My Interests Change at the Drop of a Dime

Jisung never asked for the proximity. He never asked to know the way your voice rises when you're tipsy or how you only sing when you thinks no one can hear. But he does. He knows. He knows you eat too many frozen waffles and tha tyour microwave beeps twice before you remember to take shit out. He knows the name of your boyfriend, the sound of your laugh when you’re trying too hard, and worse—

The exact pitch of your moans when you’re faking it.

Because you fake it. Every damn time.

And he would know. He’s had the misfortune of being hard at 2AM with your paper-thin walls pressed against his back and that sorry excuse for sex filtering through his second-hand studio monitors like a mockery of porn.

It’s always the same: breathy gasps, your boyfriend’s awkward grunting, the bed springs squeaking like hell, and then—

“Oh my god, yeah, just like that...”

Flat. Perfunctory. The kind of moan that sounds practiced. Rehearsed. Completely unconvincing.

Jisung rolls his eyes and turns the volume up on his mix.

Not because it bothers him. Not because he cares.

It’s just distracting.

He’s got better things to do than think about the pretty girl next door faking orgasms like it’s a part-time job.

Like finish this track. Like land an actual gig. Like figure out how the fuck he’s going to keep affording rent in a city that eats people alive and doesn’t even burp after.

He’s not interested.

He’s not.

Except—

Sometimes he wonders what it would sound like if you meant it.

What you’d sound like if someone took their time. If someone made you come for real, dragged it out of your with fingers in your hair and lips on your neck and the kind of steady, brutal rhythm that doesn’t stop until you’re shaking.

What you’d sound like if it were him.

Jisung curses under his breath and drags his headphones off.

His eyes are dry. His dick’s half-hard. His track’s going nowhere.

Cool.

Maybe he just needs to… do something. Anything. Something mundane. Something that reminds him he’s a functioning adult with a trash bin and a spine and better things to focus on than the soft moans of the girl next door and the way they don’t sound quite right.

He grabs the overstuffed trash bag by the door, ties it with too much force, and makes a beeline for the hallway before he can talk himself out of it.

The fluorescent lights hum. The elevator’s broken again. Everything smells vaguely like burnt toast and someone’s fruity shampoo.

This building is hell.

He loves it.

Jisung drops the bag down the chute, lingers a second too long just to feel the rush of cold air against his face, then heads back.

He’s barely two doors away from home when he sees you.

You’re standing outside your apartment, arms crossed over your chest, loose sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder like it’s been a long night. Your boyfriend—Jason? Jared? Justin?—is leaning in too close, his mouth moving fast. Jisung can’t make out the words, but the tone’s familiar. Sharp. Defensive.

The boyfriend tries to kiss you.

You turn your face away.

Jisung doesn’t mean to stop walking. His feet just… do.

“I said I’m tired,” you mutter.

“Oh, you’re tired?” the guy snaps, way too loud for this dingy little hallway. “You weren’t tired twenty minutes ago when you were riding my dick, were you?”

Jesus.

Jisung should keep walking. Should disappear into his apartment and mind his business like he always does.

But instead, he just—

“Hey.”

His voice comes out cracked around the edges, like it hasn’t been used in a while. Which is accurate. He hasn’t really spoken to anyone in three days. Not unless you count the talking he does into the mic when he’s laying down verses at 3AM.

You both turn to look at him.

Jisung tries to smile.

It’s more of a grimace.

“You, uh…” he clears his throat, glancing at you instead of the walking ego next to you. “You okay?”

You hesitate.

The boyfriend doesn’t.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Jisung shoves his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket. “Neighbor.”

The guy blinks, then laughs. “Oh. So you’re the one blasting that emo SoundCloud shit through the wall every night?”

Jisung winces. A breath stutters out of him like he’s been lightly slapped.

Then he notices it—you wince, too. The tiniest flicker of guilt flashing across your face, so fast he almost misses it.

And yeah. Okay.

That stings more than it should.

“I didn’t say it was shit,”you mumble under your breath, clearly meant only for your own conscience.

“Don’t worry,” Jisung says quickly, forcing a light tone as he scratches the back of his neck. “It’s fine. Totally fair. Some of my stuff is… uh. Kinda dogshit.”

The boyfriend grins like he’s just won something.

“Glad we agree. Thought I was gonna have to explain how sound works to a wannabe DJ.”

Jisung opens his mouth—then closes it again.

Not worth it.

Definitely not worth it.

Except you’re still looking at him. Still standing there with your arms folded tight, sweatshirt slipping down further. And your face—

There’s something in it. Not pity. Not sympathy.

More like… regret.

He hates that it softens him.

The boyfriend, oblivious, barrels on. “Anyway, next time you feel like giving a concert at four in the morning, maybe wait until someone asks.”

“Next time you feel like giving headboard percussion lessons at two,” Jisung mutters, “maybe make sure she actually comes.”

The words leave his mouth before his brain catches up.

Instant silence.

You gasp. Cover it with your hand, like you’re trying not to laugh—or scream.

The boyfriend just stares at him.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Jisung shrugs, already stepping toward his apartment door. His hands are shaking a little, but he keeps his voice light.

“I mean, the moaning’s impressive. Real Oscar-worthy shit. But you’d think a guy who talks that much would at least know when he’s not doing it right.”

“You little—”

“Hey, man.” Jisung turns back for half a second, nodding at him with a crooked, tired smile. “If I can tell through the wall that she’s faking it, that’s not on her. That’s on you.”

He shuts the door behind him before the guy can even finish winding up his insult.

Click.

Deadbolt.

Silence.

Except for the thundering in his chest.

Jisung exhales hard, forehead thunking against the door. “What the fuck did I just do?”

He sinks down to the floor like his legs have given up. Which, to be fair, they kind of have.

This isn’t him. This isn’t what he does.

He doesn't talk back. Doesn’t mouth off. Doesn’t insert himself into other people’s messy lives—especially not yours. He barely speaks to delivery guys. Half his social life happens through a pop filter.

And yet.

“You’d think a guy who talks that much would at least know when he’s not doing it right.”

God. It was kind of funny.

But still—Jesus.

Jisung scrubs both hands over his face, embarrassment curling in his gut like a hangover.

Across the wall, he hears footsteps. Muffled shouting. The boyfriend’s voice, sharp with wounded ego. And then—

The unmistakable slam of a door.

Silence.

No more voices. No more fake moans. No more anything.

Jisung doesn’t move.

Eventually, when the silence stays long enough to feel safe, he hauls himself up off the floor. Brushes dust from his sweats. Tries not to replay what he said out loud like a greatest hits compilation of shit he absolutely should not have said out loud.

____________________________________________________________________________

He sleeps like shit.

Of course he does.

And when morning comes, it hits in a wave of cheap sunlight and neighborly noise.

He hears your usual routine unfold with near-perfect familiarity: fridge door opening, kettle clicking on, cabinet slam (twice—you always forget which one holds the instant coffee). Muffled cursing. Zipper. Then keys jingling against the lock.

He listens as you step out, lets the door fall shut behind you, and walks down the hall toward the stairs.

Everything is the same.

And none of it is.

Because this time, when you leave,your footsteps pause right outside his door.

Just for a second. A breath.

Then gone.

He groans and pulls the blanket over his face.

The rest of the day moves in its usual haze. Jisung does what he always does: noodles with a half-finished beat, eats instant ramen over the sink, ignores three texts from Chan asking for an update on the mix. His headphones stay around his neck most of the day, never quite getting used.

By sunset, the hallway is quiet again.

The beat he’s working on is shit. He knows it’s shit. He keeps tweaking it anyway.

It’s not even music anymore. Just sound. A bunch of clunky, disjointed loops that won’t glue together no matter how many times he messes with the tempo.

He’s just about to scrap the whole thing when—

Knock knock.

He freezes.

It’s soft. Measured. Hesitant.

He doesn't move right away—just sits there in his desk chair like someone just rang the doorbell in a horror movie. Then he leans back slightly, just far enough to peek over the edge of his laptop.

Another knock.

His heart does something stupid.

He stands. Pads barefoot to the door. Checks the peephole.

Of course it’s you.

You’re standing there in leggings and an oversized hoodie, arms cradling a plastic container like its armor. Your hair's pulled back, face bare. You look—

Small.

Unsure.

You lift one hand and knock again, even softer this time.

He hesitates a second longer, then opens the door.

Not all the way. Just a crack.

Your head jerks up. You blink. “Hi.”

He blinks back. “Uh. Hey.”

You shift your weight. “Can I—uh, are you busy?”

He opens the door a little wider, eyes flicking down to the container you’re holding. “No. I mean. Just… failing at music.”

That gets the faintest smile out of you.

“Right. Yeah. I, um…” You hold out the container. “These are for you.”

He stares. “Cookies?”

“Apology cookies.”

There’s a beat.

Then:

“I didn’t bake them,” You admit. “But I did walk two blocks to the overpriced organic place to get them. So. Effort was made.”

He blinks down at the container again, like it might disappear if he stares hard enough.

“Effort noted,” he mumbles.

You shift again, hugging your arms tighter. “You don’t have to eat them. I just—felt weird not saying thank you. Or sorry. You didn’t have to do what you did last night.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. Felt weird not saying something. So.”

You stand there in the doorway for a second, both of you clearly unsure of what to do now that the thing you came to say has been said. He should probably invite you in. Or take the cookies. Or smile, or make a joke, or something.

Instead, he clears his throat.

You jump in to fill the silence. “Also, just so we’re clear—I didn’t actually mean the SoundCloud thing. That was… low-hanging fruit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So you’ve listened?”

That earns him a flush, bright and instant. “Not on purpose.”

“Wow.” He presses a hand to his chest. “What a glowing endorsement.”

“I’m just saying—I wasn’t trying to be a bitch. That wasn’t fair.” Your gaze softens. “Your stuff is good. Better than good, actually. The one with the—uh—strings and that lo-fi beat underneath?”

His eyebrows raise. “Track twelve?”

She nods.

His stomach flips. It’s ridiculous. But that track had been sitting unfinished for weeks, like something he wasn’t sure anyone but him would ever care about. And now she’s standing here—face bare, voice quiet—quoting it back to him like it meant something.

He doesn’t know what to say.

For someone who spends hours arranging syllables and syncopation for fun, it’s laughable how words immediately bail on him when they might actually matter.

“You, uh…” He shifts the container to one hand. “You’ve got a good ear.”

You smile. It’s small. A little sheepish. “I’ve got shit walls.”

That makes him laugh—quiet and surprised.

“I should let you hear more sometime,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it.

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

“I mean—only if you want to. No pressure. I just thought…”

He trails off, scratching at the seam of his sleeve.

“I’d like that,” You say.

And he doesn’t know what to do with the warmth that blooms in his chest. It’s not huge. It’s not loud. But it’s there—steady and unexpected, curling under his ribs.

“Cool,” he says, voice softer now. “I’ll, uh. Let you know next time I make something new.”

You nod, then shift your weight backward—just enough to start retreating. But not before your eyes flick to his again, briefly, like you want to say something else.

He thinks might.

But all you do is smile—small and real—and take one step back towards your door.

“Goodnight, Han.”

His name on your lips feels like something it shouldn’t. Like a secret.

He nods. “Night.”

And then you turn. Cross the narrow hallway back to your apartment, keys already in hand. you hesitate at the door for half a second—he notices that, because of course he notices that—then slides the key in, disappears inside, and lets the door fall shut behind you with a soft click.

He watches the empty hallway for a beat longer.

He stares at his own door for a moment after he closes it, forehead pressed against the wood like the words you left behind are still floating in the air.

Goodnight, Han.

He hadn’t realized how nice his name could sound until you said it like that.

It echoes in his chest. Warms something that’s been cold for a while.

When he finally moves, it’s slow. He sets the cookies on the kitchen counter, grabs a pen, and flips open the nearest notebook—one he’s barely touched in weeks.

And he writes:

Track idea: starts quiet. Voice sample, maybe hers? Lo-fi beat behind it, soft keys. Let it build. Don’t let it rush. Let it breathe.

He underlines let it breathe three times.

Then he puts his headphones on.

And for the first time in a long time—

The music comes easy.

______________________________________________________________

You never planned on being friends with Han.

The boy next door with the quiet mouth and loud headphones. The recluse who only seemed to exist in studio beats and half-heard melodies through the wall. You knew his name before you knew his face—Han, printed on a mailbox slot too narrow.

Now he nods at you in the hallway. Smiles, even. You’ve learned that they’re rare, his smiles—crooked and shy, like they’re still trying to figure themselves out. You’ve started waiting for them.

Some mornings, you catch him in the elevator, hoodie pulled over messy hair, a takeout coffee in one hand and sleep in his eyes. You say hi. He says hey. He always holds the door for you.

It’s nothing. But it’s not nothing.

And then, one night—it’s something.

It starts with your friend’s voice, high and nervous. “I swear I had your keys. I swear they were just—fuck, okay, check your bag again—”

You’re too drunk to care. Or think. Or stand up straight

Your bag is wide open on the hallway floor, a war zone of receipts, gum wrappers, lip glosses with no caps, and an unopened pack of hot sauce packets you swear you didn’t steal from Taco Bell. Your friend is crouched beside it, frantically digging like she’s searching for buried treasure.

And that’s when the elevator dings.

You don’t even bother turning around. You’re too busy trying to balance one heel on top of a rogue pack of gum like it’s a tightrope.

Your friend, however, freezes. Then straightens sharply, whisper-hissing, “Oh shit—it’s your neighbor.”

You blink. “Which one?”

“The hot one.”

That gets your attention.

You turn—wobble—and there he is: Han. Grocery bag in one hand, hood halfway off, hair a little windblown. His eyes flick from your friend to you, then to the scene at your feet: your life in full chaotic display.

He pauses. Then says, with the softest little blink of disbelief,

“Uh… everything okay?”

You blink right back at him.

Then lean toward your friend—not subtly, not gracefully, and definitely not quietly—and whisper at full volume:

“You’re right, he is hot.”

It echoes.

Down the hall. Into the vents. Probably into the next dimension.

Your friend claps a hand over her mouth.

Han stares at you, frozen mid-step, grocery bag dangling like it no longer belongs to him.

You sway slightly. Flash him a winning, drunken grin. “Hi.”

His ears go pink.

He recovers with a cough and a quiet, “Hey.”

Your friend steps in, trying to salvage the moment. “She, um… lost her keys. And maybe her filter. And maybe also her last three brain cells.”

“I have at least five brain cells,” you argue, eyes still locked on Han like you’ve just spotted the last bottle of tequila on Earth. “Maybe six.”

“Okay,” your friend says sharply, grabbing your arm before you can say anything worse. “She’s drunk. She needs to sleep. You’re right next door. I trust you, I think. Will you—can you—?”

“I’ve got her,” Han says, voice gentle. Too gentle. Like he’s trying not to laugh but also trying not to die of second-hand embaressment.

He steps forward, freeing his hand long enough to steady you when you stumble again. His grip is warm, careful. You immediately lean into it like he’s a weighted blanket.

“Wow,” you murmur. “Strong and polite. A dangerous combo.”

He just smiles—shy and crooked, the way he always does when he doesn’t know where to put his face. “You good to walk?”

“No promises.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘maybe,’” he says, easing your arm over his shoulder.

Your friend sighs, already backing toward the stairs. “If she tries to seduce you, just tell her she cries at Disney movies and once got drunk and tried to fistfight a traffic cone.”

“I won, though,” you shout after her.

Han chuckles.

Your friend throws one last suspicious look over her shoulder, mouthing to Han, text me from her phone if she throws up, before disappearing down the stairwell.

And now it’s just you and Han.

And the heat of your skin pressed to his side.

And the wild, buzzing thought in your brain that you’ve never been this close to him before.

He shifts his weight. Glances down at you.

“You seriously okay?”

You nod. “I feel great.”

“You say that while using me as a crutch.”

“Yeah. But like—a sexy crutch.”

He laughs, head ducking slightly like he’s embarrassed for both of you.

But he doesn’t let go.

And he doesn’t stop smiling.

Han’s arm stays steady around you as he unlocks his door, grocery bag still dangling awkwardly from one wrist. He guides you inside carefully, flicking on the lights with his elbow and nudging the door shut behind you.

You blink, taking it in through a haze: tiny apartment, warm lighting, a bunch of wires and gear by the desk, no couch in sight.

He catches you swaying and steers you toward a plain padded chair by the wall. “Here, sit for a sec.”

You plop down like a ragdoll.

Han crouches in front of you instantly, gently tugging your heels off one at a time like he’s afraid you’ll tip over trying. “You good?” he murmurs, setting your shoes aside neatly. “Anything feel weird? Dizzy?”

You grin at him. “You’re so worried.”

He flushes instantly. “I just—yeah. I mean. You’re really drunk.”

“Yeah, but like, in a fun way.”

“Still,” he mutters, already handing you a bottle of water from the counter. “Drink this. Slowly.”

You take it. “You’re like a… a boyfriend. But like, a really responsible one. Like—tax-paying, call-my-mom-for-me energy.”

Han snorts and gets up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, you’re done talking now.”

“I’m not!” you call after him as he sets the grocery bag down. “I’m very interesting!”

He just shakes his head, trying (and failing) to hide his smile.

When you blink again, he’s in front of you, holding out a hand. “C’mon. Bed’s this way.”

You pause. “You only have one bed.”

His ears go pink. “You can take it.”

You squint. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

He shrugs, awkward. “Floor. I’ve got blankets.”

“That’s tragic.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

You pout but don’t argue as he pulls you gently to your feet again. You’re warm, wobbly, still clutching the water bottle like a security blanket, and when he steers you toward the bed, you barely resist at all.

He helps you sit, then hands you a second pillow and adjusts the blanket like he’s not trying to combust over how soft you look there. He’s halfway to standing up again when you tug the edge of the blanket higher and murmur:

“Thanks, Han.”

He’s still standing near the edge of the bed, half in the dark, blinking at you like you’ve just short-circuited every single brain cell in his head.

His voice is a little uneven when he says, “Y-Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You smile at him, all cozy and soft, limbs draped across his sheets like you belong there.

He doesn’t even know where to put his hands.

“I, uh—” He scratches at the back of his neck. “I still have a bit of work to do. Just mixing something. I’ll, um. Be over here.”

You blink up at him. “What kinda work?”

“Music stuff.” His voice cracks a little, and he clears his throat immediately. “I won’t bother you. You can—yeah, you can just pass out. All good.”

“You don’t mind me on your bed?”

Han stares at you for a second too long.

Then jerks his gaze away. “No. I—I mean. No, definitely not. Like, at all.”

He fumbles over to his desk, nearly knocking over a pair of headphones, and drops into the chair like his legs have forgotten how to bend properly.

You snuggle deeper into the mattress, dragging the blanket over your legs with a dramatic sigh. “This is comfy. You have good taste in sheets.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, clicking around on his laptop even though the track’s already loaded. 

You giggle.

He pretends not to notice.

You don’t see it—but his eyes flick to you constantly. Quick little glances when you shift, or sigh, or tuck your face into the pillow like it’s your new favorite thing. He can’t not look.

You yawn, cheek squished into his pillow. “You smell nice.”

He makes a sound that’s somewhere between a cough and a quiet plea for mercy. “You should, uh. Try to sleep.”

“Mhm.”

You don’t move.

Just keep lying there. All sweet and sleepy and tangled up in his blankets, on his bed, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And even though he should be focusing—he really, really should—

Han can’t stop smiling.

He turns back to his screen and presses play, the familiar beat fills his headphones, looping low and steady.

It’s not done—not even close. The layers are uneven, the bass too soft, the melody still fighting to find its place. But it’s something. And tonight, it’s the only thing keeping his hands busy while his mind refuses to stop thinking about you in his bed.

You’re quiet for a while.

He thinks maybe you’ve finally fallen asleep. You haven’t said anything in minutes, and your breathing’s slow, almost even. He lets himself glance over his shoulder.

You’re still awake.

Eyes open. Watching him.

You shift slightly under the blanket, cheek still pressed into his pillow. Your voice is soft, drowsy. “Can I hear it?”

He blinks. “What?”

“The track you’re working on,” you murmur. “Can I listen?”

Han’s heart does a somersault. Or maybe a backflip. Hard to tell through the static in his chest.

He turns fully in his chair. “Now?”

You nod, slow and lazy. “You promised. You said I could listen next time you made something new.”

Right. He had said that.

But not this one.

Not track twelve.

He fidgets with the headphone wire. “It’s not that one.”

You blink at him, confused.

“The one with the lo-fi strings,” he explains, voice quieter now. “Track twelve. I still haven’t finished it.”

“Oh.”

You don’t sound disappointed. Just curious.

He rubs a hand over his face, then offers a crooked little smile. “But you can hear this one. If you want.”

You nod again, eyes fluttering half-shut like the night is finally catching up to you.

He hesitates.

Then gently unplugs the headphones from the jack, letting the soft sound of the track fill the room.

It’s quiet. Dreamy. Bare bones but beautiful—slow, pulsing synth layered under a simple piano loop. There’s a vocal sample buried under the mix, something wordless and airy, like a breath that never ends.

You close your eyes fully this time, listening.

And Han watches you—watches the way your body relaxes into the sound, how your lips part just slightly, like the music is pulling something from you even in sleep.

He turns back to the screen, fingers hovering over the trackpad.

You speak again, barely above a whisper.

“It’s sad,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer.

“Not in a bad way,” you add quickly. “Just… it sounds like it’s missing something. Like it’s looking for something.”

Han swallows.

Yeah.

That’s exactly what it is.

He stares at the waveform on his screen and says, very softly, “I think it’s trying to say something I don’t know how to say yet.”

You don’t reply. Not right away.

When you do, your voice is already trailing off into sleep. “You don’t have to say it. It’s already in the music.”

And then you're still.

Breathing even. Eyes shut.

Han doesn’t move for a long time.

Just sits in the soft blue glow of his screen, heartbeat slowing down to match yours, wondering how the hell he’s supposed to finish a song when the thing it’s missing is falling asleep five feet away.

______________________________________________________________

It’s been months since that first night.

Since the couchless sleepover, since the drunken key fiasco, since you fell asleep to the sound of his unfinished song.

And in that time, Han has come out of his shell in the slowest, sweetest way possible.

At first, he was shy. Still the hoodie-wearing recluse with his eyes glued to Ableton and his words tucked somewhere behind clenched teeth.

But then he started showing up more. At your door with takeout. With headphones and half-finished demos. With quiet, tentative smiles that stretched wider the more you smiled back.

You got to know him.

He told you about Malaysia—about sticky summers and midnight noodles and the way his parents still call twice a week even though they’re oceans apart. He told you how he moved to Korea for college, studied for a year, and then dropped out when he realized his brain was wired for sound, not textbooks.

You told him about your life, too—your parents and their ever-shifting conditions for love, the apartment they still pay for, the degree you’re grinding out just to prove something. To who, you’re not even sure.

And Han—turns out he’s kind of a chatterbox. Once he’s comfortable, the boy talks. About anything. About everything. With his hands, with his whole face. About samples and synths and the absolute travesty that is powdered parmesan.

Now, it’s like this: casual, constant, inevitable.

You crash at his place sometimes—not because you're locked out, but just because. Sometimes you bring your laptop and do homework on his floor. Sometimes you nap in his bed while he works. You keep a toothbrush there now. A hoodie of his has quietly migrated to your closet.

You even invited him to your graduation this spring. “It’s not like my parents are coming,” you’d shrugged, and Han had just blinked at you, then said okay, like it wasn’t the biggest fucking deal.

He still blushes when you call him hot. Still won’t take the bed when you stay over. Still treats you like you might disappear if he lets himself want too much.

And today, you’re at your place—your couch this time, legs tangled together on either end, killing time the way only two people who are too comfortable with each other can.

Lazy game of truth or dare. No real stakes. Just soft laughter and shared snacks and the kind of questions that teeter between teasing and tender.

Han’s fingers are brushing against your ankle, casual and unthinking. The popcorn bowl is somewhere on the floor, long forgotten. You’re both half-reclined, cozy and loose, a tangle of limbs and friendship that’s been threatening to become something else for weeks now.

You’ve already dared him to do his worst celebrity impression, and he’d made you sing a jingle from one of your old childhood commercials. The kind of dumb, lazy game that only works when you trust someone enough not to twist the blade when things get close.

Now it’s his turn.

“Truth,” you say, yawning, stretching like a cat in the sun. “I’m feeling vulnerable.”

He gives you a look. One brow raised, fingers tapping thoughtfully against his thigh. “Okay. What was your best orgasm?”

You blink.

Then laugh.

He flushes instantly. “Shit—was that too far? I thought we were in the spicy round.”

“No, no,” you say, waving a hand, trying to keep your smile light. “It’s fair.”

But you don’t answer right away.

You sit there for a second, fiddling with the hem of your oversized sleep shirt. His question settles somewhere low in your stomach—not uncomfortable, just… exposed. Like a truth you’ve learned to laugh off before anyone can look too closely.

You glance at him, then say it—half-teasing, like a joke you’ve told a few times before.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Han blinks. “You wouldn’t—?”

You shrug. “Never had one. Not a good one. Not any, actually.”

There’s a pause. His brows lift, lips parting slightly, but you beat him to it with a raised hand and a crooked grin.

“I know, I know. Tragic. I’m either defective or cursed. It’s a toss-up.”

He doesn’t laugh.

You thought he might—just to lighten the mood. Maybe roll with the joke, keep it casual.

But Han’s expression softens instead. Slowly. Like he’s putting something together.

But Han’s expression softens instead. Slowly. Like he’s putting something together.

“That’s not funny,” he says, voice quiet. Barely a wrinkle of sound between you.

You blink. “It’s kind of funny.”

“No, it’s not.” He leans in a little, eyes searching yours. “And it’s definitely not true.”

You hold his gaze for a beat longer than you mean to. “Tell that to every guy I’ve slept with.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. Just says, soft but certain, “They don’t count.”

Something in your chest pulls tight.

You sit back, let out a soft exhale through your nose. Try again, lighter this time. “I mean, at some point, you start to wonder if it’s just you, right? Like maybe I missed a biological memo.”

“You didn’t,” he says, firm now. “You just haven’t been with someone who cared enough to figure you out.”

You snort softly, eyes dropping to his lips before flicking back up. “What, and you do?”

His breath catches, just slightly. But he doesn’t flinch.

“Yeah,” he says. Simple. Sure. “I do.”

You go quiet.

It’s not the answer that surprises you—it’s how steady he is when he says it. Like it’s not even a question in his mind. Like he’s already imagined it, already decided what he’d do if you ever let him.

That steadiness makes your throat go tight.

“Okay,” you say, voice quiet. “Then what would you do?”

Han shifts slightly, eyes locked on yours, his expression unreadable. Focused.

“I’d start slow,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like a line—it sounds like a plan. “Let you get used to being touched in a way that’s not… performative.”

You blink.

He leans in, just a little. Not close enough to touch. Not yet.

“I’d watch your face,” he continues, softer now, “and actually pay attention. I’d figure out what makes you squirm. What makes your breath catch. What makes you ask for more.”

Your pulse thrums at your throat, hot and sharp.

“I’d talk to you,” he murmurs. “Tell you what I’m doing. Tell you how fucking good you look while I’m doing it. Make sure you know every second that it’s about you.”

Your pulse thrums at your throat, hot and sharp.

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

Because Han is looking at you like he already has you spread out in his mind. Like he’s memorizing every microreaction, storing them away like he might need them later. Like he’s already tasting the sound you’ll make when he finally breaks you open.

Your voice comes out low. Barely there.

“That’s a lot of attention for one orgasm.”

Han’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not quite yet.

“I’m not aiming for one.”

You feel it in your chest—in your spine—the way his voice sinks into you. Low. Purposeful. Like he’s already in your skin, like the words themselves are a touch.

You can’t breathe.

He’s so close now, and still—still—not touching you. He could. He should. Your body is already leaning into the heat of him, legs still curled beneath you, the hem of your sleep shirt brushing high on your thighs. But he doesn’t move.

“Have you… done this before?”

He blinks. “Made someone come?”

You nod, quick, almost shy.

“Yeah.” His mouth lifts at one corner. “Why?”

You hesitate, eyes flicking over his face. “I… thought you were a virgin.”

Han blinks. Then he laughs—a soft, breathy thing that curls low in his throat.

“Wow,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks already going red. “That’s, uh… new.”

You’re not teasing anymore. Not really. Not with the way your eyes keep flicking over him—his mouth, his hands, the pink creeping up the slope of his neck. Not with how you’re sitting up straighter, how your thighs squeeze just slightly together without meaning to.

He notices.

And it flusters him, of course it does—he’s Han, after all. All nervous energy and soft-spoken charm. But there’s something else underneath it too. Something steady. Something you didn’t see before.

“You really think I’ve spent this much time listening to you fake it through the walls and didn’t fantasize about doing it better?”

Your breath catches. Hard.

His gaze doesn’t drop. Doesn’t falter.

And suddenly, you’re seeing him for what he is—really seeing him.

The slightly older boy next door. The dropout with big hands and bigger dreams. The quiet music producer who hides behind humor but notices everything. The same Han who always opened his door, always gave you the bed, always walked on the street side of the sidewalk—but now you realize he’s been wanting you the whole time.

And you missed it.

You look at him now—and you feel it.

The shift.

Because he’s still Han. Still hoodie-clad and sweet and overly cautious.

But he’s also a man.

And god, it’s hitting you all at once.

The way his eyes haven’t left your mouth. The way he says things like I’m not aiming for one with such quiet, devastating confidence. The way he can be so careful with you and still make your skin burn like he’s already touched you everywhere.

You swallow hard.

“So,” you murmur, voice dipping low, “you’ve done this before.”

His fingers twitch where they rest against his thigh. “Yeah.”

“How many girls?”

He blushes harder at that. Clears his throat. “I mean, not a lot.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m not—” he fumbles, flustered now, voice high-pitched with embarrassment, “—like, I’m not some sex god, okay?”

You giggle. Can’t help it.

He glares, weakly. “Don’t look at me like that.”

You lean in. Let your voice soften. “Like what?”

He shifts under your gaze, eyes flicking down again before returning to yours. “Like you’re surprised.”

“I am,” you whisper.

And you are.

Surprised by the heat in your belly. Surprised by the tension in his jaw, the way he’s not looking away now. Surprised by the fact that the Han you thought you knew—the one who panicked over burnt rice and once apologized to a houseplant—is sitting in front of you, cheeks flushed, voice low, practically thrumming with restraint.

And the restraint is unraveling. You can see it. You can feel it.

His hand is still resting on his thigh. Tense. Useless.

You want it on you.

He must know, must feel the shift in the air, because he breathes out through his nose—shaky, controlled—and finally moves.

Not to kiss you.

Not yet.

Just slides closer, knees brushing yours. Hands braced on either side of your thighs like he’s holding himself back from climbing into your lap. Like if he gets too close, he won’t be able to stop.

His voice is soft when it comes. Careful.

“I don’t wanna mess this up.”

You blink. “What?”

“This,” he says, eyes darting between yours. “You. Us.”

Your heart kicks.

“I’m serious,” he adds. “If you want me to stop, I will. Even if I’ve already started. Even if you change your mind in the middle. I need you to know that.”

You just look at him.

At his flushed cheeks, his trembling fingers gripping the couch cushion, the way his eyes won’t stay still—darting to your mouth, your thighs, your eyes again.

You don’t know how to say what’s clawing up your throat. Don’t know how to explain that you’ve never felt like this. Like you could fall apart and not have to put yourself back together alone.

So instead, you reach for him.

You thread your fingers through his, bring his hand to your thigh—bare skin under the edge of your sleep shirt—and press it there, warm and waiting.

His breath stutters.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His breath stutters.

That’s all it takes.

His fingers flex against your thigh—just a twitch, nothing urgent. But the heat of them sinks in deep. You can feel how careful he’s being, how tightly he’s holding the leash on himself, like he doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he moves too fast.

You tilt your hips slightly. Just enough.

He moves.

Slides his hand higher, beneath the hem of your sleep shirt. Knuckles grazing soft skin, the inside of your thigh, and you’re already trembling. The anticipation is thick—so much thicker than anything that’s come before it. Your body’s aching and he hasn’t even touched you where you need it yet.

Han breathes out slowly. You can hear the effort it takes not to rush.

His fingers reach your panties.

They’re soaked. Clinging to you. And he makes a sound in the back of his throat when he feels it—somewhere between a sigh and a groan, like it’s hurting him, how wet you already are.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“I’m trying not to.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, and leans in to kiss the corner of your mouth. “You can just let me take care of it.”

And you do.

You sink into the cushions and let his hand keep climbing. Let it trail over skin that’s already too hot, too tight, too aware. The hem of your shirt rides up over your hips as he moves, exposing soft skin and damp fabric.

He touches you through your panties first. Just a single stroke—up and down, slow, deliberate.

You jolt.

Your thighs twitch. Your hips tilt into his hand before you even mean to.

His fingers are steady. Gentle. No fumbling, no testing limits just to say he did. He strokes over the soaked cotton with maddening patience, slow enough that your body’s buzzing before he even slides them aside.

He strokes over the soaked cotton with maddening patience, slow enough that your body’s buzzing before he even slides them aside.

When he does, it’s with a breathless little sound—almost like awe.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice low and tight. “You’re so wet already.”

You shiver.

He doesn’t ask permission again. He doesn’t need to. Your legs fall open on instinct, your body already offering itself up like it’s been waiting for this. For him.

He dips his fingers into you with quiet care—just the first two, slow and unhurried, and it’s so much. Not just the stretch, not just the slick slide of it—it’s the way he groans like he can feel how good you feel around him. Like your body is turning him on just by existing.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “How has no one made you cum?”

You whimper.

“Seriously,” he says, fingers curling slightly inside you, rubbing against that spot that makes your toes curl. “You’ve got the prettiest fucking pussy I’ve ever seen. Wet and warm and just—fuck, baby.”

Your hips jolt when he says it—baby—and he notices. His mouth quirks.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, watching your face like it’s giving him instructions. “You like that. Being talked to while I fuck you with my fingers?”

You moan—helpless, high-pitched—and your hand shoots down to grab his wrist.

He stills immediately. “Too much?”

You shake your head. Or maybe you nod. You don’t even know anymore—your brain’s barely holding on, your body dragging you under, soaking up everything he gives like it’s the first drop of water in a drought.

He watches your reaction like it’s gospel. Like every twitch and gasp is holy.

“Thought so,” he says, and starts to move again—slow, controlled pumps of his fingers, careful not to lose that rhythm now that he’s found what works. The way your walls clench when he curls. The way your hips chase him when he retreats. The way your breath hitches when his palm drags across your clit just a little too hard.

And god, he uses it all.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes glued to where he’s working you open. “If this pussy was mine, I wouldn’t be able to leave you alone.”

You gasp.

“I’d keep you like this every night,” he says, voice thick now. “Stuffed, dripping, begging for it. Just like this.”

You keen, head falling back against the cushions, thighs straining around his wrist. Another twist of his fingers, another filthy curl, and you’re spiraling again—clenching, grinding, chasing something you’ve never actually caught before.

But it’s still not enough.

Close, so close. You can feel it in your gut, in the burn behind your eyes, in the way your whole body draws tight like a wire about to snap. But then it slips, slithers away like it always does, leaving you aching and wrung out and panting like you’ve been running in circles.

Han doesn’t stop.

He slows, sure. Eases off that pressure like he knows—like he felt the way you were peaking and watched it fall apart all over again.

Your breath stutters. Your hands tremble where they’re gripping the couch cushions. Your whole body shakes with the frustration of it.

Han looks fucking thrilled.

“Shit,” he whispers, eyes glued to the slick mess between your legs. “You’re gonna be a fucking problem, huh?

You whimper—shaky, half-desperate—and try to pull your legs closed, but his free hand slides up your thigh and keeps them open. He’s still panting, still hard in his sweats, and yet somehow entirely focused on you.

Your voice comes out broken. “I can’t—fuck, Han, I was so close—”

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, leaning over you. His fingers finally slip free, soaked and shining, and he brings them to his mouth like it’s nothing. Like tasting you is just a thing he does between breaths. “You’re so fucking pretty can’t believe no one’s ever made you come.”

He sucks one finger between his lips, humming low in his throat, and your entire body jerks.

He grins around his knuckle. Blushy. Sweet. Still Han, somehow—except his eyes are dark now, slow-burning, locked onto you with intent.

And when he speaks, it’s not teasing. It’s reverent.

“I knew you’d taste good,” he murmurs, dragging his hand down your thigh again. “Didn’t think you’d ruin me this fast, though.”

You squirm, still reeling from the touch of his fingers, still aching from how close you came—how it slipped just out of reach. Your panties are somewhere around your knees now, tangled and damp, and your thighs are trembling despite the warmth of the room.

But Han doesn’t give you time to settle.

He drops back down between your legs like it’s instinct.

Like he belongs there.

You brace for it—his mouth, his tongue—but nothing prepares you for how intentional it is.

Because when he licks you, it’s not just lust. It’s devotion.

The first press of his tongue is slow, hot, drawn out like he’s tasting something forbidden. It drags through your folds, slick and maddening, before he pulls back just slightly and exhales a shaky breath against your cunt like it’s worship.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You’re so fucking sweet. So wet—dripping for me, baby.”

Your hips jerk. A soft moan tears from your throat, helpless and startled.

He hums at the sound. And then his tongue is on you again—lapping, curling, sliding in lazy circles around your clit, not rushed, not rough. Patient.

But it’s overwhelming.

Too much and somehow still not enough.

You gasp, spine arching. Your thighs twitch against his shoulders again and he presses his hands there—holding you open, keeping you still. His grip is firm, grounding. Gentle only in contrast to the way he eats you.

He groans low when your hips roll, when your slick coats his lips and chin. Like it turns him on more than anything else. Like this is the part he needs.

He devours you like he’s starved for it.

Like he’s been thinking about this—you—for longer than he’s willing to admit. Tongue slow but deliberate, savoring every stroke, every gasp you give him. He doesn’t speak now, doesn’t need to. The sounds alone—your moans, the wet suck of his mouth, the way your breath stutters every time he flattens his tongue against your clit—say enough.

But it’s your reactions that do it. The way your body jumps every time he moves just right. The way your hands scramble for the couch cushions, for him, like you don’t know what else to hold onto. The way your thighs clamp around his head when he groans into your cunt.

That’s when he realizes.

You’ve never been eaten out before.

It hits him all at once—in the way you shiver, in the way your body doesn’t quite know how to take the pleasure he’s giving. There’s something raw about it. Uncharted. Holy.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tease. Just lets the knowledge settle deep in his chest like a vow.

So he slows down. Not to drag it out—to care. To guide you through it.

He pulls back just slightly, presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another one, lower, softer. You can feel his breath against your skin, shaky and uneven, like you are unraveling him just by letting him do this.

He kisses down, worshipful, open-mouthed presses of tongue and lips trailing toward where you’re slick and trembling—until he’s back on you, groaning deep in his chest like he needs this to survive.

He laps at your cunt like a man obsessed. Messy, wet, obscene.

His tongue flicks fast over your clit, sloppy and relentless, and when you whimper—high and panicked—his hands tighten on your thighs, dragging them wider, pushing you open like he can’t get enough. His nose presses into the soft swell of you and his mouth won’t stop.

And god—god, the noises.

The slick suck of his mouth, the soft wet licks between your folds, the broken, wanton moans he keeps letting out like your taste is fucking euphoric.

Your thighs are trembling against his cheeks, toes curling against the cushions, hands fisting in the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this plane of existence. Every time you start to come down, he drags you right back up—tongue flicking, then flattening, then sucking.

You’re soaking him. You know it. Can feel the slick mess coating his lips, his chin, now—but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t even flinch. Just dives in deeper, grinds his mouth against you like it’s the only thing that matters.

And maybe it is.

You’ve never made sounds like this before. Never felt anything like this. It’s a full-body unraveling—pleasure so raw and high-pitched it’s almost unbearable. You can’t even find words anymore. You try—gasp out his name, maybe a plea, maybe a warning—but it’s just breath. Just noise.

He hears it anyway.

Groans in response, and the vibration shoots through you—tightens every nerve, every muscle. You feel it everywhere. In your spine, in your belly, in your fucking teeth.

He licks through your folds like he’s trying to commit the shape of you to memory, tongue dragging over your clit in slow, hard laps now—intentional, devastating. One hand lets go of your thigh to slide underneath you, to lift your hips, tilt you toward his mouth like an offering.

Like you’re his altar and he’s ready to worship.

You don’t even realize you're crying until the tears hit your cheeks—silent and sudden, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it, the depth of it, the relentlessness of him.

Jisung doesn’t notice.

Or maybe he does and just thinks it’s holy.

Because he’s still moaning against your cunt like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Like this is salvation. Like this is his first time, too.

The warmth is unbearable. Sharp and sweet and all-consuming, climbing up your spine in thick, molten waves that won’t stop—won’t let you go. Your muscles are locking up, your breath catching in your throat, your fingers cramping from how tight you're clenching the cushions.

You’re going to break.

You know it.

You want to.

And he just keeps going—tongue pressed flat and firm against your clit now, dragging in slow, filthy circles while his lips suck softly, reverently, like he’s trying to love you apart piece by piece.

You feel it snap somewhere deep inside you.

The heat—the ache—the need—it peaks.

And then it bursts..

Your thighs clamp around his head, your hips jerk off the couch, your moan rips loose from your throat like you’ve been silenced your whole life and this is the only language your body ever needed to speak.

You’re cumming. Hard. Helpless.

Everything pulses—your cunt, your chest, your fingers. Every nerve is alight, every inch of you clenched and shaking, your whole body seized in the grip of something so big you can’t name it.

And Jisung doesn’t stop.

Not when your legs twitch.

Not when your body tries to squirm away.

Not even when you sob his name, high and wrecked, too sensitive to breathe.

He eats it up. Literally.

Groaning low in his throat, nose pressed to your mound, tongue still working your clit like he wants to wring another orgasm out of you before this one’s even ended. You try to stop him, legs trembling, fingers pushing at his hair with barely any strength behind them.

But he just moans again, long and loud and ruined, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“H-Han—” you gasp, voice cracked and teary.

But he can’t stop. He won’t.

You’ve broken open for him—shattered for him—and it’s like something inside him snapped too. His mouth keeps moving, lapping through your folds like he’s addicted, like he needs the taste of you to live, sucking every drop from your body like he’s trying to memorize it.

You try again to push him off. This time with real effort. A desperate shove, your fingers fisting in his hair and yanking—not hard, not mean, but urgent.

“Han, please—”

He finally pulls back.

Gasps.

His chest is heaving. His mouth is slick and swollen, the lower half of his face soaked in your release, and he blinks up at you like he forgot where he is.

“Shit—fuck, I’m sorry, I—” he pants, voice wrecked, dazed.

Then he looks down.

And groans.

Because you’re still dripping.

Slick pooling out of you, slow and obscene, catching the light as it runs in glistening streaks down the curve of your pussy and the swell of your ass, soaking the couch beneath you.

And he can’t help himself.

His hands slide up your thighs again—possessive, reverent—and before you can stop him, he leans back in.

One long, filthy lick—from your entrance to your clit—slurping up everything you spilled. He moans as it hits his tongue, deep and satisfied, and swirls it around like he’s tasting honey.

He pulls back just far enough to look at you.

Face flushed, lips swollen and slick, chin glossy with your release. His eyes are glassy—fucked-out and starving and soft in a way that shouldn’t match the filth of what he just did to you. But somehow it does.

Somehow, it makes it worse.

He’s panting like he just ran miles. Sweat dampens his curls, his hoodie clings to his chest, and his cock is still straining hard against his sweats—visibly aching. But he doesn’t even look at himself. Doesn’t even care.

He’s still looking at you.

At the mess he made.

At your cunt—pink and soaked and fluttering with aftershocks, spread open on the couch like he carved you out just for him.

And he fucking smiles.

“Jesus,” he breathes, dragging his thumb along your inner thigh, slow and lazy, eyes still locked on the slick between your legs. “You’re unreal.”

You’re still trembling—wrung out, flushed, completely silent now except for the shattered sound of your breath.

But he isn’t done.

Not really.

Because then his thumb moves—trails closer, closer, until it’s swiping through the slick seam of you, collecting it, spreading it.

You flinch, hips twitching, breath hitching on a wrecked little gasp.

He freezes.

“Sorry—shit, sorry,” he murmurs, voice gone soft in the edges. “You’re probably so fucking sensitive right now.”

You nod, dazed. Barely. You’re not even sure you meant to.

But his eyes drop back down—and the sight of your cunt twitching under his touch, the way slick is still dripping out of you, slow and shiny, pooling where your thighs meet—

It short-circuits whatever restraint he had left.

“Can I…” he starts, already leaning in again, lips parted, breath ragged. “Just—one more taste, baby. Please.”

And before you can answer, he’s there again.

Licking into you.

Tongue flat and greedy, slow and deep, sliding through the wreckage he left behind like he needs it to breathe. He moans—loud—when it coats his tongue, when it drips down his chin, when he presses another kiss to your clit like he’s thanking it for everything.

You can’t stop shaking.

From how tender he’s being while still devouring you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. From how overwhelmed your body feels—stretched between too much and not enough, oversensitive but still wanting.

He doesn’t rush now. Doesn’t try to make you cum again.

This is different.

It’s reverent. Like he’s cleaning you up with his mouth, dragging his tongue through every slick drop, pressing soft kisses into the mess like he’s trying to soothe the tremble in your thighs.

You whimper, just once—raw and hoarse.

That’s when he stops for real.

You sigh into his mouth, quiet and trembling, the kind of sound that only comes when everything inside you is raw—peeled back, exposed, open. He swallows it like it’s precious. Like it matters.

His hand at your waist shifts, pulling you gently forward until your chest brushes his. You’re still bare from the waist down—thighs sticky, breath uneven—and he’s still clothed, still hard, still aching beneath his sweats.

But he doesn’t grind against you.

Doesn’t ask for anything.

He just holds you.

Your knees fall around his hips, lazy and loose, and his thumb strokes the hinge of your jaw—slow, absent, like he needs the contact to stay calm.

The kiss deepens. Not with hunger. With heat. With reverence. His lips move against yours like he wants to memorize the shape of your mouth, your breath, the taste of your tongue mixed with your own arousal.

You break first—pulling back just a fraction to breathe, eyes fluttering open.

He’s already looking at you.

And there’s something in his gaze that wasn’t there before. Something stunned. Struck. Soft.

He whispers, “You okay?”

You nod. Maybe too fast. You feel stripped down to something small and shaking, something new—but his hand doesn’t leave you. His thumb still brushes your cheek. His chest still rises and falls like he’s feeling everything with you.

You whisper back, “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

Jisung exhales a laugh—wrecked and wrecking.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, leaning forward again to press a kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple. “Then I guess we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

You don’t even realize you’re smiling until he kisses it. Presses his lips right there, at the corner of your mouth, so gentle it makes your eyes sting all over again.

There’s a beat of silence—thick and golden, warm between the ruined rhythm of your breathing.

Then he asks, quieter this time, “Can I hold you for a while?”

And god. You’ve never wanted anything more.

______________________________________________________________

The crowd pours out of the auditorium like a tide—caps slightly askew, diplomas clutched tight, families gathered in little clusters of congratulations and cameras. Laughter. Shouts. The click of heels and the flutter of gowns. You scan the crowd, heart racing, eyes darting.

And then you see him.

Leaning awkwardly against a tree, holding a slightly crumpled bouquet of grocery store flowers and dressed in the nicest outfit you’ve ever seen him wear. Still a hoodie—because he’s him—but it’s black and clean and zipped halfway up over a plain white tee. His hair’s been pushed back, curls tamed, face soft in the sunlight.

Like he wanted to look good.

For you.

You run.

Full sprint, no hesitation. Laughing, radiant, the hem of your gown flying behind you. And Jisung barely has time to react before you crash into his arms—legs wrapping around his waist, face buried in his neck.

He catches you without thinking. Arms locked tight around your back, holding you like the whole world could fall away and he’d still have you.

“Jesus—hi,” he breathes, stunned, grinning into your shoulder. 

“You came,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to look at him, eyes glassy and sunlit.

“Of course I came,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “I wouldn’t miss this.”

You swallow, smile trembling just a little. You’re still holding your cap too tightly. Still searching the crowd behind him, over his shoulder, behind trees and between cars—hoping.

And Jisung sees it.

Sees the flicker in your expression when you realize no one else is coming. No familiar voices calling your name. No parents weaving through the crowd, late and disheveled but here. Nothing.

Just him.

You try to play it off—force a smile, tilt your head.

But Jisung just exhales, jaw tight, eyes warm and sharp.

“Hey,” he says softly, tipping your chin up. “Fuck ‘em.”

Your breath hitches—more from the way he says it than what he says. No apology. No pity. Just truth, blunt and biting and yours.

“Fuck ‘em,” he says again, firmer this time. “They don’t get to take this from you.”

And something in you cracks. Not the kind that breaks—the kind that lets light in.

Your cap slips from your hand to the pavement. You don’t even notice. You just lean forward and let your forehead rest against his, eyes fluttering shut as the noise of the world fades away.

“I thought it wouldn’t matter,” you whisper. “That I didn’t care.”

He nods like he already knew. Lets his hand fall to the small of your back, thumb tracing slow circles through the fabric of your gown.

“But it does,” you admit.

“Of course it does,” he murmurs. “You deserved more than this.”

You pull in a shaky breath. Exhale. Nod against him.

And then you laugh—quiet, almost startled. “God, you look nice.”

He pulls back just enough to give you a crooked smile. “You noticed?”

You sniffle, wiping under your eyes. “You did your hair.”

“I used product and everything,” he says solemnly, and that makes you laugh for real this time. His face lights up at the sound. Then, like he remembers something, his eyes go wide and he fumbles for something in his pocket.

“Wait—here. Got you something.”

You raise a brow as he pulls out a pair of slightly beat-up white AirPods and holds them out like they’re wrapped in silk.

“Your... earwax?” you tease, voice still thick, but lighter now.

Jisung groans, face going red. “Just put them in, smartass.”

You give him a look, lips twitching like you’re holding back another laugh, but you take them. Slip them in with practiced ease, still smirking, still sniffling a little.

And then—

You hear it.

Soft at first. A low, warm hum of synth. That familiar piano progression you’ve heard a hundred times echoing from his bedroom speakers, half-finished and always evolving. A quiet heartbeat of static underneath, the sound of something personal, unfinished—

But not this time.

Now it’s whole.

The bass comes in slow. The melody rises. The rhythm finds its footing like it’s been waiting for you.

Then his voice.

His voice.

Low. Raw. Stripped back and unfiltered, like he recorded it in the middle of the night, barefaced and half asleep. It’s not polished. It’s intimate. Each lyric laid out like a confession, like he’s pressing it directly into your chest.

You freeze.

Your mouth parts, but no words come out. You just stare at him—eyes wide, breath caught, the world suddenly nothing but him and the song in your ears.

Jisung watches you closely, fidgeting, clearly trying to read your face.

“I, uh… I finally finished it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Track 12. I—kind of stayed up all night working on it. Wanted you to be the first to hear it.”

You swallow hard. “You—wrote this… for me?”

He nods, sheepish. “Well, yeah. Who the fuck else would it be for?”

You blink at him, still stunned, still half-floating somewhere between the melody and his smile.

The music wraps around you like a secret, like sunlight through a window. His voice in your ears. His eyes on your face. His hands fidgeting at his sides, picking at the edge of his hoodie sleeve, suddenly nervous like he didn’t just lay his heart bare in a three-minute track.

And then he says it.

Quiet. Almost like it slips out.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your breath stutters.

He panics a little, eyes going wide, hands gesturing now like he’s trying to physically catch the words and shove them back into his mouth.

“I mean—not in like, a weird, ‘I wrote you a song and now you have to marry me’ way. I just—I’ve been in love with you for a while, and I didn’t know how to say it. And then I kept not saying it, and then you let me eat you out on your couch and I was like, oh cool, guess I’m definitely in love with her—”

You stare at him.

Mouth slightly open. Ears still ringing with his voice from the track. Face flushed from the heat of him and the way he’s unraveling in front of you, hands flailing, words tumbling out too fast, too honest, too him.

“And now I’m saying it,” he rushes on, breath hitching. “And maybe it’s too soon or maybe it’s stupid but—fuck, I don’t care. I love you. And I don’t just mean in the afterglow, post-head, 'wow-she’s-so-pretty-when-she’s-cumming' kind of way—which, like, you are—but I mean in the real way. In the way where I think about you all the time and you’re in my music and my coffee and my fucking laundry detergent because you smell like it now—”

You cut him off with a laugh—soft and stunned, the kind that comes from something blooming too fast in your chest. Your hands reach for him instinctively, palms pressed to his chest like you’re trying to slow his heart down, or maybe match yours to it.

Then lean up and kiss him.

He melts into it—hands landing on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float off if he doesn’t hold you down. His mouth is soft, a little shaky, like he still can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s kissing you with both hands behind his back, offering up his heart like a truce.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his.

You’re smiling. He is too, in that breathless, stunned way—like you’ve both finally exhaled.

“I’m in love with you too,” you whisper.

He chokes out a sound. Somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “No shit?”

You nod. “No shit.”

Jisung blinks, then grins—slow and wide and boyish.

He just stands there, still holding you, like his body hasn’t caught up with what just happened.

Like he's trying to memorize this moment—your smile, your closeness, the soft heat of your hands resting over his heart.

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something else. Closes it again.

Then settles for a quiet, breathless, “...Okay.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Okay?”

He nods, dazed. “Yeah. Just… okay. Everything’s okay now.”

You lean into his chest, let your head fall to his shoulder. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months. His arms wrap around your waist again, this time more certain. More steady.

And for a moment, neither of you says anything.

The crowd is still bustling in the background. Cameras flashing. Tassels swinging. Parents calling names that don’t belong to you. The sound of it used to sting—but not now. Not with him holding you like this. Not with the song still echoing in your ears, a private chorus written just for you.

You glance up. “So what now?”

He looks down at you, still smiling like he doesn’t know how to stop.

“We go home,” he says. “Order too much food. Fall asleep on the couch. Pretend we’re not both crying during The Office reruns.”

You snort. “That’s your big plan?”

He leans in, nudges your nose with his. “No,” he murmurs, softer now. “My big plan is to love you for a really, really long time.”

Your heart stutters.

And it’s so simple—so quiet, so uncomplicated—but it wraps around you like warmth, settles deep in your bones like something you forgot you were allowed to want.

You tip forward and kiss him again, just once. Just enough.

“Sounds like a good plan,” you whisper.

He grins. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Eventually, your fingers find his, threading together as the crowd begins to thin. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, grounding and sure.

You glance down at the flowers, still clutched in your other hand—slightly crushed, petals soft and folding in from the heat. But they’re yours. Someone showed up. Someone stayed.

You’re walking away with his hand in yours, the sun dipping low behind you, the final track still playing softly in your head.

It ends the way all good songs do.

Quiet.

Certain.

♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙

There’s a polite distance between the two of you as you sit side by side on the couch, two fresh old-fashioned cocktails (sans the orange peel) sat on the table in front of you. He’d apologised for not knowing how to make anything fancier, but insisted he could at least make it better than a bar — he was right on that.

“What’s your name?” He asks, starting the ball rolling.

You resist the urge to pick up the drink for something to occupy your restless hands. Forcing them to be still, to not fidget, you give him your first name.

“Leon.” He holds his hand out, the formal handshake he gives a stark contrast to earlier's intimacy. “Leon Kennedy.”

Leon. It suits him. Brings to mind old movie characters with dangerous jobs, and untamable lions; he looks rugged enough the former could fit, but the latter is ironic given everything so far — he certainly wants to be tamed.

“I’ll level with you.” He begins. “I don’t date. When I say my lifestyle doesn’t leave room for it, it’s the truth. Among other things, I don’t have the time to invest in a genuine connection.”

You nod in acknowledgement, biting your tongue from telling him he’s not done bad so far.

None of this is a date, you remind yourself. This is all part of a transaction.

When you don’t interject, he continues. “But I’m human. Coming back to an empty apartment is…” He gestures vaguely around. “...not what I want.”

He goes quiet for a moment, long enough you reach over to the table to pick up both your glasses. Handing him his, you bring yours to your lips. Before taking a sip, you venture, “That’s where I come in?”

He nods. “If you want to, that is.”

Your answering smile spreads, taking over his lips as well. “Depends on what the job entails.”

He wets his lips. Then takes a swig of his drink. Liquid courage downed, he answers: “Intimacy without emotional strings.”

“So…” You mull it over, head tilting. “A friend with benefits?”

“We don’t even have to be friends. Probably best if we’re not.”

“What, so you’d rather I dislike you?” It’s intended as a lighthearted tease, but the joke doesn’t land as you expected.

“You’d be surprised how easy that is.” Though his eyes don’t leave your face, they skirt yours — a good faux attempt at eye contact, but one you're familiar with from your own use of it.

Your hand covers his before you can think better of it. “Leon—”

“Don’t—” 

“—you could find someone the normal way” You push, pulling your hand away before he can retreat himself. The awareness you’re talking yourself out of a job is there, but the rawness to his confession weighs heavy on your conscience. You try and lighten the mood. “There’s hope for you yet. You didn’t start by messaging you’d pay to suffocate yourself with my panties.”

The snort he lets out surprises a laugh out of you. “Jesus Christ. Is the bar that low?”

You shrug, fighting off the remnants of your giggles as you sip your drink. “First message. No payment offered. Then a few unsolicited flaccid pics. While I understand getting your rocks off is different for everyone… Suffice it to say, I didn’t even entertain it with a reply.”

“Fuck me.” He laughs. “And I thought my social skills were lousy.”

You clink your glass lightly against his again. “See? You’re doing just fine.”

Silence returns, more comfortable now. You sip at your drinks, him finishing his while you stare at the dregs of yours.

“Friends with benefits sounds right then, though like I said, there’s no pressure for you to keep on liking me. I won’t be offended.”

“Same to you.” You swirl the last of your drink, eyes flicking between his as you think of how to ask him to define the exact benefits, when he saves you from another attempt at wit that’ll backfire.

“I know you’re not here for friends with benefits though. There’s a few things I can offer beyond what I’d hope would be good sex. Great sex, actually,” the exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows draws the chuckle he was fishing for, “so I’ve been told.” 

“Were you gagged when they said that?”

Gone is the tinge of self-depreciating sadness in his tone, replaced by a wickedness as sharp as his gaze. “Do I need to gag you?”

Hands coming up in acquiescence, you let him continue.

“Financial stability.” Though the playfulness dissipates, the warmth in his voice remains. “Bills, groceries, other expenses. I’d take care of them. Those tuition fees you mentioned leading you to this? Covered completely.”

Bills. Next month’s rent comes to mind, along with the overdue utilities.

Seemingly reading your mind, what he says next pulls you up short of a response: “One condition would be moving in. Here.”

There’s no doubt he sees the cogs turning as you work to process his words. Expression unreadable, he waits until you finally find your voice and ask, “You’re happy to let a stranger live in your home?”

He shrugs. “This place is like a PO Box for me. I spend more time away from it than I do in town.”

While to him it seems like nothing, for you? It’s huge. Until now you’ve absolutely refused to live with another person, a luxury afforded by your living expenses grant. The closest you’ve ever come to a housemate is Maya, who has acted as if she’s the exception and has spent more time at your place than hers in the several months you’ve known her — a frustrating habit, though you’d be lying if you said you minded all that much.

You understand the appeal of returning home to someone. Loneliness eats away at you given enough time.

“I have a minimum term on my lease.” You tell him simply. It’s the truth; you signed on for another twelve month’s contract this summer, before everything went to shit. You can’t just up and leave.

“I’ll pay any fees.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “If I can’t find someone to take it over, I’ll have to pay the remaining months.”

“You don’t have to find someone to take it over. Like I said, I’ll pay it off.”

“It’ll be thousands.”

“Not as if I’m paying rent for this place.” Deadpan. Either very dry humour, or totally serious.

You huff, muttering under your breath, “I’m not that good in the bedroom.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” He grins. “Besides, I’ll be the judge of that.”

You shift a little, earlier's boldness overshadowed by doubts and a self-consciousness you thought you’d perfected hiding. “You’ll be disappointed.”

“Where’s all that confidence from earlier?”

You prickle at the sudden seriousness in his tone. He eyes you with an expression you’re sure is similar to yours when faced with his insecurities earlier on, all quiet contemplation and genuine care.

Deflection is easier than letting anything like that simmer.

You down the rest of your drink. Purposefully, you lick the remnants from your lips. “You’re far too eager to set up a payment plan before you know what you’re getting for the money.”

His gaze softens, but the concern doesn’t totally disappear, despite his playful rebuttal. “I figured there wasn’t a free trial.” He smiles. “Will you consider it?”

“For me it’s a no-brainer.” You answer honestly. Because really, what is there to think about? He’s offering everything you want. Everything you need. “I just don’t think it’s an equal transaction.”

He quirks a brow. “Not equal how?”

“I’m getting a lot more out of this than you are.”

“You get some money in exchange for putting up with me? Sounds like you’ve got the shorter end of the stick, really.”

“Some money doesn’t cover it.”

Giving an exaggerated nod, he clicks his tongue. “Right. You’re also getting mindblowing sex along with it. Can’t forget that.”

The joked-about gag from earlier sounds appealing right now: you’re sure if something similarly cheesy comes out of his mouth again, when your eyes roll next they’ll get stuck up in your skull.

“Too much?” He covers his heart with his hand, feigning a modest change of heart with a hurt affect.

“Far too much. Not you, corny bastard you are. But what you’re offering.”

“Money means nothing to me.” He pinches the rim of your glass, trying to gently extricate it from your grasp but your hold is too tight. “Without meaning to sound conceited, I have so much I don’t know what to do with it. If it can improve things for someone, I’d consider it well spent.”

You look down at the glass, jaw working as you mull his words over.

While money means nothing to him, it’s everything to you. Right now, it’s the difference between your life’s worth in your own eyes and the alternative of death, which would be preferable if you don’t get enough together to finish your course: you need the degree, you need that job promised to you at the end of it, and all they promised along with it.

You need the money.

Loosening your grip, you let him take the glass from you. He sets both it and his own back on the table.

“I’d live here. Let you have sex with me whenever you want—”

“You can say no at any time.”

It’s your turn to snort. “Yeah, really.”

He shifts in his seat, bringing one knee fully up onto the couch and angling himself to face you head-on. “Consent would be key to this… arrangement. You can say no to anything you don’t want to do.”

Where's the damned catch? “So, optional sex, rent-free living, all-expenses paid…” 

“Might I point out again that the sex that’s on offer would be fantastic?”

“It had better be with how much you’re going on about it.”

From the grin alone, you have no doubt he intends to prove his assertions right.

It sounds too good to be true. An offer beyond your wildest imaginings. “What would the intimacy include?” You ask.

“That’s open to negotiation.”

“Then negotiate.”

He swallows, bravado wavering. “This place technically has two bedrooms, but I use the spare as an office. So, sharing a bed when I’m here would be needed.”

“Done, as long as you don’t hog the blankets or leave me on the edge of the mattress.”

His hand comes up again to rub the side of his neck. “I struggle with sleeping. It’s not as bad as it was but…”

His eyes are a little glazed, unfocused.

“What would help?” You ask, trying to draw him back from wherever his mind has wandered.

A small, almost sheepish smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Hopefully having someone to hold.”

“Well, that can be arranged…” Settling back into the easy flirtation from earlier, you lower your voice conspiratorially. “And I promise, I’ll do my best to tire you out beforehand.”

“Challenge accepted.”

“That wasn't…” Bragging about stamina now too. You shake your head. “Next?”

“Physical closeness.” When you quirk an eyebrow, his cheeks begin to redden. “Things that couples do.”

“So… stuff like the spooning?”

“Outside of the bedroom, too.” 

“Hugging, kissing—”

“No kissing on the mouth.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I do. But it’s too… personal.”

The line sounds familiar, but it wouldn’t have struck you as odd were it not for the way he fidgets while saying it or the odd cadence to his voice — reciting the words more than saying them. Then, noticing the spines of the DVDs on the shelves opposite, it clicks. “Are you saying that because they say it in Pretty Woman?”

He stumbles over a rebuttal that’s lost amongst the laughter that tears itself from you, the image of him curled up on the couch with the film playing on the TV opposite beyond amusing, albeit sweet. 

You sober up fast as his head lowers to avoid meeting your gaze.

“I’ll respect it.” You promise, bringing his eyes back up to yours with a finger under his chin. “But there’s a lot of personal stuff involved in sex, you know.”

“God, your one-liners are worse than mine. That’s impressive.”

You smile, brushing your finger up from his chin to lightly tap his lower lip. “No kissing on the lips. Got it.”

You’re about to ask about any other hard no’s but words evade you when, before you pull your hand away, he parts his lips and bobs his head forwards to take your finger into his mouth, down to the second knuckle. Hot, wet heat envelops the digit as he swirls his tongue around it, eyes locked on yours with a playful glint that only adds fuel to the fire pooling low in your belly.

“It’s this you saying  you’ve had enough drinks to let me call you a good boy?” Your voice comes out steadier than you thought it would.

He hollows his cheeks, sucking and swirling his tongue as he draws back up the length, stopping only to playfully nip at the pad before sitting back. His playful smirk fades, morphing into a more sober, restrained expression, the mask belied by the hunger in his eyes. “Not tonight.”

Your hand lowers. Instead of withdrawing to your lap, you lay it on his inner thigh, just above the knee. Keeping your eyes on his to gauge his response, you follow along the seam of his trousers as you slowly stroke up his leg.

The shudder that wracks his whole body sets you alight.

About three-quarters of the way up, your hand stills. Coy, teasing, you retrace your path back down to his knee, relishing the spark of confidence that ignites within you at seeing the unbridled lust in his hooded eyes. It’s only bettered by the soft groan he lets out as you slide your hand up once again, this time venturing higher, still not all the way, before sliding lower to caress the more sensitive skin of his inner thigh on your calculated retreat.

With the thickness of the cargo’s denim, you can't feel him and you doubt he feels much of your touch. But the effect is undeniable, maybe even better for the barrier — the idea alone working him up so quickly that you have to question his confidence in the bedroom department. His body’s desperation has you wondering how long it’s been since he last did this.

Probably less of a dry spell than you, you muse, thinking of the shoe box(es) under your bed, their contents having done more for you than most if not all of the men you’ve been with. They're quicker, less complicated, and actually get you off.

Will he get you off?

Hell, he’s paying for it. Enough you’ll happily fake it for his ego if he can’t manage it. Enough you probably should even if he doesn’t try.

But oh, how you hope he’ll try.

You don’t think he’d even need to put much effort in. All the flirtation, the tentative touches, the unexpected gentleness juxtaposed by the roughness of his hands and of him…

Between your thighs, tensing reflexively as you fight to maintain composure, the black lace panties you chose for the night cling to the wetness that’s been accumulating since he begged so nicely at the bar.

You want to ruin him — want him to ruin you. Both, in equal measures of excess.

Which is on the cards tonight?

Already, you know you’ll accept his offer.

Your palm glides up, up—

—as his head lolls to the side, lips parting as his jaw goes slack, chest heaving—

—and skims feather-light over the outline of the hard member that twitches under your touch, its thick outline visible in spite of the fabric barrier… Only for you to traverse higher to trace a single fingertip, the one he took into his mouth, up his stomach before pulling away.

Beneath the too-tight shirt, you see how his abdominal muscles twitch and clench, even with your hand gone.

He doesn’t make a sound. Eyes falling shut, breaths coming in through his nose as long and controlled inhales and leaving as shuddering exhales, he licks his lips slowly. “Is that a yes to the offer?”

You watch him for a moment, letting the question hang heavy in the air between you. The longer you wait, the more his breathy exhales catch in his throat, verging on soft grunts.

Leaning close —as close as you can without actually touching him— you ghost a kiss to his jaw, just below the earlobe, and whisper, “You’re right: there’s no free trial. So if you want more than a night, you’d better prove what you’ve promised.”

Another shudder. The furnace-like heat radiating from him engulfs you, body and mind. You ghost another kiss to his jaw, staying there a moment longer as you breathe in the intoxicating scent that’s a bit headier now, muskier—

One of his hands cups the back of your head. Strong, thick fingers weave through your hair, twirling it around their lengths so their grip is tight enough it hurts just right. Your startled gasp catches in your throat as his lips find yours but don’t connect — his open, panting mouth hovering millimetres away from your own, which has fallen open to let out the low moan startled from somewhere deep inside you.

No kissing. 

You share breath for so long, you think he’s reconsidered the rule.

With a ragged groan, he nuzzles his nose up the length of your cheekbone. 

The noises he’s making —that you’re making— are obscene: raw and carnal, they make the warmth pooling low in your belly surge, the coil it forms clenching and unclenching like your thighs as you press your lips tight together in an attempt to not beg.

For what? You’re too flustered to think.

“You’ve been downright evil.” His voice is so rough it’s a growl; its resonance tears a whimper from you that goes on embarrassingly long, becoming a low whine you don’t think will end until he’s inside of you. Your hands scrabble for purchase against his chest, clutching desperately at the neck of his shirt, only for both wrists to be caught in an iron grasp you only fight so it grows tighter. “I might, if you behave, be good for you. Another night. But tonight?”

He flexes his grip on your wrists. Lightly at first, then tighter when your hips jerk.

“Tonight, I want you to be good for me.”

The parts of your brain with higher-thinking capabilities have shut down; the energy that would be fuelling them is instead dedicated to resisting the urge to rut up against him like a beast in heat as you let out a breathless laugh. You can't help but tease, “That’s a really, really overused line.”

His sudden stillness is unnerving. 

“...Please.” He whimpers.

Realisation hits: behind all the restraint has been a wordless plea for consent.

He’s like an elastic band pulled taunt and ready to snap. Waiting for you to allow him to.

The coil in your stomach tightens painfully. The fight to keep your voice even is lost, replaced by one solely to ensure your words are coherent enough for him to understand. “I’m teasing because I want you to react.”

Comprehension dawns, palpable in the slackening of his grip on your wrists and how his fingers slip from your hair; any complaints are forgotten mid-speach as his large hands seize your waist to lift you up and pull you into his lap, the action as effortless as if you weigh nothing. Touch rough and grasping, he kneads at the curves of your hips, holding you in place as he grinds up against you hard, easing up only when your moans audibly take the form of his name.

“Such a fucking brat.” He punctuates that last syllable with a rough thrust upwards, his tight grip on your waist keeping you pressed pelvis-to-pelvis, your soaked core held down against his solid length.

You can’t help yourself. “You’re one to talk.”

The muted clap of flesh-on-clothed-flesh echoes in your ears before the feeling registers. By the time you can process it, he brings his hand down again in another spank, then another, then another. It's nowhere near as hard as you can take, but the action alone is so jarring it has you gasping and squirming.

His hand stills.

“Safe word?” He asks.

“Traffic lights.” It's the easiest system to think of when in the midst of play, at least in your mind. “Green. Green.”

He runs his palm lightly over your rear. “Good girl. You answered so fast, so sure.”

The praise has your hips bucking against him. The lace of your panties is almost no barrier at this point, soaked as they are, especially when faced with the roughness of the denim covering his cock. You grind down on the outline of him, the fabric of his cargos providing the perfect amount of friction as you rock back and forth over his clothed length.

The hand on your waist tightens, stilling you and keeping you from moving against him; you can't escape the punishment bestowed on your ass nor can you seek relief from the ache building between your legs as he brings his hand down on your backside again and again and again.

 The spanks are metronomic, each delivered harder than the last until the blooming pleasant pain has your thighs shaking. Force plateauing, they continue until you're whimpering pleas of his name, upper body hunched towards him, face pressed into the crook of his neck to muffle your cries of pleasure and frustration, all of it too much yet nowhere near enough.

The blows slow to a stop. His hand slides up to rub small circles on your lower back, touch firm yet gentle. He presses a kiss to your damp temple, murmuring praises interspersed with your name against your ear. When your breathing steadies, he asks, “If I take you to the bedroom, will you be good for me?”

You’re sure you'll enjoy it even if you disobey, but you're not incapable of yielding when you want to.

You nod, unable to hide your eagerness, though you can’t be too upset since it earns another kiss to your temple.

“Good girl.” One of his arms brackets your back, just below your shoulderblades, as the other hooks behind your knees. Again, acting as if your weight is nothing, he clutches you close as he stands up from the couch and carries you to the door to the left. Already ajar, it only takes a small nudge from his raised knee to open.

Like the rest of the apartment, the bedroom is fairly bare aside from an extra large bed —larger than the king-sized in your own apartment— with a slatted head- and footboard, flanked by a nightstand on either side. There’s a large dresser pressed against the wall to your right, next to an open doorway leading to what looks to be an ensuite. All the furniture is the same deep cherrywood as the coffee table and the TV-stand-slash-storage-unit in the living room. To the left there's another window-wall, this one inset with a glass door that leads out onto a balcony facing that same beautiful view from earlier. A single camping chair sits out there, angled away from the bridge.

The bed’s slatted footboard is low enough that the thick mattress rises above it, allowing him to crawl straight onto the bed to lay you down. The bedsheets and duvet are black, the slight roughness of their cotton reminding you of his hands, which are currently occupied with divesting you of your heels. He works at undoing the laces until you twist your foot, drawing his attention to the zipper on the inner side. Soon both your shoes and his are off and clattering across the floor, thrown in the general direction of the door.

He stands upright at the base of the bed, eyes on you. You haven't moved an inch since he laid you down, nor can you: the intensity of his gaze holds you in place like a specimen pinned for preservation; the comparison’s fitting, given the unwavering focus he studies you with. The old ‘take a picture, it lasts longer’ joke surfaces, but you’ve already said you’ll be good, so you set aside the impulse to break the tension. Instead, you raise your arms above your head and arch your back off the bed, the low pops from your spine and joints as you stretch pulling a soft sigh from your lips, parted slightly as you watch him watching you.

Slow and deliberate, he lowers himself to his knees on the end of the mattress, taking to all fours to crawl up on top of you. His legs bracket your hips as he sinks down, bracing an arm by your head to take most of his weight while using the rest to pin you down. Hot breath fans across your neck as he nuzzles from your collarbone up to your jaw, peppering little kisses each time your pinned hips jerk beneath his. You’re about to bring your hands down, to weave your fingers through his hair and offer little tugs of encouragement, but as soon as he feels you move them he takes hold of your wrists, one large hand encircling both yours in a firm grasp.

“Uh-uh.” He reprimands, nipping lightly at your pulse point. “I’ll be in charge tonight, sweetheart. Keep your hands up here and behave for me.”

Your frustrated whine is silenced by a sharp swat to your outer thigh.

The hand circling your wrists loosens, only pulling away when you keep your hands in place as asked. It ghosts down your arms, your cheek, your ribs, then squeezes your waist before it hooks under your knee to pull your leg up and over his hip. With each grind of his hips, the rough material of his cargos rubs your core, wringing little noises from you, his lips pressing lingering kisses up the column of your neck. He must hear how your breath hitches when he finds the sensitive spot behind your earlobe, stopping there to nip lightly at the sensitive skin while you whimper under him, hips moving to meet his thrust-for-thrust as he dry humps you into a frenzy.

You have to bring your hands down behind your neck and link your fingers to resist the urge to guide him or hurry things along, earning a hum of approval as he pulls on one end of the bow-neck of your dress, loosening it to give more access to your neck and chest.

 As he continues with his torturously slow pace, the warmth pooling low in your belly grows, thighs clenching around his hips hard enough to surprise a moan from him. “Easy, baby. Just ask.”

“Leon…” It’s halfway between a plea and a warning.

“Ask nicely.” It’s not a request; the keen edge to his voice turning the words into a command.

“Please.”

He clicks his tongue. “I said nicely.”

You swallow, both to clear your throat and to hold back a playful quip. Usually you’d push more —especially given he seems to enjoy it so much— but he’s asked you to be good and, oh, how you want to be good for him if he’ll be good to you. So, voice slightly trembling, you beg: “Please, Leon. I need you.”

You’re not sure if it’s the mention of his name and your need in the same sentence or the breathless rawness to your voice that makes him crack, but he relents with a groan, burrowing his face in the crook of your neck as he snaps his hips forward a few times until you say it again, and again. Meeting him thrust for thrust, you fight to hold back whines and whimpers as he pushes you closer to the edge than you care to admit from just heavy petting.

Pulling back abruptly, he takes a moment to compose himself. Flushed, panting, painfully hard from the feel and look of things, he sits back on his haunches and runs a hand through his hair. He toys with the hem of your dress as he palms himself through his trousers, a sight that would’ve sent you into a frenzy if you weren’t already worked up to one. “This have a zip?”

You shake your head. He wastes no time divesting you of it, only needing a little help from you with lifting your hips and shoulders when necessary as he bunches the fabric in his fists to tug it up and off you. The fabric lands somewhere on the floor, the muted sound of it hitting the hardwood lost amidst heavy breathing — yours and his.

His hands land on your thighs, bracketing his hips; they skim up over your sheer thigh-high stockings and black panties, sliding up your sides and behind your back to unclasp the strapless bra he tosses aside without taking his eyes off your chest.

Though no sound comes out, his lips move; they form something resembling fuck me before he sucks the lower one between his teeth, worrying at it as he returns to watching you with an expression close to reverence.

“Please.” You beg again, not wanting him to lose momentum.

He smiles, not quite snapping out of it but acknowledging your impatience. “Alright.” He runs his hands along your outer thighs again, up over your hips and the sides of your torso, stopping just beneath your breasts to rub slow circles with his thumbs. “Since you asked nicely. But another night, I get to take my time with you.”

His hands slide up to cup your breasts. Kneading, he pinches your already tight nipples into stiff peaks before pulling away to strip you of the rest of your clothes, stockings and panties thrown aside quickly to leave you totally bare before him.

Literally, before him: he’s still completely clothed, you realise with a soft huff, the sight of your naked body contrasted with his clothed one sending a shudder through you.

Before you can stop yourself, your hands come down from their place above your head to grasp at his clothed chest. You tug gently at the neck of his shirt as, once again, he bites at his lower lip.

His hands close around yours. You expect a reprimand for ignoring earlier’s instruction, only to be surprised by the gentleness of his lips against the back of your hands as he kisses one then the other.

“I’ve got scars.” He says, voice blunt. There’s no shame in his tone or on his face; the words aren’t a warning, just a courtesy. He doesn’t wait for a response before taking off his top.

Your breath catches.

His chest and stomach are toned and muscular, not in the way of a vanity-oriented body builder but someone who builds strength through labor, dusted with a light but noticeable covering of hair a few shades lighter than on his head. He’s littered with scars — many old, some fresher. The one that draws your eye is the circular one on his left shoulder — the skin there is a little silvery, slightly crinkled compared to the surrounding area; very old but undeniably from a bullet.

His lifestyle doesn’t leave room for someone.

You wonder again what that lifestyle is.

Dwelling on it, however, is not on the cards for the night; he makes sure of that when he unbuckles his belt.

“Right side —your left, sorry— nightstand,” he says, shoving his trousers down over his hips. “There’s condoms.”

The words are meaningless, just sound to your ears, all your attention fixed on the obscene bulge tenting his grey boxers and the darker patch that grows, just slightly, as you gape at it.

“Hey.” He grasps your chin, lifting your eyes back to his, the roughness of the action countered by the softness in his gaze and the amused, slightly lop-sided smile. “My eyes are up here, sweetheart.”

Be good be damned, you have to roll your eyes at that. “I could’ve used that line earlier, you know.”

He smirks. “You gonna get that condom or not?”

Nodding, trying —and failing— to keep your eyes up there as instructed, you begrudgingly shuffle backwards to give yourself enough room to flip over. In the drawer is an unopened box of condoms and a couple of bottles of lube. As you open the box and fish out a foil packet, there’s a thud as you presume his trousers hit the floor, followed by a metallic thunk as the belt no doubt follows. While you’re practically sopping wet, you grab up one of the bottles of lube as well before you close the drawer.

He doesn’t give you a chance to make your way back to him, opting instead to manhandle you again as he pulls you down the length of the bed by your hips, surprising a small giggle out of you.

Casting a glance over your shoulder, you place the lube down by the pillows as, holding the condom between your index and middle fingers, you wave it back and forth, showing it off like a prize. His attention however can’t be drawn from your backside.

“See something you like?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Thought you said you’d be good.”

“How is asking a question considered bad?”

He smirks. “It is when it’s another cheesy line.”

Pouting, you flick the condom in his direction. Turns out your aim is far better than you realised —or intended— when it hits him square in the face. Only at that does he seem to snap out of his trance, nose scrunching as he drops his gaze to stare at the fallen foil packet…

Which has landed on his bare thigh right beside his thick, erect, leaking cock.

Your burst of laughter is cut short at the sight. Jaw dropping, a —frankly embarrassing— choking sound replaces it before you swallow and scramble to gather your bearings.

He reaches forward to slip a couple of fingers under the hem of your panties. A thwack rings out when he pulls the material back and lets it go, snapping their elastic against your flesh; he has to do it a couple more times to pull your attention away from his member, which bobs with each of his movements, heavy and veined, flushed red with a bead of precum dribbling from the tip.

“I’m starting to feel a little objectified here.” He gives your underwear’s elastic one final snap before tugging it part way down your thighs. “Only fair if you can stare, I get to do the same, don’t you think?”

Acquiescing, you roll onto your back and lift your legs, letting him pull your underwear off as you run your hands over your undoubtedly flushed face, earning a chuckle from him.

“I’m teasing, sweetheart.” He reassures, rubbing your thighs gently before pushing them up and further apart.

Face growing hotter, you feel the trickle of your wetness as he holds your trembling legs open.

“I gathered.” There’s a slight shake to your voice. “I just…” You trail off as his hands slide higher, thumbs caressing your outer labia as they hold you open. Any attempt at continuing your sentence results in a whimper, so you give up on words for the moment.

“If I let you compliment my cock, can I say how pretty your pussy is?”

You groan at the line — how it sounds like it’s straight out of an erotica or a porno. Yet the effect of it coming from his lips, in that damn voice, is undeniable. Even if you wanted to rag on him for the line, it would be half-hearted and he knows it, especially given the fresh gush of wetness the praise brings.

He leans close, so close you think he’s going to bury his face between your thighs —oh, how you want him to— but he stops just short of where you want him. Testing, teasing, he rests his head against your thigh as he breathes you in with each inhale, puffing hot air onto your core with each exhale.

One of the things you paid for using the money he sent was a screening at a sexual health clinic. You knew you were fine already, but thought it good practice to send confirmation of a clean bill of health across — a courtesy he reciprocated. One of the other things was a full down-below wax session.

“Do you always go bare?” He asks, alternating between delivering gentle kisses and rough nips along the apex of your thighs.

Finding your words is hard, like swimming through syrup. “I… uh, no. Not this bare.”

He hums, running the tip of his nose up one side of your lower lips, then down the other. “While I appreciate the thought, sweetheart, and I’m loving the clear view… I want you to be comfortable. I’m not afraid of a bit of hair.”

A nod is all you can manage, not trusting your voice or even sure words will come out as he retraces his path back to the other side.

“May I?”

Another nod. He traces your lips with his nose again, giving a rough nip to your inner thigh when he reaches the other side.

“Words, please, sweetheart.” He orders.

Shivering, you clear your throat when no sound comes out beyond a soft squeak, then try again. “Yes, please.”

His lips are hot as they press a kiss against your mons. “Good girl.”

Strong hands keep your thighs open as he moves his mouth to your core, tongue firm and hot as he flattens it to lick a stripe from your dripping hole to your clit. Not seeking control but needing an anchor, you grasp at his hair. Seizing your wrists, this time taking one in each hand as he holds you open with his forearms, he repeats the action with his tongue again and again until your thighs shake. His thumbs rub soothing circles on your inner wrists, grip firm but unrelenting even when your moans morph into pleas as he traces your folds, circling where you need him but not giving in.

Your appeals earn no mercy. If anything, his ministrations grow slower, firmer.

Only when your back bows off the bed does he change it up. Sealing his lips around your clit, he sucks with just the right level of pressure as he taps his tongue against the throbbing nub; listening to your cries to keep going, he does just that — until that coil of tension building in your stomach finally snaps. You cry out several things, mostly his name and strings of swears as he does exactly as you asked and keeps going, his pace slowing only slightly to let you crest the first wave before speeding up again, seemingly determined to wring a second orgasm out of you before you've even had a chance to comprehend the first.

Only, when you're teetering on that edge for the second time does he let up. Pulling away so abruptly you cry out, his strong arms keep your jerking hips firmly in place as he smiles up at you, chin glistening with your wetness.

“I know I keep going on about ‘next times’,” he all but drawls, pupils blown and wild. “But I intend to fuck you thoroughly with my tongue. I just don't think I'm gonna last long enough to do it tonight, sweetheart.”

Hands still gripping your wrists, he kisses a languid path up your body, stopping every now and then to rub his cheek against you, stubble scratching as he smears your wetness over you. With each word you huff out, his swaps a kiss for a nip: “And here you were, bragging—” Your breath catches when he latches onto a nipple and bites hard enough to startle a hiss from you, soothing it with his tongue quickly before doing the same to the other side. “—bragging about your stamina.”

Kisses reaching your neck, he lifts his arms to pull yours up over your head, shifting once again to take hold of both your wrists in one hand. His other goes down between your thighs and he adjusts himself, moving so one of your thighs is flanked by both of his. The foil condom packet is somewhere — under your ass, you think. You're grateful he's yet to put it on because the sight of his need alone has you squirming: desperately hard, the tip soaked by the precum leaking more with every movement, it’s heavy on your thigh has you aching to know the feel of it —of him— inside you.

Too busy staring, he catches you off guard by sliding two fingers into your wet heat.

He goes slow, which you're grateful for since his digits are so, so much thicker than yours, the pleasant burn of their stretch dragging a whimper out of you as he thrusts in and out slowly, going a little deeper each time until he’s in as far as he can go. Ball of his palm pressed against your clit, he uses it to rub rough circles each time he thrusts, using your moans as guidance for pace and pressure until he's ruining you: hands pinned, mind too fogged to think (and words too difficult to form around the noises he's wringing from you, anyway), all you can do is take it as he adds a third finger, pace unrelenting.

When he finds the spongy patch you always seek but find is just out of reach for your own fingers without help from a toy, you're sure the neighbours hear the yelp his roughness with it draws from you, as well as the string of don’t stops that follow when he falters, checking in before continuing. 

There's a light sheen of sweat covering him now, as there is on you. He kisses your jaw, murmuring praises against your ear as you clench around his fingers, hips moving to meet his thrusts as you near that second wave again.

“Please.” You need him to keep going.

His voice is strained, but he doesn’t let up. “You're doing so well, telling me what you like.” 

His palm presses harder, fingers curling a little more as he finds that spot on your neck again and bites, sending you hurtling over the edge once again. He groans at how hard your muscles clench around his fingers, not slowing his movements one bit as he helps you ride it out, only easing off when it tips into overstimulation and you wriggle your hips away.

He withdraws his hand from between your thighs, though his grip on your wrists remains. It eases slightly for him to flex his fingers, tightening when you move to escape his grasp.

He tuts lightly. “Not done with you yet, sweetheart. Keep ‘em here.”

Only after you nod in acknowledgement does he let them go.

Sitting back, he looks around on the sheets for something. “Where’d the…”

Twisting your hip, you jerk your chin down to indicate. “I'd get it but…” You trail off, keeping your wrists together as if bound by more than just his request, wriggling your fingers for effect.

Humming in approval, he skims his fingers over your ass in search of the foil packet. 

He has it open and rolled on in what must be a world record, his speed a sure indicator of his desperation if the visual indicators weren't enough of a tell.

“I, uh…” Your mind goes back to the contents of the drawer. A flush forms on your cheeks that's not from arousal. “If you can use some of that…” You indicate the lube bottle behind you with a tilt of your head.

Another reason the toys under your bed are preferable to men from dating apps or met in bars: they don't challenge your knowledge of your body. Bring up lube and a good few take offence, acting as if the mention of it alone is a slight against them; others told you it wasn't necessary, insisting you were worked up enough… Listening to them instead of your body always left you unsatisfied and usually in pain for days. You’ve long since learnt to listen to your own needs over their egos.

Unlike them, though, he's paying for this. 

Holding your tongue might be necessary, but you hope his earlier line applies to more than just your preference for your body hair.

Shaking his head, he picks up the bottle. “I can’t use this.”

“What?”

Before you can even consider forming more of a response, he flips the bottle around to show you the label.

“Need the water-based, not the silicone.” He explains. You’re sure you're gawping, because he laughs, a little self-conscious. “Am I wrong or something?” Then, a little quieter, he adds, “Could’ve sworn the silicone ones ruin the rubber.”

Your eyebrows lift slightly. “It's fine.”

“That only apply to toys then?”

“Pretty sure…” You cock your head, filing that away for later.  “You don't have a problem with it?”

Another laugh, this time much deeper, more comfortable. “Fucking hell, the bar is really low.”

“You’ve got no idea.” His smile warms you, calming an anxiety that shouldn’t form but past experiences have cemented in you. “Pretty sure it's impossible to trip over it though.”

“Little too high for that?”

“Nope, it's buried in the ground at this point.”

Expecting another laugh, the little, almost imperceptible furrow of his brows and slight downturn to the corners of his mouth catches you off-guard.

Not wanting the mood to tip over into anything too tender, aware that kind of emotional thing is exactly what he’s trying to avoid, you try to combat the sudden change in atmosphere. “Don’t go soft on me now.”

He looks down between your bodies and deadpans: “No chance of that, sweetheart.”

The eye roll you give is aimed more at yourself than him, having completely missed the double entendre. He gives a little chuckle at his own crappy joke, noticing your own slight smile. Not what I meant, but it works.

Hiking your leg up high, you hook it over his waist, drawing his attention back to what you’re doing in the hopes it stops him thinking about the sad state of your sexual history.

Funny how a guy paying for it seems to care more than anyone that’s come before. The irony should bring tears to your eyes, but instead it frustrates you.

Because in another lifetime? This would be everything you could ever want. It feels like it should be kismet. Instead? It’s perfectly imperfect: a tease of what romance stories preach about, dangled within reach but separated by the invisible yet palpable barrier of common sense and reality.

It’s not what either of you want from this arrangement.

Thankfully, the thought doesn’t have a chance to linger.

The bottle’s open, glistening liquid dripping from the cap onto his waiting fingers. He coats himself, adding to the small amount already slicking the condom. The rest, he brings to your entrance.

“This enough?”

You nod. Without thinking, you bring your arms down to wrap over his shoulders. Before your lips touch, you remember the boundary, quickly ducking your head to press your face into the crook between his shoulder and neck.

He doesn’t correct you for moving your hands — possibly a result of the long, low growl you pull from him when, giving in to an impulse, you sink your teeth into his skin, hard enough to feel but not hurt or break the skin. 

His hips jerk, his lubed cock leaving a wet streak along your stomach as he bucks so as not to enter you abruptly — you’re thankful, given his size, although a deep rooted, bestial part of you wishes he had despite the discomfort it would cause.

You soothe the bite with your tongue, relishing the guttural sound he releases when you sink your teeth down again, a little harder.

Bracing himself on one forearm, he reaches down to line the head of his member up with your entrance. The stretch that follows is divine.

Jaw dropping, you pant as his shallow thrusts drive him further and further in each time. The noises he’s making near your ear don’t help your attempts to relax to make his entrance easier, each movement he makes inside of you sending a zap down your spine straight to where you’re both connected. Your walls clench so tight you feel everything of him.

“Fucking hell—” Exclamation ending in a whimper, he slows his hips. A quick glance down shows he’s only half-way in. “Is this o—”

“Please, don’t stop.” Your arms tighten around his neck as your other leg comes up to hook over his hip. Through the barrier of the condom, you feel the thick veins along his girthy length pulse. “Please, please, p—”

He starts up again at your plea, knocking the air out of you. 

You can’t think about anything beyond the feeling of him inside of you juxtaposed with the emptiness left in his wake as he pulls back, keeping only the very tip in you before pushing forward and filling you once again. Every now and then, his angle is just right to hit that spot he all but abused earlier with his fingers, drawing sounds that spur him on as he adjusts to strike it again and again.

After a couple more thrusts, he’s fully sheathed. He slows again, breathing heavily as he grinds against you. Any protests at the loss of momentum dissipate as the action grinds his pubic bone against your clit, and all conscious thought is devoted to not succumbing to the building waves of your orgasm then and there.

“Can I—”

“Move.” It’s meant more as a desperate plea than an order. Though he complies, pulling back out nearly all the way, he nips your neck in retaliation.

“Still such a—” He’s punctuating each syllable with a hard snap of his hips. “—fucking—”

Knowing the best angle now, he’s unrelenting in hitting the spot that keeps you crying out in ecstacy.

The word he intends to end with is obvious, though it never comes. You make sure of that as, using your last remnants of conscious thought, you hike your calves up and cross your ankles. With your heel pressing into his tailbone, you drive him deeper, holding him there as you bring your hips up to meet his again and again, and the breath that would’ve formed brat instead catches in his throat as his hips stutter.

He’s cumming, his cock twitching like a live wire inside of you as his pace grows sloppy. 

Any other time, you’d reach down to touch yourself and pull yourself over, too. You have to dig your fingers into your own forearms, looped around his neck as they are, to stop yourself from doing it now, awareness seeping in that this… this is for him, not you.

When his thumb finds your clit, absolutely aching for the touch needed to help you join him, you see stars as he rubs hard and determined at the throbbing bundle of nerves. It’s too much but not enough, wringing cries from you but not quite getting you there — which he seems to realise, even in the heat of the moment; replacing his thumb with his fingers (the angle awkward enough you’re sure his forearm will ache later), he changes his technique as his mouth finds that spot on your neck again and, as you did to him earlier, bites down hard.

Whether it's the continued stimulation or his sheer determination, it doesn’t matter: he succeeds in dragging you with him over the edge.

Where people describe seeing stars or a flash of white, instead all you see behind your scrunched-shut eyelids is his face as his name spills from your lips. 

Thighs shaking around him, he keeps going as you ride it out together. He soothes his bite with kisses as he rocks his hips against yours, keeping at it until you’re down from the high, high, high heights he sent you spiraling to. Only when you’re sated and retreating once again from overstimulation does he pull away.

Eyes still closed, you work to catch your breath as his weight and warmth disappear. A whimper works its way out of your pressed lips. Nearby, there’s a metallic clunk and a rustle of a plastic bag or bin liner; a tap runs for a short while.

Pulse slowing slightly, it ramps up again as weight dips the mattress to your side. His musky, herbal-wood scent engulfs you again as a warm cloth presses against your aching sex.

“Shh, shh.” His lips press to your temple as he gently wipes the sticky remnants of the lube and your wetness from between your thighs. He works slowly, whispering praises, until he’s satisfied you’re cleaned enough and his weight shifts away from you.

With the tell-tale prickle of tears forming under your closed eyelids from his tenderness, you keep them closed even as your hand darts out to seize his wrist. Aware as soon as your skin meets his that you’ve fucked up.

This was meant to be easy. No emotional strings. No personal attachments.

You pull your hand back, shame at losing yourself seeping in.

A long stretch of silence follows.

When you’re used to being the glue holding together those around you, you don’t just get to ‘relax’. The word itself left a sour taste in your mouth, how dare you? How dare you when there’s a city to aid and all these incredibly deserving people leaning on you? It’s not like you were new to the stress, or the expectations, or the constant moving forward, forward, forward.

The idea of slowing down, not holding it all on your shoulders even for a moment, it just felt so wrong.

The morning was calm enough, thankfully you’d gotten to ‘sleep in’ a bit, (although for you that meant doomscrolling after Corbeau had gone to work, your body’s internal clock always had you awake at the crack of dawn, and his early rising certainly didn’t help matters), but when your Rotom Phone buzzed aggressively with a call, you sighed and shot up out of bed like a rocket.

The first task of the day was simple, some alpha pokemon was fiercely fighting off the cities best efforts to relocate it somewhere where it couldn’t hurt anyone, you’d dealt with plenty similar issues, nothing your team couldn’t handle.

The houndoom causing a ruckus was huge and exceedingly fast, protecting her recent litter, and she didn’t go down without a fight. Putting your arms up to block your face as she lunged, you were nicked by her large horns, but managed to command your ace fast enough that she couldn’t do any real lasting damage. Once you’d caught the mother and her pups, you sat at a nearby bench and tended to your arm with a small first aid kit. This wasn’t your first rodeo, but that didn’t mean you were great at it. The gauze and bandages quickly soaked through, but you didn’t have time to worry about that as your next task was called in. You simply tugged your sleeve down and continued off.

Next, you’d been asked to stop at Nouveau Café to pick up an order for a Quasartico business meeting, a petty task that you were thankful for with how your first one had gone. By the time you made it to the truck, blood had completely soaked through your sleeve, not that you noticed, simply stuffing the pastry order in your bag and grabbing drink trays with both free hands. Grisham, however, did notice.

“Oh, that doesn’t look too good, what happened?” His usual serene expression was painted with worry.

“Ah, occupational hazards, I’m all good!” You brushed off, turning on your heel as to not be interrogated further, you didn’t have the time for that, “thanks for having the order done so fast! And tell Griselle I said hi when she’s back from her break!”

“Are you sure you’re alright? There’s a first aid kit in the…truck…” he trailed off as you hurriedly started off towards Quasartico.

“No time! Thanks though, Grisham!” You shouted back.

You pulled a sweater on before you entered Quasartico, no need for Urbain to pry at what happened, it was fine.

“Heya! Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver!” The aforementioned cheered, taking the coffee from you, then quickly realizing he didn’t have room in his hands for the pastries.

“I’ll bring em in, lead the way, CEO,” you chuckled, following his eager footsteps to a soon to be bustling boardroom.

After the delivery was made and spread out on tables, you walked through the plaza while scrolling through a list of research tasks from Mable, seeing what you could potentially get done before you were whisked off to your next job. Your strolling scroll was interrupted by a call from Corbeau, a rarity during the workday. Quickly, you accepted the call, a smile already finding its way to your face.

“Hey love, how’s work?”

“It’s going swell. Say, could you stop by the office? I’m having trouble making out this hyperspace data and I could use some outsider insight.”

You quirked a brow, confused. Him asking you instead of Philippe, or even Mable, was certainly odd. Nevertheless, you wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to see him during your likely soon to get busier day.

“Not sure how much help I’ll be, but sure!”

“Excellent, see you soon, my dear.” He hung up as quickly as he normally did, never one to linger once the conversation had finished.

When you walked into the office, you were surprised to find him alone, laptop shut, hands folded, a small wooden box on the desk.

“What’s up? Where’s Philippe?” You looked around as you walked to his desk, as if the large man could possibly be hidden in the open space.

“Take off the sweater,” he demanded once you reached him. Not harsh, but worry biting at his tone.

You jumped a bit at the sudden request.

“Uhh…How exactly is that gonna help with hyperspace? And why didn’t you answer my question?”

“Grish called me, said you were bleeding like a stuck tepig, and when he offered to help you dashed off.” Corbeau’s expression was a mix of confusion and concern.

“I don’t know why he even bothered you with this, I’m fine, honest,” you chuckled, but he wasn’t convinced.

“Indulge me then. Take the sweater off and let me see for myself.”

“Beau, it’s really not a big deal, I just got nicked, that’s all,” you sighed, “I already bandaged it up.”

He quirked a brow, unconvinced.

“I’m hearing a lot of words but I’m not seeing the sweater come off.”

“Fine, but it looks worse than it is.”

You huffed and shrugged the sweater off, letting it fall to the ground, the sleeve of your shirt stuck to the arm with drying blood.

“I see why he called now,” Corbeau furrowed his brow, pulling the sleeve up to reveal soaked bandages, “Arceus…What on earth happened?”

You looked away, the worried look on his face made this unbearable pit in your stomach. He shouldn’t have to do this, he shouldn’t have to take time out of his probably extremely busy day to play doctor with you, and didn’t he know you could take care of yourself?

“An alpha houndoom grazed me while I was catching her and her pups to relocate, and I didn’t have time to properly deal with it earlier. Just give me the kit and I’ll fix it up.” You reached for the wooden box, now that you were close you could see the green medical cross on the top of it.

He pulled the box back with the hand not holding yours.

“I’ve got medical training, let me.”

“You don’t need to, it’s just a cut, I’m not a child.”

“I know, dear, I never said you were. In fact, you’re extremely capable, if a bit headstrong, but that’s not the point,” he squeezed your hand before letting it go, then stood up, rounding the desk. “You say you had no time, what was so urgent?” He lifted you up onto his desk as if you weighed nothing, putting you at a better angle to patch up.

“Urbain forgot to order for his meeting until the last minute, that’s why I was at Nouveau in the first place, and if I didn’t rush I wouldn’t have gotten it to him in time.”

“You neglected yourself to get some snobby rich people their coffee?” Corbeau tsked, shaking his head as he unwrapped your bandages, “you really do confuse me with your priorities sometimes.”

“Urbain’s not exactly rich yet, or snobby, and besides, he was depending on me,” you argued, “plus the business and publicity of being Quasartico’s chosen coffee is good for the reputation of the café. It’s a win/win, since Urbain gets less crabby investors when they’re caffeinated.”

“A win for everyone but you, it seems,” he placed a towel under your arm, then picked both up in one hand, using the other to douse the wound with sterile water from the first aid kit.

“I was gonna deal with it when I had a second. I know how to take care of myself.” You muttered, more venom in the words than intended.

“Hey, I know you do, I’m sorry if I came off condescending,” his voice was soft, “but you take care of everyone around you, can’t I take care of you for once, my beloved?”

You clenched your jaw as he applied wound glue to the cleaned cut.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“Have to? When have you known me to be forced into anything that I didn’t willingly want to do?” His expression grew serious, troubled by the idea. “Is it so hard to believe that I want to?”

“Why would you want another responsibility on top of everything you already deal with?”

“A responsibility? Something to deal with? Is that how you think I see you?” He frowned. “Because if so, I need you to know that’s entirely incorrect.”

“I mean, I don’t know, shouldn’t you? Why should I be depending on you to fix me when I can do it?” Your voice shook, “I can fix myself, it’s selfish of me to take help when I don’t need it.”

“It’s like I can hear my younger self saying those exact words,” he chuckled, a tinge of sadness in it. “You shouldn’t feel bad for depending on me, for letting me help you, that’s what a lover is for. In fact, I’d like it if you’d let me take care of you more often, you don’t have to carry the world alone, I don’t want you to feel like you do.”

“It’s…It’s all I’ve known.”

“I know what that’s like, but I’ve learned a car doesn’t drive on one wheel. You need people in your corner, people who don’t just take, but give back, people you can pass the weight off to when it gets too heavy,” he applied fresh gauze and bandages to the wound, bringing the wrapped arm to his lips and kissing it gently.

Tears pricked your eyes, you blinked and felt them roll down your cheek. “I don’t know how…I don’t know how to let other people help me,” you sniffled.

He thumbed the tears from your cheeks, holding your face in his hands.

“Hey, I didn’t either, it comes with time.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, savouring the contact, the feeling of his cold hands holding you like something precious.

“I think everyone can handle it if you take the weekend to relax. Hell, I’ll take the weekend too, I can’t be a hypocrite after all,” he laughed, “I already have tomorrow off, and I’m sure I can swing it with Philippe to fill in so I can take Sunday off too, he’s always nagging me to rest anyway.”

“But what if they need me? I can’t just leave everyone hanging…”

“Then I’ll send grunts to take care of it, or someone else can go deal with it, I promise they’ll be okay,” he kissed your forehead, “you need to rest.”

“I’ll get through today and then take the weekend,” you promised, but he shook his head.

“Nonsense, you’ll start resting immediately, boss’s orders,” the tone was teasing, but you knew he meant it all the same, more of a plea than anything.

“I still have to get these pokémon to the rehabber, and I was supposed to—“

He cut you off with a peck on the lips, “consider it dealt with, I’ll have someone drop them off, and whatever else can wait.”

“But I promised Mable I’d—“

“Absolutely not. She can most definitely wait, she’s got plenty of people doing tasks for her, I’m sure it’ll tie her over.”

You pouted, “fine, but if you’re gonna make me rest I’m hanging out in here until you’re off.”

“I’ll come work on the couch then,” he grinned, grabbing his laptop, “Fridays are always slow anyway.”

You hopped off the desk, following him to sit on the couches, “I’m still confused, where is Philippe?”

“Picking up coffee, we agreed Grish deserved a good tip after helping keep our favourite do-gooder safe. He also figured you probably didn’t want him watching me patch you up.”

“Good call, that would’ve been even more awkward,” you joked, but his expression was soft, filled to the brim with adoration.

“I don’t think taking care of you is awkward,” he smiled, voice soft, “I think it’s all I want to do forever, actually.”

“Forever, huh?” You grinned, “I’ll hold you to that.”

The only difference now being you know. You know the curve of his smile, the light of his eyes, the sound of his laugh. No longer a static image for you to wonder about.

You carried a weight of him in your chest that refused to leave. It buckled your knees. Left you breathless at moments. Your heart had surrendered to him, but he wasn't there to pick it up.

That feeling that spread through you chest and captured your whole being stemmed into a hollowness. It grew with each passing day.

The basement no longer felt like a sanctuary. It now held fragmented memories of him. The desk that he used to lean on felt out of place without him there. Your shoulder felt cold to not have him looking over you. The hum of the vents were no match to the softness of his voice.

He had disappeared from your life, leaving behind only pieces.

You gave up on looking at your phone after the first month. Of course, he wasn't able to reach out, but something told you he wouldn't have even if he could.

You couldn't tell if you were being dramatic at his point. It was unsettling with how you left things and now those paranoid thoughts grew around you.

You made your way to your desk and plopped down into your chair with a heavy sigh. New reports were assigned and had to be done by the end of the week. You scanned them when your eyes widened.

The latest mission of recovered footage was of Leon.

You snapped to attention and loaded the footage on your computer in an instant. A new vigour of suspense riddled your body.

The video appeared on screen and you watched as he entered a hall and then left into another room. You scoured the footage to find the room he entered.

If I have the footage now the mission must be complete, you thought to yourself. And yet he still hasn't reached out...

That second thought deflated you. Nonetheless you continued your task in tracking him down.

The eighteenth camera finally gave you eyes on him. He had entered a lab much like ones you've seen in previous videos. But as soon as he entered the door shut behind him.

He had his gun aimed and ready.

Something flashed across the camera, blocking your view.

"Shit," You muttered under your breath.

The next thing you see is Leon on the ground.

And he wasn't getting up.

You shot up from the chair and pushed yourself closer to the screen. You skimmed through different angles of the room until finally you landed on a closer view.

You watched the creature that initially blocked you. It twisted with muscle and mucus unlike anything you had ever seen. Bones pierced out of its collar and up its neck. The beast was large and armed with its rabid teeth and deformed claws.

It was fast.

It swiped at Leon in the midst of his shooting.

He dodged the first swing, but it followed his momentum and clashed its boney tail into his abdomen.

Leon crashed into the sealed doors.

"No, no, no, no, no," You repeated the word endlessly.

You squinted through the pixelated screen to see a bone piercing out of his stomach. He held it and red stained his hands. His body caved in on itself and his head swayed.

The camera went black.

"No! You can't—Please..." You trailed off and looked through each and every recovered video you could find.

That was it.

You jumped from your desk and raced up the corridor to the elevators.

Is he dead? Is he alive? Is he okay?

Those worries circled your head as you found yourself in the elevator. The wait only intensified the fears. You held the closed door button the entire way up. Not sparing a second for anyone.

When the doors opened you darted off the lift but someone grabbed your arm.

Nigel.

"Ma'am, you can't just—"

You tore your arm out of his grip and followed the path that Sherry had led you down.

You burst through his office door only to be met with the dim light emitting through the closed blinds and...

Sherry?

She was packing up files and tidying his desk.

"Y/N?" She said, alarmed and noting your manic state.

Nigel finally caught up to you and tried to grab you again. You evaded him once more and started for Sherry.

"Is he okay? I saw it on the footage—He was attacked—He didn't get up—!"

"Ma'am, you need to come with me."

Sherry passed you and shot Nigel down with a cold stare. He made a move to argue but she slammed the door in his face before he could say anything more.

She then returned her attention to you. That cold glare gone and softened with concern. Her hands found your arms quickly to ground you. You body vibrated with anxiety.

"What did you see?" She asked calmly.

You felt like you were going insane.

Leon wasn't here. Sherry was grabbing files? Was she clearing out his desk? Was he dead?

Suddenly your breathing came all too fast and not quick enough.

That feeling of hollowness merged into a sharp fear the streaked down your spine in painful flashes. Your knees buckled and suddenly you were grabbing Sherry for support.

She took it in stride and gripped you tighter, gently guiding you through your breathing.

"In and out, Y/N. Just breathe with me."

Her words were soft and slowly she went through the motions of breathing with you. You urged your lungs to mimic her steady inhale and exhale.

Breathe.

You found your rhythm after several attempts of shaky breaths. The air felt clearer and your lungs not as constricted.

Your grip on her eased but she kept a firm handle on you.

"You saw Leon?"

You nodded, still recovering your breath.

"He's okay," Sherry reassured and rubbed your arms to calm down the nerves exploding on end. "He's okay."

At her words, relief flooded you in waves.

The jitters of your body calmed and your breathing finally returned with ease.

"He's okay?"

"Yes."

Sherry kept her eyes locked with yours. It was only when you finally let go of her that she softened her grip on you.

Her hands moved to your back and your shoulder, now guiding you to the leather sofa sat in front of a coffee table.

She sat you both down and gave a gentle squeeze to let you know she was there. She was listening.

You breathed out your final shaky breath.

"I saw him on the recovered footage. This monster attacked him. He was impaled and on the ground. I didn't see him get up."

Sherry nodded with your words. "He's okay. He's alive. When he completed the mission the DSO sent him on mandatory medical leave. I was retrieving some files for him because the man doesn't know how to take a break in peace." She chuckled lightly, but gauged your reaction.

In all honesty you weren't sure how to react. His mission was complete. He was alive. All that was a massive relief, but then another thought worried you.

"He didn't reach out to tell you?" Sherry asked.

You shook your head. The adrenaline and fear left your body exhausted in its aftermath. Your thoughts were racing but you forced it to slow and allow yourself a moment to think.

Another heavy sigh left you and you leaned back into the couch.

"Sorry... for barging in here."

Sherry smiled. "Hey, I get it. I would have done the same thing."

The two of you sat in silence with Sherry weighing her question carefully.

It wasn't long before she voiced it. "Did something happen between you two? I thought he looked a bit off before he left... but I figured it was just stress."

You internally groaned and closed your eyes. "I messed up," You stated truthfully. You didn't want to go into it further and Sherry sensed that.

Still she tried her best at easing your concerns.

"Leon can be a complicated person. He is actually rather sensitive," She said with a small laugh. "He tries to hide it, but when he opens up to people it can be difficult not to show. I'm sure whatever happened between you two can be solved. He's not the kind of person to leave things unresolved."

All you had the energy to do was nod. Sherry rubbed your shoulder again, trying to soften your worries and find understanding in her words.

You did understand, but the pain that accompanied that understanding was hard to ignore.

___

Two weeks had passed since that moment with Sherry.

She made sure to reach out to you and keep you in the loop about Leon. Even took you out a few times to take your mind off of things. She became a quick and good friend that you were truly grateful for.

She said that Leon was due to return to work soon. At this point you weren't sure how you were going to approach him.

You realized soon after leaving Leon's office, you were angry.

Angry that he didn't hear you out three months ago. Angry that he didn't let you know he was on leave. Angry that he left you in the dark and was forced to assume the worst through a video.

You also knew all that anger was building up to shield you from your feelings. They were strong and only anger could keep you distracted from them.

This very early morning, you found yourself standing in wait on the subway. Lots of people were dispersed here and there. You kept to yourself with your headphones on, ignoring everything but your music.

That was an easy escape as of late.

You're standing out in the rain And I'm watching you through the window You got this effortless thing Everywhere that you go

With your eyes drifting over the cart of people, you mindlessly scanned to the other end of the subway. There was a bend in the track and curved the other end away from you.

As it straightened, a person moved in a spasm of jolts.

Another curve of the track and the cart evaded your sight again.

The air around you shallowed as you focused in on the strange sight from a far. Waiting for the track to straighten out agin.

The person was now on the floor. A very clear ring of people scrambling to the sides.

From where you stood it was difficult to see. People were pressing more into your cart and blocking your sight. You moved to see in between the gaps.

The person convulsed on the ground. Their arms stayed pinned to the ground but their hands twisted and grabbed for the air. Their head tilted up, searching for their breath to soothe their ailment.

You squinted.

Their veins were darkening. Up their exposed arms. Up their strained and reddening neck. Their eyes pierced open, squirming the crowd to shove themselves further away.

A scream startled from the other end of the cart.

You whipped your head around with everyone else.

Shit.

You threw yourself to the floor as someone flung themselves overhead. Another shrill scream came through your music.

Been all alone with a broken heart for so long It's the end of the night and I don't wanna go home Fucked up my plans, I was fine on my own It's the end of the night and I don't wanna go home

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit—

The doors opened at your stop and everyone booked it for the surface.

You started for the door but a thick boot kicked your jaw on the floor. Sharp pain emitted up your chin and into your ears. You did everything in your power to ignore the pain and shove yourself to the exit.

You broke through the doors onto the platform.

Chaos ensued.

From the top of the stairs more infected spilled out and threw their bodies at their prey.

They're coming from the surface.

You moved to run but quickly dodged a pair of hands grabbing for you. From there you avoided a thrash of hands and teeth between a pair in a locked struggle.

People slammed into you from all directions. There wasn't a clear path to follow. The platform was surrounded.

The subway behind you closed, shutting in infected and victims alike. Their hands beat against the glass to no avail.

Your feet forced a sprint. Your body ignoring the panic in your brain and realizing that standing around meant death.

The stairs on the other end of the platform were no better than your current predicament. But they weren't flooding with infected.

The stench of blood and decay overcame you and nausea threatened your stomach. Wailing and screams still muffled behind your headphones.

You dropped your bag and sprinted up the stairs. Moving quick and sharp against the onslaught of infected.

When you finally made it to the surface, matters did not improve.

The undead took over the city.

The DSO. That was your safest bet. But it was on the edge of the city and you were somewhere in the middle?

Your eyes darted around as your legs kept you moving, trying to find familiarity in where you were.

A shriek locked you feet in place.

Soulless eyes pinned you where you stood. The infected crouched themselves over a body. Its teeth still bit into the person. Tendons spilled from its twisted jaw. A sound emitted from the back of its throat, promising to lodge it into your own.

It started for you.

Your lungs had hollowed out by now as you raced through the streets to find sacntuary.

Fire blazed from your right and undead pillaged at your left.

Your feet gave way under you at a hand snatching your ankle. Your hands blocked your fall and turned you over.

The infected shrieked a war cry before lunging over your fallen body.

Its head burst in mid air.

Its blood splattered across your face and dripped down your neck. You turned around to see who your saviour was.

Of course.

No, I don't want to take my heart back I gave it away just like that I wanted to run, you brought me back I gave it away just like that

Your music carried Leon's presence forth as he reloaded his gun.

He hadn't looked up yet, but you made out every distinct feature. The way he carried himself. His set jaw. The focus in his eyes.

You were in his terrain. Now only another saved or dead victim for him to pass.

But then his gaze lifted and they settled over you.

The stoicism vanished. Fear overcame him and those soft eyes worried a level of concern you couldn't ignore.

"Y/N..." Your name came out breathless.

The moment between you shattered.

He reacted on instinct. Shooting the infected threatening to near either of your vicinity.

You finally pulled off your headphones with your moment of respite. The natural sounds of the end of the world startled you. It froze you for a moment. And only then could you hear your shallow and whimpered breaths.

A gloved hand firmly grabbed your upper arm. You whipped back to Leon.

"Stay behind me," His command was cold.

You did as he said and quickly he cleared a path to a cafe on the side of the street.

He forced the door open and pushed you in before following behind. He lead the two of you into the kitchen and barricaded the door.

You stood in place. Not sure what to do. Not sure how to help. You have seen these events countless times through a screen. You were ignorant to believe the same thing wouldn't happen to you.

The exhaustion of fear finally spent the energy in your legs. They wobbled and collapsed you in a chair.

Leon returned after scouting the perimeter. He held out a cloth he had found.

You looked up, confused.

"For the blood."

Oh.

You took the cloth and proceeded to wipe contents of infected off your skin.

The cloth fell limp in your lap, following the exhaustion of your arms. You looked up to see Leon analyzing you. His eyes traced over every part of you.

"Are you hurt?" His words were once again cold, but his question gave away his concern.

You looked down at your body, not sure if it had the energy to signal anything to you.

"I... I don't think so." Your voice came out quieter than you intended.

At the first sound of your voice in months, Leon's posture relaxed.

"Good," was all he said.

Another moment of awkward silence stretched between you.

"Are you okay?"

A steady tremor flooded your hands. You nodded, knowing full well your voice would betray you.

Leon seemed to catch on. He didn't say anything on it. Instead he offered his hand.

"We should keep moving."

___

The two of you forged a path back to the DSO. The building now stood a block away.

Leon took down infected after infected. The action you would watch on screen held no comparison to the real thing.

He gave you a large knife from the cafe's kitchen. It came in handy far too many times. Being a worker at the DSO came with mandatory self-defence classes. It used to be a pain in the ass every year, now it was very much saving you in your time of need.

You clothes were now tattered and stained with splatters of blood. Whereas Leon remained in perfect condition. His leather jacket, you came to realize, was a very useful set of armour.

The two of you didn't say much. A heavy tension grew between you. Almost breaking when the other was in peril.

You kept watching Leon focus on you in those moment. A hard stare and a set line across his lips. Like he had many things to say and not enough time to say it all.

When the two you found yourselves in a juncture between several back alleyways, that was when you had enough pretending.

"Leon—"

"We're a few blocks from the DSO. It looks like the infected are sparse further out. Once you're in the building I'll head back to the centre to finish them off—"

"Leon," You said, again but now stern an devoid of any shake in your voice.

That snapped his attention to you.

"What are we doing?" You gestured vaguely with your knife. Its soaked end spilling across the pavement.

He looked between you and the knife. That infuriating brow still tense and set.

"I just told you—"

"No." Now you were pointing with the knife.

You couldn't tell if he was concerned from you tone or that he gave you a knife in the first place.

"Us." You emphasized. A harsh chuckle came from you before you could stop it. And honestly, you didn't want to stop the words that were begging to spill. "I haven't seen you in months. I thought you were dead and now you're barely talking to me at the end of the world."

He evaded your eyes and kept them on his gun. "End of the world is a bit much—"

"Leon."

You watched a turmoil spiral in his head. He shook it off. His eyes staying stern and focused on the task at hand.

"This isn't the place to talk—"

"No," You agreed. "No. It really isn't, but I would like to know that I made amends before I die from a fucking zombie."

He cautiously stepped forward, still weary of your knife. "You're not going to die—"

"That's not the point. I'm done pretending between us."

Now it was your turn to look away. For this first time in a long time you were going to be honest with yourself.

"It hurt not being noticed. By anyone at all."

You finally looked up at him and he stared back with an intensity that would usually force your gaze away. But now all this anger, this fear, everything finally made you stand your ground.

"I was scared," You admitted. "When you first started showing interest in me. In whatever this relationship is. I didn't think it was going to last because it never did with anyone else. I didn't want to get attached but—fuck... I failed miserably at that."

You still couldn't make out what he was feeling, but his stare locked with yours nonetheless.

"When you told me you were going away for a few months I tried to hide how I felt because..." You shrugged, not fully sure yourself. "Because I'm an idiot. And getting attached usually means I end up getting hurt."

A big breath escaped you. Feeling vulnerable and all around terrible at your admission. Wasn't honesty supposed to make you feel better?

Well, time for one more big truth.

"I'm... I'm in love with you, Leon."

Just as the words came out, the biggest shriek you had ever heard in your life started barreling down the alleyway.

Leon grabbed and pushed you behind him to dodge a thrash of long, gangly claws. His hands were firm and held you unbearably close to his side.

He fired several shots at this vast creature. Much like the one you saw on the recovered footage a week ago.

Great, you thought to yourself, perfect fucking timing.

"Y/N, run!" He spared a moment to look at you. His eyes filled with a new found fear. "Y/N—Please, run!"

Hesitation filled you for a moment but you knew you would be nothing but a burden in this fight. You cussed under your breath before agreeing and racing to the other end of the alley.

Escaping out of the back alleys, you saw the DSO in the distance.

Loud gunshots from Leon's gun, had your legs kicking harder than you ever had in your life.

You had to get help.

You slashed your way through a hoard of infected. All of which seemed to meet at the entrance of the DSO.

You were faster than them and swifter than their teeth with your knife.

The DSO held a perimeter just outside of the main entrance. You darted through the hungry undead.

An onslaught of bullets had you covering your head as you raced now blindly towards the brigade of DSO agents.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!"

A sharp and hot pain jolted up your abdomen. You looked up to see Harold racing out into the field of infected.

"Leon—" You pointed to the alley behind you and several agents made their way to the location.

Harold threw your arm over his shoulder and half carried you to safety inside the DSO.

Why was he dragging you?

Your thoughts suddenly became very sluggish and the pain didn't make any sense. Were your legs going numb?

Harold gently set you down against a pillar in the lobby.

You looked down—

"Don't—Don't—Don't—"

Too late. Too fucking late.

Blood dribbled out of the bullet hole in your stomach. It spilled across your lap and dampened your pants.

Another pair of hands were on you.

You slowly raised your sights to see Leon now hovering over you.

Good. He was okay.

His eyes travelled everywhere. Across your face, your legs, your arms, the wound in your stomach. Actually, he paid more attention to that than anything.

"How do I look?"

Your subtle attempt at humour fell on deaf ears. For the first time, in the months that you knew Leon, he didn't joke back. He didn't fill the worry with optimism like he usually did.

"Y/N keep your eyes on me." He looked back to Harold. "Medic?"

Harold shook his head, his own eyes filling with a certain sadness you had never seen in him before. "All out in the field."

"So..." You started, your throat suddenly very dry. "Not dying by a zombie, but a gunshot."

"Gunshot!?" He turned to Harold for clarity as he stripped himself of his leather coat.

"A DSO agent shot her."

An agent. You knew you were invisible, but damn.

"Which one?" His voice was oddly calm but an underlying anger enraged his voice.

He slipped his coat around your shoulders then laid you flat on the ground. A sharp groan emitted for your trembling lips at the sudden movement.

Leon pressed his hands firm into your stomach to stop the bleeding.

You screamed and instinctively hit his arm.

"I know, I know, baby, but you gotta let me."

You closed your eyes to focus on your breathing.

"Hey—Hey—Hey. Eyes on me. Eyes on me."

He repeated it until you obeyed, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

"Talk to me, Y/N."

You liked when he said your name. It gave butterflies and warmth and... pain. Fuck your stomach hurt.

You cleared your throat, trying for something but nothing came out.

"Get angry at me," Leon said. "I—I was a complete asshole. Tell me off. Please, sweetheart."

Right. You were angry at him.

"You didn't... You didn't tell me you went... on medical leave."

Medical leave... right? Or was it vacation? Your mind started spinning and with it your vision.

He nodded, rather aggressively. "Yeah—Yes! I shouldn't have done that. Tell me off. Yell at me. Scream at me."

Scream? At him? Why would you do that? He looked so beautiful hanging over you. His hair had fallen across his face, nearly blocking those blue eyes, filling you with so much love.

You loved him so much.

You were a coward for not telling him sooner.

Against the pain and the weak muscles, you reached your hand up. It hurt, but you had to feel his hair, his skin, the curves of his face.

Leon watched helplessly as you pushed back his hair and dropped them over his cheek bone. They were wet.

Why were they wet?

His eyes glistened and gingerly you wiped under them to catch the tears falling.

"Y/N. Don't do this to me."

So commanding, you thought to yourself. It made you smile.

Leon's eyes traced the curve of your smile and light in your eyes. No longer shy to his gaze. He wondered when you wouldn't look away from him and stare boldly into his own.

"I should have went down to that basement years ago," He said. His voice lightly shook. "The second I saw you I couldn't ignore you. I see you, Y/N. I see you everywhere. In everything. You're all I think about and have since the first day we met."

His head dropped to your chest and you missed his eyes. Your hand softly brushed at his hair. He looked up at you.

"Please... I—"

Then everything went black.

___

Ow.

That was your first thought.

Like seriously. Ow.

Your eyes opened very slightly to the fluorescent light hanging overhead.

Ugh, was your second thought. You hate those lights.

Your hand reached out across the cot to feel the cotton blankets and the cotton fabric clinging around you. Hospital gown. Hospital bed. Hospital lights.

You tried your best glare up at them.

Well, safe to say you were in a hospital.

You moved slightly but hissed at the pain radiating from your stomach. Layers of bandages could be felt under your gown.

To your side you saw a vase of flowers. You squinted until your vision became clear. Harold and his wife had put them there. You smiled, noting they were your favourite.

It was difficult to move your neck. It being so stiff from sleeping for who knows how long.

You continued to reach out with your hands until your right one came across... hair?

You smoothed it out across the person's forehead. Ridges formed in the lines of their brow. Even in sleep. A small chuckle escaped as you peered down the best you could.

Leon.

THE Leon Kennedy.

He had moved the chair to be directly beside you. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows and places on the edge of the bed with his head resting on them.

His brow was furrowed and set like usual.

You ran your thumb over the lines, trying to smooth them out. You brushed in between his brows and watched the lines fade. His head settled closer to the warmth of your hand.

Softly his eyes began to open.

And then they shot open.

He grabbed your hand, noticing in his half-asleep state that it was moving. Then his eyes snapped to yours. He moved faster than either of you could register.

Because then his lips were on yours.

You inhaled a breath of surprise but immediately melted into it. His lips were firm as they slotted against your own, as if this was a test to see that you were truly here, awake. Only when you moved yours lightly, did his soften and follow in the rhythm the two of you were setting.

His grip on your hand tightened and the other slid up your cheek and into your hair. Your lips parted at the feeling of his fingers dragging across your scalp. He met your parted lips with his own. His tongue smoothed over your lower lip in an ask.

You were quick to answer, but as you raised your other hand to cradle his head, a sharp pain invaded your moment.

Leon snatched himself back out of concern and then looked down to your covered wound. "Shit—Sorry. I didn't mean—I shouldn't have—"

You grabbed his collar and met his flustered words with a softer kiss. He silenced immediately and gingerly placed his hands back.

It was a nice change to see him stumbling over his words.

You broke a part after a moment. Leon still stayed close to you and softly brushed your hair behind your ear.

"You scared the hell out of me."

Your head lulled to the side in the bed. You revelled in the feel of his fingers tracing your features and memorizing the shape of your face.

You smiled lightly. "I had to get back at you."

He laughed and it looked like it had been a while since he did that.

Leon's fingers lowered from your face and instead wrapped both hands around your own. He pressed his lips into them. Savouring the warmth of your skin.

"What did I miss?" You asked. "And how long was I... asleep?"

"Three days," He answered into your skin, not allowing anything to tear him from your hand. "Everything is still getting cleaned up."

You gingerly covered your wound, feeling a small pull of pain. "Whoever that agent was... he is getting a hell of a fake identity."

"No need. I fired him."

You snapped your eyes to him. "Leon—!"

"He shot you," He defended. And honestly that was a pretty good reason.

You nodded sluggishly. "I guess he did shoot a civilian."

"Not just any civilian," Leon pressed.

Warmth spread up to your face.

He directed the attention back to you.

"How are you feeling? Do you need anything—Shit, I need to get the nurse."

You giggled at his erratic state as he pulled himself from your hand to press the button at the side of your bed.

Leon stood back, but not too far, as the nurses did their routine check. When the doctor came in, Leon was standing and staring them down with every piece of information being shared about your condition.

No fatal organs were hit. Expected to recover over the next three months. Won't be discharged for the next two weeks.

Leon continued asking questions. Ones that seemed almost trivial, but you let him do so. Based on what you had seen of his office setting, he liked being in control. It looked as though it was his way of coping.

Sherry arrived after hearing you woke up. She brought you things from home and did everything in her power to make sure you were comfortable. It seemed as though the two of them were the same in intimidating the medical team at even a slight cause of discomfort on your end.

She left once visiting hours were winding down.

One nurse attempted to tell Leon, but that only resulted in a hard glare and an apologetic nurse.

You offered a sympathetic smile the entire time.

He never let you out of his grip if he could help it.

Your thumb smoothed over his knuckles and you watched that familiar softness return to his eyes.

"You know, I think I can manage on my own for a night. You need rest, Leon."

He shook his head. "I just want to be here with you, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. Baby. Those pet names came rushing back before you passed out. And now suddenly the words he had said. At the time it was hard to focus on them. Now you were slowly piecing them together.

Especially the last part. What was he going to say?

"Leon?"

He hummed in acknowledgment.

"What were you telling me before I passed out?"

It took him a second to understand what you were asking. Initially too caught up in the bliss of having you there in peace with him.

A soft smile widened his cheeks as he leaned in towards you. He brushed your hair back and you leaned into his hand as he did so.

"I was telling you how from the moment we met you caught my attention. How not a second has gone by where I don't think of you."

Your eyes locked and that warm, beautiful tension filled the space between you.

"That I'm in love with you."

You smiled back as he leaned in closer and pressed his lips to yours. It was soft and gentle unlike in the morning filled with desperation and need to show the other how they felt. This was certain and familiar. A seal of understanding between the two of you.

It was proof that this was constant with many more to come.

___

Three months had passed and in that time the city had forgotten the outbreak. Well, nearly everyone. Those who had witnessed the outbreak unfortunately fell victim to it or were black-mailed, bribed, threatened. Again, you weren't too sure what that side of your organization did.

Harold raced to meet you at the entrance of the DSO building like usual. And as part of your consistent routine you gave him his muffin.

"So," He started with usual question. "Got a date tonight?"

At that question you caught the eye of an infamous agent across the lobby. Who looked to have been waiting for you. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a tailored suit. Those familiar soft eyes that settled over you.

"Actually, yes. I do."

Leon made his way to you in quick steps. He excused the two of you away from Harold who gave you a knowing smile.

You were lead to the back of the lobby between the elevators and the stairwell.

"I gotta get to work but I will see you in a bit for the Moscow case file."

You simpered a laugh at the code name he chose for your fake file.

"Yes, of course Agent Kennedy," You teased.

He leaned in a pressed a quick kiss to your lips. "I love you," He said as he began to part from you.

"I love you too," You smiled back as he kept his eyes on you until he physically couldn't anymore.

You shook your head at his antics but your smile only grew.

As you made your way down to the basement a thought dawned on you. You never needed anyone else's attention. Only his.

Having him see you was more than enough.

___

Note: Sorry if this got cheesy lmao. Thanks for reading this far! This is the last part of the series. Hopefully you all enjoyed it! Thank you so much for all the love you have given to this story. As a writer, who hasn't shared her writing with others in a while, it means everything to me!

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You were the best interrogator Leon ever worked with. Not that he worked with many, actually, but he wasn’t blind to the respect you brought up in other people. 

Leon saw you killing with your gaze when necessary. He has read your 100-ish page rapports and scientific analyses. You bargain with people with ease, and brushed tipsy guys off in bars. Even if you were nervous, it took Leon a long time to start noticing it. You were tough and professional above anything.

And now you froze.

He felt the shift in the air before he even turned his head to look at you.

“Oh…”

“What?” He accepted the fact that your slightest discomfort bothered him more than it should a long time ago.

It was already quite tense before. The two of you stood outside some conferential room, both dressed in fancy suits that felt much tighter than they actually were. Not even 5 minutes ago you yanked the papers out of Leon’s grasp because he was fidgeting too much and almost ripped them in half. 

Speeches.

Neither of you were fond of speeches. You both had your advantages – you were more accustomed to them and Leon’s nature was more composed than yours, – but in the end, as a pair, you were close to a shaking bundle of nerves. You put on brave faces only to not make fools out of yourselves. Obviously, you laughed it out, joking that facing the undead was easier.

You could handle it, you were professionals after all, but no one ever suffered from a little complaining, right? A phone call, though… At this moment you were not so sure if you could survive that.

Leon didn’t hear the ringing of your phone, it was too loud around. Now he looked at you, and noticed the face stilled in mortification, when you stared at the screen.

“What’s wrong?” He shifted his weight against the wall, like he was ready to save you from the vibrating thing. “Who is it?”

“I… I don’t know. Unknown number,” you muttered quietly and could already feel your cheeks burning up.

He will laugh at you now, won’t he?

“Then… pick up to find out?” He offered with a grin, but then noticed the slight shake of your hand that held the phone.

You were never shaking and he knew it. He spent enough time with you to notice even the smallest things. Your firmness and stability weren’t small things, though. You were proud of it and didn’t shiver even at the sight of the worst things nor when you were attacked. You stayed still when Leon’s shoulders twitched up, and he often mocked that you were simply too slow to react – in return you picked on him that he was simply jealous.

“Y/n. Are you waiting for that call? Something bad happened?”

You wanted to roll your eyes and tell him to not pry, but you couldn’t. You looked away from him so he wouldn’t stare at you so intensively.

“Gosh, no,” you scoffed under your breath. “I just… I don’t know. I hate phone calls from strangers, okay? Absolutely despite it.”

You were embarrassed like never, but Leon looked like it all finally made sense to him.

“Ohh, so that’s it.” He nodded with a smile polite enough, then stretched out his hand to you. “May I?”

You stared at him for a moment, still waiting for the jokes to come. Leon wasn’t a cruel person, not at all, but how could he know that the topic was… rather touchy for you?

“You… You want to handle it for me? I couldn’t ask you to–”

“Do you want me to?”

You stopped your rushing train of thoughts then looked to your feet.

“Please,” you muttered, feeling like a helpless child, and gave him your phone.

He draped a comforting hand on your shoulders while raising the phone to his ear. “No need to be ashamed, you know?”

Then he quickly moved, realizing that you might want to hear it too. He placed the phone between the two of you.

“Hello,” said the female voice on the other side and you already felt bad. Why couldn’t it be an attempt to harass you or something like that? It would make your irrational worries more reasonable.

“Hey, who’s speaking?” Leon asked, still smiling at you.

“It’s Anna from the housing community, uh… Sorry, I wanted to reach Miss Y/n.”

“She is unavailable right now, I’m afraid.” Damn, he was good at this. If you had to lie on the phone like that it would take you one-to-three working days to figure out a good answer. “Perhaps I could help you somehow?”

“And may I ask for your name, sir? This is rather unusual...”

“Leon Kennedy. Consider me Y/n’s proxy right now.”

“Oh,” she was clearly confused. “Proxy as in…?”

He looked at you in a silent question for any ideas. You shook your head, too occupied by wondering what Anna from the housing community could want from you.

Leon hummed, before speaking up again.

“As in I’m her husband.”

“Ohh,” she said again, and you waited for a while, like it was a verdict of your life, “sure, now it all makes sense. Sorry for the confusion, Mr. Kennedy. I’m calling because there’s been… some complaints around.”

“That so?”

Leon raised an eyebrow like he wanted to mock you about getting into trouble. You didn’t feel like laughing, though.

“Yes… I don’t mean complaints about Miss Y/n! There’s this strange man around, and we have decided to give people a call to let them know. It’s probably nothing, but it’s better to warn people, right?” She explained quickly.

“Sure. Good decision,” Leon agreed. “So what’s this about, really?”

“We cannot tell, exactly, just yet, sir. Your neighbors reported an unknown man wandering around the building and bothering people. He doesn’t live nearby and no one really knows what his purpose is. The police have been informed already, though! They will patrol the area, just to be sure.”

You made a confused face, not knowing anything about that. Not that you were at home a lot. The job was time-consuming and honestly the biggest part of your life.

“Well, we didn’t notice anything strange,” Leon answered the woman, “but thank you for the information.”

“Of course. I need to ask you, Mr. Kennedy, to pass the information to Miss Y/n… Mrs… Well, your wife.”

“Naturally, I will.”

There was a short pause on the other side, then you could hear a muffled and very much nervous laugh.

“You know, actually I was especially worried about her, alongside other women that live in the building that I thought were single, but now… Yeah, I only mean to say that you calmed me. Can I count on you to let me know if either of you notice something suspicious?”

“Absolutely, Anna.”

“Perfect. Thank you for your time, Mr. Kennedy.”

The click signalizing the end of the call allowed your shoulders to relax again. They fell down and only now you realized how tense you were through the whole time.

“So,” Leon dragged, while doing something on your phone, “Anna is now in your contacts and I believe she is nice enough and not very dangerous. Promise, a word of a DSO agent,” he said with a hand on his heart and handed you the phone. “Just in case you ever need to call her.”

Truth be told, he wasn't a fan of phone calls either, ever since he was young, but it was childishly easy to handle it for you. Sometimes he also thought jumping into fire for you wouldn’t be much harder, but that was a detail.

“It’s bullshit,” you muttered under your breath.

“What? The community lady warning you about some weirdo?”

“No, I mean me being scared!”

You were able to name it. That’s an improvement already.

“Nah, it’s not bullshit.”

But him brushing it off wasn’t enough. The embarrassment drifted away when you noticed he wasn’t going to judge you. You could already feel your chest tightening, and the words that demanded to be let out built up.

“It’s about not seeing the face, you know?” You snapped. “I mean, you know me well. I don’t struggle with social interactions. I just… I lose my mind when I don’t know someone and can’t read their face.”

Leon shifted to listen to you closely.

“That’s understandable if you ask me. I’m not too comfortable with that either.”

“But you can handle it! You don’t panic. Is that… Is something wrong with me? Maybe I should–” The words that so desperately wanted to be freed now disappeared, and you felt like an even bigger idiot. “Like… get a diagnosis on that, or something.”

You chuckled immediately but Leon remained serious like he didn’t want to offend you. But that wasn’t just him trying to fight the laugh. You knew him well enough and knew that he sometimes could laugh straight into your face just like that. Now he was truly serious.

“It wouldn't hurt, would it? Was it always like that?”

That was the worst. You knew very well why you were so scared, yet refused to say it out loud. Now… now you were forced to, weren’t you?

“No,” you muttered simply and checked the time on your wristwatch.

“So something triggered it?” Leon pried.

When you first started working together, he thought he was annoying you. He quickly realized that being annoying was the only way to get some things out of you. Funnily, he didn’t even notice that he was exactly the same. Perhaps it was a contagious disease of DSO agents.

You sighed.

“Remember, uh… Jim Harker from the office?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he passed away two years ago. Heart attack?”

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to look at him again.

“He was murdered. It was safer to make it classified info… Leon, I’m asking you to keep it for yourself.”

“‘Corse,” he agreed immediately. “You know me.”

You did.

“We were close friends. He found out some shady intel that I was later checking on the field, and we messed with the wrong sort of people. DSO called the mission off, locked it and kicked us away. We tried again… Jim was killed in his own house.”

“Jesus…”

“Yeah… His wife and kids survived probably only because they were out of town.” You stopped for a moment, but didn’t want to think about the memory. Most of the time the voice of a grieving furious widow was still ringing in your head, and it was a lot to handle. “And all I got was a suspicious phone call with the information of my colleague’s death and a warning. Never messed with the topic again.”

He frowned, clearly thinking about something. You smiled sadly. “Come on, take a guess if you really want to.”

He did. He was only wondering if it’s appropriate to do that when you were talking about your dead friend.

“It was Umbrella-connected, wasn't it?”

“Of course, it was.” You nodded your head.

“I’m sorry.” A firm hand fell to your shoulder again. “Hey, don’t bother yourself about it.”

“A man dying or being unable to pick up a phone call?”

“Uh… Both, I guess.”

Your shoulders started shaking, and you had to almost slam your palm up to hide your face. Leon shifted petrified, thinking that you started crying, but he calmed when he gently tugged on your arm and moved it down. You fell into a nervous laughter, and he playfully pulled you into his side.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I was always extremely good at cheering people up,” he joked, rubbing your arm.

You could barely register that he placed a quick kiss at the top of your head.

“Are you okay now?”

“One hundred percent,” you promised.

“Good, ‘cause you’re gonna have to do the speech on your own. I can’t even remember the topic anymore.”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes.

“Fine, Mr. Kennedy, sir. I do the talking, and you just stand in the back, looking pretty.”

“I always do,” he argued humorously.

“I didn’t say you don’t.”

the blush rises in your cheeks quickly, and leon certainly notices. the smirk on his face is too damn happy. you're not sure why you get so shy doing civvie shit like hanging out with him- missions were nothing. killing undead people were nothing. and it was certainly not the most intimate thing you had done together. but it was as if these small touches, small, but blatant glimpses of the care leon has for you, put whatever unspoken, in-between relationship between you out in the open.

if there was one thing the both of you tiptoed around, it was certainly the massive fucking elephant in the room.

so maybe thats why when leon revvs the engine, tells you to hang onto him, you grab his shoulders like you were starting a conga line. it was some sort of middle school move, but you were stubborn as a bull if nothing else, and stuck to your position. as leon pulled away and began to gain speed, you tried to focus on enjoying the ride. and maybe part of the ride was a pair of huge biceps and wide, confident shoulders. you're only human.

slowing at a newly red light, leon places one foot on the ground to lean on while he waits. after a pregnant pause, motors rumbling next to you and someones music in the distance of traffic, he turns his head to the side to direct his voice to you.

"you don't have to be afraid to touch me, you know," his hand leaves the handlebars, covering yours to slip them down to his waist. he pulls your grip around to his stomach, leaning back into you just enough to make you crave his weight, crave his nearness further. "i don't bite—well," he glances at your covered collarbone with a sly smile. the hickey he left there almost ached in response the memory playing in your head. "you might enjoy that."

you're glad a helmet is covering your face.

"keep that up, you're gonna get bitten." you mutter. the light changes, he looks back at you again.

Mirror sex is supposed to be fun.

At least, it was when you didn't already struggle to look at yourself in said mirror after waking up. Or after stepping out of the shower. Or when you brushed you teeth. Or—

"Nghh, fuck—" Leon grunted in your ear, hands kneading your breasts as you sat in his lap with his bare chest against your back, and his cock buried deep inside you.

When you were discussing trying out new things and he brought up mirror sex, you accepted without really thinking about it. Thought it couldn't hurt—that it was nothing crazy and that it might even end up being exciting. Lots of people like it, right?

But you're already starting to regret it.

Because self-hatred runs really deep when it comes to you.

You tried at first, but all you managed to do was stare at Leon in his closet's mirror door, ignoring yourself completely like you didn't even deserve to be there. It just served as a reminder that he looked so good, and that you pulled someone way out of your league. And it fucking hurt.

You've always had a problem with overthinking during sex. Wondering if you look good, if you taste good, if you feel good, or if your face looks weird right now or not—but now that you actually get to see what you've been dreading for so long, there's an even bigger pit settling in your stomach.

Your eyes have been closed for a good minute now, but your hips are still grinding against each other's, your hands braced on his forearms. He feels incredible—god, the sex with him is heavenly—but the little voice in the back of your head whispering 'he probably thinks you're hideous' over and over is keeping you from truly enjoying the moment.

One hand slowly drifts from your breast up to your jaw, tilting your head up as his thumb pressed against your cheek. "Open your eyes baby—mmph... look at how pretty you are, come on." He murmured against your throat, placing hot open-mouthed kisses at the junction of your neck and shoulder while his eyes stayed focused on your reflection.

You could feel him twitch inside of you—he's absolutely loving it, and it's making you feel even more guilty.

You swallow thickly, eyes fluttering open obediently but with difficulty. But the moment you see yourself again, every little imperfection, every little complex comes back to mind.

Your eyes close again on instinct, your brain fighting between pleasing your boyfriend and protecting you from your own thoughts. Your grinding is unconsciously starting to slow down, teeth biting onto your lower lip with growing anxiety and nails digging into his skin.

Leon smiled against your skin, amused at first as he assumed you were just being a little shy. His free hand reached down to grab your hip and guide your movement, a sweet encouragement if you weren't currently freaking out.

"Come on, you can do it—uhff. God you're so—" Tight. He wanted to say, but cut himself off abruptly.

"Leon, i can't—"

You're getting tight. A little too tight. I'm-not-so-comfortable-anymore kind of tight.

His grip on you tightened as he switched from guiding your hips to holding you still instead, sensing something was deeply wrong.

"...Baby?" He murmured, voice quieter now as alarms rang in his head. "Hey—hey, baby." His head leaned over your shoulder, checking on you directly instead of through the mirror.

Your little frown, your eyes squeezed shut, the tears threatening to fall. Shit.

He immediately went into panic mode.

"Hey—w—what's wrong? Wait, let me—" He murmured in a hurry, strong arms very carefully lifting you up and off his lap, pulling out of you as gently as possible before he lowered you onto the edge of the bed next to him.

"Oh, sweetheart..." He muttered softly at the sound of your little sniffles. Before asking any questions, he started by gathering his boxers and his t-shirt—covering you up with the latter and making sure not to make any more physical contact than necessary, then pulling his boxers back on.

"Do you need something? Water? I'll get you something to clean yourself with—you can do it yourself if you'd rather i don't touch you right now." He rambled nervously as he reached towards his nightstand for his water bottle and some tissues, movements clumsy as he tried to go too fast.

"I'll fetch your panties too if you want." He added as he put the tissues down and uncapped the bottle for you, almost spilling some over himself in his haste.

All he wanted for you right now was to feel comfortable again, safe enough to explain to him what happened and avoid the possibility that you'd clam up.

You took the bottle as he offered it, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand before taking a sip, while he searched your pile of clothes for your underwear.

"There." He muttered, neatly folding the thin piece of fabric like a habit and placing it down next to the tissues like some absurd peace offering.

Leon forced himself to wait patiently for you to finish, all curled up as you cleaned yourself up with a tissue and blew your nose with another. Once you slipped your panties back on, he finally allowed himself to turn towards you.

"...You wanna talk, or you need more time?" He asked quietly, his eyes searching for yours.

"I... i'm sorry." You blurted out like a reflex, throat tightening again with guilt.

"Hey, no no no, you didn't do anything wrong," He said with a faint shake of his head, voice low and quiet in an attempt to seem non-threatening. "It's not your fault or anything like that. But i need to know what happened."

He can tell you're hesitant. You won't look at him like you're ashamed, and it's tearing his heart apart.

"...It's okay. We can go slow. Do you, uhh... can i—can i hold you?" He couldn't help but ask. "You don't—have to say yes, i'm just... really worried." He reassured, hand fidgetting against the sheets as he internally prayed that he wasn't the reason you were in this state.

He released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when you nodded slowly, scooting closer on the edge of the bed as his arms wrapped around you. One hand settled on the back of your head while the other rubbed your back in hopes it'd comfort you at least a little.

You let out a few quiet sobs against his shoulder, feelings scrambling together in your head. "I couldn't... i couldn't look." You croaked out, voice muffled against his warm skin.

He figured it out the moment you admitted that. Your horrendous self-esteem wasn't exactly a secret to him, but he didn't expect you to just... break down mid-sex.

"Do you think you can tell me why?" His thumb rubbed against your temple soothingly.

"I feel so... so ugly. I don't—i don't understand why you're even with me—" You admitted, voice shaky, head lowering in shame. "I thought i was gonna be okay—i just wanted to make you feel good...!" As soon as you teared up again, his hold on you tightened like he was allowing you to hide into his body if this is what you needed.

"Shhh... that's not important right now, you're my priority. You didn't ruin anything, nor did you hurt my feelings." He reminded you gently. "I still love you. I promise, you're safe."

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head before resting his chin there. "I think," He started, tone a tad lighter. "You're the most beautiful thing i've ever laid my eyes on."

"But i'm way out of your league—"

"You don't get to decide who i should date and for what reason." He corrected kindly as his hand started to pet the back of your head. "I think you're stunning and you're the one i want to date. My feelings are not up for debate."

You sniffled quietly again, a comfortable silence falling over the two of you as he hugged you, holding you from completely crumbling, but ready to piece you back together if you fell apart.

"Alright," He sighed with a hint of relief as he saw your head lift a little, taking it as a small victory. "You know what we're gonna do?" He smiled as your gaze hesitantly met his, one hand brushing your hair back and out of your puffy eyes. "I'm gonna run us a bath, make sure you relax—even if it means i gotta sit in scalding hot water for an hour because i know you prefer it that way." He chuckled to himself. "Then we'll cuddle in bed together, and watch a bad movie while eating a bunch of unhealthy snacks."

He cupped your cheeks and lifted your head up a little more, giving you that stupidly charming smile of his in an attempt to coax you out of your shell. "Okay?"

You stared at him for a few seconds, always so stunned by how fast his pretty face made your worries melt away.

Another sudden toss from Leon could be felt as it vibrated throughout the bed and its frame. You couldn’t ignore it any longer. You know Leon and how he suffers from PTSD. Some nights are easy, others? Not so much. Tonight just may be one of those rough ones.

You feel horrible for him. He’s gone through literal Hell and back. One thing about him, he’s always struggled to open up about things. It took him two whole months alone to explain what happened in Spain and at that, even longer to have him better explain how his disorder works against him. You are patient, no doubt about it.

Rubbing your eyes, you sat up in the bed and yawned as once again, you felt Leon shift and then say something. You couldn’t really make it out, but it’s most definitely partial to his nightmare he’s having.

“Leon?” You whispered to him. You ran your fingers through his soft hair, though it felt slightly damped with sweat.

This must be a rough one.

“Baby? Wake up. You’re okay, you’re home.” You spoke up.

Still nothing.

Laying your hand gently upon his cheek, you caressed it with your thumb. The faint and recently shaved stubble was felt beneath the pad of your finger. He looks incredibly precious whilst he rests. If only he didn’t have to suffer from such a shitty mental threshold.

“Wake up Leon. Please hun. You’re oka-“

Before you could finish your sentence, a sudden restrained noise came from deep in your throat as Leon hastefully pinned you onto your back and before either of you even knew it, his left hand was around your throat with a tightness that was clearly visible to the fact he felt in danger.

Jesus fuck.

You gasped for air and held onto his wrist, attempting to remove it.

“Le- Leon.” You were quiet. His hand is so firm around your neck. This doesn’t feel real. He must’ve been so deep into the bad dream. You made eye contact with him and it was then that he realized what he had just done.

Being more quick with his movements compared to how he was when it came to choking you, Leon threw his entire body off of you and climbed out of the bed, running that same hand through his hair before he inhaled deeply, and exhaled with a speed that didn’t seem healthy. “Holy fuck!” Leon shouted and put his hands onto his fibrous knees.

Sitting up on the back of the bed, you wrapped your arms around your legs, taking the moment to catch your breath and process everything; That appeared to be what Leon was doing himself.

Staring at him, his eyes were on you. Not on your eyes, but right below—locked on where he was just strangling you.

Leon has never felt more disappointed in himself.

“God damnit!” He yelled out again and you shook your head. “Baby, it is okay.” Your reassurance meant nothing to him. He just choked the love of his life and what, because of a stupid nightmare? He finds himself to be absolutely pivoted with vile currently. He can’t believe himself.

Who has he become?

“It’s not okay!” Leon was starting to do his pacing, which you took as your queue to crawl near the side of the bed he was walking beside. You can tell he’s not in the right headspace. His stress levels are through the roof right now and it’s going to take a lot of convincing to bring him back down to Earth.

“Leon,” you went to reach for his hand but he conveniently backed away until his back hit the wall. Ironically enough, a photo was hung up beside him of the two of you when you both attended a wedding together.

It is crazy how time flies.

It’s hard to think of what to say. Leon is so vulnerable right now. He feels horrible. What he just did to you, he will never forgive himself for.

“I’m not upset with you, at all. Don’t beat yourself up, Leon, you were having a nightmare. We knew this was a risk, we looked into it.”

At the beginning of Leon’s nightmares, you two had decided to do some at home research about PTSD and its side effects. A warning was that nightmares can result in physical reaction. The moment Leon knew of that, he was on edge. You always told him you’d forever understand, and you meant that. You love Leon, which also means you will always stick by his side, through thick and thin.

Shaking his head, Leon glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand. “I have to go to work in two hours knowing I just hurt my girlfriend.” Leon scoffed out and rubbed his face. You sighed softly and stood up. You went to grab his face and he took your hands, gazing at you. “Let me touch you.” You were sad now. You need to feel him, in any way.

He hesitated.

“We can’t sleep together anymore. Now that it’s happened, I just… I can’t.” Leon stated.

But he gave in to your touch.

You rubbed his cheeks with such love. You swear you felt the tension from his body go away in seconds. Leon has always told you that you are his relaxer, it seems he’s never exaggerated that factor.

“It has happened once in the countless nights we’ve slept side by side. Leon, it is a risk I am willing to take every night.” You said. “I love you and I refuse to not sleep beside my man every night.” You pleaded with him but you were met with silence.

Fuck sakes.

“Please say something,” you sniffled and wrapped your arms around his neck, hugging him lovingly before running your fingers through his hair via the back. He expired deeply, his hands on your upper back as he tucked his head into the crook of your neck, pressing sweet kisses to it. It was like he’s apologizing to your throat for hurting you potentially.

“I don’t know.” “Why don’t you know, Leon?” “If we should continue to sleep together… Maybe I should stick to the couch for awhile.”

You pulled away and looked at him with melancholic eyes. “Leon,” you hand your hands on his built chest—you could feel his rapid heart beats. “I would rather get choked every night than sleep away from you. I truly would.” You spoke with such truth that it struck Leon just how serious you’re being.

He still appeared unsure.

“Leon, that’s enough.” You let go of him and crawled back into bed before aggressively pulling the blanket on his side of the bed down, insinuating you wanted him to get in as well. He just looked at you, his eyes tired and his stature unsure. “Get in the bed before I make you.” You cocked your head and patted on the bed.

Just then, he nodded and sat down on the edge of the bed, his feet on the carpeted ground. You sat up on your knees directly behind him before you also began to place kisses along the outer part of his ear before whispering to him.

“I love you.” And kissing his ear lobe. “Lay down with me.” You were desperate. You need him.

Fully getting into bed, you made some room for him before laying your head onto his bare chest. He’s warm, very cozy. “I love you too honey.” Leon let out a deep breath, wrapping his arms around you.