leon kisser

After he walked you home the other night, you kept his jacket and you hugged him, so unless he’s completely out of touch with modern dating, it appears you’re still interested.

There’s a good thing about this, though. Sort of. He’s been staring at the cabinet day after day, aching for a swig of whiskey… and while he’s indulged a couple times to sate the urge, it’s not like before. He has to be available if you call, and be capable of whatever ask you might throw at him. 

He wants to be needed by you, wants you to lean on him. Make a difference in a manner that might feel like nothing compared to his usual missions, but would be big for you.

With work, well…

Yes, the work is important: saving lives, making a difference where he can. And he does take a certain satisfaction in that. But he can’t deny that lately—for a while now, actually—every time he receives a call from the D.S.O. for some new task, it hangs over him more like a heavy obligation than a call to action. 

Though he’s long past literally being forced into this work. Because if he doesn’t do it, then who will? How many times has he been involved in a job that would’ve gone to complete shit if it weren’t for him? How many more people would be dead?

It’s not the D.S.O. that’s the problem, he knows that. Even with all its flaws. 

It’s the world. 

One thing after another. Never ending tragedies, destruction. Corruption. 

Leon toyed with the idea of leaving the D.S.O. before. And in everything that happened last year, work was probably the main thing that kept him sane through the aftermath. It kept his mind occupied; offered a distraction. Most people can’t talk to him when he’s on missions. Most missions don’t offer personal time. Even on the more laid-back excursions that end with a night in a hotel or safe house, Leon always finds himself exhausted when he returns. And when you sleep light and on alert, the debt never stops accumulating.

He’s always been like that, but it got worse after Raccoon City Syndrome symptoms began and again after her passing. The last time he slept decently was the first night spent with you.

No matter how much he considers it, he’s never been able to pull the plug on this work. There’s always a reason to keep going, even if he dreads the calls. He’s not sure he will ever quit. Not until his body simply isn’t capable anymore. 

He’ll never be free, that’s a given. He can only hope for better. To fill his time outside of work with something brighter.

***

Incoming Call Unknown Number

Leon’s long since lost faith in any higher power, but he’s still praying now, to any god that’ll listen, that this unknown number belongs to you.

“Leon?”

“Who’s asking?” he responds, despite recognizing your voice instantly.

Warmth bubbles up his chest. A comfortable, hopeful warmth, that he hadn’t truly felt since getting his hands on that antiviral a year ago; until he started spending time at your bar, and you pried his cage open with your persistence.

“Oh, shut up,” you giggle into the phone. “I… I’m sorry that this is the first thing I’m calling you for, but I could use a favor. Are you free?”

“Calendar’s clear. What d’you need?”

“We’re doing a birthday thing at the bar tonight for Daisy,” you explain, sounding a bit nervous, “and Devon was supposed to bring her birthday cake, but he can’t anymore and the bus takes more than an hour to get there and back—it’s ridiculous, I know—and she’ll be here soon. I know it’s silly, sorry ag—”

“Glad to,” he answers. “You’re at the bar?”

“Yes.”

“Can be there in ten minutes. That alright?”

“Yes! Oh my god,” you say, relief palpable. “You’re a life saver, Leon.”

See?

A small thing for him that’s a big thing for you. Your happy, grateful voice just then is reward enough—having your number now is the cherry on top. 

“See you soon.”

He should probably jerk off before picking you up to help clear his mind. Especially after hearing that giggle of yours, Jesus Christ. He’s been doing an exceptionally shitty job at thinking rationally around you and about you, as his unfinished report proves. 

But that would take too much time. He’s waited long enough to hear from you, to help you. 

Leon grabs the first coat he sees and slips his easiest shoes on, determined to arrive at your place quicker than ten minutes. He takes the steps two at a time down to the driveway and drives the Porsche a bit faster than he should.

Okay, more than a bit.

He arrives in exactly eight minutes and fourteen seconds, pulling over as he drives up in front of the bar. You’re already standing outside, and shit, you might be trying to give him a heart attack dressed like that. You’re wearing a black party dress that squeezes your figure and stops at your thighs. His jacket hangs at your elbows, and you’ve done your makeup and hair.

You don’t seem to register that the Porsche is your ride until he rolls down the window and calls for you.

“Thank you for coming,” you say, settling in and pulling over your seatbelt, “but when were you going to tell me you drive a fucking Porsche?”

“Today.”

“Uh huh.”

Leon’s wearing a black long-sleeved shirt that fits him in all the best places and grey jeans he pulled out of the laundry basket, held up by a black belt. He feels like he should’ve taken the time to put on something nicer after all, but him being underdressed doesn’t seem to register for you, judging by how your eyes are wandering.

“You know where we’re goin’ or you wanna type it in?” Leon holds his phone out to you, unlocked.

“Oh no, I’m the worst at giving directions. Hold on… here.” You type the address into his Maps. “Fifteen minutes.”

He drives the speed limit (or slower) this time, savoring this priceless time.

“You know,” you start when you’re a few blocks away from the bar, “I thought about calling you before today. Or texting you. I couldn’t decide what to say, I kept typing and deleting everything I wrote. And you stopped coming to the bar, and I wondered why. If that meant anything…”

“Thought you should have the choice,” Leon answers, staring straight ahead.

You nod. 

“You missin’ me at the bar?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

“Wanted to give you some space is all. I’ll be back.”

He probably shouldn’t, but he will.

His right hand moves over the center console, coming to rest on your leg, closer to your knee than your thigh—though the thought is tempting.

“When we get back to the bar… would you want to join us?” you ask. “Stay for the party?”

“Shouldn’t,” Leon says, furrowing his brows, damning himself for choosing to be responsible. “Got paperwork to finish up tonight.”

“Oh. Uh, sorry if I interrupted that.”

“Nah. I was kicking the can all damn day, just need to suck it up and finish.”

Last time he told you he “shouldn’t” do something—well. You both know how that turned out.

***

The time driving back passes by much faster. Must be the looming understanding that he’ll have to go right back home once he’s dropped you off, to spend more time alone and keep resisting that bottle of whiskey. Although, in that regard, being surrounded by bottles of liquor in a fucking bar can’t be much better.

But he’d be on the hook to drive you home. 

“You sure you don’t want to come in?” you press once he comes to a stop at the front entrance, and fuck, it’s hard for him to resist you.

No, he’s not sure. Not with the mental gymnastics he’s actively participating in to justify why being around you is a good thing, actually, and especially not when you’re dressed like that. Sitting in the passenger seat of his Porsche and looking like you belong in it.

Leon really did fuck up by not getting off before coming to pick you up. 

“I’m sure,” he lies. 

“Okay. Good luck with your paperwork.”

You’re clearly a little disappointed, and he doesn’t like that it’s because of him, even if it is because he’s trying to be responsible. 

You take your seatbelt off and lean over the middle, cupping the side of his face with your hand and pulling him in, your lips meeting his. The kiss is slow, deep—but you only give him one before drawing back. It’s a taste; a peek at everything still left unsaid.

“Goodnight, Leon.”

He’s a statue as you gather your stuff and step out of the car; he should get up and open the door for you, but he’s glued in place. Stunned, gawking at you as you get out in that beautiful dress, letting you walk away. 

And just like that, you’re entering the bar and leaving him behind. 

Leon pulls himself together and drives off. 

He makes it about halfway home. Can he really stand to miss out on this with you? After waiting by the phone so long for your call? Getting this out of his system would be for the best, clearly.

Muttering some curse under his breath, he makes a U-turn at the next intersection and comes right back, undoing all that effort to subdue himself. 

His report can wait. What would the D.S.O. do, anyway? Fire him? The worst he’ll have to deal with is explaining to Sherry why he’s been so distracted lately—and that wouldn’t exactly be his definition of fun, but it would probably be good for him. 

No one knows about you. Not Sherry, not Grace, not Chris; right now, you’re his secret. There’s something nice in that, the solace and feeling like he has something all to himself for once. Before, no matter how quiet he was or how much he tried to keep things to himself, the people around him always had a way of finding out more than he liked.

The death of his wife felt like such a public affair and completely inescapable. The funeral, the leave from work, people showing up at their house to express condolences (and then others coming to his desk and doing the same once he returned), all of it. It never fucking stopped.

It was suffocating him—and so, the moment the D.S.O. suggested a relocation to help stand up their new office in the Pacific Northwest, Leon was beyond eager to accept.

He parks down a few blocks and knocks at the locked bar door, settling his hands in his pocket. It’s a conscious decision he makes, like manually breathing. He’s all out of whack. Anxious. It’s an unusual feeling.

After a short time, it’s you who opens the door. Like you knew.

And that relieves some of the simmering anxiety.

“Hi,” you say, your smile beaming, absolutely fucking radiant. He can’t believe he almost didn’t come back. “Finish your work so quickly?”

“Let’s go with that. Still got room for one more?”

“It’s perfect timing, we were just about to do the candles. Come on!” you urge, grabbing his arm in your excitement and dragging him over to the bar with everyone else.

The group is small, less than twenty heads by his quick count. Leon recognizes a few people; Daisy and Lucas, of course, their shifts often overlapping with yours, and a couple familiar faces he doesn’t have names for. He can’t be sure, but he wonders if he’s the only person on ‘this’ side of the fence here—the sole customer. None of the regulars he knows of are here tonight; not even the friendliest, youngest ones.

“Hi,” you say meekly to the crowd staring at you, wrapped around Leon’s arm. “Everyone, this is Leon.”

Most of the group waves and says their names with a quick ‘nice to meet you’, completely unaware, but Daisy has the biggest smirk on her face when she says ‘hi’, as if this happening is a birthday gift all of its own. 

Daisy had kept her cool when Leon spoke to her when you weren’t there, apparently capable of turning on a filter, but with you present? It’s gone.

“I knew I recognized that jacket!” she exclaims, making the connection in real-time as her eyes dart between each of you. “Oh, we have so much to talk about.”

She’s staring at you.

Leon stands there, caught between enjoying the warmth that seems to be rising within you and instinctually wanting to step in and save you. 

Earlier, he’d also been apprehensive about joining in; being around your coworkers like this, displaying that whatever is between you two is more than nothing, more than bartender and customer. Now, after he’s actually here? He realizes how freeing it is. 

Here, everything is new. He doesn’t know these people, not yet—this is your world.

Leon says nothing and adjusts his arm that you’re hanging off, slipping behind you and resting at the small of your back, under the jacket. His jacket, that you’re wearing. That motion that closes the empty space between you, the sides of your bodies connecting, is response enough to Daisy’s curiosity as far as Leon is concerned. 

It’s one of those things: small for him, big for you (actually, maybe this one is big for him, too). The ceremony continues on like nothing happened, as it should. 

The man beside Daisy—her date, Leon assumes—lights the candles, and the group sings her happy birthday. He even joins in, blending into the crowd. A new, and very welcome, experience for him. 

When Daisy blows them out and everyone is clapping with their eyes on her, Leon leans over to you, nudging you closer with his arm and kissing you. 

Not slow, nor fast. Not sweet nor rough. It simply is. 

“I’m happy you came,” you say as you part. “And I really can’t thank you enough for driving me.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

It doesn’t take long for Leon to notice Daisy staring you down, desperate for your attention. He looks at you and nods towards her, getting you to notice. 

“I’ll be back.” 

“Take your time. I’ll be here.”

***

Leon does his best to mingle with your friends when they approach him in your absence. Most ask the obvious, apparently not clued in: how do you know her?

So you also haven’t talked about this. Not that he expected you to talk—this has been nothing but a few interactions and a fuck, if he’s trying to be objective about it—but most of those he speaks to seem surprised that you’re here with a date at all. 

Leon wishes he knew more about you. Thus far, from conversations with other guests, he’s learned that you’re close to your mother, you had a bad breakup with your ex (a few months ago, if he heard right?), and you’ve lived here almost your whole life.

All things he should’ve asked you about on that walk home instead of letting it go on in silence for as long as it did.

He’s not used to this whole… dating and courting thing. If that’s even what’s happening. Was never great at it when he was young, and even worse now after being married for so long. It’s not like riding a bike, that’s for sure. 

“Leon!” you call then, rescuing him from anymore solo conversations. 

You gesture towards yourself, waving for him to come over, and Leon is happy to approach the counter, standing across from you. He notices you’ve got a bottle of whiskey in your hands and a row of shot glasses. 

“Come on, I’m pouring your favorite,” you say excitedly, quickly pouring down the lined-up shot glasses, filling each one uniformly. 

It’s probably still enabling bad behavior, but he’ll allow himself this because he drinking with you is different. 

And he has a very hard time saying no to you. 

“Alright, but I gotta take it easy,” Leon warns, “as your designated driver. One.”

“I could walk.”

“No chance you’re walkin’ home alone tonight dressed like that.”

“You could come with me,” you note. 

“Forecast says it’s gonna rain.”

“Okay, you win,” you give in, sliding a shot across the bar. “Your one drink, sir.”

Leon picks his up when you grab yours, matching your motions and downing it at the same time. 

Yeah. He needed that. Hits his throat like fucking heaven. 

You dole out the shots to everyone around you, and soon after pour another round. It takes all of his self-discipline, but Leon declines this time. He will drive you. He can always pull out that bottle in the cabinet once he’s back home. 

You walk around the counter to meet him on the other side. You shake his black jacket off your arms first, folding it nearly and setting it on one of the chairs before turning your attention to him. 

“Cake?” you ask, gesturing back to the table. 

You’re more activated than you were earlier.  Tipsy, definitely. It’s clear in how you let your stare linger on him, the bubblier tone of your voice, and your flushed cheeks. Cute.

“Nah, thanks though.”

“You have to at least try it,” you say, lifting your fork towards Leon, offering a small bite. “It’s really good. That place makes the best cakes.”

Shit, if you weren’t surrounded by people right now, he’d let you feed it to him. 

Instead, he makes sure to overlap his palm with yours when he takes the fork from your grasp and eats it, pleased in how closely you’re watching his movements behind those thick eyelashes and pretty eyes…

“Mm. You were right,” he says, setting the utensil back on your plate.

“Knew you’d like it. It’s this little bakery on the north end of town,” you tell him excitedly. “They have really good coffee, too.”

“S’pose I’ll have to take you there some time.” 

“Yeah,” you respond, posture relaxing. “You will.”

Wordlessly, Leon grabs your hand and leads you to the far end of the bar. Your corner. 

It’s not all that far away, but in this moment, it feels like you’re in your own little world here. Suddenly, it’s only you and him. 

“So,” he starts, gripping your waist and hoisting you onto the edge of the counter, “how was your talk with Daisy?”

“She’s fucking nosy, that’s for sure,” you say. 

“That’s the birthday girl you’re talking about.”

“Oh, fuck off with that. No special treatment for the birthday girl.” You laugh, leaning farther back on your palms pressed to the table. “Besides, she’d say the same about me.”

Leon wonders if you’re doing it on purpose, pushing your chest out at him like that. 

“Yeah, you’re similar in that way, aren’t you?”

“She’s worse, though. We’ve been friends for years, and she’s always got her nose up my ass, I swear.” You laugh, but there’s a hint of nervousness in it. “I didn’t tell her much about you, like your job or—”

“Not asking because I’m worried about what you’ll say. I’m merely curious,” he says, leaning closer into you and lowering his voice. “Did you tell her I spent the night? How hard you came from just my fingers?”

“Would you like me to?” you challenge. “Cause it’d really satisfy her curiosities. Bet she’d be as surprised as me to find out your dick still works like you’re in your twenties.”

“You had doubts?”

You shrug, grinning. 

“I’ll have to make sure that’s fully cleared that up, then.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” you counter.

With that, you jump off the counter, sliding by him and running off to the bathroom, leaving Leon alone once more. He takes pride in your abrupt exit, thinking how flustered you looked.

It’s not long before Leon’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out of his pocket, stomach dropping from worry it could be for work. 

It’s from you. 

He opens it to a picture of you in the bar bathroom with your dress lifted up to your chest, revealing your lacy black panties and a hint of the matching bra underneath. 

Leon gasps, actually gasps at the sight. As he’s contemplating a response to you, his phone vibrates again—another picture, this time with the neckline of your dress pulled down, breasts threatening to spill over. He can hardly believe it; he started this day waiting on your call, and now he’s ending it with your risqué photos saved to his phone.

Leon: Fuck. You: wanna escape? You: im ready to go home Leon: Would you rather come to mine?

You must’ve hypnotized him with those photos, because immediately after hitting send, Leon’s cursing himself for inviting you over. It’s not that he doesn’t want you to come over; obviously he does, the message coming unbound unwittingly.

Not only is his place horribly sterile and not fit for guests of any kind, Leon hasn’t had anyone over since he was still married.

And it doesn’t feel wrong, not exactly. Not because of you, anyway. It’s the experiences, being able to remember the good side of living—when shecan’t anymore. Further, she never even stepped foot in this new house, but you will. It’s like he’s starting a life that’s excluding her, and that’s a tough pill to swallow. 

She’d want him to be happy. She’d want him to move on, find a way to love life again. He knows that, he does. But it’s one thing to know it and another to let yourself fully believe it and without shame. He feels guilty that he’s letting you in so readily, when this vulnerability didn’t come so easily with her. It took time. It’s unfair. 

All of this is not fair to you, either, though he’s been trying to shove that thought deep away in some mind drawer he could forget about.

He’s being so selfish, and that’s wrong. His role has always been to give, give, give for the benefit of others, for the world. Hasn’t it?

Treating you differently than he did the love of his fucking life. Leaving his friends behind with such little notice. How often he considers quitting the D.S.O.; god, the mere thought of it feels too self-centered. Dragging you into his life that you know nothing about, that he can’t ever fully tell you about—this side of the world that’s unsafe for anyone, but especially unsafe for you, a civilian. 

And then you’re out of the bathroom and by his side again, laughing and holding onto his arm, and he makes himself forget about all of that for a minute. Be selfish and pretend that whatever this is can one day amount to anything. 

“You ready?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” you say, nodding. You poke your finger to his chest and add, quiet so only he can hear, “Stop by my place first?”

So you give him your answer to his text.

“Yeah.”

***

When you take a little longer getting your things than he anticipated, Leon shuts the car off and decides he should check on you; make sure everything’s okay, see if you need his help. He hears shuffling from down the hall and walks up to your bedroom door. It’s slightly cracked.

“You alive in there?” he asks, gently knocking to inform you of his presence. 

“Leon!” You seem surprised by his presence. Must not have realized how much time passed. “Come over here.”

He pushes the door open and enters, walking over to you; you’re at your dresser, rummaging through your shit to pack your overnight bag. 

“This?” You hold up a dark blue, lace and mesh bodysuit. “Or these?” You shove the bodysuit in his hands and then hold up a matching set, deep red underwear and a bra. “Or you’re happy with what I’m already wearing?”

You push the other set into his hold, too, and then grab the top of your dress and pull down, reminding him of the black lacy set you wore tonight and in the pictures. 

As if he could forget. 

Imagining you in each of them, and the fact that the reason you’d taken a minute is because you were picking out what to wear for him once he undresses you… no, he can’t think about that. Not yet. He wants—needs—tonight to be more than sex.

Leon sets all the items you’d given him on your dresser and wraps his arms around your waist, pressing your body into his. His lips find yours, kissing you softly a few times before continuing them along your jawline and around to your ear.

“Like ‘em all, so bring what you want,” he whispers, “but you better decide fast, or we’ll never make it outta here.”

“Okay, okay,” you acquiesce, pushing on his chest. “I’m almost done, I swear. Can you check to make sure I locked the back door?”

“Sure.”

Leon’s fingertips linger as long as they can when he lets you go. You still have the brightest, most ridiculous smile on your face and it’s infectious—he flashes you his own growing grin as he walks out the room.

Something about your request to check the back door activates his instincts. He checks the locks on all of your windows before making sure the deadbolt on the back door is locked, then pulls the curtains all the way across the rod to cover the window fully. One of the window locks is a little flimsy—he’ll need to get that fixed for you. 

You come out just as he’s done making the rounds, bag in hand. Without missing a beat, Leon approaches you and takes it into his own. 

“Ready?” he asks. 

“I am,” you answer, wrapping his jacket tighter around your body. It still smells like him.

You take your keys from the pocket and follow him out, locking the door behind you. A sprinkling rain starts shortly after you get in his Porsche, perfect timing. 

“You’re nervous,” he comments, noticing the slight waver of your hand as you buckle in. 

“You’re inviting me over.”

“That a bad thing?”

“No!” you object.

You turn away from him and look out the window, but Leon already caught sight of the blush crawling across your cheeks before you’re out of his view. 

“Then…?” he pushes you, enjoying this. 

“I mean—I never thought I’d get to see your life outside the bar. You know?” you explain, still facing away as you speak. “I’m excited to see your place. There’s so many things I’ve been curious about, but you were always like a closed book. Glued shut. But lately…”

“What else d’you wanna know?”

His offer catches you off-guard; you turn back to him, like you need to inspect his expression to believe he’s giving you an open invitation. 

“Your job,” you start. “What do you do for the D.S.O.?”

“Ah. Startin’ with the hard hitters,” he replies. “Can only tell you so much. Classified work.”

“Well, you must work in the field?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s that like?”

“Difficult.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“No, it’s alright. It’s tough work, and I practically live at their whim.” Leon’s tone shifts slightly, less relaxed compared to a few moments ago. “But someone’s gotta do it.”

“I see. So it’s like… a duty to you?”

“Something like that,” he says. “I’ll warn you that my house ain’t anything special. Moved in not long ago, haven’t taken time to do much with it.”

She was the interior decorator of their old place. Insisted on it. Leon bought a few things he liked for the house, but his style is incredibly ‘sterile’, as she described it. If he was in charge of decorating the whole thing, it would’ve looked like an eerie model home.

“I mean, my place isn’t anything special, either,” you offer. “You’ve seen it. I have no sense for interior design.”

“Sure. Your place looks lived in though. Like a home,” he notes. “Mine doesn’t.”

“Whatever. I’m sure it’s fine,” you answer. “Anyway. No pets, I assume?” Leon shakes his head no. “What do you do when you’re not at the bar or working? Or doing silly favors for me?”

“Not much,” he admits, a half-truth. 

He can’t exactly tell you how he spends most of his days drinking, or had until very recently. Now he spends most of his days thinking about it, longing for it between the occasional drink to keep his sanity. The only thing stopping him from indulging in it that much anymore is needing to be presentable for you. 

He’s lucky you called when you did, while he’d been hunched over that fucking paperwork. Kept wrestling himself trying to justify another shot, resisting so he could put pen to paper (in the end, he still barely managed to get down a few sentences). Rinse, repeat. 

Never should’ve written anytime, for anything on that note. He knows better. What if you’d waited longer and called when he’s out on a mission? Would he have answered, phone in one hand and gun in the other? What if he’d been deep in the drink when you called?

The vibe shifts in the car. You’ve been given freedom to ask questions, and you did, but Leon realizes he’s giving you pretty shitty answers. 

“No pets,” he restarts, filling the silence. “Not that I don’t like ‘em, but this life doesn’t leave room for that type of responsibility.” He laughs as he tacks on, “Never could keep any plants alive, either.”

He turns into the driveway of a modern split-level home so nice you’re sure that he’s pulling in just to back out and turn around. Clearly in denial, considering you’re at the end of a wide cul-de-sac and Leon’s putting the car in park and turning it off.

“Oh.” You look ahead in disbelief, and Leon can’t decide if he feels silly (all of this lavish shit for one guy who hardly uses it?) or gratified by your reaction. “Leon, this is your place?”

“As of a few months ago, yeah.”

“It’s beautiful,” you say. “Oh my god, seriously, it’s like the type of house you point at as a kid and dream about living in one day.”

“Glad you think so.” 

“Hey, uh—one more question.” You reach out and lay your hand on his forearm awkwardly. “You’re really not mad at me… for going through your stuff?”

Leon tenses a bit. He’s not mad.

“Wish you hadn’t,” he admits after a short but heavy silence. “But it’s not a problem. Nothing in there I’d hate for you to know.”

He’d rather have been able to tell you about his wife himself, admittedly, and wishes it could’ve happened later. Feels like a reveal that propelled this further, simply by you knowing this part of his life now, and it can’t be walked back. But maybe it wouldn’t have made much of a difference anyway, with how quickly you’ve wormed your way into his head.

“Right,” you say, “sorry again. I’ll ask next time. I really don’t make a habit of invading peoples’ privacy like that, I promise.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Leon says, trying to reassure you. “Don’t gotta be sorry.” He takes the hand you laid on him, curling a finger underneath and lifting your palm to his face, kissing one knuckle. “Serious. If I cared that much, you’d know.”

“Asking ‘cause of what I said earlier?”

“…Kinda.”

“I’m sorry. Wasn’t supposed to be anything but banter.”

The rain abruptly picks up, coming down hard and interrupting your conversation, but he believes you and he hopes you believe him.

“Wait here, alright? I’ll only be a second.”

You nod.

Leon takes your bag from the backseat and carries it up to the door, unlocking it swiftly and stepping half-inside. He drops the bag and grabs an umbrella close by, opening it on the way back and holding it over the car as he opens the door for you.

“This is absurd, it’s not that far!” you protest, but Leon has already learned that you like his princely gestures; you like being doted over.

“Thought you’d wanna keep your hair dry. But if you don’t care—”

Leon starts to pull the umbrella away, threatening you with the pouring rain, and you instantly lunge out to grasp the handle and hold it steady, both your hands wrapped around one of his.

So it shouldn’t bother you that he’s gone. It should be a relief that you don’t have to deal with it, at least not until you see him at the bar again. If he even comes back—the address on his drivers license was certainly not here as well; maybe he’s just gone back to his family. Back home. Might be that you’ll never see him again, and that should be a good thing. 

You groan and roll over, smushing your face in the pillows, wondering what the fuck were you thinking, inviting him in in the first place?

Okay, you need to do literally anything that will make you stop thinking about Leon S. Kennedy, ASAP. You force yourself out of bed and throw on the first shirt and pair of shorts you can find, then head to the kitchen. 

On the counter, you find a canister of pepper spray and a foldable pocket knife. Nothing else.

You pocket the pepper spray and tuck the knife safely away in your junk drawer and get to work on your coffee. 

***

Leon doesn’t show at the bar that evening. Or the next, or the one after that. 

Almost two weeks pass without seeing or hearing from him. He doesn’t stand outside and offer to walk you home. He’s just gone. 

There and then not, without a single word.

It’s strange, these nights without him, and it would be even if you hadn’t fucked. You didn’t realize how much of a staple he’d become in your work days. How much he helped pass the time and made it feel less like work.

It bothers you more than you like to admit. Your efforts to forget about him have been entirely fruitless, especially given how your coworkers can’t resist asking you about him after noticing he’s been absent. Even got a comment from another regular customer. Confirms how deep you’ve been in ignorance of how extremely apparent this thing with you and Leon is to everyone.

That man seeps into everything you do, and it’s pathetic. When you shower, you think of how he fucked you on his hand better than anyone had ever fucked you before, with any appendage. When you need a drink and reach in your shelf for that vodka, you put it back and pick up the tequila or a beer from the fridge instead. When you put your coat on the rack, you think of how his looked there that night, like it belonged.

Today, you decide you’ll get out of the house and do something fun with your night. Something to truly get your mind off everything. Off him.

You pick your keys up off your key rack, turning it over in your hand to grab your house key. The pepper spray canister is attached to it. You might have to buy a new one.

You hurry out your house, lock it behind you, and shove your earbuds in as fast as you physically can and blast music on your walk to the bar, hoping it’ll be too loud for you to be burdened with these silly thoughts.

It almost works. It works up until you reach the bar, right as you go to open the door. You remember the genuine smile he wore, for just a split second, when he mocked how you always forced him to say his please and thank yous at the bar. Right before he walked you home.

Moments after entering and before you’ve had a chance to set your backpack down, your coworker, Daisy, is calling for you.

“I’m already late,” you sigh, walking past her to the back room to set your stuff down. 

She follows you, far too excited for whatever it is she’s bursting at the seams to tell you about. 

“Your regular lives!” she announces, louder than you’d like. “He came by earlier.”

“‘My’ regular?”

“Yeah, you know. The broody one who only ever orders whiskey,” Daisy explains. “Hasn’t been here in weeks. Ring a bell?”

She looks at you like you’re stupid with the most wicked grin on her face.

You hate to give her the satisfaction, but your mouth blurts out your thoughts before you have a chance to reconsider.

“Did you talk to him?” you ask, a little too eagerly.

“Hardly,” she answers, digging in her front pocket and taking out a folded up piece of paper. “He’s not much of a talker, huh? Must save that just for you.” She looks at you with what is quite possibly the most smug expression you’ve seen in your life. “He wanted me to give this to you.”

No point in pretending anymore, you figure, and you unfold that stupid thing as fast as you can.

It’s his phone number.

Below it:

I’m sorry Call anytime, for anything - Leon

“So?”

“What did he say to you, exactly?” you ask.

“Um. He asked if you were working tonight, but I told him I can’t answer that, and then he wrote the note.” Daisy doesn’t take her eyes off you for a second as you tie your hair up in a loose ponytail, and you know she won’t drop this. “Come on, what does it say? I really, really wanted to peek, but Luke made me feel bad about it. You gotta tell me!”

Leon knows when you work…

“It’s only his number,” you reply, a half-lie.

“What’s going on with you and that guy, anyway?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit!” you argue, stuffing the note away in your pocket. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know he was going anywhere.”

You don’t like that you say that as if you should’ve known, revealing that whatever this thing with him may be, it’s not nothing. But you’ve already given away enough with your body language, and you know you’re a weak liar.

And again, you remind yourself that you’ve been blind to the reality: everyone fucking knows already.

If Daisy knew he’d walked you home, she definitely would’ve said so, so you know you’ve at least got that secret. And she can never know you slept with him, even if you are friends. She’d tell everyone, and bar gossip travels fast.

It’s bad enough that you’re sure she’d known long before you even realized yourself how hard you were trying to make him smile. Before you realized you were wearing your nicer, form-fitting shirts with lower necklines more often.

“He’s got to be in his late forties, right?” Daisy asks, breaking the short silence you were thoroughly enjoying. “Guess you got tired of playing around with boys after all? I would’ve too, after what happened with—”

“Nonono! Stop. Talking. Don’t even say his name,” you warn loudly, waving your arms back and forth in front of you, willing her to listen. “It’s not like that.”

“Okay, okay. Anyway, so you’re in a situationship, or whatever,” Daisy says. “You have to tell me what happened!”

“Oh my god. Don’t call it that. Can we talk about this later? I… I need to focus on work.”

“So something did happen. I knew it.”

“I’m actually going to kill you if you make me talk about this for one more second.”

You sigh, and get to work, escaping Daisy. Of course the night you’d finally resolved to get yourself out of the house, he shows back up. Sort of.

Still, you force yourself to see it through. You, Daisy, and Luke stay after closing and play cards and drink and laugh and, shockingly, talk about anything except Leon (you did have to put on a really convincing puppy-eyed face to get them to agree to it).

But he’s still on your mind the entire fucking time.

***

Leon still doesn’t show at the bar for a few days.

And you can’t really blame him. You’ve been sitting on his number ever since he gave it to you.

You’d thought about calling, or at least texting him, a few times now to give him your number. But you stopped yourself every time. Part of you hates the torture of the ball being in your court now, thinking about how you’ve been stupidly pining after a married man and the fact that you’re entertaining talking to him again at all; another part of you is enjoying leaving him on read like he did to you.

On the seventeenth day after you slept together, Leon finally shows up at the bar. This time is different, though. He doesn’t stroll in at 9 P.M. and order whiskey; he arrives almost precisely ten minutes after you do, carrying a coffee cup with your name written on the side.

You make eye contact and he meets you at that familiar end of the bar, setting the cup on the counter and sliding it towards you. It’s from your favorite coffee shop down the street, and you pick it up and look at the label: spicy mocha, no whip, half-caf to make sure you can still sleep tonight. Your usual order when you went, usually on Thursdays, like a ritual.

“Thanks,” you say, your stomach fluttering. “How’d you know?”

“I had help.”

Fucking Daisy.

Thank god she’s not working tonight. Luke is, but he’s at least polite enough to act like he’s not watching you two from his peripherals.

Silence stretches between you and Leon for a little too long, though.

What do you even say?

Should you apologize for not reaching out to him?

“I need to get to work, Leon,” is what you say instead, and instantly you kick yourself for it. It comes out so—so bland, so deadpan. So unemotional, which is the exact opposite of how you fucking feel, but god, you don’t know what to do with it.

“Yeah.” He shifts and breaks eye contact with you for a second. “Let me walk you home tonight?”

“How come you stopped coming to the bar?”

“Work trip.”

“And the last few days?”

“Wanted it to be your choice,” he answers simply.

But you didn’t call me. And I ran outta restraint.

You wonder if that’s what he’s leaving unsaid, with the way it seems like there’s more on the tip of his tongue that he’s holding back.

“Okay,” you nod. “I’ll be ready to leave at 1.”

“I know.”

You watch him leave while death gripping your coffee. Pretending Luke isn’t over there smirking to himself.

You’re relieved Leon didn’t give up on you. Because if he had said nothing and simply left, you’re not sure you would ever work up the courage to call him.

Keys, wallet, phone.

You grab your jacket from the back and head towards the door, pausing after putting your hand on the knob.

Your heart is pounding, trying to jump out of your chest. Are you actually ready to face him? What will you say? Why did you even say yes to letting him walk you home—he has a fucking wife, have you forgotten that?

No, you can’t forget it. You think about it constantly.

Inhale. Exhale. Open the door.

He’s leaning against the wall out front and watches you as you follow your routine of rotating your body and locking the door with caution. 

“Ready?”

You nod.

Most of the walk passes awkwardly in silence, until you can’t take it anymore and mutter, “You disappeared.”

“Didn’t mean to,” Leon explains after a brief hesitation spent processing what you’d said. “My line of work—”

“It’s been weeks, you ass,” you retort, tone sharp.

“Yeah. Sorry.” He actually sounds a bit… dejected. “Should’ve said something.”

Then you feel bad.

You interrupted his answer and you saw his badge; he’s a federal agent of the D.S.O. Who fucking knows what came up?

And besides that. You’re not his wife. You’re not even his girlfriend.

“You don’t owe me anything,” you concede, crossing your arms.

While it’s true, the way you brush it off and act like you’re fine with it is a fucking lie.

Leon can see it. 

The anger you were feeling slips from your grasp; you want to be angry, you want to put this all on him, but it’s not right. You don’t know him and you never did, no matter how hard you wish that’s not the case. You let yourself get attached, you invited him in, you assumed there would be a next time.

You broke your rule. They exist for a reason.

He stops walking and turns to you, grabs your arm—a loose hold to prompt you to look at him, but easily escapable if you wanted to be free of his company.

“I do, though,” Leon says. “I owe you decency.”

“You were more decent to me than most one-night stands.”

“Is that what you wanted out of this?”

“It’s what I expected.”

You look away, knowing you couldn’t stand making eye contact with him and you don’t really want him to see you either. Not like this, on the edge of tears. It’s pathetic. You haven’t been choked up over a man like this since your ex, and that is a painful, regretful memory.

“Not what I asked.”

His rough hand runs down the length of your arm, down to the  elbow, then comes up to cup your face and lift you to look at him again. This kind of touch is—

“I don’t know what I want,” you admit.

You tried your best, but a single tear runs down the side of your cheek anyway. Body’s betrayal of the mind.

“Think about it, then.”

Your stomach stirs at that, butterflies rising at the implication of his words; so many butterflies, all cramped and crushing each other as they fight for escape, it almost hurts.

No, it does hurt.

But for now, you suck that up and simply nod.

“You cold?” he asks.

“A little,” you answer, indulging yourself, knowing where this is going. The type of guy that Leon is.

It’s like a little game of emotional whiplash that you’re playing with yourself. You’ve no clue what you’re getting yourself into. You can’t think clearly. You need to focus. Get home, send him back to his, and go to bed. Get some sleep and think about all of this tomorrow with a clear mind.

He slips his hand off your cheek, thumb brushing away the faint trace of your single tear, and shrugs off his black, fur-lined jacket. As it drops over his arms behind him, his chest flexes, and you shamelessly watch.

Leon motions for you to turn and you do, arms relaxing and letting him dress you in it. You savor every moment his fingers brush against you and you cross your arms tight after it’s on, wrapping yourself in it fully, in his warmth, in his smell. No whiskey, just cedarwood and a hint of vanilla.

“Thank you.”

“Looks better on you,” he says, your cheeks warming as you blush.

You flash him a smile and then you both continue your walk, not far from your townhouse now.

The rest of the trip passes in silence again. A comfortable silence this time, though.

Mostly comfortable.

At the front of your home, you remember how this went last time, and fuck, you really want to invite him in again even though you know better.

You imagine sharing the vodka bottle. Drinking more than you had then. Getting on your knees for him. Sitting on his face like he admitted to fantasizing about.

But you’ll be good. You’ll behave.

You both stop at your front door. After you unlock it, you’re almost afraid to turn around, all too aware that things could change in an instant. That you could turn around and lose control and act on your impulse.

You start taking his jacket off as you turn around, occupying your hands. Leaving your head down.

“Keep it,” he says. “Unless you’ve finished… thinking?”

You pause.

“Leon…” you start before you have a chance to bitch out, straining to think fast about your choice of words. You need to know. You need an explanation.

You need to end this before it goes too far, is what you need to do.

You look back up at him, a glare now, and that clearly cuts him a bit; his face shifts from something more neutral, curious, to that of concern—eyes widened, forehead creased as his eyebrows turn inward. You feel guilty, which is just absurd, you weren’t even together, and he’s the one—

“Leon, you have a fucking wife. When were you planning to mention that?”

There’s a long silence between the two of you.

“Had,” Leon says, correcting you.

“What?”

That shakes you to your core. A single word that carries so much weight for an uncountable amount of reasons.

“Had a wife,” he clarifies. “She passed about a year ago.”

You can’t read his face, and you’re not sure if it’s because he truly is uninterpretable or because your mind and sight have gone dizzy trying to unravel what he’s said and your feelings, and what he must be feeling and going through; oh, and the fact that you’ve given away you looked through his shit while he was asleep, and that you thought he was a cheater despite how fucking gentlemanly he’s always been towards you.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” you offer.

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t have assumed.”

He doesn’t protest.

“So,” he says, “what else did you find in my pockets?”

“I’m r-really sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” you instantly sputter; you were so hung up on thinking he’s married, you hadn’t even considered the thought that you’d be giving away you’d been snooping, hadn’t prepared any explanation.

Leon steps forward and leans in close to you. He grabs the edge of his jacket that’s still half on you, hanging off your elbows, and pulls it back over your shoulders before fixing the collar, straightening it out.

In your ear, he whispers, “Already knew you’d looked.”

How?

He’d been deep asleep, you thought! Did he wake up to you rummaging in his stuff? Did you place one of his items back in the wrong spot? How the fuck does he know?

And why didn’t he say something earlier and spare you the anguish?

“What else did you find?”

Leon’s pulled away from your ear, but he’s still standing so close to you. Crowding you against the door, though not caging you in.

“Your badge,” you admit. “I was curious… about your job.” You breathe deep, collecting yourself before continuing. “Your driver’s license.”

“That it?”

“Yes,” you answer, honestly.

Your head’s swimming. Drowning, more like.

The tension in the air is so fucking thick you can almost taste it.

He doesn’t seem upset with you, but at the same time, something in him had shifted. Predatory. Like you could invite him inside and he’d fuck you again, rough, of course he would; there’s a lingering sorrow, too, like perhaps he hoped you wouldn’t ask about her. That you’d give the benefit of the doubt instead.

You need that night of rest. And a cold shower.

“Have a good night,” Leon says in his normal voice, cutting the taut string.

He kisses your forehead. That makes you weak in the knees.

Then you smile, relieved.

Relieved that he’s advanced the conversation to a place where you can step inside your home and resist inviting him in. Relieved that he’s not married, that he doesn’t seem upset with you. That he’s still interested.

That he came back. To you.

That he instructed you to keep his jacket. Another part of him now with you, in addition to his phone number, and he still has nothing of yours. And for now, you’re going to leave it that way.

“Thank you for walking me home,” you say, slipping your hands behind his back and hugging him.

You feel your cheeks flush when he reciprocates near instantly, embracing you so snugly, so warmly.