A little warm up writing over the last week… I’m gonna throw up.
“Tell me you didn’t do it.”
Claire’s stomach drops. “Hi to you too.”
She folds her arms automatically, defensive before she even means to be. “I don’t know what dramatic little story you’ve built up in your head—”
That’s all the confirmation he needs.
Leon laughs once, ugly and humorless, then pushes past her into the apartment before she can stop him. He paces straight into the living room like he’s been here a hundred times. Maybe he has. Maybe that’s part of why this feels so bad.
“Oh my God, Leon, excuse me for caring when you disappear for three days and won’t answer a single—”
The force behind it silences the room.
Leon turns away immediately after he says it, hand dragging over his mouth. He’s trying to get control back and failing miserably.
Rain taps against the windows. The foster dog retreats behind the couch.
Claire feels her own temper rise now, hot and fast. “You don’t get to come in here acting like this because I checked on you.”
“Checked on me?” He swings back around so fast it almost startles her. “You walked into an active federal operation with a fake badge and a burner gun, Claire.”
“You were ten feet away from a fucking buy.”
She opens her mouth again but he keeps going, voice climbing for the first time since he got here.
“Do you have any idea what happens if they clock you? You think those people take prisoners? You think they care who your fucking brother is? I saw a body get dumped in the river tonight because somebody asked the wrong question.”
The words hit harder because Leon almost never raises his voice.
He’s pacing again now, running entirely on adrenaline and fear and fury. His hands keep flexing at his sides like he wants to hit something and hates himself for it.
“You always have it handled.”
The silence afterward feels horrible.
His chest rises hard beneath the damp black shirt. He looks exhausted suddenly. Older than he should. She can practically see the moment the anger starts curdling into something uglier.
Fear always looks terrible on him.
“You think I can do this job,” he says quietly, “if I’m wondering whether they grabbed you?”
Claire’s throat tightens.
He laughs again under his breath, smaller this time. Shaky.
Then he finally looks at her.
And Claire realizes his eyes are red.
Not dramatic movie tears. Worse. The kind somebody fights with everything they have. Wetness trapped along the lower lid because they’re too angry to let it fall.
Leon notices her noticing, and immediately he looks away.
That hurts more than the yelling.
He turns toward the kitchen island, bracing both hands against it, head bowed for a second like he’s trying to survive his own heartbeat.
“When I saw your car outside that building…” His voice roughens badly. “I thought I was too late.”
Claire doesn’t move, she doesn’t joke. Doesn’t defend herself.
Because suddenly she can see it exactly how he must have.
Her empty car parked outside a trafficking front. Leon walking into a bloodbath already halfway convinced he was about to find her there.
He swallows hard and wipes at his face angrily before anything can actually fall.
“I can deal with getting shot,” he mutters. “I can deal with operations going bad. I can deal with being hated. Fine. Whatever.” He shakes his head once. “But you do not get to make me identify your body in some fucking warehouse because you couldn’t stay out of it for one night.”
