyone. The kid who apologized to filing cabinets when he bumped them. The kid whose laugh you could hear from the parking lot.

You took a long, fortifying sip of coffee and said to no one, “Here we go.”

The quiet survived for exactly twenty-three seconds.

The squeak of boots on linoleum echoed down the hallway, repeating in a chipper little rhythm that made you want to introduce someone to proper stealth technique. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

“Morning!”

His voice bounced across the bullpen like it had no idea what walls were. Bright, young, open-throated. You could almost see the grin.

You grunted into your mug. The international sign for not now.

It didn’t dissuade him in the slightest.

Leon rounded the desks and came into your little pool of lamplight like it was the most natural thing in the world. Up close, he was somehow even more… shiny. Brand-new uniform, still a deep navy because it hadn’t met rain and grime and blood yet. Collar perfect. Hair neat. Eyes, stupidly blue and awake, like he had actually slept last night, like he didn’t understand how offensive that was.

He planted himself at the edge of your desk, boots squeaking one final time, hands in his pockets like he wanted to seem relaxed but hadn’t practiced it enough.

“I’m still getting lost around here,” he said, chuckling a little like he was confessing to something small and adorable. “This place is huge.”

You didn’t look up. “Then get a map.”

He laughed. Laughed. Full, bright, genuine. Like you’d said something funny. You hadn’t.

“Right, yeah. A map. That’s a good one.”

You finally lifted your eyes, slowly, giving him The Look, the one that said you were too tired for sunshine and too experienced for charm. Most rookies got that look once and avoided you for a week.

Leon just smiled wider.

He lingered, clearly expecting you to add something, maybe ask how he was settling in like you were some kind of welcoming committee. You didn’t. You turned a page.

There was a little beat, the kind where you could watch a brain decide whether to keep bothering you or to go bother someone else, and then, like a happy dog catching the scent of more people, he swivelled and bounced off toward the other desks.

Good. Let him spread the energy over there.

Within ten minutes, the rest of the station began to trickle in. By then Leon had already made himself useful: he carried a stack of files for Donna from Records, refilled the sugar, helped someone figure out the copier, and did it all with that same I’m happy to be here grin that made older officers soften a little.

“Careful, Kennedy, that pot bites,” one of the detectives called when he reached for the coffee.

“Only if you don’t respect it, sir,” Leon said, completely serious.

The bullpen burst into laughter.

Of course they loved him. Of course. He was exactly the kind of rookie they liked, polite, helpful, could take a joke, good jawline for pictures. Meanwhile you sat in your corner and pretended your report was the most interesting thing you’d ever seen.

He’d been here what, two and a half weeks? Long enough for half the department to claim him. Long enough for the forensics girl to say, “He’s so sweet.” Long enough for dispatch to start asking if he wanted to join poker night. Long enough for you to peg him.

He was the kind of guy who probably thanked the vending machine when it actually dropped the right snack.

You tried to tune him out. You really did. But his laugh carried, bright and unfiltered, not yet sanded down by too much shit. It didn’t sound like it belonged in a room that also held three unsolved homicides and a faulty AC. It sounded like it belonged outside, on a good day, with a dog and no paperwork.

You kept reading.

Then you made the mistake of glancing up.

He was over by Miller’s desk, leaning over a map, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, talking with his hands, big, animated gestures like he used to play sports. Miller looked amused, like he was indulging him. Leon said something, Miller laughed, and then Leon glanced across the room.

Right at you.

You were mid-sip.

He waved. Cheerfully. Like you weren’t glaring. Like of course you were watching him.

You froze.

He was coming back.

Fantastic.

He slid into the chair opposite you without invitation, spun it around, and straddled it like he was in one of those “down-to-earth cop” recruitment posters. “Hey, you’re (L/N), right? Everyone keeps saying you’re the best. You must’ve seen it all.”

“Most of it wasn’t worth seeing.”

He laughed. Again. God. “Guess I’ve got a lot to learn.”

“You do.” You flicked your eyes to him, then pointedly to the floor between you. “Starting with boundaries.”

He blinked, then scooted his chair back… about an inch. “Personal space. Got it.”

That was not “got it.” That was “I acknowledged the concept.”

He tipped his chin toward your paperwork. “What’re you working on?”

“Paperwork.”

“Oh. Cool.” He nodded, totally sincere. “I love paperwork.”

You looked up, slow, disbelief written across your face. “No one loves paperwork.”

“Well, I mean, it’s not exciting, but it’s organized.” He shrugged, boyish, easy. “I like organized.”

You stared at him for half a second longer than you meant to. Because okay. That was… not the worst answer. You were almost willing to say, Huh, when someone in the back yelled:

“KENNEDY! You still owe me that coffee!”

He jolted upright. “Right! Coming!” He looked back at you as he stood. “We’ll talk later?”

“Let’s not.”

“Cool, see you soon!”

Then he was gone again, vanishing into the crowd in a trail of squeaky boots and good intentions, leaving the air four decibels louder than it had been.

You rubbed your temples. “This department needs earplugs.”

You dropped back into your report. You didn’t get three lines in before your brain supplied, unhelpfully: He’s not the worst rookie you’ve seen.

You ignored it.

The morning bled into proper shift hours. More bodies, more noise, more coffee. By now the bullpen was at that low, constant hum of work, phones ringing, printers chewing paper, someone cursing because a form was missing a signature. You settled into it, that well-practiced blindness that let you read even while chaos moved around you.

And then you heard him again.

Not near you this time. At the lockers. Voice carrying easily down the hall.

“She’s the best on the force, right? I kinda wanna train with her.”

Your pen stopped.

Your heartbeat didn’t speed up, you were too controlled for that, but something tightened right under your sternum. You stilled, eyes fixed on the same line you’d been reading.

Of course he wanted you.

You dipped your head, muttering into your mug, “Over my dead body.”

A couple of guys by the lockers laughed, that low, ugly kind of laughter men have when they think they’re being funny at a woman’s expense.

“You don’t want her, kid,” someone said. Dwyer, by the voice. “She’ll have you polishing her boots before she lets you touch a case file.”

Another chimed in, piling on. “She doesn’t train rookies. Burned through the last one in two days.”

More laughter.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t take the bait. You’d had worse said about you in rooms where you were the only one actually doing the damn job. Let them talk. Let them think you didn’t hear.

Then Leon spoke again. And his tone was different.

“Maybe she’s just the only one doing her job right.”

The laughter faltered.

He didn’t stop.

“I’ve seen her reports,” he said, still casual, but the edges of the words had steel. “She doesn’t miss anything. If that’s what ‘burned through’ looks like, maybe we should all be taking notes.”

Silence rolled across the room like a slow wave. The kind of silence people fill with coughs because they don’t want to admit they were being assholes. Eventually someone muttered, “Watch your mouth, rookie,” and the sound of papers shuffling resumed like nothing had happened.

You stared at your report, but the words were lolled together now, refusing to be separate. Something warm, annoyingly warm, crept up the back of your neck.

He defended you. Why?

He had no reason to. He didn’t know you. He’d met you, what, three times? You’d been nothing but short with him. And still, he’d said it like it was obvious. Like anyone with eyes would say the same.

You finally let yourself glance over.

He was still by the lockers. Still smiling, but it wasn’t the goofy, I-love-everyone smile from earlier. It was smaller. Defiant. There was spine under all that sunshine.

He glanced up, caught you looking, and lifted a hand in a little wave.

You rolled your eyes and went back to your report, pretending to read, even as the corner of your mouth betrayed you with the smallest twitch.

“Perfect,” you muttered. “The rookie’s a hero now.”

You thought that would be the end of it. You thought: Fine. He defended me. I’ll nod at him next time or something. Then he’ll get bored and go charm forensics again.

But the universe hates your plans. Because right then, the room changed again.

Not loud, quiet. That special quiet that sucked the air out slowly. The one everyone recognized.

Sheriff Graham walked in.

Coffee in one hand, clipboard in the other, expression like the day was already going his way. He strode through the bullpen like a man inspecting his troops.

“Morning, everyone!”

A few tired “mornings” came back. You didn’t bother. You just sat up a little straighter and set your pen down. Whenever he greeted everyone like that, it meant he was about to make the day worse.

His gaze swept the room, taking in faces, desks, the mess of lives being lived in dark blue. Then his eyes landed on Leon.

“Kennedy,” he said, already smiling. “You settling in?”

Leon practically snapped to attention. “Yes, sir! Great team here, sir!”

Of course he said that.

“Glad to hear it. We’re proud to have you.” The sheriff flipped through his clipboard, made a show of scanning the notes. The room went a shade quieter. You felt it coming. You felt it like you feel a storm in your joints.

“Now…” he said slowly, tapping the board with his pen, “about training assignments…”

You closed your eyes.

No. No, no, no, no, no-

“_______,” he said, too cheerful, “since you’re our top field agent, I’m assigning Kennedy here to shadow you for the next month.”

There it was.

The thunderclap.

Your hand tightened around your mug so hard you almost cracked the handle. “Absolutely not.”

The sheriff didn’t even look up. “Consider it a character-building exercise.”

“Whose character?” you shot back. “Mine or his?”

He finally glanced at you then, eyes amused. “Both.”

There was a ripple of poorly hidden laughter around the room. You didn’t have to look to know some of those same guys from the lockers were smirking. Let’s see how long the ice queen lasts. You’d seen the look before.

Meanwhile, Leon, bless his shiny, oblivious soul, was beaming.

“Thank you, sir!” he said, practically glowing. “I won’t let you down!”

You turned toward him slowly, every motion deliberate, and said with all the exhaustion of five years on the force: “You already are.”

For half a second, his grin faltered. Then, somehow, impossibly, he rallied. “Yes, ma’am!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Don’t call me that either.”

The sheriff chuckled, clearly very pleased with himself. “Play nice. Dismissed.”

And then he abandoned you to your fate, vanishing into his office on a cloud of smug and caffeine.

The second his door shut, the bullpen erupted.

“Twenty bucks says she doesn’t last the week.”

“You kidding? She’s gonna eat him alive before Friday.”

“I give him three days before he cries.”

You ignored all of it. You gathered your file, your notepad, and your now-lukewarm coffee and headed for the hallway like a woman being marched to the firing squad.

You didn’t even make it three desks before you heard the quick, eager footsteps behind you.

“So! Partnered up, huh?”

You didn’t bother to look at him. “Don’t call me partner.”

“Right, right.” He fell into step beside you like he’d always walked there. “Mentor?”

“No.”

“Sensei?”

You stopped. He almost rear-ended you, skidding to a halt just short of your shoulder. You turned your head slowly, giving him the kind of look that had made grown men apologize.

“If you call me sensei, I’ll shoot you.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Got it, boss.”

“Not that either.”

“Understood, coach.”

You closed your eyes for a one-second prayer. “Kennedy—”

“Okay, okay,” he said, hands up, laughing, actually laughing, like this was a fun day for him. “I’ll just… follow your lead.”

“You were already doing that,” you said, dry as old paper.

“Guess I’m good at it, then.”

And there it was again, that stupidly sincere smile. Unarmored. Like he was actually happy to be assigned to you. Like he hadn’t heard all the crap they said.

You turned the corner toward the briefing room and caught your reflection in the glass — uniform crisp, expression sharper than your badge. Behind you, Leon followed like he belonged there. Like a golden retriever glued to its person.

“So,” he piped up again, because of course silence was illegal for him, “what’s first on the agenda, ma’am, I mean —____?”

You didn’t answer. You just pushed open the door and muttered, just loud enough for him to hear:

“First, you’re getting a leash.”

He laughed. Of course he laughed.

And as you walked inside with him at your heels, you realized, you’d survived firefights, blackouts, and one stairwell trying to kill you. You weren’t entirely sure you’d survive him.

The moment Sheriff Graham disappeared into his office, you were already on your feet.

Nothing good ever came after one of his “character-building exercises.” If you stayed seated, somebody would remember you. If somebody remembered you, you’d get roped into something even worse than babysitting a rookie, community liaison stuff, press, or, God forbid, another high-school career day. So you moved. Fast.

You tucked the folder under your arm, slid your chair in with that automatic, military-precise motion that said you’d been doing this too long, and sent up a silent, extremely unprofessional prayer that the universe would grant you five whole minutes of freedom before Leon Kennedy realized you’d left the room.

Five minutes. Three, even. Long enough for him to get distracted by the vending machine, or by someone with softer edges, or by anyone who didn’t regard rookies as time vampires with badges.

There were plenty of kind people in this building. People who brought homemade brownies on Mondays. People who asked about everyone’s kids. People who had photos of their dogs taped to their monitors. People who looked at Leon and saw “promise” instead of “noise.”

He could follow any one of them.

If I move fast enough, you told yourself, maybe he’ll attach himself to someone else like a golden parasite.

You slipped out of the briefing room like you were escaping a hostage situation. Your boots barely made a sound on the scuffed tile. You kept your head down, folder angled against your ribs, weaving through desks and half-finished reports and morning chatter like you were running a quiet little op no one else knew about.

Down the hallway. Past records. Past dispatch, where the radio chatter was just starting to pick up. A shaft of pale sunlight cut across the corridor from one of the too-small windows, throwing a stripe over your shoulder as you moved. You reached the locker corridor and let yourself feel the smallest, pettiest bubble of satisfaction.

No blond hair. No too-bright eyes. No “hey, partner!”

You almost smiled.

Then you heard it.

Boots. Jogging.

“Wait up, partner!”

You didn’t even have to turn around. You closed your eyes mid-stride and let out a long, slow, despairing groan, the kind you usually saved for missing evidence receipts and twelve-page internal memos drafted by people who had never once stepped onto a crime scene.

He caught up to you in exactly three long, eager strides. Of course he did. He was a puppy. Puppies had no understanding of “no.”

He appeared at your side, a little out of breath but beaming like he’d just won a race you hadn’t agreed to run. “You walk fast.”

“I have places to be,” you said, tightening your grip on the folder. “Alone.”

He nodded, like you’d just said something inspiring. “Me too! But… together!”

You stared ahead and decided not to answer that. Some things didn’t deserve oxygen.

Instead, you veered right toward your locker, yanked it open with more force than necessary, and started rummaging around the top shelf like you’d forgotten something critical, a notebook, a spare radio, your will to live. Maybe, by some miracle, he’d take the hint and go… anywhere.

He did not.

“You need a hand?” he asked, head tilted, peering over your shoulder like a golden retriever checking to see what you’d dropped. His hair fell forward a little and you hated, on principle, that it looked soft.

“No,” you said. Short. Flat. Final.

He leaned against the locker beside yours anyway, hands shoved into his pockets, posture casual but eyes lit up, radiating patience like he had endless time to wait for you to finish being annoyed at him. You could feel him watching you. You could feel half the bullpen watching you. You slammed the locker closed hard enough to make the metal ring, grabbed a notepad, and pivoted toward the exit.

He pivoted too.

You stepped left. He stepped left.

You faked right.

He mirrored you perfectly, like this really was a drill. “Oh, we’re doing drills?” he said, almost delighted.

You stopped so abruptly he almost ran straight into you. You turned, slow, eyes narrowed. “Do you always hover?”

“Only around people I like,” he said, not missing a beat.

You made a noise somewhere between a choke and a sigh, the kind of noise that said I am too sober for this. “Unbelievable.”

“I get that a lot.”

You rolled your eyes and resumed walking, faster this time. The hallway stretched ahead, long and bright and entirely too public. Sun cut in through narrow windows, painting pale bars across the floor. You ignored the morning laughter from the bullpen behind you, ignored the faint echo of someone placing a bet on how long you’d last, and kept your gaze pinned on the red EXIT sign like it was the finish line.

Leon matched your pace like it was nothing. His boots squeaked just slightly out of sync with yours, enough to annoy you, not enough to qualify as a true offense. He dropped back a step, jogged up again, like he was trying to find whatever tactical distance would make you least homicidal.

Maybe he thought this was trust-building.

“You know,” he said cheerfully, not even winded, “for a veteran, you’ve got great cardio.”

You did not slow down. “Keep talking and you’ll need yours.”

He laughed, bright, open, happy, and the sound bounced off the concrete walls like sunlight. “That’s fair!”

By the time you pushed through the metal door to the lot, the air outside had already started to warm, that early, faint heat of a Raccoon City day that hadn’t quite decided if it wanted to be kind. The smell of asphalt, exhaust, and old rain hit you. You narrowed your eyes against the light.

Leon was still right beside you.

Of course he was.

You crossed the parking lot toward your patrol car, folder tucked tight under your arm, walking like you didn’t see him. He kept pace like a soldier in formation, his shadow overlapping yours every few steps. You could hear the faint scuff of his boots, the quiet jingle from his belt, the easy way he breathed, unbothered by the morning, by you, by anything.

“I brought snacks,” he said suddenly, proud, like this was the part he’d really been waiting to share. “Protein bars. Thought it might be a long day.”

You unlocked the car door without looking at him. “You can eat yours when I drop you off.”

“Drop me off where?”

“Anywhere else.”

He laughed, genuinely amused. “You’re funny when you’re pretending not to like me.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“Sure,” he said lightly. “You’ll warm up to me eventually.”

You opened the driver’s door, slid in, and gave him a flat look over the roof. “Don’t bet on it.”

He leaned on the frame, still smiling, as if your refusal hadn’t so much as dented him. “Guess I’ll just have to prove you wrong, partner.”

You shut your door very pointedly.

Through the glass you watched him mouth something that looked suspiciously like you’ll thank me later as he jogged around to the passenger side.

You sighed, started the engine, and told yourself the truth:

This was going to be a very, very long day.

The ride started in silence.

Not a comfortable, companionable silence, not the kind you had with seasoned officers who knew when to shut up. This was the thick, foggy kind that sits in the cab of the car and hums with all the things you don’t want someone to say.

You drove.

He fidgeted.

Five minutes in, he had already adjusted his seat three different ways, opened and closed the glove box twice, checked his seatbelt as if it might have changed since the last time he looked, and was now turning the radio knob back and forth between two static-filled frequencies like he was trying to decode secret transmissions.

“Do you ever stop moving?” you asked, eyes still on the road.

“Nope,” he said, cheerful as ever. “Helps me think.”

“Then maybe stop thinking.”

He laughed, unoffended. “Can’t. Thinking’s kind of my thing.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes so hard you saw your own brain. Outside, the city rolled past, low buildings, storefronts just waking up, a guy hosing down the sidewalk, a woman walking her dog. The hum of the engine and the steady whir of tires should’ve been calming. Instead, Leon started humming along to the static on the radio.

You gave him a sideways look. “That’s white noise, Kennedy.”

“Yeah,” he said, drumming his fingers on the dash. “But it’s catchy.”

You turned the radio off.

“Rude,” he muttered under his breath, still grinning.

You grabbed the clipboard from the dash and handed it to him. “Check the route log.”

He flipped it open, scanned it like this was the most interesting document he’d ever seen, and, because he was constitutionally incapable of silence, said, “So… how long have you worked here?”

“Too long.”

“You like it?”

“Define like.”

He chuckled. “What’s your worst case?”

You didn’t answer.

“Okay, what about ghosts? You believe in ghosts?”

You turned your head just enough to look at him properly. His expression was open, honest, annoyingly earnest. He actually wanted to know.

“Only the ones still taking up desk space,” you said.

He barked out a laugh. “That’s a good one.”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

He grinned anyway. Nothing could kill this man’s mood. You were starting to suspect he was immune to sarcasm.

The questions continued: favorite weapon, favorite street, first arrest, worst partner, biggest pet peeve, whether you thought Raccoon City was haunted (you did), whether you had any hobbies (you didn’t tell him), whether you liked dogs (you pretended you didn’t). Each answer from you got shorter, tighter, sharper.

Finally, after his tenth question, something like, “Have you ever had a partner that wasn’t terrible?” you muttered, “You’re exhausting.”

He lit up like you’d handed him a trophy. “Thanks, I get that a lot.”

At the next stoplight, he tried to balance his coffee on the dashboard.

You didn’t even have time to tell him not to.

The cup tipped, slid, and sloshed straight across the dash and down onto his thigh.

“Ah—! Damn it—no, no, no—” He scrambled, hands darting around like he could catch the spill in mid-air. He grabbed the first thing he could find, a single napkin, and dabbed at the mess, which of course did nothing.

Without even glancing, you reached into the door pocket and handed him the full stack of actual napkins you kept there for this exact reason. Not for him, but for humanity in general.

“Next time,” you said, eyes still on the road, “maybe drink it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, blotting at his pants, at the dash, at his vest. “Crisis averted. Minimal casualties.”

“You’re a walking incident report.”

“That’s unfair,” he said, smiling again. “I’m at least a two-person incident report.”

You almost laughed. Almost. It came out as more of a quiet exhale and a mouth twitch. You hid it behind a sip of your own coffee.

For a moment, a rare, blessed moment, silence actually held.

He leaned back in his seat, let out a slow breath, and watched the city blur by through the windshield. The sun had climbed higher now, casting everything in a soft, washed-out glow. It made him look younger. New. Breakable.

“You’re really calm behind the wheel,” he said at last, voice lower than before, less performative, more real.

“It’s called experience,” you said.

“I like that,” he said simply.

You rolled your eyes, but the words sat there between you, small and warm and annoyingly sincere.

The radio crackled then, saving you from having to respond.

“Unit 14, disturbance reported at 5th and Cedar. Possible lost pet, no sign of injury. Check it out.”

You picked up the mic. “Copy that. On route.”

Leon perked up instantly, like someone had just thrown a ball. “Action time,” he said, straightening his vest.

“It’s a lost pet, Kennedy. Not exactly a shootout.”

“Still counts as field work,” he said, actually bouncing a little in his seat.

You sighed, took the turn, and pulled up to the corner store. A handwritten MISSING DOG flyer was taped crookedly to the front window. A woman in her fifties, apron still on, hair frizzed from stress, stood out front the moment she saw the car.

“Oh, thank God,” she said, rushing toward you. “He ran off again, the neighbor’s mutt scared him, he’s so small, I don’t want him in the road—”

Before you could even open your door, Leon was already out, the picture of eager concern. “Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll find him!”

You stared at him through the windshield. “He we’d you,” you muttered.

You got out a bit slower, professional, steady, while he was already crouched near a line of bushes by the sidewalk.

“Here, buddy,” he called softly. “Hey, c’mere… it’s okay…”

He dropped his voice, and for the first time all morning, there was no performative brightness in it. It was warm, coaxing, the same tone people used for scared kids and baby animals. You watched him with your arms crossed, because damn it, it was… effective.

Two minutes later, a shaggy little mutt poked its head out from under a dumpster, sniffing suspiciously.

“Heyyyy,” Leon said, grinning. “There you are.”

The dog trotted out, tail wagging, straight into his hands.

Leon scooped him up gently, scratching behind his ears. “Gotcha, pal. You okay?”

The woman’s relief hit like a wave. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” She took the dog from him, pressing her nose to its fur. “You’re such a sweet boy.”

Leon laughed, dimples and everything. “He’s a brave little guy. Just needed a snack and some encouragement.”

You were watching. You were absolutely watching. Because right there, in that stupid small moment with a stupid small dog, the chaos smoothed out of him and you saw the cop underneath. The one who’d kneel for old ladies. The one who’d stay with a scared kid. The one who’d go into a bad building even if his hands were shaking.

You cleared your throat. “You done making friends?”

He looked over at you, bright again. “Just doing my civic duty.”

“You can put that on your evaluation,” you said, turning back toward the car.

He thanked the woman again, of course he did, then jogged to catch up to you. When he climbed in, he was still a little breathless, still smiling. “That went well, huh?”

You put the car in gear. “You didn’t lose the dog. Congratulations.”

“That’s an A-plus, right?”

“A passing grade, at best.”

He leaned back, arms folded behind his head like he’d just saved the city. “I’ll take it. Small victories.”

You caught his reflection in the side window, sunlight catching in his hair, lips still curved. And, unfortunately, your own faint smile in the mirror.

He’s not hopeless, you thought. And you immediately hated yourself for thinking it. You adjusted the mirror. Just in case he noticed.

The rest of the afternoon blurred into regular patrol rhythm, calls, checks, drive-bys, the ordinary little crises of a city still pretending everything was fine. By the time you rolled into that quiet residential strip on the west side, with its narrow sidewalks and overgrown hedges, you could feel your patience wearing thin.

Which is exactly why you pointed toward the mouth of the alley and said, “Check the perimeter.”

It was a test. And also a break. Mostly a break.

“On it,” he said immediately, saluting like he was in an RPD brochure.

You’d expected him to circle the block and get distracted by someone’s garden gnome. Rookies could turn a five-minute task into a thirty-minute adventure involving three civilians, a dog, and a traffic cone.

You didn’t expect him to come back seven minutes later with a raccoon.

He came jogging back down the sidewalk, cheeks flushed, jacket half-zipped, and something moving inside it.

“Found this little guy by the dumpster,” he said, proud, as a small masked face poked out from the fold of his jacket. “He looked cold.”

Your pen stopped in mid-air.

“That’s not perimeter security,” you said slowly. “That’s wildlife theft.”

He looked genuinely offended, clutching the raccoon closer. “But look at his little hands!”

Across the street, a woman on her porch watched the scene unfold with unearned delight. You could feel the “awww” from here.

“Put it back,” you said. “Before it files a report.”

“I don’t think it would file anything,” he said thoughtfully. “Didn’t look like the filing type.”

You stepped forward, because at some point in this partnership someone had to be the adult. You reached out and took the raccoon. It was warm, and heavier than it looked, and its tiny fingers grabbed your sleeve for a second. You hated that your heart stuttered.

“You’re lucky it didn’t bite you,” you said.

“I think it liked me,” he said, all sunshine.

“That makes one of us.”

He trailed you as you walked it back toward the dumpster, narrating like an idiot. “We could call him Rocky. No, wait, that’s cliché. Sarge? Mini Leon?”

“Stop naming it. We don’t name evidence.”

“It’s not evidence,” he protested. “It’s a citizen.”

“Citizens don’t rummage in dumpsters at seven a.m.”

“Then we know at least three officers who aren’t citizens,” he muttered.

You ignored him.

You tucked the raccoon back into the little space behind the dumpster, made it a small nest out of cardboard, and straightened. Leon watched you like you’d just saved a puppy, eyes bright, shoulders still buzzing with energy. The neighbor lady waved.

“He’s a sweet one, huh?” she called.

Leon grinned and pointed at you. “Yeah, she’s the best coach ever!”

You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “I will end you.”

He just laughed. And you, traitor that you were, almost laughed, too.

The sun was already melting down behind the RPD by the time you pulled back into the lot. Everything was dipped in honey-gold, the cars, the glass doors, the metal railings. The air was warm and tired, smelling faintly of hot concrete and old exhaust. Your shoulders ached. Your brain hummed. You were, miraculously, still sane.

You sat there for a second with your hands on the wheel, looking at the building. Today had been… a lot. Eight hours of corralling living sunshine. Eight hours of bumping, talking, laughing, rescuing raccoons and small dogs and random civilians from themselves. Eight hours of not snapping.

Which, in your book, counted as a win.

Leon hopped out before you could say anything, stretching with an audible groan, vest riding up, shirt pulling across his chest. He looked… disgustingly content. For someone who had tripped twice, spilled coffee once, nearly got you killed by a car, and openly challenged half the department’s opinion of you… he looked pleased.

He rounded the hood, still smiling, and leaned on the roof. “So,” he said, “how’d I do?”

You took a sip of your cold coffee just so you didn’t have to answer right away. “You didn’t die,” you said at last. “That’s a start.”

His smile widened. “So… like a C+?”

“A generous C+.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, that nervous, innocent gesture he did when he was happy and didn’t know where to put it. “I’ll take it. Better than an F. Or a funeral.”

You started walking toward the building, folder under your arm. His footsteps fell in beside yours, like they always did. You didn’t tell him to move. Not this time.

“Thanks for letting me tag along today,” he said.

You snorted. “I didn’t let you. I was forced.”

He grinned. “Still counts.”

You shook your head, but the sincerity in his tone lodged somewhere under your ribs. You hated that.

You reached the steps. The light hit the concrete in a long, warm strip. A couple of officers were heading out. Someone waved at Leon. Someone else called, “How’d the ice queen treat you, rookie?”

Leon just grinned. “She was great!”

You wanted to die. You turned toward the lot again. “Go home, Kennedy. Before I remember to file a complaint.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

You were halfway to your car when you heard him again, loud, unbothered, absolutely fearless.

“See you tomorrow, partner!”

You groaned, not even trying to hide it. “Don’t push your luck, Kennedy!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” he called back, right before tripping over the curb. You heard the stumble, the flailing, the little laugh he gave himself.

You didn’t turn around.

You opened your car, slid in, and for the first time all day, the silence wrapped around you again. Familiar. Comforting. Yours.

You told yourself he was still just an assignment. A problem to manage. A box to check on someone else’s clipboard.

But as the engine hummed to life and you caught your reflection in the rearview, a faint, stupid, uninvited smile tugging at your mouth, you realized you couldn’t quite make yourself believe it. Just a flicker. Nothing dramatic. Nothing anyone else would’ve seen.

You swiped it away with a snort and muttered, “Yeah. That’s the part that worries me.”

Outside, the last of the light bled out of the sky. And somewhere behind you, you knew, Leon Kennedy was still grinning.

The next day started the way they all did lately, with you pretending you weren’t listening for the sound of Leon Kennedy’s footsteps.

You had your coffee, your folder, your usual spot at your desk. You went through the same motions as always: check the overnight reports, file the ones that mattered, ignore the ones that didn’t. The bullpen buzzed with that particular mix of too much caffeine and too little patience. Nothing new. Nothing exciting.

You weren’t waiting for him. Of course not. Then the door opened and there it was, the sound of energy entering a room, all optimism and squeaky boots.

“Morning, partner!”

You didn’t look up. “You’re late.”

“It’s seven-oh-one.”

“Exactly.”

He grinned, dropped his bag onto his chair, and began the daily ritual of getting ready like a kid suiting up for summer camp. Keys clipped. Notebook tucked. Vest straightened twice. You told yourself you weren’t watching him do it, that you were only looking in that direction because the light was better.

He still looked too new for the job, too clean, too bright. You half expected him to leave muddy pawprints on the tile.

You were halfway through pretending to type something meaningful when the dispatcher’s voice cut through the morning noise:

“Unit 14, report of disturbance at the Old Fairview building. Possible trespasser or animal. Check it out.”

You sighed. Of course.

Leon perked up like he’d just been given a winning lottery ticket. “That’s us, right?”

You took a slow sip of coffee and muttered, “Apparently.”

“Nice! First call of the day.”

You glanced up, one brow lifting. “It’s a disturbance, Kennedy. Probably a raccoon.”

He shrugged. “Could be a dangerous raccoon.”

You almost smiled. Almost. “Let’s go, rookie.”

The drive out was quiet at first. The sky had turned that dull gray that never quite decides between rain or thunder, and the wipers kept time in slow, steady arcs. The city blurred past, old warehouses, sagging power lines, the edges of Raccoon City that people forgot existed until someone called in a complaint.

Leon sat in the passenger seat, fiddling with the radio until you slapped his hand away. Then he moved on to checking his sidearm. Once. Twice. A third time.

“Something wrong with it?” you asked dryly.

“No, just… making sure,” he said. “Never know when things go sideways.”

You resisted the urge to smile. “If things go sideways on a simple trespass call, you’ve done something very wrong.”

He shot you a grin, still fiddling with the strap of his vest. “So this is real fieldwork, huh?”

“Not unless you count stepping in puddles as tactical maneuvering.”

“Hey, I’ll take what I can get.” He leaned back, tapping his boot against the floorboard. “Better than more filing duty. I swear I can still smell the ink from those reports.”

“Don’t get too excited,” you warned. “You’ll jinx it.”

He laughed, unfazed. “Can’t jinx a good day, boss.”

You didn’t bother correcting him.

Rain began to tap against the windshield as you turned onto the old service road that led toward Fairview. The buildings here leaned into each other like tired drunks, brick chipped, windows boarded, everything smelling faintly of wet concrete and decay.

The Old Fairview building came into view around the corner: a hulking, skeletal thing fenced off with rusted chain-link. Graffiti covered the walls in bright streaks of rebellion, names, tags, angry faces staring back through the grime. The wind moaned through a broken upper window, carrying the faint clatter of loose metal.

You parked at the curb, engine idling.

Leon leaned forward in his seat, peering through the rain-speckled glass. “Wow,” he murmured. “They weren’t kidding about abandoned.”

The place looked half-alive in the storm light, every shadow a suggestion, every doorway a dare. You’d been in worse, but something about Fairview made the air feel heavier.

“Stay sharp,” you said, more out of habit than necessity.

He nodded quickly, but you caught the flicker in his expression, bravery brushing against the first edges of unease. His hand hovered near his sidearm, not touching it, just there.

You glanced at him, the ridiculous hair, the nervous smile that wouldn’t quite fade. He looked like someone about to walk into a haunted house because he’d already bought the ticket.

“Still think it’s just a raccoon?” he asked, voice light but strained.

You opened your door, the sound of rain filling the silence between you. “If it’s not,” you said, stepping out into the gray, “I hope it bites you first.”

He laughed as he followed, boots splashing into a puddle. “That’s fair, partner. Totally fair.”

You didn’t look back, but you heard the quiet chuckle that followed you toward the gate, and for reasons you couldn’t name, the sound didn’t bother you as much as it should have.

The moment you pushed the door open, the smell hit first, damp plaster, rust, and something faintly organic that had been rotting longer than it had any right to.

The air was thick enough to taste. It clung to your tongue, humid and stale, a breath caught in the building’s throat. You stepped inside, boots crunching on a layer of broken tile and grit, the beam of your flashlight slicing through the haze of dust like a knife through fog.

“Charming,” you muttered.

Leon stood just behind you, shining his own flashlight in a wide, sweeping arc. His boots creaked across the warped floorboards as he looked up, down, everywhere at once. “Wow,” he whispered. “It’s like something out of a horror movie.”

You gave him a sideways look. “If you start humming theme music, I’m leaving you here.”

He smiled, completely unbothered. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You moved further in. The old building sighed around you, long, slow groans from the beams above, the soft patter of water dripping through unseen cracks. The sound echoed down the empty corridors, stretching and bending until it was impossible to tell where it began. Somewhere deeper inside, something metal rattled.

Your light caught on a peeling wall. The wallpaper had once been floral, but years of moisture had turned it into a mess of brown curls and mold patches. A half-collapsed chair sat in one corner, its legs splintered. The air smelled faintly of rainwater and rusted pipes.

You’d just started toward the main hallway when Leon moved. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught him stepping ahead of you, flashlight raised like he was in charge.

You reached out, grabbed the back of his vest, and pulled him back so fast he nearly tripped.

“Hey—!”

“No.” You turned your head just enough to glare at him through the dark. “You don’t lead. You observe. I move, you follow.”

He blinked, sheepish. “Got it. Observing.” He gestured vaguely to the space behind you. “From right behind you. Very close.”

“Leon.”

He froze. “—Stopping.”

You released his vest slowly, like letting go of a leash you weren’t entirely sure he wouldn’t bolt against.

The two of you fell into an uneasy rhythm: your steps slow, precise, scanning each doorway; his a little too quick, too light, his flashlight beam jittering along the walls. You moved like a ghost. He moved like someone trying not to trip over one.

The corridor opened into a long, narrow hall lined with office doors. Most were cracked open, revealing glimpses of overturned desks, mold-eaten carpet, a scattering of old papers that fluttered when the wind sighed through the broken windows. Your beam landed on a rusted filing cabinet toppled onto its side, drawers hanging open like gaping mouths.

“Guess nobody’s filed anything here in a while,” Leon said quietly.

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “If that was an attempt at humor, stop.”

He grinned faintly, but his eyes stayed sharp. You had to give him that, he might talk too much, but he wasn’t careless. He kept scanning, even as his nerves bled through in the restless tap of his boot.

A low creak rolled through the ceiling. Dust fell from above in a lazy drift. Both of you froze.

You tilted your head, listening. Just the building settling. Or pretending to.

“Old place like this,” you murmured, “you don’t assume silence means empty.”

Leon nodded, his grip on the flashlight tightening. “Right. Empty things make noise too.”

You gave him a quick glance, surprised by the phrasing. Then you turned back to the hall, letting the comment hang in the air.

At the end of the corridor, a flickering red light cast intermittent flashes over a sign that still read EXIT in fading paint. Every time it buzzed, the shadows jumped, walls breathing, corners twitching. The water dripping from the ceiling made a soft, constant rhythm somewhere behind you.

You reached an intersection where the hall split in two directions. Left led deeper into the building. Right descended into shadow, probably toward the basement. Neither option looked friendly.

You scanned left first, your beam glinting off shards of glass and a fallen ceiling tile. Something skittered across the floor and vanished into the dark, a rat, hopefully.

Leon’s flashlight followed yours. “I vote we don’t go right,” he said.

“You don’t vote,” you reminded him.

“Right. Observing. From behind. Quietly.”

You exhaled through your nose, the sound almost a laugh. “Getting there.”

You started forward again, keeping your light trained on the edges of each doorway, the corners of the ceiling. He stayed close, his shadow brushing yours now and then when the lights crossed. The narrowness of the hall pressed in around you both, too tight, too quiet, every breath too loud.

The silence between you wasn’t just silence anymore. It had weight. And for once, Leon didn’t fill it with words.

He just followed, footsteps steady, eyes flicking to every little sound. You caught yourself glancing back once, maybe to check his position, maybe for something else. He gave you a quick thumbs-up, grin barely visible in the low light.

You shook your head and turned back to the dark.

The building groaned again, a long, low shudder that ran through the floorboards beneath your boots.

“Still think it’s just a raccoon?” Leon asked softly.

You didn’t answer.

Because you weren’t entirely sure anymore.

The deeper you went, the more the building seemed to fold in on itself. Corridors narrowed. The air thickened, weighted with damp and dust. Every sound was drawn out and strange—each footstep echoing longer than it should have, like the place was repeating it back just to prove it was listening.

Your radio hissed once, a short burst of static, then went silent again. You frowned and tapped the transmitter clipped to your vest.

“Signal’s weak,” you muttered. “Stay close, or you’ll lose contact.”

Leon was only a few steps behind, flashlight beam dancing across the warped floorboards and scattered debris. “Got it,” he said, voice bright but lower now, as if the shadows demanded it. “No wandering off.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

You reached another junction, two halls splitting in opposite directions. Both were long, dark, and equally uninviting. The one on the left sloped downward, a cracked sign half-hanging above it that once said Storage. The one on the right ended in a set of broken double doors with glass panes punched out like missing teeth.

The radio hissed again, louder this time, a quick burst of interference that made you wince.

You unclipped it, adjusted the channel dial out of habit, and spoke into it. “Dispatch, Unit 14 checking Old Fairview interior. Static’s heavy, confirm frequency lock?”

Nothing but crackle answered back.

Leon tilted his head, listening. “Think it’s the concrete?”

“Or the wiring,” you said. “These old buildings eat signal. We’ll need to stay in shouting distance.”

He nodded, then glanced down the right-hand corridor. “Want me to check that way? Looks shorter.”

You considered it. The place was quiet, too quiet, but if there was anything here, some vagrant, stray animal, it’d show itself faster with two angles covered.

“Fine,” you said finally, tightening your grip on the flashlight. “Check the hall on the right. Stay in range. I mean range, Kennedy. If I call, you answer.”

He gave you that trademark grin, equal parts confidence and sunshine. “Got it. In range. I’ll be right around the corner.”

You wanted to roll your eyes, but something about the steadiness in his tone made you just say, “Good,” instead.

You watched him go, the beam of his flashlight bouncing over the walls. He moved slower now, careful with each step, shoulders squared like he’d practiced it in a mirror.

The second he turned the corner, the silence hit. It was immediate, total. Like the whole building took a breath and held it.

You waited a few seconds, listening for his footsteps. Nothing.

“Rookie?” you called, pressing the radio button again. “Kennedy, do you copy?”

A burst of static answered. A crackle. Then nothing.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, the start of irritation rising in your chest. “Unbelievable. Can’t follow one simple instruction.”

You took a few steps forward, trying the radio again. Still dead.

The shadows seemed thicker now, your flashlight beam barely pushing them back. Each door you passed was slightly open, like the building wanted to keep its secrets half-told. Your boots crunched over shattered glass. The air smelled of mildew and dust, and underneath that, something metallic.

“Leon?” you called again, louder this time.

No answer.

The irritation twisted into something tighter in your gut, something that wasn’t quite anger anymore. You moved faster, sweeping your light across the walls, past peeling wallpaper that hung in curls like old bark, over a toppled chair, across a scrawled message in spray paint half-lost to water damage.

You turned the corner.

Empty hall.

“Leon!”

Your voice came back to you, distorted by the acoustics, bouncing off the walls. The echo sounded too much like someone else saying his name.

You checked the next doorway, gun hand steady, flashlight cutting through dust motes. The next room was an old office, metal desks overturned, chairs rusted through. A flickering light somewhere in the ceiling flashed every few seconds, too dim to be useful, just bright enough to make the dark feel alive.

Then you saw it.

A thin streak of light cutting through from the far side of the room, moving—faintly, irregularly.

You crossed the floor quickly, boots whispering over wet linoleum, stepping around fallen debris.

The beam came from beyond the next door.

You pushed it open, the hinges groaning, and your light fell across him.

Leon was there, half-crouched, flashlight in one hand, the other braced against the wall. His shoulders were tense, head turned toward something just out of your line of sight. The light in his hand trembled slightly.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Jesus, Kennedy,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “You lose radio contact and go sightseeing?”

He turned at the sound of your voice, relief flashing in his face before he quickly straightened. “Hey. Sorry, signal dropped, and I thought I heard something down here. Just… checking.”

You lowered your weapon, the annoyance still a steady pulse under your ribs but easing now that you could see him, alive and upright.

“Next time,” you said quietly, “you stay where I can see you.”

He nodded quickly, a little breathless. “Got it.”

But as you stepped forward, you caught the edge of something moving in the dark behind him—quick, low to the ground, too fast for comfort.

Your instincts took over.

“Leon—down!”

He dropped instantly, years of training, or just dumb luck, kicking in.

You swung your light toward the sound. The beam caught on a flash of fur, teeth, motion—something animal but wrong, lean and wild-eyed.

Then the shadows erupted.

The sound came first, low, ragged, wet around the edges, like something breathing through broken glass.

Leon had already taken two careful steps toward the far corner of the room, his flashlight beam trembling slightly across the peeling paint. You could see the muscles in his shoulders tense as the growl came again, louder this time, followed by the sharp scrape of claws against linoleum.

Your instincts screamed to call him back, but the radio was still nothing but static.

Leon’s voice carried through the dark, calm but steady. “Easy, boy… hey, it’s okay.”

It wasn’t.

Your light swung to the side just in time to see it lunge from the shadows, a dog, or what used to be one. Ribs showing under patchy fur, eyes clouded and wild, jaw hanging at a crooked angle where flesh had torn away. Its movements were jerky, desperate, driven by hunger or pain or both.

Leon reacted fast, not fast enough. He threw up an arm as it launched itself at him, flashlight flying from his hand and skittering across the floor. The impact took him down hard, his shoulder slamming against a fallen filing cabinet.

You moved before you could think, crossing the space between you in three strides.

The beam of your light caught a flash of teeth, a smear of blood, Leon’s boot shoving up between himself and the creature’s snapping mouth. He was trying to keep it back, muscles straining, panic flickering behind his eyes even as he gritted out, “It’s fine! I got it.”

“No, you don’t.”

You drew your sidearm, breath steady, and fired once.

The shot cracked through the silence, deafening in the confined space. The creature crumpled instantly, sliding off Leon’s leg and hitting the ground with a wet thud. The air filled with the smell of gunpowder and rot.

For a long second, neither of you moved.

Then Leon let out a shaky breath and fell back against the cabinet, chest heaving. “Jesus”

You holstered your weapon, stepped forward, and toed the carcass carefully with your boot. No twitch. No sound. Just stillness.

“Jesus had nothing to do with that,” you said quietly.

Leon’s laugh came out half-choked, half-relieved. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving a smear of dust and sweat. “You’re not kidding.”

You crouched beside him, scanning him quickly. No visible bites, just a torn sleeve and a new bruise already blooming along his arm.

“You okay?” you asked, voice low but firm.

He nodded, though his breathing was still uneven. “Yeah. Totally. Minor heart attack, but fine.”

You raised a brow. “That looked like more than minor.”

“Guess I’m an overachiever,” he said, trying for a smile.

You didn’t return it. You stood, offered him a hand, and when he hesitated, you grabbed his vest and hauled him up instead. He stumbled once, caught his balance, and looked down at the dead animal. His voice dropped, quiet, uneasy.

The stench hit first — a sour, chemical rot. Up close, it was worse than you’d thought. The fur had thinned to ragged patches; the exposed skin underneath looked slick and discolored, streaked with deep gray-green lesions that pulsed faintly under the beam of your flashlight. Around the jaw, the flesh had receded entirely, teeth showing through rotted muscle.

Leon leaned in, squinting. “You ever seen anything like this?”

You hesitated, scanning the animal’s ribs, too visible, warped under the skin like something had eaten its way outward. “No,” you said finally.

“Maybe… leprosy?” he guessed, voice low, uncertain.

You shook your head slowly. “No. Look at the tissue, it’s necrotizing. Like it’s… eating itself.”

He frowned, stepping back a little. “That’s… not normal, right?”

You shot him a look. “Nothing about this is normal.”

He gave a breathless chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “Good to know we’re on the same page.”

You crouched beside the body, taking one last look. The smell burned the back of your throat, but you forced yourself to study it, the mottled veins, the stiff limbs, the faint shimmer of fluid drying on the floor.

“Maybe we’ll send labs out to check it,” you said finally, straightening. Your tone was even, measured, too much so. The kind of professional certainty you used when you didn’t actually have any.

Leon caught it anyway. He glanced at you, expression softer now, concern cutting through the leftover adrenaline. “You don’t sound sure.”

You flicked off your flashlight, holstered it again. “Doesn’t matter what I sound like. Let’s move.”

But the air still felt wrong.

The sound of dripping water filled the silence, a slow, deliberate rhythm. You scanned the room, catching the way the shadows shifted when the wind slipped through the cracks in the ceiling. Everything in here seemed to breathe, even when it shouldn’t.

Leon followed you out into the hallway, quieter now. The adrenaline was wearing off, and you could feel it in the space between you, that brittle stillness that came after things almost went bad.

You stopped just long enough to check your radio again. Still dead.

“You need to work on following orders,” you said finally.

He huffed a quiet laugh behind you. “What, ‘don’t get mauled’ wasn’t clear enough?”

You looked over your shoulder at him. “Next time, stay close.”

His grin flickered, softer this time, the edge of nerves still in it. “Copy that.”

You didn’t say anything else. You just kept walking, the flashlight beam swinging ahead of you, cutting through dust and shadow.

Behind you, you could still hear him breathing, steady, alive, trying not to step on your heels.

And even though you’d never admit it out loud, the sound made the silence a little easier to bear.

The air changed first. A low, splintering groan rippled through the ceiling, wood complaining against time, metal straining against rust. It was the kind of sound old buildings make right before they quit.

“Leon—” you started, but the warning barely made it past your lips before the beam gave out.

The crack was deafening.

You didn’t think, you moved. You shoved him down, body slamming into his as you both hit the floor behind a desk just as the world came apart overhead.

Plaster exploded across the room. Ceiling tiles shattered, pipes snapped. The sound was a roar, then a whimper, then a long, ragged silence. Dust filled your lungs before you could gasp for air.

When it stopped, you were half-sprawled over him, the world around you nothing but gray haze and the sting of dust in your eyes.

Leon coughed beneath you, voice muffled against your shoulder. “...You alive?”

You coughed once, your throat raw. “Yeah. You?”

He gave a breathless laugh. “Think so. Mostly.”

You shifted, blinking grit out of your eyes. The desk above you was half-collapsed, one leg bent inward but miraculously still standing. The air was so thick it looked solid—like you could carve your way out with your bare hands.

And in that choking fog, the two of you were pressed together so close it didn’t feel real.

His chest rose against yours with every breath, fast and shallow. His heartbeat was a wild drum, muffled but there, right under your ribs. You could feel it, every pulse of it. His vest was gritty against your jacket, his breath warm against the curve of your neck.

You heard him whisper, almost laughing, voice low and rough. “So… this part of training too?”

You turned your head, lips close enough to his ear that he could feel the words more than hear them. “Don’t make me regret saving you.”

He huffed a soft laugh, quieter this time. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You exhaled slowly, forcing your pulse to steady. The dust began to settle around you in lazy swirls. Somewhere in the distance, a beam groaned and shifted, the noise muffled by the debris piled over half the room.

You could feel him trembling, not fear, but leftover adrenaline, the kind that didn’t have anywhere to go. You’d seen it before, but never felt it like this, the tiny vibrations running through both of you.

You were about to move, shift your weight, give him room to breathe, when it happened. His hand brushed your back.

Barely a touch. Just a small, instinctive movement, like he was checking you were still there, still solid. But even through the layers of your uniform, the contact lit a spark beneath your skin, quick and confusing.

He froze the moment he realized it. You could feel the hesitation, the tension in his fingers before he pulled his hand back slightly, murmuring, “Sorry. Just, making sure you’re okay.”

Your voice came out lower than intended. “Next time, use your words.”

“Noted,” he whispered.

The silence that followed was thicker than before, broken only by the distant drip of water and the slow, uneven sound of your breathing. You told yourself it was ridiculous to notice things like warmth or nearness when you were literally lying in the wreckage of a half-collapsed building. But your hand was close to his, so close your pinky brushed the edge of his glove when you shifted.

Neither of you moved away.

For a second, it felt suspended there, the two of you breathing the same dust, hearts thrumming just out of sync, every sound amplified by the quiet aftermath of the collapse.

You cleared your throat, pushing yourself up just enough to peer over the desk. The ceiling was a disaster, cracked beams, fractured plaster, sunlight bleeding through from somewhere above.

You let out a long breath. “When I say ‘stay close,’ Kennedy, I don’t mean this close.”

Even through the grime, his smile managed to look boyish. “Sure. Got it. Different kind of close next time.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed yourself off him, ignoring the way his hand instinctively hovered near your back again as if to steady you. You told yourself it was out of habit—muscle memory from training, but you didn’t tell him to stop.

He climbed up after you, brushing dust off his shoulders. “Guess the building didn’t like us much.”

“Most people don’t,” you muttered, checking your flashlight. It flickered weakly back to life.

“Yeah, but I’m not ‘most people,’ right?”

You gave him a look, but it didn’t land the way you meant it to. “Don’t make me test that theory.”

He grinned faintly, rubbing the back of his neck, and for once, you didn’t correct him when he fell into step behind you.

The two of you stood for a moment, side by side in the pale shaft of light cutting through the dust. You could still feel the phantom imprint of his touch on your back—warm, grounding, impossible to shake.

You told yourself it was just the adrenaline. That it meant nothing.

But when you started walking again, you didn’t tell him to give you space.

The rest of the building was blessedly still after the collapse. No groaning beams, no ominous shifting above you, just the steady, faint hiss of rain starting to fall somewhere outside.

You and Leon made your way through the dim corridors, your flashlight cutting through the haze of settling dust. The air smelled like wet plaster and old metal, thick and sharp in your lungs.

Dispatch crackled faintly in your ear again, distorted but finally coming through: “Unit 14, status? We lost your signal. Backup en route.”

You thumbed the radio. “We’re fine. Minor collapse. Situation contained.”

Leon shot you a sidelong look, coughing into his sleeve. “Minor?”

You didn’t bother answering, just nudged open the nearest door with your boot and stepped out into the gray light of the overcast evening. The rain was coming down soft at first, the kind that clung to your eyelashes and ran down your collar in slow, cold trickles. It felt cleaner than the air inside, like the world outside hadn’t noticed the building dying behind you.

Two RPD units pulled up near the old fence line, lights flashing lazily. A couple of officers leaned out the driver-side window, faces lined with curiosity.

“Everything good, ______? Heard you on the radio, sounded rough.”

“Minor collapse,” you repeated, voice even. “We’re fine.”

They looked past you at Leon, who was standing beside you, uniform streaked gray with dust, hair plastered damp against his forehead.

He gave them a sheepish thumbs-up. “Just… atmospheric.”

You didn’t wait for the follow-up questions. You waved the backup off with a curt gesture, then started toward the patrol car. Leon fell in behind you automatically, quiet for once.

The rain picked up as you walked, flattening the dust that still clung to your boots. The lot glistened under the flashing lights. It was almost peaceful, if you ignored the adrenaline still humming in your veins like an overworked circuit.

You reached the car and leaned against the door for a second, finally letting yourself breathe. The rhythmic patter of rain against metal filled the silence between you.

Leon stood a few feet away, head tilted back, eyes closed, letting the rain hit his face. The dirt streaking his cheek was running clean now, tiny rivers carving paths down his skin. For once, he wasn’t smiling.

You broke the quiet first. “Congratulations. You survived another day.”

He looked over, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “Because you had my back.”

You crossed your arms, the motion automatic, defensive. “Don’t get used to it.”

He chuckled softly, but there was something gentler in his voice when he said, “You didn’t leave me.”

The rain made a steady rhythm between you, punctuating the quiet.

You met his eyes briefly, then looked away toward the skyline, the outline of the RPD faint in the distance. “Could’ve,” you said simply. “Didn’t.”

He nodded slowly, not pushing it, not smiling. Just standing there with that quiet kind of understanding that somehow said more than his usual cheer ever did.

You pushed off the car door and opened the driver’s side. “Get in before you rust,” you muttered.

He snorted but obeyed, sliding into the passenger seat with a faint grunt. The car’s interior smelled faintly of old coffee and dust now, but it felt safer than the building had, too small, too close, but safe.

Neither of you talked much on the drive back. The rain turned heavier, blurring the edges of the city through the windshield. You could hear the wipers working overtime, the occasional rattle when the car hit a puddle.

Every now and then, you caught Leon glancing your way, nothing overt, just the quiet kind of look someone gives when they’re making sure something’s still real.

When you finally pulled into the RPD lot, the world was washed gray and silver. The other cars glistened under the streetlights. The storm had turned the asphalt slick enough to reflect every flash of the lights on your dash.

You killed the engine. The sudden quiet filled the cabin.

Leon unbuckled slowly, eyes still somewhere distant. “Guess we’ll have paperwork for this one.”

“Guess you’ll be writing most of it,” you said, leaning back in your seat.

He laughed under his breath. “Fair.”

You watched the rain trail across the windshield for a moment, the steady pattern of it tapping against the glass. The adrenaline had ebbed, leaving something else in its place, something you didn’t want to name.

You opened the door. The rain hit you again, cold and grounding.

Leon climbed out on his side, jogging around to meet you near the back of the car. He hesitated, hands shoved into his pockets, then said, “Hey, thanks. For… you know.”

You tilted your head. “Not letting the ceiling crush you?”

“That too.” He smiled, small and genuine. “But also for not leaving.”

You sighed, turning toward the building entrance. “Don’t make it sound dramatic, rookie. I was already there.”

He grinned at that, the warmth back in his voice. “Right. Lucky me.”

You didn’t answer. You just started walking, your boots splashing softly through shallow puddles. You could hear him fall in behind you again, his steps a little lighter than before.

This time, though, he didn’t step on your heels. He kept just enough distance, close, but not too close.

When you reached the door, you caught yourself glancing back, just for a second. He was still there, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes bright even in the rain.

You told yourself it was just part of the job. Training. Another rookie to wrangle, another day to survive.

The rain followed you in.

Not literally, but close enough. It clung to your jacket and your sleeves and the ends of your hair, dripping in slow, stubborn beads that hit the tile with soft little plinks. By the time you cleared the lobby, you’d left a dotted trail behind you that Maintenance was absolutely going to complain about in the morning memo. The building hummed its usual song, fluorescent lights buzzing like tired insects, typewriters chattering somewhere deeper in, printers wheezing out reports no one wanted to read. The smell was the same as always, too: burnt coffee, paper, gun oil.

After an afternoon spent in a building that smelled like wet rot and old ghosts, it felt almost rude to walk into somewhere so… normal.

You didn’t slow down. You didn’t shake off the rain. You just made a straight line for the bullpen, folder under your arm, jaw set. You could already feel him behind you — that rookie energy, too bright to disguise, trailing after you like sunlight that didn’t know when to stop.

The second you pushed through the bullpen doors, every head turned.

They always did when something disrupted the monotony. A busted perp, a shouting match, a rookie dripping plaster dust. And the two of you definitely counted. You were soaked, uniform spotted with gray dust, hair damp around your face. Leon looked worse, or better, depending on who you asked. His vest was streaked palest gray where the ceiling had kissed him, his hair was matted to his forehead, and there was a smear on his cheek he hadn’t noticed yet.

Somebody spun their chair around like this was the entertainment break.

“Hey, _____,” one of the older patrol guys called, grin already loaded. “You finally break a partner?”

You did not have the energy for this.

You didn’t even look his way. You just lifted a hand, palm out, lazy, dismissive — the universal keep talking and I’ll make you fill out your own incident report. It got the usual chuckles, the office kind, all low and knowing. None of them meant any harm. They almost never did.

Behind you, Leon didn’t fire back. Didn’t even roll his eyes. He ducked his head like the comment had been aimed at him, which, okay, maybe it had, and kept walking. Too polite to glare. Too new to throw something back. He looked like a soaked golden retriever that had been told it was “a bit much.”

You cut through the room toward your desk, ignoring the looks. The clack of keyboards, the smack of someone closing a filing cabinet, the faint radio chatter, it all faded once you had your target.

You pointed at the chair beside your desk. “Sit.”

He sat. Immediately. No questions, no soft protest, no I’m fine. Just okay, like his default setting around you was obedience. The chair gave a damp little squeak when he hit it; his vest made that miserable soaked-fabric sound. You winced on behalf of the upholstery.

Only then did you catch the line of red on his arm.

It wasn’t dramatic, not a gash, not a bullet wound, not even anything worth bragging about. Just a shallow scrape along his forearm, where a piece of debris had clearly hit him when the ceiling came down. It had bled more than it should’ve, like all arm wounds, and now it was smudged with dust and rain and God knew what else that had been in that building.

He didn’t even seem to realize it was there. He was too busy trying not to make eye contact with the officers who were obviously watching him. And he knew they were, you could tell by the way he kept looking just above their heads, like he hadn’t quite learned the art of ignoring a room yet.

You sighed. Of course. You set the folder down, opened the overhead cabinet, and pulled out the first-aid kit. “Hold still.”

He blinked up at you, surprised. “Oh, I— it’s really fine, I can—”

“You’re leaking on the floor, Kennedy,” you said, already popping the kit open. “Sit still before I staple it shut.”

That did it. His mouth shut with a little click. His hands folded in his lap like he was in high school and you were about to ask him why he was late to homeroom. He looked up at you, not afraid, just… chastened. A dust-streaked, rain-soaked, six-foot-tall scolded puppy.

Unfair.

You crouched beside the chair, the plastic of the kit creaking as you dug through it. Someone had put everything back in the wrong order, again, so you had to sift past gauze, triangular bandages, a pair of scissors you didn’t trust, and three individually wrapped alcohol swabs before you found the antiseptic.

You soaked a cotton pad, the smell of mint-and-vodka antiseptic filling the air between you, and pressed it firmly to the scrape.

He hissed. Loudly.

“Don’t move,” you warned.

“That burns.”

“That means it’s working.”

He blew out a breath through his nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “ow,” and you ignored him. You’d cleaned worse. You’d cleaned bullet tracks, glass cuts, split brows, knife slips. This was cake.

Still, the room sounded different now.

The bullpen had gone back to its usual rhythm, phones, printers, chairs rolling, but it was all further away, like someone had turned the volume down. You were aware of the rain ticking against the windows and the hum of the fluorescent light overhead more than you were of the conversations.

You were also very aware of him.

“Stop squirming,” you said, because he’d shifted his arm a half-inch.

He let out a half-laugh, half-groan. “I’m not squirming.”

“You’re absolutely squirming.” You pressed a little harder, just to prove a point. “Hold still or I’m stapling you to the chair.”

He sucked a breath in through his teeth, eyes squeezing shut for a second — and then he laughed. Properly this time. Low, unguarded, the kind of laugh people don’t make on purpose.

“You’re really gentle, you know that?” he said, voice still warm with it.

You looked up long enough to give him the blankest stare you could manage. “You don’t bleed quietly, rookie.”

That earned you another laugh, softer. It didn’t belong in this room, not with the white walls and the bad lighting and the smell of floor cleaner, but somehow it made the place feel less like a building and more like somewhere people actually worked.

The scrape wasn’t deep, but it was messy, little flecks of plaster stuck in the dried blood. You worked them out carefully, thumb steady on his wrist. You felt his pulse there, steady, strong. Too steady for someone who’d been underneath a falling ceiling an hour ago.

You tried not to notice that, too.

“Hold this,” you said, pressing one edge of the gauze into his hand.

He took it immediately, fingers gentle on the fabric, like he didn’t want to mess up your work. The quiet obedience might’ve annoyed you if it hadn’t been paired with that look,  the one where he watched you like the sun watches the horizon. Not needy. Not pushy. Just… there. Warm.

You reached for the tape. He shifted in the chair, not a lot, just enough that his boot scuffed the floor and his knee knocked into your thigh.

You didn’t look up. You also didn’t move away.

The gauze wrapped cleanly around his arm, bright white against his dark uniform. You smoothed it down, then tugged the tape a little tighter than strictly necessary.

He winced, shoulders tensing.

“There,” you said, sitting back on your heels. “All patched.”

He flexed his fingers once, testing how much give you’d left him. “Tight.”

“It’s supposed to be.”

“Pretty sure that’s a tourniquet.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He smiled, and this time, it wasn’t the big, poster-boy grin he gave the rest of the department. It was smaller. Less teeth, more eyes. Warm, but quiet about it. It hit lower than you wanted it to.

You were close enough now to see the tiny spray of freckles at the edge of his jaw. The wet strands of blond hair stuck to his forehead. The way the line between his brows smoothed out when he realized you weren’t actually mad.

You weren’t sure when you’d stopped pretending to ignore him.

He watched you check the bandage, watched your fingers as you smoothed the edge, made sure it wouldn’t peel. You let your hand stay there for half a second too long. You told yourself it was to check the pressure.

He was not staring at you. Staring would’ve been obvious. This was worse. This was looking. The kind of looking that sees. The kind that gathers. Like he was storing away the moment, or your face, or the way your hands moved. Like he wanted to remember it.

Why does he have to look at people like that? you thought, irritated at how soft the question sounded in your own skull. Like he’s cataloguing reasons to stay hopeful.

You cleared your throat, broke the moment. Reached for one of the alcohol wipes just to have something to do with your hands.

“Should’ve worn your long sleeves,” you muttered.

“Didn’t plan on wrestling the undead drywall,” he said, automatically.

You blinked at him. “You’re not funny.”

“I’m kind of funny.”

“You’re really not.”

But he smiled like you’d just confirmed his existence.

He let the silence sit for a second, then said, and this time the playfulness was gone “You didn’t have to do this yourself.”

You stilled. The wipe hovered over your hand. Sincerity always did this, made everything feel like it had too much gravity.

You shrugged like it was nothing. “Better me than whoever last used the station scissors.”

He huffed a small laugh, eyes dropping to the floor like he was embarrassed to be taken care of. “You ever let anyone else patch you up?”

You snapped the kit shut harder than you needed to. “I don’t get hurt.”

He looked up, eyes warm in a way that made you want to look anywhere else. “Right. Of course you don’t.”

You grabbed a paper towel from the counter and wiped your hands. The antiseptic smell clung stubbornly to your skin. He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t push. Just sat there, elbow on his knee, staring at the neat line of white around his arm like it meant he’d passed some kind of test.

You crossed your arms. “What?”

He met your eyes, something softer in his expression now. “Just… thanks.”

It was simple. But it landed.

You let out a slow breath, looked away. “Don’t make a habit of it.”

He smiled again, tired, genuine, none of the show-off shine. “No promises.”

The room settled around you again. Not the awkward silence from earlier, not that jagged thing that wanted to be filled. This one was… quiet. Comfortable. Like the noise from the bullpen had faded to something you could ignore.

He sat there longer than he had to. You let him.

Then, finally, he spoke again, even softer this time. “I know I’m not easy to work with.”

You paused mid-reach, the kit halfway to the shelf. You turned, brows pulling together. “Where’s this coming from?”

He shrugged, mouth twisting like he was trying to find the least embarrassing way to say it. “You don’t have to say it. I can tell. I talk too much. I… get in the way. I missed your signal back there.” His gaze flicked to the bandage. “You shouldn’t have had to cover for me.”

You opened your mouth with the automatic response, you didn’t listen, you moved out of range, don’t do it again, but it didn’t feel right now that he’d said it himself. He already knew. He’d already flagged his own mistake.

So instead you said, quieter, “Then listen more. Talk less.”

He looked up, and that smile, the quiet one, the one he didn’t use on everyone, eased back onto his face. “Yes, ma’am.”

You almost smiled back. Almost. It tugged at the corner of your mouth and you swatted it away before it could escape.

You sat on the edge of your desk, arms folded. “You really think I’m the one you should be learning from?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah.” Then, almost shyly, “You’re… good at this. You don’t miss stuff. You don’t panic. You make it look like… like the job isn’t bigger than you.” He shrugged again, self-conscious. “I wanna be like that.”

You looked away, not because you were annoyed, but because you didn’t like being seen that clearly. “Observation skills need work.”

He grinned, leaning back. “Guess that’s why I’m learning.”

The silence after that was different. Settled. Like both of you knew something had shifted and neither of you was going to poke it too hard.

You closed the kit properly this time and put it back in its place. “You’re done. You can go.”

He pushed himself up, testing his arm again like he wanted to make sure it would pass your inspection. Then he just… stood there. Not leaving. Not fidgeting, for once. Just looking at you like he was trying to memorize the way you looked in bad lighting and damp clothes.

“You know,” he said finally, rubbing the back of his neck, scattering a few flecks of dust onto the floor, “I think we make a pretty good team.”

You raised a brow. “You think too much.”

“Still true.”

The grin he gave you then wasn’t bright. It wasn’t loud. It was just… warm. For you, specifically. No audience. No need to prove he was happy to be here. Just a rookie who’d nearly gotten mauled in a dead building and still somehow thought partnering with you was the best part of his day.

He turned to go, boots squeaking a little on the still-damp tile. At the door, he glanced back over his shoulder.

“See you tomorrow, partner.”

You didn’t stop him.

The door closed with a soft click. The room, suddenly, felt too big. Too quiet.

You exhaled, shoulders dropping without permission. You told yourself it was just part of the job, keeping the rookie alive, keeping the reports clean, keeping the sheriff off your ass. Routine. Nothing more.

You reached for your jacket, slinging it off the back of the chair, and your hand paused.

There, on the sleeve, just above the cuff, was a faint smear of dried blood. His. From when you’d steadied his arm. From when he’d looked at you like you were the safest thing in the room.

You should’ve grabbed a wipe. You should’ve scrubbed it off. You always did.

Instead, your fingers brushed over it once. Then stayed.

You didn’t wipe it off. Not right away.

You turned off the light, stepped out into the hallway, and let the door close behind you, carrying with you the stubborn, ridiculous warmth of a rookie who smiled like the world hadn’t gotten to him yet.

For now, he was still your responsibility. And, annoyingly, you didn’t hate that.

The RPD after dark never quite sleeps. It hums.

Not the kind of hum that says alive, but the kind that settles into the walls — a low, constant thrum beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights, the whisper of air through the vents, the slow tick of the clock above the filing cabinets. It’s the sound of a building that’s been awake too long.

Outside, thunder rolls somewhere far off, more like a sigh than a warning. Rain streaks the windows, cutting the reflection of your desk lamp into thin, fractured lines. Every few seconds, a drop slides down the glass and catches the light before vanishing. You’ve been watching them more than you’ve been watching the words on the page.

Your jacket hangs off the back of your chair, still damp from the walk in. It’s started to steam faintly in the warmth of the room. Your hair’s doing the same, sticking to the back of your neck, strands curling where they’ve started to dry. You should’ve gone home hours ago. Everyone else did. The bullpen looks hollow without the noise: empty chairs, stacks of folders abandoned mid-process, someone’s forgotten mug leaving a ring on a report. The overhead lights are off in most of the room, just your desk lamp left on, a small circle of yellow light fighting back against the gray.

The vending machine hums in the corner, louder than usual. It fills the silence like a stand-in for conversation.

You type slowly. Not because the report is hard, but because the words feel heavier than they should. “Old Fairview disturbance: resolved. One injured civilian. One deceased animal. Cause: undetermined.” The rest of the blanks you leave half-empty. You can’t think of the phrasing for “looked like it was rotting alive.”

You stop to rub your eyes. The screen blurs when you open them again.

The coffee in your mug has gone cold, bitter on your tongue when you take a sip just to have something to do. The smell lingers in the air anyway, mixed with paper and the faint tang of cleaning solution. It’s ordinary. Comforting in a way you don’t quite trust.

You tell yourself you’re here because you need to finish the paperwork, that it’ll drive you crazy if you leave it unfinished. But that’s not true. Not really.

You’re here because you don’t want to go home yet.

Because you can already picture it: the apartment dark, the slow drip of a leaky faucet, the silence pressing too close. The kind of silence that doesn’t hum like the RPD, it listens.

You glance at the chair opposite yours, the one he sat in earlier, fidgeting while you wrapped his arm, laughing too softly at your scolding. It’s empty now, the cushion still dented from his weight. You look away fast, typing another line into the report that you’ll probably delete later.

You reach for the stack of incident notes and shuffle through them just to make noise. Anything to fill the space.

The rain outside shifts from steady to soft, the rhythm uneven, like footsteps trying to keep time. The thunder grumbles again, distant, half-hearted.

It’s too late for anyone to still be around, but you hear a door close somewhere down the hall. A faint echo, metal on metal. Maybe someone from night patrol. Maybe the janitor.

You glance toward the hallway, but the sound dies before you can decide whether to care. You go back to your report, fingers hovering over the keys. You type your name at the bottom and stare at it. It looks strange in this light, too sharp, too formal. You delete it and type it again.

It’s not the work that keeps you here. You know that. It’s the space between the day and the night, the part where the adrenaline wears off, but your mind hasn’t caught up yet. The part where you start to feel things you don’t have names for.

You breathe out through your nose, slow and steady. The lamp hums. The clock ticks. The world outside drifts in shades of gray. You tell yourself you’ll leave after this page. You don’t believe yourself.

The footsteps reach you before the man does, light, uneven, hesitant. You don’t even need to look up to know who they belong to. No one else in the RPD walks like that.

You keep your eyes on the report, fingers resting on the keys as if you’re still typing. It buys you a few seconds of pretending.

Then: “Hey.”

You look up anyway.

Leon’s standing in the doorway, haloed by the hallway light, damp around the edges, like the rain followed him in. His hair is still wet, darker where it clings to his forehead, and his sleeves are rolled up just far enough to show the new bandage on his arm. His badge hangs a little crooked, his vest half undone. He looks exhausted, but not wrecked, just softened. The sharp edges of the day worn down to something human.

He’s holding a folder in one hand and a thermos in the other — the kind of props people bring when they want to look like they have a reason to be somewhere.

“You left this in the car,” he says, lifting the folder slightly.

You glance at it. “You walked through a thunderstorm to bring me a folder?”

He shrugs, mouth twitching. “I was in the neighborhood.”

You snort, finally sitting back in your chair. “The neighborhood is six blocks and a river away.”

“Yeah, but it’s a nice river.”

You give him a flat look. He grins like he can’t help it.

The sound of rain presses faintly against the windows again, a steady hush that fills the space between you. He lingers in the doorway for a second too long, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed in. You don’t tell him to leave, and that seems to be permission enough.

He crosses the bullpen quietly, the floor creaking under his boots, and drops the folder onto your desk. Then he gestures to the thermos. “Brought you coffee too. Thought yours had probably turned into tar by now.”

You eye it suspiciously. “You didn’t make this, did you?”

He gasps, feigning offense. “What kind of person do you think I am?”

“A rookie who once called the copier a printer with ambition.”

That earns you an honest laugh. The kind that crinkles at the corners of his eyes and shakes off a little of the tension in the air.

“Fair,” he admits, setting the thermos down gently beside your cold mug. The smell of actual coffee, fresh, not burnt, curls up from the lid when you unscrew it. It’s warm, comforting, and far too considerate.

He doesn’t move away, though. He leans against the edge of your desk, just outside the pool of lamplight, watching you the way someone does when they’re searching for an opening and can’t find one. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the hum of the vending machine and the rain against the window.

Then he says, softly, “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

You take a sip of the coffee to stall. “You didn’t think, period.”

“Maybe.” His grin fades, replaced by something quieter. “Still figured you’d be the last one out.”

You glance up at him. “That a compliment or an accusation?”

“Little of both.”

The silence that follows isn’t the sharp kind. It settles in like an old coat, familiar, worn, just heavy enough to notice.

Leon’s still there, arms crossed loosely now, gaze flicking from the reports on your desk to your face and back again. He looks like he wants to say something else but can’t decide if he should.

You don’t ask. You don’t need to.

Whatever it is, you already know it isn’t about the folder.

Leon doesn’t leave the way you half expect him to. Instead, he drags the empty chair, the same one you’d made him sit in earlier while you wrapped his arm, across the tile and drops into it with a soft scrape of metal legs. The sound folds into the hum of the room like it belongs there.

He looks too big for the space, knees bent awkwardly, forearms resting on them. You should tell him to go home, to clock out and get some sleep, but you don’t. You just keep typing, eyes fixed on the screen.

He picks up one of your pens from the desk and starts tapping it lightly against his knee, a steady rhythm that threads through the ticking clock and the whisper of rain. You try not to let it get under your skin. You’ve always hated background noise, but somehow, his isn’t grating. It’s just… there. Filling the space that would otherwise feel too empty.

A few minutes pass like that. You keep working. He keeps watching. The sound of the keys, the tap of the pen, the rain, steady, hypnotic, almost domestic. It feels wrong for something in this city to feel that way.

Finally, his voice breaks the quiet. “You always stay this late?”

You don’t look up. “Paperwork doesn’t file itself.”

He grins softly. You can hear it in his tone when he says, “You’d think being the best on the force gets you out of grunt work.”

“You’d think wrong,” you reply, flipping a page of the report.

He chuckles under his breath and keeps tapping. “Guess it’s nice, though. Quiet. Nobody yelling, no phones ringing. Kinda peaceful.”

You hum in acknowledgment, the sound barely audible. Peaceful isn’t what you’d call it. Peaceful feels like an illusion. But you don’t argue.

For a while, the silence stretches again, warm this time instead of heavy. You can feel his gaze on you, not prying or invasive, just steady. The kind of look that sits softly on your skin. You ignore it, keep pretending you don’t notice, even though it makes the back of your neck prickle.

The clock ticks louder now that the rain’s softened outside. You add another line to the report, fingers brushing against the rim of the coffee thermos he brought you earlier. It’s still warm. You hate that he thought to do that. You hate that it matters.

When he speaks again, it’s quieter. “You know… I used to think this place would feel different.”

You glance up, caught off guard by the shift in tone. He’s not looking at you this time, he’s staring at the far wall, pen still tapping gently against his knee. “The RPD, I mean. I thought it’d feel… I don’t know. Bigger, I guess. Like something out of a movie.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

He smiles faintly, still not looking at you. “You didn’t.”

You freeze for half a second too long before going back to the report. “Flattery’s not going to make me finish this faster.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

The tapping stops. You can feel his eyes on you again, heavier this time. It’s almost enough to make you shift in your seat. Almost.

You write another sentence just to have an excuse not to meet his gaze.

Then, softly, so softly you almost miss it, he says your name.

Your actual name. Not your last name, not the clipped “Officer” everyone else uses, not even “boss.”

It lands like static in your chest, a tiny spark under your ribs.

You stop mid-word. The pen halts, ink pooling slightly on the page.

When you look up, he’s watching you, steady, uncertain, but not apologetic. There’s no smirk this time, no teasing grin. Just quiet honesty.

“Don’t call me that,” you say, the words coming out lower than you mean them to.

His brow furrows. “Why not?”

You hold his gaze for a beat too long. “Because it sounds like you mean it.”

The room goes still again.

No pen tapping. No typing. Just the slow drip of rain against the window and the steady, rhythmic tick of the clock. He doesn’t look away. Not this time.

You wait for the usual comeback, some half-joke to break the tension, but it never comes. Instead, he leans back in the chair, exhaling softly, and the sound fills the space between you like something fragile and human. You should look away. You don’t.

The air feels heavier than it should, thick with everything neither of you has said. You’re both too tired to name it, too wired to ignore it.

When you finally glance back down at the desk, the pen in your hand feels strange, like it doesn’t belong there anymore.

Neither of you laugh this time.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped typing until the screen saver flickers to life, washing your desk in a dim, shifting glow. Your fingers hover above the keys, suspended in the quiet. Across from you, Leon’s still sitting there, too still. The tapping of his pen has stopped.

You set the pen down, leaning back slightly. The exhaustion has settled deep in your bones now, but something else hums beneath it, low, persistent, uneasy.

“Why are you really here, Kennedy?”

Your voice cuts through the hum of the vending machine. He blinks, caught off guard, then looks down at his hands. His thumb runs along the curve of the pen like it’s something delicate.

He shrugs once, eyes darting up, then away again. “Didn’t want the day to end like that.”

You study him for a moment. “Like what?”

He breathes out slowly through his nose, like he’s trying to find the right words. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, stripped of its usual brightness. “Like it didn’t matter.”

The line lands sharper than you expect. You feel it in your chest, that small, heavy weight of honesty. You deflect, automatically. “It was just another call. We did our jobs.”

Leon shakes his head, hair still damp enough to catch the light when he moves. “It wasn’t just another call.” He hesitates, gaze flicking back to you. “You could’ve been hurt. I—”

He stops. The word hangs there, suspended in the air like a wire pulled too tight. You can see it, the next thought forming behind his eyes, the one he’s debating whether to let out. His fingers drum softly against the desk, a nervous rhythm that betrays him.

You should cut him off. You should say something before he crosses a line you don’t know how to uncross.

So you do. Quietly. “Don’t.”

It isn’t sharp, not really. It’s tired, weighted. It carries too much behind it. Not yet. Don’t make me look at it. Don’t ruin the fragile thing we’ve built.

The rain outside fills the silence that follows. It hits the glass in uneven beats, soft and endless. You can feel the air change, that small shift that happens when two people realize they’ve reached the edge of something, and both know one more step might make it real.

He looks at you for a long time. The kind of look that doesn’t demand an answer, doesn’t apologize for existing. Just is.

Then he nods. Once. “Okay.”

The word is barely a whisper, but it echoes anyway, the kind of quiet agreement that feels like understanding.

He pushes his chair back slowly, the legs scraping softly against the tile. The sound is too loud in the stillness of the room. You watch him stand, hands sliding into the pockets of his uniform pants like he needs somewhere to put the things he didn’t say.

He lingers for a second, eyes meeting yours again. Something flickers there — warmth, regret, maybe both. Then he looks toward the hallway, toward the exit, toward safety.

For a second, you think he might actually say something more. But he doesn’t.

He just exhales, small and steady, like he’s letting go of a breath he’s been holding since the collapse. The rain keeps falling. The clock ticks. And you stay exactly where you are, hand still resting on the desk, feeling the ghost of a word that didn’t get spoken hanging in the air between you.

Leon makes it halfway to the door before stopping. The rain outside throws rippled shadows against the frosted glass, and for a second, the only sound is the hum of the lights and the faint tick of the clock above your desk.

He turns, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other still shoved deep in his pocket. His voice comes softer than before, stripped of the usual humor.

“You should go home soon. It’s late.”

You look up from the half-finished report, the cursor blinking uselessly on the screen. “You’re still here.”

“Guess I just wanted to make sure you’d be okay.”

You huff, more out of habit than anything else, and lean back in your chair. “I’ve been okay for a long time.”

He nods slowly, gaze steady, expression unreadable except for the smallest flicker of something you don’t have the energy to name. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “But you don’t always have to be.”

The line hits harder than it should. It’s too simple, too kind, and you don’t know what to do with it.

Before you can find an answer, he’s already turning away. The door opens with a low groan, a flash of hallway light spilling across the floor, and then it closes again, gently, like he’s afraid of waking something.

The quiet returns, heavier now.

You stare at the empty chair across from you, the one still angled just slightly toward your desk, and feel the leftover echo of him in the space, the faint warmth where he’d been sitting, the coffee cup he’d left behind, the silence he took with him when he walked out.

Your hand tightens around the pen. You tell yourself you’ll finish the report. You’ll file it, clock out, go home. Routine. Structure. Safety.

But the pen doesn’t move. Because somehow, against all reason, the room feels lonelier now that he’s gone.

The air still hums with the leftover charge of sirens and adrenaline.

The call had been routine, supposedly. A petty theft, a suspect fleeing down a narrow alley slick with oil and rainwater. Nothing the report will remember. But now that it’s over, the silence feels sharper than the chase itself.

You’re parked beneath a sputtering streetlight, its pale cone of gold trembling against the wet pavement. The city’s hum fades at this hour, just the low thrum of distant engines, the whisper of tires on rain-slick asphalt, the faint hiss of wind through puddles. It’s the kind of quiet that feels earned and unwelcome at once.

Leon’s pacing beside the car, his boots splashing faintly in shallow water. He runs a hand through his damp hair, breath still uneven, and tries to laugh, too light, too quick. “Well, that could’ve gone worse, right?”

You don’t laugh. You’re standing by the open driver’s door, one hand braced against the roof, pulse still thrumming under your skin. “You don’t rush in like that. You wait for backup.”

He freezes mid-step, eyes flicking toward you, rain streaking across his temple. “There wasn’t time!”

“Then you make time, rookie.”

The word lands harder than you meant it to. Sharp, like a slap meant for something else.

Leon exhales, the laugh dying in his throat. “I thought I had him.”

“You thought.” You slam the door shut harder than necessary, the sound cracking through the night. “That’s how people get killed.”

He blinks, water dripping from the ends of his hair. “I’m fine. You’re fine.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s kind of the point!” he shoots back, voice raising before he catches it and softens again. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I just—reacted.”

You shake your head, pacing a few steps away, the rain finding its rhythm against your shoulders. “You don’t react. You think. You assess. You wait.”

“I couldn’t see you,” he says, and the words come out quieter this time, rawer. “You went around the corner and I—” He cuts himself off, swallows. “I just didn’t want something to happen and have to listen to it instead of stopping it.”

You stop, turning just enough to see him through the blur of rain and streetlight. He looks smaller like this, not in size but in the way he’s holding himself, jacket unzipped, hands twitching uselessly at his sides, trying to find somewhere safe to put his guilt.

“I didn’t ask you to play hero,” you say, voice quieter now, but still tight.

He looks up, meets your eyes, and for a beat the distance between you feels thinner than the space it takes to breathe. “I wasn’t,” he says softly. “I just didn’t want to lose sight of you.”

The words are too close to something else—something neither of you is ready to name. You look away first, running a hand down your face. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he says, half a laugh, half an exhale. “Been told that a few times today.”

The argument dissolves, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the rain and the sound of both your breathing. You lean back against the car, feeling the metal cold through your jacket. The puddles reflect the flickering light, catching pieces of both your faces in warped gold and silver.

He stands across from you now, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. The tension’s still there, stretching between you like a pulled wire, but under it, something else hums: relief, exhaustion, something dangerously close to care.

You sigh, finally letting your shoulders drop. “Next time,” you say, not looking at him, “you wait for backup.”

Leon nods, rain dripping from his chin. “Yes, ma’am.”

The words come quiet, earnest. Not teasing this time. Just a promise.

The wind picks up, carrying the smell of wet asphalt and the faint trace of gun oil from your holster. You tell yourself the shiver that runs through you is just the cold. But when you glance at him again, still standing there, still watching, you know it’s something else entirely.

The thing about adrenaline is it never leaves cleanly.

Even when the sirens are gone and the suspect’s cuffed and the report in your head is already half-written, it still clings, to your jaw, to your breathing, to the way your voice comes out sharper than it needs to. It’s still in you now, humming like a bad wire, and he’s close enough to get shocked.

“You can’t do that,” you say again, because saying it once wasn’t enough to burn it out of your system. “You can’t just charge in because you feel like it.”

Leon throws his hands up, rain flicking off his fingers. “I didn’t ‘feel like it’  I saw an opening.”

“You saw a bad idea.”

“It worked.”

“It almost didn’t.”

He stares at you like he can’t believe you’re still mad. “We got him.”

“You could’ve gotten hurt.”

The word comes out too fast, too loud. It startles even you.

Leon blinks, water dripping off his lashes. “I—”

“You don’t get to decide that’s worth it,” you go on, unable to stop now that you’ve started. “You don’t get to decide, ‘Oh, I’ll just take the hit, she’ll cover me.’ That’s not how this works.”

“I thought we were a team,” he fires back, sudden, wounded. “Isn’t that the point?”

“It is,” you snap. “Which is why you don’t make me watch you run into fire, Kennedy.”

The name cracks across the wet street. The streetlight above you flickers like even it’s flinching.

He stares at you for a half-second, rain on his brow, jaw tight, chest still rising too fast from the chase, and then something in him just… breaks free.

“I can’t not care about you!”

It rips out of him, rough and raw and way too loud for a sleeping street. Not polished. Not sweet. Just the truth dragged out of him at last because you pushed and pushed and pushed. The words hit the air and hang there like steam, bright and exposed. You freeze.

You feel the pulse thunder in your throat, in your ears, in the place behind your ribs you keep locked. The rain suddenly feels colder. The street suddenly feels too small. That one sentence rearranges everything between you.

He realizes what he said the exact second you do.

His eyes widen; his mouth opens and closes once. “I mean—” He stumbles over it, hands lifting, useless. “I mean you’re my partner, I just— I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t.” Your voice is low now. Not angry, dangerous. “Don’t walk it back.”

He shuts his mouth.

You swallow, rain rolling down the line of your jaw. “You don’t get to say things like that, Kennedy.”

That’s when he laughs.

Not the big, bright, “everyone likes me” laugh. This one’s small and uneven and kind of broken around the edges, like he can’t believe this is happening and also somehow knew it was always going to.

“You say my name,” he breathes, shaking his head, rain dripping from his hair, “like it’s supposed to make me stop.”

The streetlight above you gives another tired flicker, painting both of you in stuttering gold. The rain picks up just a little, coming in sideways now, driven by a wind that carries the smell of wet pavement and river water. Your jackets are soaked through. Your breath fogs the air between you.

But the silence that slides in now isn’t the same silence from before. It isn’t angry. It isn’t annoyed. It’s thick. Aware. It’s the silence of two people staring straight at the thing they’ve both been pretending not to see.

You hold his gaze. You shouldn’t. You should look away, tell him to get in the car, tell him to write up the damn report. Instead you just… look.

He looks back, and without the jokes, without the sunshine, it’s unbearable. Because it’s all there, finally: the way he tracks you in a room, the way he remembers your coffee, the way he followed you into a collapsing building like that was just what you did when it was you. All of it sitting in his eyes, unhidden.

Wind rolls down the street, shivering through the puddles. Somewhere far off, a dog barks. Everything else is just wet and night and him.

He takes a step forward.

Not a lunge, not a grab, not even something he could pretend was instinct. Just one, measured step, closing the distance from work partner to I can feel your body heat in the rain. Close enough that the damp from his jacket mixes with yours. Close enough that you can see the pulse in his throat.

He stops there. Doesn’t crowd. Doesn’t trap. Just… chooses to be closer.

His voice, when it comes, is softer. “You scared me,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Back there. When I lost sight of you.”

You open your mouth, but nothing worth saying is ready. So he fills the space instead, that earnest, infuriating honesty spilling again. “You tell me to wait, I’ll wait. You tell me to back off, I’ll back off. But don’t ask me not to care. I can’t do that.”

The rain hisses on the asphalt. Your heart does something painful. He’s too young for this, you think, not in age, but in the way he still believes he’s allowed to love things out loud.

You force your jaw to work. “You’re making this—”

“Real?” he offers, wry, eyes shining rain. “Yeah. I know.”

He smiles, but it’s shaky, like maybe this costs him too. “But it already was.”

Rain always makes things worse.

It softens edges, blurs streetlights, slows sirens, and it makes it so much harder to lie. You can hear your own breathing too clearly. You can see his, fogging faintly in the air between you. Everything feels closer, like the world narrowed down to wet pavement, a flickering lamp, and the stupid rookie who won’t stop looking at you like you hung the moon over Raccoon City.

His shoulders are still rising a little too fast from the chase, from the argument, from whatever this is. Yours too. The patrol car ticks quietly as it cools. Somewhere deeper in the city a siren wails and fades, like it belongs to someone else’s night. Not yours.

Then Leon says it.

“I tried not to,” he says, voice lower now, stripped of all the bright edges. “I swear I did. But I—” He huffs out a laugh that isn’t a laugh, shaking his head as rain drips from his hair. “I can’t keep pretending you’re just my partner.”

The words hit like cold water under the collar, sudden, invasive, inescapable.

You should’ve expected it. He’s been circling this for days, in the way he stayed late, in the way he followed you too close in the hall, in the way he said you don’t always have to be okay like he had any right to know that about you. But hearing it out loud still punches the air out of your lungs.

You go for the only weapon you ever trust: logic. Distance. The thing that always saved you.

“You’ll grow out of it,” you say, trying to make it sound obvious. Inevitable. The way rain stops. The way rookies quit. “You’re new. You like people. That’s not the same thing.”

He should roll his eyes, crack a joke, let you have the out you’re handing him. He doesn’t.

He shakes his head, rain sliding down his temple, gathering on his lashes. His smile shows for a second, not the big one, not the “I’m happy to be here” smile, just a small, trembling, God, I wish this was easier smile.

“You don’t grow out of the people who change the way you breathe,” he says.

You hate that it lands. You hate that something in you knows what he means, that small adjustment your chest makes when he appears in a doorway, the way the bullpen noise dulls when he’s near, the way your hand pulled him behind that desk without even thinking. You hate that your body recognizes him even when your brain refuses to.

The air goes different after that. Thinner. Charged. Delicate like glass held too tight.

You become aware of everything at once, of the rain soaking into the collar of your shirt, of the way your hair sticks to your cheek, of the way his jacket is dark with water and still steaming slightly in the cold night air. You can hear his heartbeat, or maybe it’s yours, loud in your ears. You can see the way his hands flex like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

You tell yourself to walk away. Right now. Say no. Say we can’t. Say this is the job and the job comes first. You have said no to easier things. You have walked away from softer people. You know how to do this.

But your feet don’t move.

Because he’s looking at you the way people only look when they’ve decided something, not about you, but about themselves. He’s not asking. He’s not trying to win. He’s just… telling you where he ended up.

You meet his eyes and it hits you, all at once, how young he is and how old this kind of courage is. His eyes are wide but sure, and behind the rain and the tiredness and the last dregs of adrenaline you see it all, laid bare: the fear when he lost sight of you, the admiration when you cleared that room, the way he listened to every order even when he didn’t like it, the devotion that was growing even when you were trying so hard not to water it.

It isn’t grand. There’s no swelling music, no dramatic camera pan. It’s just two people on a wet street, too stubborn and too tired to keep lying.

You swallow, throat tight. “Leon,” you start, because his name is the only thing you trust yourself to say without breaking. “This city eats people alive. It eats partnerships. It eats good intentions. You can’t—”

“I know,” he cuts in, gentle, not arguing. “I know it’s messy. I know it’s wrong on paper. I know I talk too much, and I follow too close, and I make you crazy.”

“You do,” you say, because you need him to know that part is still true.

He almost smiles. “I know. But I still—” He looks down for half a second, searching for the word. When he lifts his head again, it’s there. “I still choose you.”

The way he says it,not I love you, not please love me back, not you owe me this, just I still choose you, makes something in you lurch.

You look past him for a second, out over the empty street, as if the answer might be in the shapeless dark. There’s nothing there. Just puddles catching light and the shape of his shoulders in your periphery.

“I don’t know if I can give you what you want,” you say, quietly, because you’ve always been more honest than kind. “I don’t— I’m not—” You gesture vaguely at yourself, rain flicking off your fingers. “I don’t do this.”

He nods, too fast, like he expected that. “That’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” he insists, stepping just close enough that his words warm the space between you. “Because I didn’t tell you so you’d say it back. I told you because I didn’t want you thinking I was just… following orders.” His eyes search yours, steady, pleading only for understanding. “I follow you.”

That almost undoes you.

Because you remember him in the hallway, in the car, in the building, saying I’ll follow your lead like it was easy. Like it didn’t cost him anything. You remember thinking he was just a golden retriever rookie with too much heart and not enough sense.

Turns out it wasn’t thoughtless. Turns out it was deliberate.

You let out a slow breath, barely more than a sigh. “You make things complicated, Kennedy.”

He huffs a laugh that’s wet and shaky. “You make things worth it.”

God, he’s so earnest. So painfully sincere. So unashamed to feel things out loud. It’s recklessness of a different kind, not the kind that chases suspects into alleys, but the kind that sits in front of someone guarded and says I care anyway.

You look at him, really look, and realize there was never going to be a different ending. Not with the way he kept showing up. Not with the way you kept letting him. You’ve both been walking toward this street, this rain, this confession since the morning you told him to get a leash and he laughed like that meant stay.

“It’s not going to be easy,” you say at last, voice tired and soft and so, so honest.

He nods. “I know.”

“You might regret it.”

“Doubt it.”

“You might.” You search his face for some sign of uncertainty. There isn’t one. Only rain. Only him. “I might.”

His eyes soften like he’s already made peace with that. “Then we regret it together.”

The rain eases like it finally got tired. What was coming down sideways a minute ago softens to a fine, steady drizzle, the kind that hangs in the air and clings to your lashes.

Leon’s watching you like he’s afraid you’ll spook.

Not afraid of you, afraid of losing you. There’s a difference. It’s in the way his shoulders stay squared but his hands won’t quite settle, in the way his breath catches halfway in, in the way his eyes keep flicking from your mouth back to your eyes, checking, checking, checking.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

He waits, and that, somehow, is what undoes you the most. That he’d follow you into a collapsing building without hesitation but won’t cross this last inch of rain-wet air without your permission.

You don’t take a step back. You don’t even tilt your head away. You just… stay.

That’s all he needs.

He exhales, slow, shaky, full of the day and the fight and the confession he just put in your hands. Then he leans in.

Not fast. Not reckless. Slow. Careful. Every inch is a question. Here? Is this okay? Still okay? He gives you a chance to stop him at the start, and then again halfway, and then again when you can feel the warmth of him through the cold.

You tell yourself you’ll pull back.

You tell yourself you’ll stop it before it lands, before it becomes real, before it becomes something the two of you will have to carry in the morning.

Any second now. But you don’t.

Because by the time he’s close enough that his breath ghosts across your cheek, you realize you’ve been waiting for this without letting yourself want it. Every near-miss, every shoulder bump, every “stay close, rookie”, all of it was orbit. This is the center.

His mouth meets yours like a secret.

Not crushed, not frantic, just placed. A confession made in the only language that won’t crack the night in half. It’s warm despite the rain, soft despite the tension braided through both of you. He tastes like coffee gone cold, like rain, like the copper tang of adrenaline fading, like someone who ran too hard and still came back.

For half a heartbeat, you’re too stunned to move. Then your body remembers what to do.

Your hand finds his jacket, not delicate, not practiced, just a fistful of damp fabric right over his chest. He makes a tiny sound against your mouth, not quite a laugh and not quite a gasp, more like oh, surprised you’re pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

His hand comes up, hesitant at first, like he thinks touching you will break the spell, and hovers near your jaw. Then it settles, fingers splaying gently along the line of your face, thumb brushing the rain from your cheekbone. He holds you like you’re something he found in a burning building.

The world shrinks.

No squad car. No reports. No sheriff. No RPD. Just the heat of him and the cool rain and the way his heartbeat slams against your knuckles through his jacket. The streetlight hums above you; the city blurs at the edges. Somewhere, water runs into a gutter. Somewhere, somebody’s closing up shop. None of it matters.

He kisses you like he meant every word he said. Like I can’t not care about you didn’t fall out by accident. Like he’s been holding this back since the first morning you told him to get a map.

It isn’t a kiss that asks for more. It’s a kiss that says this is it. This is what I meant. It aches, not because it’s hungry, but because it’s careful. Reverent, even. He’s not trying to take anything. He’s just trying to give you the truth the way you’ll actually let yourself take it.

You tilt your head a little, not much,  and the angle changes, deeper but still soft. His thumb strokes your jaw once, slow, grounding. You can feel the shiver that runs through him where your hand is fisted in his jacket. Not fear. Just too much feeling with nowhere to go.

You should stop.

You tell yourself again. Any second now. I’ll stop. I’ll pull away. I’ll tell him we can’t.

But he’s warm, and the rain is cold, and his mouth is gentle, and for the first time in a very long time, you don’t feel like someone asking too much of you, you feel chosen. You feel seen.

So you don’t stop.

You let it last. Just long enough for it to sink in. Long enough for him to know you’re kissing him back, not letting him. Long enough for that stubborn, bright, rookie heart to understand you didn’t just tolerate his confession, you accepted it.

When you finally break, it’s not dramatic. You just breathe.

You pull back an inch, maybe two. Your fingers are still knotted in his jacket. His hand is still on your jaw. Both of you are breathing like you ran another alley, short, hitched, trying to catch up.

His forehead tips forward until it’s resting against yours, rain dripping from his hair onto your nose, both of you laughing these tiny, ridiculous, breathless half-laughs that come from relief more than humour.

He whispers, voice rough from holding it all in, “God… I really like you.”

You huff, but it comes out softer than any insult you’ve ever thrown. “You’re an idiot.”

He grins, wide now, unstoppable, stupid-happy even in the rain. “Yeah. Your idiot, though.”

You don’t say no this time.

The next morning you tell yourself nothing’s changed. You walk in exactly on time, hang your jacket on the same hook, brace for the usual RPD chaos — phones, printers, someone swearing at the copier. The bullpen looks the same: too bright, too loud, too gray. Nobody here knows you kissed a rookie in the rain. Nobody knows your heart is doing something stupid about it.

Then you get to your desk. There’s a coffee waiting. Not the burnt communal sludge, a real one, still steaming, your first name messily scrawled on the side. Next to it: a folded sticky note.

It says, in all caps: “FOR STAYING ALIVE. – L” and underneath, smaller: “p.s. if you don’t like this coffee I will cry in the locker room (quietly)”

You snort. Out loud. “Something funny?” someone calls. “No,” you say way too fast, already sipping. It’s good. Of course it is. He paid attention.

You feel him before you see him — that Boy Scout gravity. He leans on your desk like he owns the spot, hair still damp, uniform crisp, smile criminally soft. “Morning, partner,” he says, just for you.

“You bribing your mentor now?” you mutter. “Bribing?” he gasps. “That was a romantic gesture.” “This is a police station.” “Yeah, and you’re still drinking it.”

You flick the sticky note at him; he fumbles it, laughs, tucks it in his vest like evidence. Then he strolls off and, way too loud, goes, “Morning! Don’t mind me, just keeping my officer caffeinated!”

by the time you and toji arrive at the pregame, everyone's already a few drinks in. they're talking quickly, interrupting one another and barking out sharp laughs at stupid jokes until they hear the door being pushed open, the sound of two sets of footsteps joining the group.

the chatter quiets down, everyone waiting to finally see your mysterious and elusive older boyfriend who they'd heard so much about. and when toji walks in behind you with a deadpan expression on his face and a 6 pack of beer in his hand, there's a stretch of silence.

until shoko breaks it.

"this is the man who's almost forty?" 

you cringe at that, not needing to look to know that toji's eye is probably twitching, there may even be a vein bulging in his forehead— he always hated when you brought up that next big milestone, even if he was still a few years away from it.

"shit, i hope i look that good too." leave it to shoko to know how to ease the tension, even if she didn't realize she was the one that caused it.

you smile widely, lifting a hand to give toji a hard slap on the back, "he's a handsome old man, isn't he?" you tease, pretending you can't feel the way toji's glare is now burning a hole into the side of your face.

there's a little snort from across the room as satoru tries— and fails— to stifle a laugh at your relationship's dynamic. you clearly love to mess with toji, each little joke doing nothing to hide the obvious age gap between you two. each tease leaves him standing next to you, unamused, as you grin mischievously.

"you're pushin' it," he warns, leaning down to your height before turning his attention back to the room, slapping you on the back this time, "now quit being impolite— gonna introduce us or what?"

he'll scold you and try to rein you back in a bit when you're teasing him, but you just ignore it. there's no real bite to his words. it's just that instinctual kind of reaction that you get from a man his age when people are messing around a bit too much. 

he's well aware that he's a good amount older than you and he knew what he was signing up for when he'd asked you out, so he can never find it in himself to really care.

"everyone, this is toji," you state, hand palm-up, motioning to him beside you. "toji, this is everyone." you complete your very helpful introduction with a sweeping gesture of your hand across the room.

toji sighs, walking to set the beer down on the island with the rest of the drinks. "don't bitch at me the next time i don't remember anyone's names. 's not my fault at this point."

the pregame wrapped up shortly after you and toji arrived, everyone eager to get to the club early so they could snag an open table. 

you huddle close to toji in the line, chatting nonstop with shoko until the bouncer cuts in, asking to check IDs and bags. heat spills out into the cold air, wafting across your face as the heavy metal of the door scrapes along the asphalt when your party is allowed in.

the music is loud, the kind you feel more in your body from the bass than anything else, the kind that leaves your ears ringing at the end of a good night. the smell of sweat and cheap cologne is suffocating, more so than the humidity that never seems to leave an establishment like this one.

you slip your hand into toji's, tugging him along as you follow the group. half of them split off to get drinks from the bar, the rest of you claiming one of the last available booths for your group.

before you can sit down, toji pulls you closer to him, hand wrapping around your waist, lips brushing the curve of your ear. 

"i'll be back," you turn to flash him a pout, his heart tugging at the look on your face, the way you hate being separated from him even though you know he's not going far. "just gettin' our drinks, dollface." and like that, your expression is replaced with an appreciative grin.

he leaves you with a pat on your ass, turning to make his way towards the closest bar— luckily the one with the shortest line.

toji's tapping his foot, waiting for the bartender to return with his drinks when a heavy arm drapes across his shoulders. before he can get defensive, a voice rings out above the music.

"long time, no see."

he spins around to be met with a familiar face, riddled with ink, and sporting deep crimson eyes.

"no fuckin' way," toji chuckles.

there's a shit-eating grin on sukuna's face as the two old friends reunite. "you haven't changed a bit. still look like ass."

"fuck off, you even shower today?" toji shoots back, eyes sweeping over sukuna's hair with scrutiny. "anyways, what're you doing here?" he asks genuinely.

"could ask you the same thing," sukuna muses, slapping toji firmly on the back before pulling away.

"i'm here with my girl."

sukuna's smirk widens, "oh, yeah?"

toji knows where this is going. flashbacks from college flick through his mind as he remembers the two of them sharing beers, joints, women. 

whatever one of them had, the other did too.

"it's not like that with this one, she's different," toji protests lightly, but the glint in his eyes is telling a different story, one of old habits that never really died. 

there’s a whisper of untruth in his voice as his memories switch to images of you. of him talking about his college days, his old best friend. images of you asking to see pictures, and your sweet voice ringing out wait, toji, he's hot, when he showed you.

"which one is she?"

toji scans the room, extending a finger when he finds you to point you out among your friends in the booth you're sitting at. 

"over there, in the skirt." 

there's a beat of silence, both men raking over your figure with hungry eyes, tracing up the length of your legs to where your skirt is riding up, just barely reaching below your ass as you lean over the table to listen to something shoko is telling you.

"pretty little thing," sukuna finally speaks up, and toji grunts in response. "looks a bit young for you though. sure you got the right girl?" he teases, knowing he's the same age, and toji shoots him a side-eyed glance that expresses that exact sentiment. but sukuna just laughs, that sharp deep laugh that he's always had. "well, you two have fun. i'm sure i'll see you both later."

sukuna's words carry a weight that leaves them echoing inside toji's mind as he grabs your drinks and makes his way back to you, his pants feeling a little tight now.

you scoot over to make room for toji when he arrives at the table, but it's not neatly enough. he's halfway falling off the bench and with a huff of exasperation, he picks you up like you're weightless and plops you right back down onto his lap, earning him a yelp.

"toji! a little warning next time."

he just chuckles, "alright, my bad."

“so…” satoru clears his throat loudly, interrupting the moment before it even starts. "wanna play kings or something? i brought cards."

"of course you did." shoko says, rolling her eyes. 

satoru was always the one who liked to do more than sit around and talk, always offering up the idea of a game or asking to dance. but everyone still agrees, excited for a drinking game to keep the buzz going until the club starts to fill up.

you're trying to focus on the rules being explained to you, really, but it's difficult with toji's bulge pressing into your lower back. and each time it's your turn, he adjusts himself in his seat, subtle to all but you. every little movement of his hips sends a shiver through your body, a wave of heat to your core.

it's innocent to onlookers— he's just trying to get comfortable, trying to make sure you're comfortable too with the tight seating.

but you know better.

you know toji, and with toji, it's never innocent. 

he's toying with you, trying to get a rise out of you right there at the table. so when it's your turn to draw a card again, you decide to you'll play too. 

hips pushing down onto his lap, you arch, leaning forward more than necessary. a ghost of a smile graces your lips when you feel the way he tenses beneath you, his thighs twitching ever so slightly. and when you sit back down, you make sure it's not without a minuscule roll of your hips against the tent in his pants.

toji's hand comes down to your waist, squeezing tightly, fingers digging into your flesh. you can't see it now, but you're sure his jaw is just as stiff, teeth clenched tight as he holds you in place.

breathing steadily through his nose, toji fights to maintain his composure. but fuck— with the way your skirt is riding up, the fabric barely on your legs, starting to bunch up around your hips— he’s really not sure how much longer he can keep up appearances around your friends.

a hand slides lower, coming to rest on your thigh as you wiggle slightly in toji's grasp.

"quit it." he's terse, his voice low in your ear as his hand grips the hem of your skirt, trying and failing to tug it slightly down your thighs.

it's not that he cares if you're wearing something short or showing some skin— actually, he's very much in favor of that— but right now, as he's sitting at a table with your friends that he's met for the first time tonight, it's killing him.

he's trying to have some decorum, and you make it so fucking hard.

"i gotta piss," toji grunts, picking you up again and helping you stand as he moves to get up.

smoothing out your skirt, you pretend you're unfazed by the abrupt movement, fighting to keep back a smile as you tell him to "have fun." your boyfriend just rolls his eyes at that before turning away, hand coming down to adjust the bulge in his pants as he makes his way across the floor.

your eyes slide to the table, seeing the empty glasses where you were sitting, and you decide you may as well make your own trip while you're up.

"i'm gonna get some more drinks for us, i'll be right back," you address no one in particular, your friends all muttering a quick reply as you head back to the bar.

the club was a lot busier now, a crowd of bodies swarming around you, elbows jutting into your side and shoulders bumping into your back. the once quick trip to the bar has become a journey as you fight your way through the masses so you can get in line.

it's warmer, the body heat radiating off those next to you drawing a small sweat to your forehead as you seek to make eye contact with one of the bartenders. eventually, one of them sees you, giving you a nod and motioning for you to order.

your hands on the countertop, you're leaning over on your tip-toes. you're trying to get closer to the bartender as he lends you his ear, needing to shout over the music and chatter around you.

"double vodka soda and an old fashioned, please."

and just as you're opening your purse and reaching for your wallet, you're tapped on the shoulder. 

you spin around, expecting toji to be behind you, only to be met with brown eyes and blonde hair— bleached blonde hair. and he definitely didn't know what toner was.

"let me get that for you," he starts, holding up his own card.

you shrug, quick to close your purse again. if he really wanted to buy your drinks then you weren't going to protest. you knew toji wouldn't either, that man loves a free drink.

actually, he loves a free anything— but that's beside the point.

mustering up your best fake smile, you clasp your hands together, "really? thank you so much!"

"sure,” the arrogant smirk that seems to be permanent on the man's face widens. “so, what's your—"

when the bartender returns with your drinks and the stranger’s card, you grab the glasses quickly and turn to leave. 

"thanks for the drink! have a nice night."

if only it were that easy.

a firm hand around your arm stops you, tugging you back in front of the man who paid for you. "the hell? i just bought your drink, can't i at least get your number?"

you shake your head, "no, i've got a boyfriend."

his smirk falters at that, eyes quickly searching around behind you before settling back on your body, trailing over it. his gaze lingers on your chest, sending a wave of discomfort through you as you gently try to pull your arm away from him.

"no guy would let their girl go out dressed like that," he tugs you closer, the stench of his cologne wafting into your nose.

god damn, where is toji? 

you sigh internally, thinking about how difficult it was just to get to the bar, you can't imagine having to go all the way to the bathrooms and back. he's probably still squeezing his way through the crowd, and he might not even swing by the bar.

"well, he came here with me," you argue back, still trying to put some distance between you two.

"really? i don't see anyone here with you—"

"there you are, you got our drinks?"

another hand has now wrapped around your other arm, not needing to pull you away for the stranger to finally let go of you.

you turn quickly, unfamiliar with the voice that just addressed you so casually.

"and who the fuck are you?" he spits, crimson eyes narrowed down at the blonde man. 

you were about to ask him that.

hands up in surrender, the problem backs away, "my fault man, didn't know she was taken."

"that's crazy because she just fuckin' told you she was."

you're staring up at your new stranger, racking your brain for where you've seen him before. 

he's got such a distinct look you can't believe you don't remember where you know him from. tattoos stretching across his body, his face, silver piercings on his nose and lips.

sharp jawline, big nose— he was hot. you'd definitely remember if you'd met him somewhere.

"keep staring and i might tell toji you're comin' on to me."

his voice pulls you from your thoughts. that's how you've seen him before.

"you're sukuna, right?"

a sly grin splits his lips, tongue darting out to lick them. "that's right."

your wrist still in his hold, his thumb traces lightly along your skin, drawing goosebumps to the surface. you know you should pull away from him too, but you can't bring yourself to with the way he presses on your pulse point, gently squeezing your wrist. "let's get you back to toji, yeah?"

"i heard my name." speak of the devil. "what's goin' on here?"

shit, this probably looks bad.

and before you can get a word out, sukuna's already answered. "just protecting my girl from other men," sukuna shrugs, hand disconnecting from your arm to wrap around your shoulders, pulling you up against his side.

this fucking guy.

"i'm not—" you start before getting cut off.

"oh yeah?" toji muses, reaching for his drink which you hand to him, his eyes flitting between you and sukuna.

"yeah, but we're about to go dance." sukuna plucks your drink from your other hand, giving that one to toji too.

"mmm, i see," toji's gaze settles on you, eyes searching yours, communicating silently before he continues.

he sees the way you've already relented in sukuna's hold, your body shifted towards his as you're standing closer together.

"then at least put on a nice show."

with that you're being dragged away, feet stumbling behind sukuna as he leads you to the dance floor. toji is following closely behind, only parting ways to take a seat in a corner booth near the floor.

you don't have time to think much about it— if this is really okay, or if toji is going to be upset. he's never been a jealous type, but still you're unsure. sukuna was so bold, his words teasing but carrying the weight of genuine attraction.

"c'mere," sukuna's hands rest on your hips, spinning you around until your back is flush against his chest.

you gasp at the sudden contact, the heat radiating off his body enveloping you as he keeps you pressed up against him. he's unhurried, guiding your hips easily, side to side as he moves with you.

the bass thumps in your ears, colorful lights flashing and distorting the scenes around you as you scan the room, vision finally narrowing in on toji in his booth.

it's not too far but the lights barely reach it, making him difficult to see but now that you know he's there, you can tell he's looking at you.

drink in his hand, he raises the glass to his lips, eyes locked on you and his friend behind you. there's a familiar ache building between your legs as your mind rushes over the last interaction with them, the look toji gave you just before sukuna led you away, the way he was teasing you earlier when you were on his lap.

testing the waters you roll your hips back, ass pressing against sukuna's crotch as his hands tighten on your waist.

"careful," sukuna warns before grinding up against you.

a sigh slips past your lips at the feeling of his growing bulge sitting against your ass. 

he's shameless, pulling you back to meet his movements as he ruts against you, making sure you can feel the way his cock hardens in his pants.

but it's not like you're any better. 

you feel like a virgin— you've done nothing but dance with the man and you can feel your panties are already wet. your slick coats the gusset of the flimsy fabric as your core twists with each movement.

rough hands slide along your hips, down towards your thighs. sukuna reaches for the sides of your ass, fingers dipping under your skirt to grope at the fat, kneading and spreading your cheeks apart as you continue to grind back against him.

fuck, toji has told him a bit about your relationship before, so he knew you weren't a prude, but this?

you'd probably let him fuck you right here in the club.

fingertips drifting along your skin, a shiver runs through your body and you can feel the rumble in sukuna's chest as he laughs behind you at the reaction.

he's so close. tracing along the tops of your thighs under your skirt, just barely grazing the lace of your panties. you don't care that there's people dancing behind you, blissfully unaware of what's happening between you and sukuna, you need more.

you wiggle your hips, head craning to look back up at sukuna who's towering behind you as you try to urge him to keep going.

his hands stay put, not drifting any nearer to where you're nearly dripping and choosing instead to stay pressed against your pelvis, toying with the fabric of your underwear.

"need something?" sukuna asks, tone innocent as he pulls on the elastic before letting it snap back against your skin.

you jolt at the slight sting, a small moan escaping you and making sukuna's cock jump. 

you were going to be fun.

brows furrowed and eyes pleading, you grind harder against him— hoping he'll get the message.

and you think he's going to give you what you want when you feel one of his hands sliding further, brushing along the front of your panties. your breath hitches when you feel his fingers inch lower, threatening to dip between your thighs which you part ever so slightly.

sukuna grins at that, lips twitching upwards at how pliant you are. spreading your legs for him here, next to all these strangers and in front of your boyfriend because you need him to touch you that badly.

his grin only widens when he sees the pout on your lips when he retracts his hand just before reaching the apex of your thighs.

"what's wrong?" sukuna coos, relishing in the frustration starting to seep into your expression.

toji knows that look. he can see exactly what face you're making from where he's sitting, drink in one hand while the other palms at his crotch.

your bottom lip jutted out and eyebrows knit together as you frown up at sukuna. the look you get on your face when you're starting to get desperate.

he can't help but press harder against his pants, craving the friction to ease some of the throbbing in his cock as toji thinks about you.

thinks about all the times you've looked at him that way, always just before you start begging for him to touch you, taste you, fuck you. you didn't care as long as you had your clit played with and your cunt stuffed full. 

needy little thing.

fuck, and it’s not like he wasn't always feeling the same way. he was constantly fighting to keep it together just to hear that one word falling from your pretty lips—

"please," you gasp, head lolling back and resting on sukuna's shoulder as you nudge your nose against his neck. his cologne is musky, the warm scent guiding you deeper into his grasp as his fingers press into your skin.

he didn't even need to ask and you're already here begging him. sukuna's eyes shut for a moment, chest filling with air as he inhales deeply, curbing his own arousal with sheer willpower.

"please what, baby?"

"just need you, please— anything," you speak softly. you know he can hear you, his hips stuttering, pressing harder against your ass.

"tell me how badly you need me," sukuna replies, voice tense as he finally reaches between your legs.

your hips jerk at the feeling of his touch, his fingers prodding at your clothed sex. a low groan resounds behind you when he feels how wet you are.

"so badly, please sukuna— wanna feel good, please."

"fuck, you're soaked down here. you always get this wet?"

you feel your cheeks flush, remembering something similar coming from toji at the beginning of your relationship.

head nodding, you reply silently, earning you another groan when two fingers hook into your panties and tug them aside.

"fuckin’ perfect," sukuna grunts, the pads of his fingers sliding between your folds, collecting your slick before drifting upwards.

bottom lip worried between your teeth you bite back a moan when he finds your clit, all puffy and sensitive with your arousal as he brushes over it.

the slightest contact sending shockwaves coursing through you as your hands reach back to grip his t-shirt.

"so responsive. sensitive, baby?"

you nod again, giving sukuna a little mhm which you're not even sure he catches. but he already knew what the answer would be.

fingers pressing harder, he rubs tight little circles around the bud and you can't hold back your moan this time. soft and honeyed, the sound reaches sukuna's ears and he's addicted instantly. desperate to hear more, his fingers work you faster.

toji exhales, long and slow at the sight before him. his drink long forgotten, there's a ring of condensation around the bottom as he fumbles with his belt.

sukuna's hands are under your skirt and he’s watching you with lidded eyes. toji can see the way your legs are shifting, your head bent back and mouth parted. you're facing him, but unaware of his gaze as you lose yourself in the pleasure you're getting from sukuna.

he wasn't sure at first if you would be open to doing this— to letting him share you— but he should have known.

metal belt buckle clinking, toji finally gets it undone and reaches for his zipper. he tugs it down and shimmies his pants and briefs down over his ass, just enough to free his cock. 

aching, he can feel the blood pumping through it, the angry tip already leaking pre before he even wraps his hand around it.

you don't notice, but sukuna does.

he sees the way his friend is leaning back against the booth, one arm resting on the table and the other underneath it.

he sees the way his friend—your boyfriend—is smirking, gaze filled with lust as he watches your legs start to shake.

your breathing is faster and you can feel your orgasm approaching, your pussy clamping down around nothing until sukuna stops. fingers pulling away from your clit and drawing a whine from you as your eyes glare up at him.

"not yet," sukuna drawls, the hand on your hip pushing you forward to create enough space between the two of you so he can unzip his own pants, "need to feel that pussy cum on my cock."

toji groans, hand jerking his cock languidly— sukuna's seriously going to fuck you here? his grip tightens, wrist twisting as he pumps himself to the view of you, the thought of you being filled to the brim by his best friend in the middle of the dance floor.

your stomach flips, an ounce of awareness flowing back into you as your climax starts to fade away. 

your head lifts up, eyes gazing around you, now hyper-aware of what toji was just thinking about. sukuna is seriously planning on fucking you right here and now, when anyone who's just not drunk enough, not distracted enough, could take one look and know exactly what was going on.

"w-wait, are you sure— oh god, fuck-"

flipping the back of your skirt up, sukuna wastes no time slipping his cock between your thighs. the shaft sits in your panties, gliding between your lips as he presses his hips back against your ass. the head catches on the soiled fabric, precum joining the arousal that’s already dampened it. 

you're immediately grinding back onto him, feeling each vein and the mushroom tip rubbing along your cunt as you leak onto him, juices coating his length.

that's all it took for you to forget about your surroundings again. not a worry on your mind, just cock-drunk and desperate as you reach between your legs. soft fingers wrapping gently around him, sukuna twitches in your hand, needing to bite down on his lip to keep from cumming right then and there.

you're up on your tip-toes again, trying to guide him towards your entrance, fumbling around until you're able to feel the tip of his cock prodding at your hole.

"fuck baby, you're gonna kill me," sukuna groans, rolling his hips, a strangled sound following his words when he feels the head push past that ring of resistance and finally slip inside. 

and god, you were so fucking tight. he should have fingered you before. slipped two, maybe three inside your pussy, curling and pumping them in and out of you to stretch you open. but he couldn't wait any longer.

your nails dig into the skin on his hips as you grip onto him for stability, the head alone already feeling like it's splitting you in half. you don't know how you're going to take all of him.

eyes clamped shut, you let out a shaky exhale. "too big— 's not gonna fit."

"it'll fit, but you gotta relax for me," sukuna coos, voice soft despite fighting the urge to slam himself into you, burying himself in one fluid motion.

instead, he reaches back around, giving attention to your clit once more. rubbing you in the way you like, he works you over while pressing deeper inside, inch by inch as your pussy gets wetter for him.

"thaaat's it, see how well you're takin' me?"

his praise makes your core tighten, heat rising to your cheeks as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. you don't even realize you've been holding your breath until you feel sukuna bottom out, the two of you releasing a collective moan.

toji's jaw is tight, teeth clenched as his chest heaves, his own orgasm building. 

you're both hot, and he can't deny how good you look together. sukuna’s arm around your waist, holding you close to him while the other is still under your skirt. your lips plant slow, wet kisses to the side of sukuna's neck and he tilts his head, jawline on display as he gives you better access to his throat.

red irises find green ones, the two men unable to break eye contact as you worship sukuna with your mouth and with your pussy that's wrapped tight and fluttering around him, clenching when he starts to move. 

he doesn't look away while he pulls his hips back, his length dragging along your gummy walls until only half of him is still inside you. he doesn't look away from toji when he thrusts back inside, a sharp snap of his hips that makes your tits bounce and your eyes slide shut.

allowing the saliva to gather in his mouth, toji finally breaks eye contact, just for a moment to let his spit fall, the fat glob landing right on the tip of his cock.

"fuuuck," sukuna groans, low and hungry as he sets a steady pace.

he wishes he could fuck into you without restraint, at whatever pace he wants in whatever position he wants— but he can't. forced to hold back so you're less likely to get caught, rutting into you with lazy thrusts as his fingers continue rubbing tight circles on your clit.

you can taste the salt from the sweat on his skin, swiping your tongue along his neck before latching your lips on again and sucking gently. 

his arm is firm around your torso, hugging you close and squeezing your stomach. the added pressure leaves you squirming in his hold, his cock feeling even bigger, deeper, with the weight on your tummy.

"so fuckin' tight, baby," sukuna grunts. you can smell the liquor on his lips just before his tongue laps at that spot just behind your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

your hands release their grip on his hips, drifting higher to card through his hair, the short undercut sifting between your fingers while his teeth nip at your earlobe.

"s'kuna," you rasp, voice breathless as the pads of his fingers press harder, rougher against your poor, sensitive clit. you're throbbing around him, and he knows you're close.

"you gonna cum?"

you nod quickly, mumbling a quiet 'uh-huh' which leaves a feral grin on his face. 

he's been wanting to feel you gushing around him since the moment toji pointed you out to him and now that he’s getting what he wants, he can't hold himself back. just once, sukuna tells himself before he pulls out all the way and slams back in, his ears just barely registering the slick sound of your pussy when he does.

"o-oh fuck!" you cry out into his shoulder, teeth biting down to muffle your voice.

"gonna miss this pretty pussy." sukuna's rougher, more careless with his thrusts, getting hooked on that last brutal one. he's craving the way your cunt constricted around him when he bullied his cock back inside and the little sob you let out because of it.

sukuna’s fingers are working faster, pressing harder, to match his new pace and toji can see the way sukuna’s arm is flexing. veins littering the limb as he drives you towards your peak. and of course he hasn't missed the way sukuna's fucking you now— each thrust has your tits jiggling, threatening to spill out of the little top you have on.

and you have no fucking clue.

to dumb on the feeling of being stretched out on sukuna's dick, you have no idea how much of a show you're giving toji— how much of a show you're almost giving everyone else.

gripping tighter, toji strokes himself faster. wet with spit and precum, his hand glides easily along the shaft and still the feeling doesn't even come close to what he knows sukuna is experiencing right now. that pussy is probably dripping around his base, the insides of your thighs, down to his balls—

"shit, doll—" toji grunts, his free hand coming under the table to cup his own balls, tugging gently as he feels his release building.

"kuna— kuna, 'm gonna cum," you're babbling softly into his neck, lips brushing against his skin and he knows he's close too but he'll be damned you don't cum first.

"open your eyes," his voice is gruff, cutting through your tunnel vision and drawing your attention back to him as he drives you to your peak. "there ya go, head up, baby. look at your pretty boyfriend when you're cumming on my cock."

your vision hazy from your eyes being clamped shut, you scan for toji, a lopsided smile settling on your lips when you meet his stare. his brows are furrowed, his mouth agape, and you can see his climax washing over him the minute yours hits.

the minute you're shaking in sukuna's arms, gasping for breath as you cum is the moment that ruins toji. with a guttural groan he's tugging on himself one last time before his balls are twitching, ropes of cum spurting from his tip into his hand and onto his thighs under the table.

"yeah, that's it— fucking milkin' me, baby." sukuna's losing his rhythm, his hips faltering as your pussy keeps quivering around him, and you keep whimpering his name into his ear, the overstimulation leaving your brain fuzzy.

"gonna fill you up, you want that?" you're nodding your head even before the whole question is out, just eager to give him whatever he wants.

"yeah, she loves that shit, don't ya, doll?" toji's voice cutting in sends your eyes flying open to see him standing before you, signature smirk on his face. he brings a hand to yours, grabbing your chin in his hands he tilts your head up to him, forcing you to look him in the eyes as sukuna keeps fucking you from behind. "you wanna walk out of here with his cum dripping down your legs, don't you?"

it's not really a question that time— he knows it's true. and still you answer, nodding your head and sukuna can't take his eyes off you two.

the tension between you is spreading to him, enveloping him in your arousal as he teeters on the edge of his release, he just needs that one last push—

"tell him then, be a good girl."

your head falls back, eyes looking up at sukuna as he stares down at you with hunger, tongue slipping out to wet his lips. "kunaaa," you whine, "want you to cum inside me— wanna feel it filling me up, please."

he never stood a chance. 

the second the words leave your mouth he's moaning out your name, his cock twitching once before he's spilling inside you. rope after rope of his seed filling your pussy as he sighs deeply, hand slipping out of your panties before he pulls out.

sukuna's quick to adjust the soiled undergarment, pulling it taut as his spend starts to seep out of your poor hole onto the fabric.

you squeeze your knees together, smoothing down your skirt as you just pray that your panties will hold up until you're back home. sukuna grins, tucking himself away while toji slips an arm around your waist, finally getting to feel the warmth of you pressed up against him again.

"you two gonna head out?" sukuna questions, running a hand through his sweat-slicked hair while the three of you make your way off the dance floor.

"yeah, gotta clean this messy girl up," toji chuckles, prompting you to swat at him.

"you're so annoying," you huff before turning back to sukuna. "maybe we'll see you again sometime?"

sukuna raises a brow at that, teeth bared in a quick smile, "long as your boyfriend doesn't mind— i'm more than willing to make that happen."

toji rolls his eyes, hand sliding to your lower back as he guides you out in front of him, "yeah, yeah, we know."

likes, comments, reblogs always appreciated ! i have more works here ♡

a/n thank u to the lovely @junuru for beta reading this for me mwah

The TV won’t quit. It gushes, it preens, it polishes every word until it squeaks, like some relentless machine designed solely to annoy you.

“A standing ovation last night at the Paris Opera… the young pianist Verso Dessendre continues to dazzle…” zap.

“Critics call him the prodigy of his generation, a true heir to the family’s genius…” zap.

“Verso Dessendre’s latest performance has already gone viral, his name on everyone’s lips…” zap.

“…Verso Dess-” the screen goes black as you stab the power button. You don’t just press it, you pin it like an enemy’s throat, as if sheer force could make him disappear from the world.

“Don’t they ever shut up about that spoiled brat?!” you snap, the words spilling out through clenched teeth. A curse follows, low and bitter, the taste of frustration sharp on your tongue, metallic and hot. You can almost feel it crawling up the back of your throat, mixing with the faint acrid smell of burnt coffee left in a mug on the coffee table.

In your head, his name is a wrong note that keeps ringing. It drones, persistent and unrelenting. You’ve never understood how someone like him managed to climb the ladder. To you, he’s nothing more than one of those rich kids who can get whatever they want just because of mommy and daddy, their money, their precious connections. Anyone could reach his level, hell, surpass it, if they had the luxury of living his cushioned life.

To say you hate him would be an understatement. Every time his name comes up, it’s only to spit venom, to tear him down as an artist with no real talent. Your friends, and even the rest of Ashborne, your own rock band, swear it’s just jealousy talking. But to you, it’s nothing but the truth, plain and sharp, as clean as a blade.

Aless, your best friend and the guitarist of Ashborne, lounges in the armchair next to the couch, feet propped on the coffee table as he lazily tunes his guitar. He looks perfectly at home in the mess, ankle bouncing, thumb flicking the tuning pegs, a faint grin that says he’s seen this movie before. The sunlight spilling through the slanted loft window catches dust motes in lazy spirals around him, giving him an almost angelic glow, if you squint, you might forget he’s the instigator of half your daily annoyances.

“Keep talking about him like that and I’ll start thinking it’s a toxic obsession,” he teases, a smirk tugging at his lips. His voice is low, lazy, but there’s a note of amusement that grates on your nerves.

Your eyes snap toward him, blazing with irritation, “Obsession? Don’t be ridiculous. The moment I start obsessing over that arrogant, silver-spooned piano prodigy, you can put me out of my misery yourself.”

The idea that he thinks you’re obsessed with him, that you secretly adore him, maybe even that you’re sickly in love, feels almost like the worst insult imaginable. Your face twists into a mask of disgust at the very thought, your shoulders knot, your jaw locks. You take a slow, deep breath, letting the sharp air of the loft fill your lungs, trying to calm the sudden flare of irrational panic that rises inside you.

Aless, finishing the last tweaks on his guitar, strums a short, cheerful riff. The bright notes sparkle in the room, infuriatingly sunny, bouncing off the bare walls and echoing faintly in your ears, “You hate him, and yet you keep talking about him?” he says, eyebrows raised, “Honestly… you’re worse than his fans, I swear.”

You cross your arms, leaning back slightly, fire still in your gaze, “Worse than his fans? Please. At least they’re clapping and crying over the overhyped prodigy. Me? I’m just pointing out how absurdly overrated he is.”

A sour twist curls your lips at the thought of him. You feel your chest tighten as memories of a childhood friend praising Verso, or worse, family members comparing you to him, flash unbidden through your mind, “Now, can we talk about literally anything else before I start believing that even the universe thinks I have a thing for that insufferable brat?”

Aless chuckles, shaking his head, clearly enjoying the fire in your words, “Sure, sure… but admit it, he’s on your mind more than you’d like to admit.”

Frustration crackles in your chest as you leap to your feet, the couch springs squealing at the sudden shift, “It’s not fair!” you burst out, the words sharp as broken glass, “There are people out there, people actually talented, who deserve recognition far more than he does!”

The conviction hangs in the air, stubborn and sharp. Your life isn’t hard enough to be called poor, yet far from comfortable. Some months flow smoothly, bills paid without a hitch, the relief is quiet, temporary. Other months, you tighten your belt, survive on instant noodles or discounted groceries teetering on the edge of expiration. Most of your money disappears into rent, water, electricity, food, bare necessities that leave little room for anything else. You remember counting coins in the bottom of your wallet, the clink of copper and nickel mocking your ambition.

Memories of fun with friends feel distant, almost unreal. The last time you went to a restaurant, the movies, bowling, or took a proper vacation slips from your mind like a word on the tip of your tongue. Even the smallest things become games: an empty can on the street to dribble with your boot, a run through the park where slides and swings stand in for amusement rides. Nothing that feels extraordinary, but enough to keep your pulse from going grey.

New clothes? That’s a luxury you can’t afford. The ripped tights and worn jeans aren’t fashion statements, they’re what you have to wear, because you have nothing else. Makeup is another story. Each time it runs out, replacing it feels impossible. Prices keep climbing, and you just can’t afford to restock constantly. Offstage, it sits unused, a reminder of what you can’t have every day, a row of little empty mouths on the shelf, staring at you like tiny accusatory faces.

Aless exhales, setting his guitar down with a soft thud, the sound muffled by the carpet, “And you really think trashing him is gonna change our lives? If insulting people for free made money, trust me, I’d be a billionaire.”

You’re not sure what annoys you more: the fact that he’s right, or that no sharp comeback comes to mind. Nothing. Heat crawls up your neck, your brows knit. Both middle fingers shoot up on instinct, and you storm out, boots thudding the floorboards, leaving Aless grinning behind you. The creak of the stairs echoes, a little too loud, marking your dramatic exit.

The loft above the bar where you and Aless live is tiny, barely deserving the name “apartment.” The ceiling slopes in odd places like a tent pitched in a hurry, and the floorboards creak under your weight as if complaining personally. Still, it’s better than nothing. The landlord lets you stay for half the rent in exchange for a few songs at night and the occasional bit of cleaning or moving supplies. Not much, but enough to scrape by without ending the month in complete chaos.

Bigger, more comfortable spaces feel like a dream you touch with your eyes closed: high ceilings, a proper kitchen, a room for instruments that don’t feel stacked on top of each other. For now, this cramped spot will do. The bar already provides most of the equipment: a microphone, a bass, a guitar, and a drum kit. Aless and the bassist refuse to use anything that isn’t theirs, insisting on the feel, the sound, the familiarity. The rest sits ready on stage, and somehow, in that cluttered arrangement, it already feels like home, a constellation of who you are.

Music is your saving grace. The crowd’s decent, mostly regulars who actually listen. Sometimes a biker with tattooed sleeves drops a few coins as a tip, a small acknowledgment that someone cares. And it’s not just the money. There’s energy in the room, a warmth that makes the cramped space feel alive. It’s not glamorous, but it’s yours, and the feedback hum in the air is a kind of heartbeat, vibrating faintly against your ribcage.

The bedroom is tiny, like the rest of the apartment, but you’ve carved out your space. A lofted bed creates room underneath for a desk, a worn armchair, and several wicker baskets overflowing with odds and ends: a doll from when you were five, far too precious to let go, a pencil case stuffed with colored pencils, scraps of paper, old ticket stubs, random trinkets, an honest jumble that maps your life more accurately than any résumé. In the corner, the wardrobe leans against the wall next to a full-length mirror. Posters cover the walls, some pristine, some torn at the edges, mixed with photos of friends and a few strings of fairy lights that cast a soft, forgiving glow.

Your phone hums from the desk, still plugged in. Picking it up, you notice a notification flashing on the screen. A message in your Ashborne group chat, your bandmates are talking. Curiosity nudges you forward as you tap it open, ready to see what’s happening.

A new message from Élodie, your bassist, pops up, “Ready, guys?! A friend at the bar said it’s packed tonight!”

Just as you read it, a sharp crash! echoes from downstairs. Glass shatters against the floorboards, rattling through the thin walls. You smirk at the timing. Almost immediately, Aless replies, “Yeah, the walls are thin here. You can hear everything. Looks like the intern just knocked over some glasses.”

“I don’t know how this guy got hired. Breaks more glasses than he serves, ” adds Gary, the drummer.

“Tell that to the guy who used to fling his drumsticks everywhere the first time we met,” you fire back, tapping send before setting the phone aside on your desk. You pause a moment, listening to the faint hum of activity from below, the clink of glasses, muffled conversations, the occasional laughter, and feel a surge of anticipation. Tonight might be small, cramped, but it will be alive.

You scramble to get ready in record time. Your wardrobe opens with a creak, revealing the organized chaos of your clothes: jeans with rips in all the right places, black tops, a few band tees, and the outfit you’ve been saving for tonight. You grab it, tossing aside a few other pieces without a second thought, the fabric rustling sharply as it hits the floor.

The bathroom feels warm, cramped, and faintly scented with soap and steam from the shower Aless took earlier. You splash cool water on your face, shaking off the last traces of sleep and nerves. The tap squeaks faintly, echoing in the small room. Then comes the makeup: soft but edgy, black and red to match your stage look. Each brushstroke feels like armor, a subtle ritual transforming you into the performer you’ve worked so hard to be. The mirror reflects your focus, eyes sharp and determined, lips painted in a dark, bold gloss.

With your look complete, you strip off your old clothes, sending them spinning into the laundry basket with a satisfying thump. You pull on your concert outfit, adjusting it just so, smoothing the fabric, checking the fit. The mirror shows a version of yourself ready to step into the lights, the music, the noise. Your pulse steadies into a faster, cleaner tempo, anticipation threading through your veins.

Laughter and chatter drift from the other side of the door. Three voices, you recognize them immediately: Aless, Élodie, and Gary. Their energy leaks into the bathroom, buzzing with excitement and impatience.

Sharp knocks interrupt your focus. Aless’s voice calls through the door, “Hurry up! It’s a concert, not a fashion show!”

You roll your eyes, leaning against the sink, smirking despite yourself, “Maybe you should worry about fixing that scruffy face of yours before bossing me around!”

You step out of the bathroom, still adjusting the last strands of your hair, and greet your friends. The French tradition of cheek-kissing isn’t exactly your style, too formal, too intimate. You stick to what feels natural: a quick fist bump, a tap of hands, a small check with elbows. The group laughs at your half-serious, half-playful energy, and for a few minutes you trade stories about the day, teasing each other about little mishaps and annoyances. The tension and excitement build gradually, each laugh, each glance binding you tighter as a team. Finally, the chatter dies down, replaced by the unspoken signal: it’s time to get to work.

The familiar tension coiling in your chest like a spring. The wooden floorboards creak slightly under your weight, carrying the echo of each step into the bar. The faint scent of polish mixed with spilled beer drifts upward, grounding you in the space you’ve come to know so well. Your fingers twitch almost instinctively, brushing the microphone stand, feeling the cool metal beneath your palms. The stage lights cast long shadows, and beyond the heavy curtain, you sense the murmur of the crowd, a low hum of anticipation threading through the room. Each heartbeat feels amplified, every breath measured. The air is thick with expectation, and your chest tightens with the delicious, familiar mix of nerves and excitement.

“Lucky us,” someone says, glancing around, “Saves a ton of time compared to moving all our own gear.”

You and Gary exchange a pointed look at Aless and Élodie. The drummer mutters under his breath, “And yet they always redo their own setups… costs us so much time.”

Élodie looks up, unfazed, “My bass isn’t just an instrument, you know.”

Aless crouches slightly, shielding his guitar like a precious child, “Exactly. Don’t even think about offending it. My child needs respect.”

You shake your head, suppressing a grin, as the group prepares to play. The red velvet curtain hums with the low anticipation of the crowd beyond, waiting for the first notes. You adjust your outfit and take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the red velvet curtain between you and the audience. The muffled buzz from the bar seeps through, a reminder that the crowd waits just beyond.

Élodie crouches by her bass amp, twisting knobs with a frown, “If one more pedal dies tonight, I’m burning the manufacturer’s headquarters,” she mutters, barely keeping a straight face.

Aless groans, yanking a stubborn guitar cable free, “Seriously, who thought it was a good idea to make these things spaghetti?”

Gary taps the cymbals lightly, then slams the snare a couple of times, “Kick mic’s live, right? ‘Cause if it’s not, I’m blaming all of you when the crowd thinks I’ve gone silent.”

You hum a few notes into the mic, letting the vibrations calm the flutter in your chest. Aless waves at a twisted cable. “Hey, hand me that one before I lose my mind.” You step over it, toss it to him, and he snorts, “Perfect. You’re officially my favorite person for today.”

Élodie flips a switch on her pedalboard, shaking her head, “Honestly, between pedals and cables, I’m starting to think we deserve hazard pay.”

You run through a few scales, adjusting the mic one last time. The muffled chatter from the bar presses through the curtain, a low hum of anticipation winding tighter in your stomach. The stage vibrates beneath your feet, alive and ready. A final glance at your bandmates shows them focused, half-grumbling, half-smiling. It’s chaotic, messy, but somehow it always works. Tonight, this is your world, and the music will take over in a few moments.

You grip the microphone lightly, feeling its cool metal under your fingers. Aless strikes a few chords, Élodie plucks a short bass line, and Gary taps a simple rhythm on the snare and hi-hat. The four of you play a short, tight riff, just enough to test the sound and let the bar know you’re here.

The music stops, leaving a soft echo in the small space. The chatter dies down, though some conversations linger, quieter now, curious, expectant. You can feel the room’s energy shift, a subtle buzz pressing from beyond the curtain.

You lift the microphone to your lips, “Is everyone ready tonight?” Your voice cuts through the low murmur, clear and confident.

A ripple of cheers, whistles, and claps erupts. It’s not huge, but it’s enough to make your heart skip. Excitement tingles along your spine, your chest tightens with adrenaline, your fingers grip the mic just a little harder. Aless adjusts his strap, Élodie bounces her foot to the rhythm, Gary taps the cymbal, a grin tugging at his lips. Even through the curtain, you can feel the anticipation radiating from the crowd. Every glance between you and your bandmates carries a spark, you’re all riding the same thrill.

The chatter fades almost completely. The hum of attention presses closer. The curtain begins to rise, slow and deliberate. Your stomach flips. The first notes are about to come. And just like that, it’s happening.

The curtain has lifted, and the small bar, now fully in your sight, hums with expectant energy. The dim lights cast warm, uneven pools across the wooden floor, and the scent of beer and polish mixes with the faint tang of sweat and anticipation. Every face in the crowd is blurred at first, shadows moving against the glow of the stage lights, but you can feel them. You can feel their attention crawling along your spine, warming the back of your neck, threading itself through the air like electricity.

Your hands tighten on the microphone, your fingers brushing over the cold metal. Aless strikes the first chord, a rich, ringing tone that reverberates in your chest. Élodie’s bass line follows, a grounding pulse that threads through the air, steady and alive. Gary’s drums tap and thump, a heartbeat you can sync with if you dare. And you, your voice, your lungs, your very soul, become the conduit that threads it all together.

Every note is more than sound, it’s release, it’s survival. It’s the classical scales you practiced in solitude, the songs that stitched themselves into your adolescence when the world felt cold and overwhelming. Each lyric, each chord, each beat carries pieces of your life, the life of Ashborne, the chaotic moments that shaped you, that made you cling to music like oxygen.

The audience is no longer just a blur of faces. You see reactions, subtle at first: a head nodding, a tap of a foot, a hand moving unconsciously in rhythm. A group of friends in the back whispers excitedly, their eyes sparkling with recognition. You feel the warmth, the connection, the tiny threads of empathy stretching from the stage to the crowd. Each movement, each glance, is a reminder: you are seen.

You sing, and it’s an act of vulnerability, of baring yourself to the crowd. Every line is a thread pulled from your chest, every chorus a piece of your heart laid bare. Some songs are sharp and raw, tales of heartbreak, fights, the darker corners of growing up and scraping by. Others are gentle, a soft reprieve, a fleeting moment of calm that lets both you and the listeners breathe. The balance keeps the night alive, keeps it human.

As the set moves forward, sweat glistens along your temples, your throat grows raw, each word a little more strained than the last. Your fingers ache along the microphone, your legs stiffen, but still, you push through. Every note is a choice to continue, to share, to survive through sound. The crowd becomes a single organism, breathing and reacting in waves, and it drives you. The tension, the expectation, the simple thrill of being heard, fuels every syllable.

There’s a moment in the middle of the set where you close your eyes for just a second, letting the music take over completely. You’re no longer performing, you’re living inside each song. The weight of past struggles, the laughter and fights with your bandmates, the small victories, the endless nights of practice, pulse through you. And in that instant, the audience isn’t a crowd anymore, they’re witnesses, co-conspirators, feeling the same highs and lows. You give them yourself, stripped bare, every heartbeat echoing in the bar.

By the final song, your voice cracks slightly, raw from overuse, but it carries a kind of grit that adds power to the lyrics. Your throat burns, your chest aches, your fingers tingle from gripping the mic so tightly, but still, you pour every ounce of energy you have into the performance. The lights blur into streaks of gold and red, the bass hums in your bones, the drums vibrate through your feet. You are exhaustion, you are fire, you are music incarnate.

When the last note finally fades, there’s a pause so complete it feels like holding your breath underwater. Then a ripple of applause, cheers, the clink of glasses, the faint hoot of someone in the back. You collapse back slightly, catching your breath, muscles trembling, throat raw, heart pounding. Aless grins, Élodie’s foot taps the last note in rhythm, Gary wipes sweat from his forehead. The set is over, but the energy lingers, a tangible pulse you can still feel thrumming through the floorboards, the air, your veins.

You smile, exhausted but elated. This is more than a concert. This is survival. This is your life, your music, your story, given away in fragments to strangers who understand, in some way, exactly what it means to live through sound. And as you step back, chest heaving, the music still vibrating faintly in your ears, you know you would do it again in a heartbeat.

You exchange glances, faint smiles on your lips despite the exhaustion. One by one, you step down from the stage. Aless and Élodie linger a moment longer, carefully unplugging their guitar and bass, fingers moving with precision and familiarity. It’s a ritual, a small, private moment of connection with the instruments they refuse to part with.

Once everyone is off the stage, you walk slowly toward the bar, your footsteps muted on the wooden floor. You collapse into your seats, bodies heavy, sweat still clinging to your skin. The fatigue presses down, comforting and real. The owner greets you with a wide, warm smile. His name is Henry, an older man with a face lined by years but eyes that sparkle with mischief and kindness, the kind of grandfather everyone secretly wishes they had.

On the counter, small bottles of cold water wait for each of you. Aless takes a slow sip, Élodie savors hers with her eyes closed. You don’t hold back, your bottle empties almost in one gulp, the ice-cold water soothing your throat, quenching the fire left from singing your heart out. You needed it more than you realized.

Henry approaches, shuffling slightly but steady, hands clasped behind his back. He smiles, eyes crinkling, “Well…” he says softly, yet with a hint of humor, “you could’ve helped with the service tonight… but I can see the exhaustion written all over your faces.” he shakes his head, amused, like a protective grandfather, “I think it’s better this way.”

Then he hands each of you a small cloth, soft and practical, to wipe the sweat from your foreheads and temples. A simple gesture, yet it carries warmth and care. You take yours, brushing away the moisture, feeling the heat and tension begin to fade.

Gary is the first to break the silence once he’s finished cooling down, wiping sweat from his brow with the cloth Henry handed out, “We’d be glad to help you out, of course,” he says with a tired but warm grin, “But… maybe we’ll take a little break before we get back on our feet, yeah?”

Henry looks at him with a small smile, touched but slightly regretful. His eyes glimmer with gratitude as he shakes his head, “You don’t need to. You’ve already done more than enough. The bar hasn’t been this alive in years, and I think your concert had a lot to do with it.”

The words settle warmly in the air. Élodie leans forward, her cheeks flushed with energy, “It’s the first time we’ve ever had so many people actually listening! More reactions, more applause… more than usual.”

Gary chuckles, tilting his head back, “Let’s just hope someone out there recognized our talent tonight. Maybe we’ll get an offer, a contract, something real.”

You let out a small laugh at that, shaking your head, “Don’t get your hopes up too high.” with that, you twist slightly in your chair, turning to face the crowd again. The empty water bottle crinkles softly between your fingers as you toy with it, rolling it against your palm without really thinking.

Your gaze sweeps lazily over the room. A few familiar regulars catch your eye, you nod to one, raise your hand quickly to another. Their smiles warm you, grounding you. Then you move on, noticing the newer faces, strangers drawn in by the music. It’s casual, unhurried… until suddenly, you stop. Your stomach twists, disbelief sparking in your chest. You blink, rub your eyes quickly, but when you look again, he’s still there. The rest of the table fades. Shapes blur. Voices dissolve into meaningless noise. You don’t care who’s sitting with him. You barely register them at all. Your entire focus narrows to him.

He leaned slightly forward, talking to the people around him, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Dark waves of hair fall casually against his face, brushing the edges of a carefully trimmed beard. His features are sharp, defined, alive with expression. And then, those eyes. Icy blue, pale and piercing, like shards of frozen glass catching the light. They aren’t even directed at you, but the sight of them is enough to make your blood boil.

Your grip on the bottle tightens until the plastic creaks, threatening to collapse under the force. Your teeth grind together. The words tear out through your clenched jaw, dripping with venom, “No… no, tell me this isn’t real. What the hell is he doing here?!”

Aless is the first to notice. Of course he is, he’s right beside you, and he knows you too well. It’s like he has a sixth sense for when your temper starts to boil. He tilts his head slightly, following your line of sight. The moment his gaze lands on that table, on him, a grin spreads across his face.

“Well, well,” Aless teases, voice pitched loud enough for everyone to hear, “The man of your life, showing up at your workplace and, conveniently, right under your apartment. If that’s not destiny, I don’t know what is.”

Your jaw clenches so hard it aches. Gary and Élodie both turn their heads at the exchange, curious. It takes them a second to follow your glare, but then their eyes find him too. Élodie’s reaction is immediate and explosive. Her eyes practically sparkle, wide and gleaming, as if literal cartoon hearts had just popped up around her head. You swear you can almost see them floating above her in bright pink, bouncing like bubbles.

Aless bursts out laughing at her expression, “Forget it,” he snorts, “Our brilliant singer already has her eyes on him.”

That does it. You whip around and smack his shoulder, hard. Not enough to really hurt, but the sting makes him wince and flinch. The pained twist of his face is almost satisfying.

“Keep talking nonsense,” you growl, “and I’ll cut the strings on your precious guitar.” That shuts him up. He lifts both hands in surrender, lips pursed, wisely deciding silence is safer.

The silence doesn’t last long. Gary breaks it, his brow furrowed, “Seriously though… what’s he even doing here? I mean, it’s Verso. He plays at opera houses, not small bars hidden in backstreets of Paris.”

Henry, who’s been hovering quietly behind the bar, polishing a glass with unhurried ease, finally speaks up, “No idea,” he says calmly, eyes glinting with something unreadable, “but… would you kids do an old man a favor? I’ve always dreamed of offering different styles of music here. Jazz or classical music…”

The request hits you like a shard of ice. Your chest tightens, breath catching. You understand exactly what he means, and you hate it. On one hand, you care about Henry too much to refuse him. On the other… the last thing you want is Verso anywhere near this bar. Near your world. The thought of him playing here makes your skin crawl. You force a brittle laugh, turning toward Henry with a half-smile, “Funny joke, Henry. Really. But I’ve heard better from you.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look up from the glass he’s polishing. With the same calm, steady rhythm, he says, “I’m serious. He’s known. Talented. Having him here could raise the business, maybe more than you realize.”

The words stun you. For a moment, you think you’ve misheard him. The bar feels suddenly too small, the air too thick. Your pulse hammers against your ribs, each beat a reminder of the precariousness of this situation. Verso, a man whose name alone can draw crowds and headlines, is not meant to be here. Not meant to sit quietly, sipping wine as if the world belongs to him.

Élodie jumps to her feet, eyes glowing like fireworks, “OK! New mission: catch the pianist!” she declares, practically skipping toward his table. Gary follows, a little more hesitant, while Aless lingers only long enough to give you a sheepish look. His expression says it all: sorry, no choice. Then he trails after them.

And just like that, your friends, your traitors, slip into the orbit of the one person you never wanted here. You watch them sit down at his table, practically forcing themselves into his company, laughter and chatter already spilling between them. The sound feels like a jab in your chest, an intrusion into the carefully built world you protect.

You remain at the bar, hands gripping the counter, fury burning in your veins. Every fiber of you prays the same desperate thing: that Verso doesn’t cross that invisible line. That he doesn’t step into your world. That he never, ever finds a way in.

Time seems to stretch. Verso leans back slightly, swirling the glass in his hand with effortless poise. The light catches on the rim, sending tiny reflections across the table. His smirk never wavers, calm and confident, as if he knows the effect he has. Your stomach twists. Jealousy, indignation, and a strange, reluctant curiosity swirl together into a hot, bitter brew.

A cough from the bar pulls you back slightly, Henry watching you with quiet patience, “Take a deep breath,” he suggests, though his eyes betray a knowing amusement, “Sometimes the universe has a funny way of introducing talent.”

You bite back a retort, grinding your teeth under the counter. You want to storm over, throw a verbal grenade, make your disdain known. But the room, the crowd, the sweat and music of the night, all press around you like a gentle cage. For now, you are forced to watch.

Verso’s gaze drifts momentarily, catching yours across the room. He doesn’t smile, not really, but the faint tilt of his lips suggests he’s aware of you. A chill snakes up your spine, followed immediately by heat. Your jaw tightens, every instinct screaming to look away, to ignore, to retreat, but your body refuses. It’s as if the stage, the music, the night itself, has conspired to make this moment unavoidable.

And through it all, the laughter of your friends threads through your chest, maddening and unbearable. Élodie’s voice, bright and exuberant, cuts through the tension. Gary’s careful, almost hesitant observations follow. Aless, the instigator, the sixth sense, leans back in his chair, relaxed, almost smug.

You grip the edge of the bar, knuckles aching. You’ve survived stages, crowds, exhaustion, heartbreak, but this, this is new. Watching him here, knowing how easily the world bends for him, seeing your friends gravitate toward him, it’s a different kind of performance. One where you aren’t the center. One where your carefully constructed bubble of music, sweat, and survival feels fragile.

And yet, beneath the anger, beneath the sting of jealousy, there’s a strange pull. A recognition. A challenge. The presence of someone like Verso here doesn’t just threaten, it provokes. And in the quiet, taut seconds that stretch between your breaths, you realize something. You don’t just want him gone. You want to be better. Stronger. Seen. Heard. You want to survive, to claim your music, your space, your stage, even if it’s just a small bar in the backstreets of Paris.

The world may have sent him into your orbit tonight. But you will not bow. You will not break. And as the laughter continues, the faint hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, you steel yourself. Tonight, the night is far from over.