nai:3

You’re sitting at the kitchen table, pretending to scroll through your phone while you can’t stop rereading the last text she’d sent you, somehow trying to find a hidden meaning on it. At the same time, you steal glances at Leon: his hands are gripping the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles have gone white

You know he’s absolutely terrified. Also, you know, without a doubt, that he’s taking all this thing way worse than you are.

Where are you? you type quickly.

Please, answer me as soon as possible.

Dad and I are worried.

That last message doesn’t even appear as sent.

“I thought she said she was staying at Mia’s,” Leon finally says. “And she told us she’d be home around 9.30 p.m.”

Your husband turns to face you, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes search yours, though you try your best to avoid them. 

“I know.”

“She lied to us, love,” his voice cracks even you know perfectly well he wants to hide his panic.

“Leon: I know,” you repeat.

His jaw clenches and starts going around the kitchen. You know what’s exactly happening inside his head: he’s imagining every possible scenario, the worst ones, even probably none of them happened.

Or they did.

“When she gets home…”

Those words come out sharper than a knife, but you can’t blame him.

After that, he doesn’t say anything else for what feels like hours. You know that’s his way to pretend he’s not falling apart, but still, the edge in his voice stings, specially because this whole mess started long before your daughter stopped answering her phone a few hours ago.

It began with your husband coming home hours after dinner, too exhausted to manage to say more than a few monosyllables. Every single time, you pretended not to notice how hard he was trying to hide everything weighing on him.

Your daughter hadn’t been doing much better as well. She answered everything with monosyllables as well, slammed her bedroom door every time she disappeared upstairs, where she spent way too much time.

Leon and you snap your attention toward the front door the moment you hear it unlock. 

You daughter enters your house quietly, completely soaked from the rain pouring outside and freezing the moment she sees both of you there, waiting for her to arrive.

“Hey…” she says carefully, her eyes flicking between your husband and you.

“Where were you?” Leon demands, his voice way more louder and firmer than when he was talking to you. 

“Out.”

“No,” his voice rises immediately. “Don’t start with that. Don’t you dare give me those answers right now.”

She doesn’t reply, of course, but what she does is shifting her posture, getting defensive.

You sigh. Typical teenage pride, which is nothing but fear dressed up as anger.

“I was out with my friends.”

“At midnight?” Leon presses her.

“I lost track of time. It happens, you know,” she shrugs. “At least, you should understand me. That’s what you always say happens when you’re at work.”

You see Leon’s hands curl into fists while your daughter’s lips curl into a smile, quite satisfied with herself.

“You lied about where you were going,” he insists. “And, especially, who you were with. Weren’t you supposed to be at Mia’s?”

“Since when do you care so much about my life?”

Those words hit both of you.

Leon take a few steps forward until he’s almost face-to-face with her, but you’re faster. Quickly, you rise from your chair, catch him gently by the wrist, and force him to take a few steps back before he can close de distance.

He looks at you. You know it isn’t anger you’re seeing in his eyes, but anger. 

Just like your daughter, Leon’s scared.

“You don’t get to speak to me like that,” Leon says, surprisingly lowering his voice. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened to you tonight? Do you have any idea what your mother and I’ve been imagining? Huh?”

“I’m great,” she points at herself. “Can’t you see it? Nothing happened.”

“That’s not the point, and I think you know that just as much as we do.”

She rolls her eyes, and you know that only makes Leon even more anxious.

“Don’t,” he warns.

“Oh my God…” she mutters, finally walking over to the counter to pour herself a glass of water, drinking it desperately.

“No. Listen to me for once in your life—”

“Leon, she’s home,” you interrupt gently, resting a hand on his arm. “Let’s all calm down first, and then we can talk about this—”

“No,” he pulls away from your touch so abruptly it catches you off guard. “No, because every single time I try to teach her how things work under this roof, you step in and soften everything.”

Your daughter stares at the two of you, her eyes widening, clearly surprised and feeling that she just made things worse between her parents.

“Leon—”

“She didn’t come home when she promised she would,” his voice rises again. “She couldn’t even send one fucking message. What does she even have a damn phone for? To make TikToks?”

“I know, Leon. I know.”

“She lied to us,” he insists. “And, on top of that, she’s standing there acting like this is a joke.”

You open your mouth to answer, but he cuts you off:

“For once in your life, stop acting like I’m overreacting.”

“I’m not saying you’re overreacting or that you’re crazy, Leon. I’m just saying that there are other ways we could handle this. There doesn’t have to be—”

Your daughter lets out a quiet sigh and, taking advantage that the argument’s shifted between the two of you, she goes toward the stairs.

“Don’t you dare walk away from us now!” Leon shouts.

She stops halfway up the staircase, but doesn’t dare to turn around.

“You’re grounded.”

“What?!”

That’s what makes her turn around. 

You see that her eyes are glistening, definitely fighting tears. You know her too well to know that she doesn’t really care about being grounded, and if she’s feeling that way is because she knows she’s disappointed both of you.

“No phone, and no going out,” declares Leon. “Home, school. School, home. That’s what you get until I say otherwise.”

“For how long?” she cries, not being able to hold back tears anymore.

“We’ll see.”

“Fuck! This is so fucking unfair!”

“After the way you behaved tonight, I don’t think you’re in any position to decide what’s unfair,” states your husband, even more angry. “I hope everything’s clear.”

She ignores Leon and looks at you, clearly desperate, as if you having a conversation with her father could somehow fix all this mess… 

Like you usually do.

“Mom…”

Your husband notices. He lets out a long and frustrated sigh.

“See?” he lets out a bitter laugh, rolling his eyes. “It’s always the same with you two.”

“Leon—”

“She knows she can get away with anything as long as she gives you those sad puppy eyes and sheds a few tears,” his jaw tightens, same as the rest of his body. “Proof enough I’m right: you always undermine me.”

“I don’t undermine you, Leon. It’s just that—”

“I’m not arguing with you over something I know I’m right about.”

Your daughter’s face tightens up with unmistakable guilt. Then, she says:

“Can you two stop fighting while I’m still here?”

“Go upstairs,” your husband doesn’t even look at her.

“I don’t want to,” she snaps. “This is ridiculous. I know this is my fault, okay? You’ve already grounded me, and now we can’t even have one calm conversation to—”

“Upstairs. Now.”

This time, his voice breaks halfway through the sentence.

Your daughter flinches, and the tears she’s been trying so hard to hold back spill freely now as she rushes upstairs, disappearing into her bedroom before slamming the door hard enough for you to hear it.

Leon sighs, lowering his head and shaking it.

You know that he’s disappointed with himself for becoming the one thing he swore he’d never be the day he found out you were pregnant: the father his daughter is afraid of.

You watch him rake both hands through his hair, desperately trying to calm himself before stopping in front of you.

“You shouldn't have done that in front of her,” you say, your expression remaining completely serious.

He laughs again, this time in disbelief of your words.

“Done what? Act like a worried father?”

“You went way too far with her.”

“She disappeared for hours. She couldn’t even be bothered to answer a damn text.”

“She’s sixteen, Leon!” your own voice rises. “She’s a teenager. The last thing on her mind is texting her parents to tell them she’s okay.”

“So being a teen excuses her shitty behavior?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m just saying—”

“Then why is it that I always have to end up being the bad guy?”

You hold his gaze. Seeing how exhausted he looks makes you want to leave this conversation for another moment, but you know he won’t let it go.

“That’s not fair,” is all you manage to say, quietly.

“Oh, it isn’t?” he steps even closer. “Because every time I’m honest with her, you jump in like I’m saying something crazy. And I’m not crazy, you know. I just—”

“Sometimes you act as if you really lost your mind, Leon,” the words leave your mind before you can soften them. “Specially, when you’re scared something bad might happen. I understand why, I really do, but you can’t be this overprotective because—”

His expression hardens instantly, and the rest of the sentence dies in your throat.

“So now I’m crazy and overprotective.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you rush to reply.

“For someone who didn’t mean it…” he laughs humorlessly. “That’s exactly what you said.”

You step around him, heading towards the living room and refusing to look back because you know he’s following you.

“God, this is exactly what I mean,” Leon says, throwing his hands into the ait. His voice is louder now, edged with frustration. “I say one thing, and somehow you twist it into something completely different.”

You stop and turn around.

The anger on his face catches you off guard, and he seems to realize it too. 

You know he regrets what he just said, but he doesn’t know how to take it back.

That just makes a painful silence settle between you two and, now, you’re the one fighting back tears.

“So you really think I make you feel that way?” you dare asking your husband.

“You don’t trust me when it comes to her,” his eyes meet yours. “You make me feel like I’m a bad father.”

“That’s not true, Leon. Don’t go there, because—”

“You act like I’m some emotionally repressed asshole whose damn trauma keeps him from knowing how to talk to his own daughter.”

“Leon, that’s not—”

“You know what? I try. God, I try so damn hard, but sometimes…”

His voice breaks before he can finish and, somehow, that hurts even more.

“I know you do,” you answer softly, taking one hesitant step closer to him.

“Do you?” 

He sounds devastated. He sounds so different from the man who’d been shouting only minutes ago that it completely catches you off guard. But, especially… you’re grateful he’s letting himself be this vulnerable with you, even he doesn’t seem to know how to handle his emotions quite well.

“No matter how hard I try…” he keeps talking, his voice barely audible now. “It never feels like enough. I never feel like I’m good enough for either of you.”

Those words shatter something inside you, your tears finally escaping. 

All you want is to wrap your arms around him. You want to tell him the last few months have been completely shit, but that everything will get better.

However, you don’t. You know Leon better than anyone. After all these years together dating, marriage, and building a family together, you’ve learnt that physical comfort is the last thing he wants when he’s feeling this exposed and vulnerable.

Leon braces both his hands against the kitchen counter, staring down at the floor.

“I work more hours than most people in this country,” he says hoarsely. “Partly, because I’m trying to keep this family safe for all the shit out there. I do everything I can to stay on top of everyone’s lives…” he lets out a shaky breath, “and, somehow, I still feel like a stranger every time I walk into my own home.”

“Leon… that’s not true—”

“I’ve missed way too many of those stupid parent-teacher conferences,” he continues. “I’ve missed gymnastics competitions, soccer games…” he laughs bitterly at himself. “Fuck it, even half the time we’re togethe she barely says a word to me unless she really wants something.”

“She’s a teen,” you remind him gently.

“She used to tell me everything,” his voice cracks again. “Now she looks at me like I’m a fucking intruder instead of someone she can trust.”

The pain in his voice is what destroys you.

“And don’t you think I miss all of that too?” you ask quietly, folding your arms around yourself. He finally looks at you. “You come home exhausted… When you actually do, because sometimes the DSO, apparently, needs you more than we do,” your voice trembles. “And even when you’re here… your mind always seems to be somewhere else. On some mission that has nothing to do with your family.”

Leon closes his eyes and sighs. He knows you’re right, but he just doesn’t know how to admit it.

“You think I want my entire life to belong to the DSO?”

“No,” you shake your head. “But the way you act… Sometimes, it feels like it does.”

“I’m doing everything I can, love,” his voice is almost pleading now. “You know I am.”

“And so am I, Leon!” the words come out louder than you want. “I carry everything when you’re gone which, believe it or not, is more often that I’d like,” tears stream freely down your face now. “The phone calls from school, the psychologist appointments, mood swings, the panic attacks…”

Leon jerks his head up.

“What you mean panic attacks?”

You freeze.

Fuck.

You weren’t supposed to tell him. Color drains slowly from your face.

“What do you mean with panic attacks?” he asks again, more desperate.

“The last one was last week. On Friday. It was when you had to leave because of those cases in Wrenwood, and—”

“And it never crossed your mind to tell me?” he asks, the hurt in his voice outweighing the anger.

“She begged me not to,” you wipe your tears away as quickly as they fall.

“Still, you should've told me!”

“Do you have any idea how terrified she was that you’d think something was wrong with her?”

“Oh my God…” he whispers. “How could I ever think that about her when I’ve been having panic attacks myself for almost the past thirty years of my life?”

Guilt hits him instantly. He drags both hands over his face for what feels like the hundredth time that day but this time, you notice they’re trembling.

“Leon—”

“She’s been having panic attacks, and I didn’t even know.”

“I already told you: you were away because of those cases and, then, everything related with your illness, and—”

“So what?” he suddenly shouts. “I’m still her father! You should've told me! Why does it feel like both you and her have decided I don’t get to know what’s going on in your lives unless everything blows up in my fucking face like it has tonight?”

A noise echoes from upstairs, and the two of you fall silent almost instantly, even containing your breathing, as if that alone might undo what was just said.

Of course: your daughter’s been listening.

“Great,” your husband mutters, pacing the kitchen again. “Fucking great.”

“Can we not?” you whisper, hurrying over to him. “You told you, Leon: this isn’t the time.”

“Then when is it the time?” he shoots back. “Because, apparently, it never is until everything explodes like it did today. Do you want this to happen again?”

“That’s not fair, Leon. You know whenever something’s wrong, we sit down and talk about it, but—”

“No,” he shakes his head. “The last few months we’ve done nothing but circle around any problem, avoiding it until it blow up,” he repeat, gesturing between the two of you. “Exaclty like we’re doing now.”

“Because every time I try, you shut down or get defensive.”

He looks at you, not really believing you’re talking about him even deep down you know by his expression he realizes you’re right.

“If I get defensive it’s because I feel like I’m getting closer and closer to losing both of you,” Leon forces to pause himself. “Do you know what scares me the most?”

The anxiety slowly leaves your body, replaced by an overwhelming sadness.

“It scares me coming home one day and realising the two of you can live perfectly fine without me, and I’m nothing to you but a mere stranger.”

His eyes drop to the floor, barely holding himself together.

“Realising I don’t deserve either of you—”

“Leon, don’t say that,” you interrupt him.

“Our daughter…” his voice trembles. “The little girl who used to do everything with me now can barely look me in the eye. Fuck, she barely even speaks to me. And you…” he forces out a shaky laugh. “Every time I come home, you look completely exhausted, like you’re tired of everything.”

“Because I am,” you answer without hesitation. Leon lifts his face to you. “You’re not the only one who’s scared, Leon. You’re not the only one carrying more than anyone realises,” you wipe your cheeks. “I’m scared too,” you let out a broken laugh. “And, just like you, I’ve been pretending I’m fine. And look where that’s got us.”

You sink into one of the chairs, burying your face in your hands. Leon doesn’t move.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. I wake up every day feeling like all I do is fail. Like I’m a terrible mother,” your voice cracks, while your husband is frozen. “I try so, so hard, and yet somehow noting I do feels enough.”

“I’m sorry.”

You look up. Leon’s staring at you with eyes that’ve turned bright red.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I shouldn’t have said any of those things to you,” he shakes his head. “And I shouldn’t have told you that you make me feel small.”

“It’s okay.”

Even those are the words that leave your mouth, you know they aren’t true, and all this will replay in your head for weeks, constantly overthinking.

“No. It’s not,” Leon says immediately, taking a slow breath. Then, he softens his voice: “You were trying to protect her, just like I was.

A sad smile appears on his face, as his lips tremble with that confession. 

He drifts his eyes towards the staircase, tracing the path your daughter disappeared just a few minutes ago.

“I scared her—”

“No.”

You close the distance between you two, immediately taking his hands firmly in yours, rubbing your thumb across his knuckles.

“You scared yourself,” your voice’s gentle. “And, because you were scared… you lost control.”

“I couldn’t— I can’t stop thinking about everything that could’ve happened tonight.”

Fear controls him once again. He slips an arm around your waist but, this time, you don’t hesitate: you wrap your arms around him, resting your head against his chest. 

You realise his heartbeat is quite too fast, and hope it doesn’t go faster.

“She could’ve been in a car accident,” his voice shakes, and squeezes his eyes. “Someone could’ve kidnaped her. Or what if someone had—”

“Leon: stop.”

You pull back enough to cup his face in both your hands, forcing him to look at you. 

“You’re her father,” your thumbs brush gently across his cheeks. “No matter how badly you want to protect her, you can’t control everything.”

“I know,” Leon takes your hands, and now he’s the one pressing soft kisses to them. “But knowing that doesn’t stop my brain from telling me it’s my job to protect you both. You two are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and that’s exactly why I can’t lose you.”

You hate yourself for letting tears fall once again.

“Do you know what scares me? That we’re trying so, so hard, to have a good relationship with her, to raise her to be a good person, that maybe we’re missing something else,” you let out a shaky breath. “I know all this is part of raising a teenager. I know she’s supposed to become independent and all that, but… What if one day she doesn’t need us anymore?”

“She still needs us,” Leon looks at you utterly broken, understanding exactly what you mean. “And even when she’s independent, a tiny part of her will always needs us,” he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “We’re not going to lose her, even if that’s exactly what it feels like we’re doing.”

Leon pulls you tightly against him, desperate. You bury your face in his chest once again, a sob escaping your lips before you can stop it, wishing your daughter didn’t hear it.

Your husband holds you even tighter. His hand moves slowly up and down your back, while he presses gentle kisses to your cheek, rocking you two softly, trying to find the calm you’ve been searching for, the one you desperately need.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair, completely shattered. “I’m so, so sorry, love.”

“I’ve missed you.”

That confession leaves you between sobs as you cling to his shirt, feeling his arms tense around you.

“I miss my husband,” you let out another sob. “I miss talking to you without you checking your phone every five minutes in case there’s another outbreak. I miss you coming to bed with me at a normal hour. I miss not feeling alone all the time.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, his voice barely audible. “You have no idea how much I hate myself for that.”

Your crying doesn’t stop yet, and Leon just holds you closer, if that’s even possible.

“I’m trying to give you both the best life I can.”

“You already do, Leon. It’s just—”

“I know,” he cuts you off gently. “I know I’m not here as much as I should, but from now on… I’m going to try harder. I’m going to be here for you both.”

He rests his forehead against yours before leaving a soft kiss on your lips, tasting the salt of your tears.

You need Leon way more than you’re willing to admit, so it doesn’t surprise you that, the moment he starts pulling away from you, you kiss him again. This time is longer, deeper, a kiss that tastes like months of longing, hurt, relief, and every single feeling the two of you have buried for way too long.

“I don’t want us to become strangers, love,” he admits, his hands still cradling your face.

“We won’t.”

“How are you so sure? After everything that’s—”

You silence him with another kiss.

“People who stop loving each other don’t fight the way we’re doing to keep moving forward,” your thumb brushes gently across his face, and offer him a small, shy smile. “After all the mess we’ve made… we’re finding our way back to each other. To us.”

For the first time in a long, long time, you see Leon’s eyes fill with tears.

Last time you’d seen him cry was the day he found out he was dying from something he had no idea about. The very same day he realised he really could lose you both forever.

“I love you so much,” he whispers. “Somtimes, I love you that much that it scares me more than it should. Love shouldn’t scare, you know.”

You leave a kiss on his forehead. Then, another one on his neck. You feel his hands tremble slightly against your waist as your lops linger there, your arms winding around his neck.

“I’m going to do better,” he murmurs. “I swear, I’m going to fight for us.”

“You don’t have to be perfect, Leon. I don’t want you to be perfect.”

“I know,” he lets out a tired breath. “I just don’t want you carrying all of this by yourself.”

“You're already carrying too much,” you tell him. “You need to take some time off before you end up having a heart attack. Give it a thought to have a chat with any of your superiors, please.”

A weak laugh escapes his lips. He knows you’re right.

“We’re idiots. Both of us.”

You smile through your tears, not even daring to argue with him since for the first time in a long time, your husband’s more right that he’s been in a while.

“I’m so sorry I yelled at you,” Leon says, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “I never should’ve done that.”

“I’m sorry too,” you lower your eyes. “Specially for keeping things from you that you absolutely deserved to know.”

The guilt of hiding your daughter’s panic attacks still weighs heavily on your chest.

Leon gently brushes his thumbs beneath your eyes, wiping away the tears that seem to refuse to stop falling.

“Even with that, you’re still the best mom in the world.”

You laugh, even those words only make you want to cry even more.

“And you’re still the best dad in the world. No matter what, okay, Mr. Overthinker?”

“You really believe that?” Leon asks, almost… worried, ashamed.

“Of course I do.”

“But she was scared when I was yelling at her,” he closes his eyes, the image of your daughter frozen halfway up the stairs flashing through his mind. “I don’t want her to be afraid of me. Ever.”

“She’s not afraid of you, love,” you reply, tho he doesn’t look quite convinced. “She’s afraid of disappointing you. And, today…” you sigh, squeezing his hand, “she, indeed, disappointed us.”

“We should go check on her.”

That’s all Leon says, and you couldn’t agree more.

Without saying another word, the two of you head upstairs, carefully, his hand searching for yours, your fingers threading together before you reach your daughter’s bedroom.

You move to step inside, still holding Leon’s hand, but he doesn’t.

He hesitates, and you can almost feel the fear of fucking up again consuming him, so you do what you’ve always done for him: reminding him he isn’t alone.

You look at him and smile. A small nod encourages him to follow your steps while you continue stroking the back of his hand, silently telling him what words can’t. 

I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Together, you step inside, finding out your daughter’s fast asleep, curled against the wall. She has one arm wrapped around the pillow she’s had since she was little, while her favourite stuffed animal, Chris’s gift to her when she was just 2, is tucked against her chest.

You see that there are still tears staining her cheeks, and Leon notices them too.

Quietly, he walks over and pulls the blanket up around her shoulders, covering the legs she’d kicked free in her sleep.

She shifts slightly, which makes Leon instinctively step back, but thankfully she doesn’t wake up. 

After hesitating for a bit, Leon crouches beside the bed, pressing gently a kiss to her forehead.

“I love you,” he whispers, not making the effort to hide those words from you. “We’ll figure this out even I’m a dick.”

You quickly look for his hand the moment he stands and look at him, who simply nods to lead you out of the room, closing the door as carefully as he can before guiding you to your bedroom.

The second you step inside, the full weight of the argument crashes all over you. Your head hurts a lot, and you already know tomorrow’s migraine’s going to be insane unless you have some medicine for it.

Leon sits down on the edge of the bed, not having any idea of what to say.

You climb onto the mattress, moving across it on your knees until you’re sitting behind him and wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him gently back against you. Your husband lets his head rest against your shoulder.

“You have no idea how much I hate when we fight,” he murmurs, letting out the quietest groan as your fingers begin kneading the tension from his shoulders.

You’re too exhausted to answer, so when your silence lingers, Leon turns slightly to look at you. Then, carefully, he eases you both down on bed, slipping one arm beneath your neck.

“I love you.”

Your fingers disappear in his hair while his free arm circles your waist, drawing you closer.

“I love you too, Leon Kennedy.”

You rest your head against his chest, calming down as his heartbeat’s way calmer and steady now, perfectly in sync with your own.

“We should get some sleep,” your husband murmurs, rolling onto his side so he can face you.

“Your words, not mine,” you pull the blankets over both of you before wrapping your arms around his waist. “So you better put every intrusive thought aside and go sleep with me.”

The corners of his mouth lift into a tired smile.

“You’re never going to stop being bossy, right?”

“Come on,” you curve your lips slightly, but your smile can only grow bigger as Leon’s does. “As if you don’t secretly love it.”

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“What do you mean?” you asked.

He shot you a brief glance before nodding ahead. “Seen something like this before. In Raccoon City. Genetically modified plants.” 

As he spoke, he stepped forward toward one of the terminals – and finally gave in to the heat, shrugging off his leather jacket.

It revealed the tactical shirt beneath, long-sleeved like yours, tight-fitting like yours. The outlines of his broad upper arms were unmistakable, stretching the fabric like it was barely holding on, ready to give if he so much as flexed. His shoulders tapered down into a narrow waist, his hips shifting with surprising fluidity.

And his ass –

God.

Your eyes widened before you could stop yourself. Your heart picked up speed, matching the growing throb and pull between your legs.

“Get yourself together,” you whispered under your breath as Leon started typing.

He let out a quiet grunt.

“Found something?”

You stepped closer carefully. Leon noticed in time to take a deliberate step aside – giving both of you space.

You shot him a small sideways glance and a faint smile before leaning over the glowing screen to read:

SPECIES FILE – DESIGNATION: EUPHORIA VARIANT

Genetically modified plant organism.

Primary function: Release of airborne spores targeting the limbic system.

Intended effects:

Stimulation of desire

Increased suggestibility

Emotional dependency

Addendum: 

The compound does not differentiate between forms of drive.

Desire and hunger are processed through overlapping neural pathways.

Mutation observed in latest subjects.

Need amplified. Desire uncontrollable.

You frowned, your vision blurring slightly. The words made sense – but your brain struggled to process them properly. You had to reread the text multiple times before it fully sank in.

There was more:

INCIDENT REPORT – RESTRICTED

Containment failure in lower level greenhouse.

Spore density exceeded projected limits.

Plant growth exponentially increasing.

Subjects lost all higher cognitive function within hours.

Subjects developed floral growth as part of mutation.

Remaining behavior:

Compulsive feeding

Aggression

Loss of identity

Facility compromised.

If exposure has occurred:

Leave immediately.

Do not remain in the greenhouse.

Leon watched you as you read through what he already knew.

He shouldn’t. Shouldn’t let himself be influenced like this by what had been created here. A twisted way to control human desire. To commercialize something as intimate as this connection, even further than it already was. It disgusted him.

And yet – there you were, bent forward, every curve of your agile body visible beneath the tight tactical clothing. What had once been a sweet distraction on the occasional mission now hit him like a truck.

The hard ache in his pants – the one he had been stubbornly ignoring ever since you’d shed those two layers – throbbed insistently at the sight of you.

The way you arched your perfect ass – he wanted nothing more than to grab you. Tear every piece of clothing from your sweat-slick skin. Twist your ponytail around his wrist and…

He dragged a hand over his face, just as damp, struggling for control of his thoughts. You were more than just a hot body. He knew that. Years of crossing paths had made that clear.

Understanding. Driven. Hardcore. In his darkest times, you had been that small light. That quiet motivation. Whenever he saw you and things were good, you noticed – and smiled. Whenever they weren’t, you tried to lift him up, steady and unwavering, guiding the mission to its end alongside him.

You had never truly gotten to know each other – why hadn’t you?

Because neither of you had ever made the first move?

He could fix that. Here. Now. But not like this. Not under the influence of something like this. You deserved more than that. So Leon clenched his teeth, jaw tight, forcing himself to look anywhere but at you.

“Holy shit,” you murmured once you had finally processed everything. You turned, your tingling body leaning back against the console for support. “So it is sex trafficking – but bio-style.”

Leon crossed his arms. A quiet laugh slipped past his lips, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor rather than you – because he knew exactly his eyes would land on your chest otherwise.

Now it was clear what was happening between you.

For you, it was attraction amplified.

For him… was it artificial?

You couldn’t quite tell, not with the way he avoided looking at you, his attention everywhere but where you stood. If anything, he seemed uncomfortable, not tempted.

It stung – your ego, your feelings – but you couldn’t blame him.

“We need to kill this plant and secure a sample,” you said instead, redirecting the focus back to the mission. “From what the report says, the effect isn’t permanent. If we get out of here quickly, fresh air and some time might be enough.”

“And if not,” Leon added professionally, “the sample will be used for an antidote.”

You nodded, pushing yourself off the console. Weapon raised, you moved toward the greenhouse entrance, Leon right behind you.

Had it not been built for such a vile purpose, the greenhouse would have been beautiful.

The air carried a distinct blend of roses and tropical notes – warm, fresh, and alluring. The colors were vibrant, the vegetation alive. If only it hadn’t grown out of control, and if the spores weren’t so dense, so clearly visible, drifting through the air. The concentration was too high. You’d inhale too much in no time.

You tried to keep your breathing shallow, but your focus slipped with every breath. Especially when Leon kept slipping into your peripheral vision. His arms – his damn arms again. His ash-blond hair framing that intensely focused expression. He stirred something primal in you, such overwhelming need, that before you could stop yourself, you took a deeper breath just to ease the heavy throbbing between your legs... 

...which didn’t help.

Instead, you cursed yourself for breathing in even more of the stuff. Your vision blurred. Every inch of your skin burned. Panting followed soon after. 

You felt as if even the slightest touch would push you over the edge of an orgasm. 

You had never experienced anything this intense before – no matter how young or experienced you had been. It consumed you more with every passing second, and you didn’t know what to do with it. For a moment, you almost understood the desperate moans of the Flombies.

Your thoughts drifted – unhelpfully – to your vibrator back home. A dearly missed little companion right now.

How Leon stayed so composed was beyond you.

Then again, you could hear his breathing too – heavy, controlled – while both of you stubbornly kept your eyes forward.

“Focus. Don’t breathe it in too deep,” he instructed, his dark voice like a glass of water after two days in the desert.

“I’m trying,” you panted quietly.

“We’re gonna be okay.”

“Your word in God’s ear.”

You moved forward, searching for the plant shown in the report, hoping you’d also find a way to destroy it along the way.

Gunshots echoed through the massive greenhouse whenever you took down a Flombie. There still weren’t many, and you wondered if most of the staff and captives had managed to escape.

You raised your weapon toward the next mutation, but Leon stopped you, arm outstretched.

“Wait.”

You lowered your gun immediately.

“What is it?” you asked, but the figure ahead had already turned to face you.

Flowers had begun to sprout from him too, but something was different.

He was looking at you.

Aware.

“Who are you?” he asked calmly, completely unbothered by his mutation.

“We are CIA and DSO, sir,” you replied – maybe you could still help him. “We heard about the incident here and came to evacuate you.”

“Ah,” the man in front of you said. Like so many before him, he wore a lab coat – though his wasn’t yet torn apart by rampant flora bursting from his body. He was clearly in an earlier stage of mutation. An unsettling grin spread across his half-mutated face as he adjusted the glasses on his long, hooked nose. “I’m afraid you are too late, Agents.”

Leon and you exchanged a brief look – skeptical, blood rushing, pulling yourselves together even as your control hung by a thread.

“How do we stop this?” you asked the scientist in front of you. “Who are you?”

To your surprise, he introduced himself immediately. Sometimes it really could be that simple.

“My name is Richard Greene.”

You recognized the name instantly – from the initials on the reports.

“You’re the lead researcher on the project,” you realized out loud.

“I see my reputation precedes me.” He sighed quietly. “You shouldn’t be here, agents.” His gaze flickered upward with a slight jerk of his head – his body no longer fully under his control – toward the plants. “Then again… neither should I.”

With a crooked smile, he turned back to you.

“As for ‘stopping’ it –” he reached into his lab coat and produced a vial filled with a green liquid, “ – this is the only way to destroy Plant E.”

You inhaled another batch of spores drifting through the air.

“Give it to us. You can still stop this. The facility is doomed. Give us the compound and no one else has to get hurt.”

With an unsettling chuckle, the scientist slipped the vial back into his coat.

“I never really meant to hurt people, you know.” He tucked his other hand into his pockets. “All I wanted was to create something… elegant. And I needed the funding.”

“Hence you partnered with the right shareholders,” Leon said.

He nodded. “Unfortunate that my plant proved so interesting to the sex industry –,” confirming your suspicion that this was about sex trafficking, “ – when all I wanted was to build a bridge… between instinct and influence.” His gaze settled on you, intense and obsessive. “Desire.”

You swallowed. The man unsettled you deeply – and yet your body felt drawn to him. To his words.

To that disturbing smile.

Leon stepped forward, placing himself between you and him.

That only made the smile widen.

“You see, agents –” Greene said, taking a step forward, “ – people think desire is complicated. Personal. Emotional.” He paused at Leon’s imposing stance. “It isn’t. It’s chemical. The same pathways. The same signals. I could have used the removal of that distinction in any kind of medicine. Instead… it became this.”

He gestured around him, into the air thick with particles drifting like heavy rain.

“It became more,” he said, almost reverent. “It consumes you… before you consume.”

His gaze locked onto you.

“You feel it too, don’t you?”

You flinched back – but forced yourself to hold your ground.

“Yes… you feel it.” His grin never faltered as he paced slowly. “It starts subtle. Heat. Breathing gets heavier. Restlessness. Noticing things more. Noticing him.”

He pointed at Leon.

“That’s enough,” Leon said, but Greene only laughed softly.

“Don’t pretend you’re above it. You feel it, too.” His voice dropped lower. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The desire.” His body twitched, new flowers bursting from him. “I only wanted people to be able to revel in it. You could, too. Revel in it. I can see you want to.”

He gestured shamelessly toward Leon’s crotch. Leon stood in front of you, but you could imagine exactly what was happening.

“Both your bodies have already decided.”

Leon tensed noticeably. Why he wasn’t shooting yet, you couldn’t quite tell. Then again – you weren’t either. It was as if Greene had you both under some kind of spell. You wanted to hear what he had to say.

“Understand this,” he continued, his gaze greedy as it lingered on you. “It’s not gentle. It doesn’t ask.” A hoarse, quiet laugh. “It insists.” One of his hands clutched the fabric over his chest. “It builds, layer by layer… until everything – thought, rationality, restraint…” His voice faltered. “…feels far away.” He inhaled the spores – his creation. “And then… you don’t want to stop.”

A sudden coughing fit shook the scientist, and he dropped to his knees. Your body jerked forward, insisting on helping him – but Leon still had enough control to hold you back.

You watched as the mutation overtook him, flowers bursting from his body, consuming him, until nothing remained of the man who had caused all of this.

The creature before you was larger than the others – massive, covered in vivid, dangerous colors.

“Now would be a great time for that flamethrower!” you shouted, as Leon and you opened fire into the mass of flowers, petals bursting into the air – but the mutant kept advancing, moaning obscenely, searching for flesh, no longer able to distinguish between hunger and desire.

“Get the vial!” Leon ordered, sharper than before. He pointed toward the steel walkway beside the creature – the pesticide had fallen from Greene’s coat during the mutation.

“Yes, sir!”

And for a moment, you were locked in as a team.

“Hey, Flowerboy!” Leon called out, drawing the mutant’s attention. “I might have the biggest hard-on of my life, but I can still take you down.”

“TMI, Agent Kennedy!” you shot back, ignoring your overheated body as you sprinted forward, slipping past the distracted creature, dodging a sweeping strike, sliding across the slick steel until you grabbed the vial.

“Now what?!” you called to Leon, who emptied his magazine into the flowers.

“Run to the control room! Sprinkler system – go!”

“Got it!”

You raced along the walkway, cutting down or dodging smaller plant-zombies along the way, until you made the loop and reached the control room entrance again – praying Leon would hold out long enough for you to find and activate the system.

You rushed inside, catching a glimpse through the glass of Leon dodging the mutant’s attacks – and hurried even faster.

“ShitShitShit,” you panted, fumbling with the very prominent input module until you finally got it open. A sudden realization hit you – something you had completely forgotten down here.

“Dave!” You switched on your intercom.

“Holy shit, girlie, there you are! Hunnigan and I already sent a unit your way since we hadn’t heard from you in so long. What’s your sitrep?”

“Can’t chat – giant bioweapon is chasing Leon! Help me with these controls. We need to activate the sprinkler system.”

Dave locked in immediately, his bright voice dropping into something lower, more serious. “Got it. Let me handle it. I’ll hack into this.”

“Thanks, you’re the best.”

With that, you hurried back toward the greenhouse to help Leon. The metal rang beneath your quick steps as you ran up behind the floral monstrosity.

“Hey!” You fired into the back of its blooming head. “Come and get me, horny.”

It turned toward you, a sound somewhere between a roar and a drawn-out moan echoing through the space. From behind the creature, you saw Leon moving along the side path – clearly heading your way.

Tense, you kept your pistol trained on where the researcher’s face had once been, now only recognizable by the gaping maw.

“Any second now, Dave…” you muttered.

You planted your feet, ready to fire again.

The monster lashed out.

Leon came to a stop beside you, his pistol raised right next to yours. Your eyes met –  determined, trusting.

Then the sprinklers activated across the massive greenhouse.

Thick, green droplets poured down from above, drenching everything beneath the dome. Almost instantly, the vibrant blossoms around you began to wither – and with them, the ones covering the mutant. Greene – or what remained of him – howled and groaned as he shrank, his once-colorful body turning gray, decaying.

He collapsed onto the slick metal floor and dissolved, just like the growth surrounding you. Not just that – the air cleared, the spores vanished. What had once been a vibrant greenhouse slowly died away – and with it, the twisted ambition of its creator.

Silence settled over you. Only the faint hum of the lights above remained.

For a moment, with adrenaline still rushing through your veins, you wondered whether the pesticide had flushed the spores out of your system as well.

One glance at the man beside you proved otherwise.

Leon was soaked. From head to toe. And damn – it only made him more attractive. Wet strands of hair clung to his face, green droplets trailing down his jaw, along his neck. The damp fabric of his dark shirt stuck to him – the outline of his abs so clearly visible it should’ve required a permit.

You looked away as your gaze caught the unmistakable bulge in his pants, heat rushing back into your body – fast, demanding – adding a new, burning slickness between your thighs to the dampness already clinging to your skin.

“Fucking hell. I want out of here,” you said.

Leon let out a low sound of agreement. “Got a sample.”

He held up a piece of vine that had somehow survived the downpour.

“Color me impressed.” He was such a trained agent, it was almost unreal. “They’ll be able to make an antidote out of that, right? Before we start growing flowers?”

“Yeah.” Leon put conviction into his voice, and for now, you chose to believe him. The alternative was too much. Maybe it hadn’t progressed that far yet – maybe time would clear the spores from your system.

Leon lifted his hand to his ear, calling in to whoever he was connected to at the DSO.

As you made your way toward the exit, you did the same with Dave.

“Are you okay?” Dave asked, concern threading his voice.

“I –” your gaze lingered on Leon for a moment, “ – I’m not sure. This was… too much. I wasn’t exactly looking for a bio-organic case.”

In short bursts, you filled Dave in on the most important details of the past hours.

“We need to make sure they didn’t ship either the compound or any infected overseas,” you concluded, trying with everything you had not to think about Leon – just the fresh air above. 

But your body still throbbed, every inch of it, your heart hammering in your throat, your core screaming that it had been far too long since you’d been properly fucked stupid.

“First we need to make sure you two don’t turn into flombies. Great wordplay, by the way – so funny. Maybe you and Agent Kennedy should try working some of that out with a little fun.”

“Dave!” you protested, scandalized – but your fried brain thought it was a fantastic idea.

Everything in you was screaming to pull Leon close and devour him...figuratively.

“I’m actually not kidding,” your handler’s voice came through again, more serious now. “You two obviously like each other. It’s not just the spores. And from the documents I pulled from their servers, it looks like the effects actually wear off over time.” He snorted. “Would be pretty stupid if they made a sex drug that keeps people permanently horny. No recurring revenue.”

“Wow, okay, Mister Capitalism.”

You rolled your eyes as Dave let out a dumb laugh. He didn’t seem worried about you. That was… something.

But he wasn’t in your skin.

Not in the fire that had been burning the entire time, that you’d been fighting from the very beginning. The thing distracting you, pushing you to the edge of losing your mind. How you’d managed to stay focused enough to take that monster down was beyond you.

You looked down at your hands, blood rushing hot through them, and you could’ve sworn you could actually see colors running through your veins.

By the time you finally made it up the long staircase and stepped out of the decoy container where it had all begun, you couldn’t take the tingling in your skin or the closeness to Leon anymore – you bolted forward.

Out of the hall. Into the open air of the harbor.

Right outside, you spotted Leon’s Porsche – the absurdly expensive model you’d heard about back at the office. The DSO veteran’s reputation obviously reached even the CIA floors.

It felt strangely familiar, despite never having seen it before, as you leaned against the cool chassis, focusing on your breathing.

Eight seconds in. Deep into your lungs. Ten seconds out.

Hoping it might flush at least some of the spores out.

The cool sea air hit your damp skin, but it didn’t cool you down. Of course, why would fresh air alone fix this? Instead, you found yourself thinking about how good it felt to be pressed up against the Porsche… and immediately your thoughts spiraled into how good it would be to use it.

The last bit of reason in you tried to summon shame, but only barely.

It didn’t help. You were still hopelessly hot for Kennedy.

Said Kennedy stepped out behind you, his stride steady, purposeful, directed right at you. He masked it so damn well.

Still panting, you watched him approach – the sway of his hips, the bulge in his pants, the way his large, strong hands checked the magazine of his gun before his gaze lifted to meet yours.

Those pale blue eyes drilling into yours, something burning behind them.

“Deep breaths,” he murmured, coming to stand beside you, leaning against the car as well, his body angled toward yours. One hand hovered slightly, like he wanted to touch you.

God. He couldn’t touch you.

“Is this how I go out?” you asked, breath uneven from his presence alone. “Horny?”

Leon’s eyes widened for the briefest moment before a low, hoarse laugh rumbled from his chest. “You’ll be fine.”

Everything had been said. Everything had been done.

The air here at the harbor should’ve been fresh – but it wasn’t. It was thick. Heavy. Charged. Silence settled between you, and this time, neither of you tried to break it. You just looked at each other.

His eyes lowered to yours – so soft, so sensual, so irresistible. 

Everything that had happened down there – those moments, heightened and distorted – stormed through your mind. The looks. His hand. His voice. That delicious pull in your stomach. The throbbing between your legs.

Instinct.

Desire.

Urgency.

No rationality.

You don’t want to stop.

“You wanna have dinner sometime?” “Wanna give me your number?”

Your voices overlapped, the words slipping out impulsively.

You both froze.

Leon laughed again – freer this time, brighter, like something chained-up inside him had finally snapped loose. There was unmistakable affection in his eyes as he lifted a hand and brushed a drying strand of hair from your face.

The touch sent a shock through your body. You barely held back a whimper, forced into a sharp inhale instead as heat swept through you violently .

“Or maybe –” you swallowed, “ – maybe we just skip the first few dates?”

You looked up at him, fully aware of how needy you sounded. Because you were.

For a moment that stretched endlessly, his gaze sank deeper into yours, like he was searching for the answer there instead of within himself.

Then, finally, a quiet, open grin.

“Yeah… yeah, let’s skip ’em.”

You let out the breath you’d been holding in a relieved laugh, only for your body to move on its own, pressing into his broad frame, into his smile.

Your lips collided.

Your body ignited – wild, consuming fire. No putting it out without him.

He felt exactly as good as you’d imagined. Solid. Strong. The perfect anchor to lose yourself against. The scent of his sweat – clean, sharp – clouded your senses, somehow making everything even hotter.

His arms wrapped around you, massive and firm – one around your waist, pulling you tight against him, the other along your back, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, holding you in place as he kissed you deeply.

You had expected urgency – wild, frantic desire.

But Leon had other plans.

Having you wasn’t meant to be rushed. It was meant to be savored. To feel your lips. Taste the salt on your skin. Discover every inch of you.

Leon’s version of urgency had never been about speed – it was about stretching the moment for as long as possible. 

And he would stretch this one into infinity if he could.

A fleeting thought crossed his mind – he should’ve asked you sooner. Could’ve had this sooner. Your lips, your body. That it had taken a genetically altered plant to break through your professional restraints might be the greatest irony of his life.

But now that he had you – he wasn’t letting go. And he’d prove to you that whatever was happening between you… it wasn’t because of the spores. They had only helped along what had been there all along.

His weight pressed you back against the Porsche, larger body enclosing yours, every bit of friction almost too much. His damp hair felt incredible between your fingers as you threaded your hand through it, gripping, tugging slightly – partly for balance, partly to tease him.

The low growl you got in return vibrated against your lips, never giving you space to breathe. Hot breaths tangled together. Open, wet kisses. Tongues brushing. Lips everywhere.

You couldn’t hold back the whimper when Leon slid a solid-trained thigh between your legs, pressing oh-so-gently against your core.

“Careful –” you gasped against his lips, “– I’m so sensitive you can’t even imagine.”

Leon’s breath came heavy, his face so close you could barely make out more than the lines around his eyes.

“Oh, I can,” he murmured. “Believe me. And I can imagine how badly you need to get off.”

The words shot straight through you, settling deep in your stomach. Your fingers tightened in his hair before you pulled him back into another kiss.

One arm still wrapped around you, Leon reached back with practiced ease, grabbing the rear door handle of his Porsche.He guided you away from the car’s exterior, opening the door, keeping your buckling body upright as he positioned you in front of the back seat.

“Get in,” he instructed – soft, but firm.

His hands came up to cup your face, thumbs brushing slow, soothing paths along your jaw, blue eyes locked onto yours – demanding, expectant, devoted.

You let yourself sink down onto the soft leather seat, his hands lingering on your face until he had to let go to climb in after you, closing the door behind him.

Suddenly, in the confined space, you were too close. He towered over you, just on the edge of pressing you fully beneath him. Anywhere – here, especially here – you needed him. His touch. 

If he didn’t touch you, you might actually lose it.

Luckily, Leon seemed to be thinking the same thing. He wasted no time, fingers finding the zipper of your tactical shirt, pulling it down – but slowly. So slowly. Indulgently. How was he still holding it together?

“Please, please – ” you breathed. “I need you to touch me.”

“I know, beautiful,” he husked. “I’ll take care of you. Promise.”

The slow rasp of the zipper mingled with your heavy breathing as more of your skin was revealed, your anticipation building with every inch, while he took his time taking you in.

That body of yours – fit, strong, always hidden beneath tactical gear, blazers, shirts. All those unnecessary barriers between him and you. 

Something dark flickered in his gaze as he finally exposed your skin. The same desire that burned in yours.

“You are exactly as beautiful as I always imagined,” he murmured, low and heated.

You were a vision. Lean, defined, perfect curves, and so soft beneath his fingers when he finally touched you, his cock throbbing urgently in his pants.

A shiver rolled through your body as his fingers traced upward from your stomach – the wrong direction. Your hips lifted instinctively toward him, betraying exactly what you needed.

“Impatient…” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Touch me where it matters, Leon…” Your half-lidded eyes met his, pleading.

He answered with a tired, almost dazed smile, too captivated by the feel of your skin. If only you knew how much time he wanted to take with you.

His long fingers traced along the outline of your lace-trimmed bra, slipping just barely beneath the fabric, grazing your nipple.

Your body arched, a soft, broken sigh spilling from your kiss-swollen lips.

“So worked up from this alone?” he asked, something like reverence in his eyes.

He could hardly believe what the plant had done to you – because he was just as affected. Your body, your sounds, he could come from that alone, without you even touching him.

“T-Told you –” your voice shook, “– I’m sensitive as hell. Please… take the edge off.”

For a second, you almost offered to do it yourself, but you liked his teasing too much.

His touch.

You needed more.

More of him.

Leon seemed to be enjoying your reactions far too much. A self-satisfied grin crept onto his features as his finger kept brushing over your hardened nipple – far too soft, far too little – pulling an equally unsatisfied huff from you.

“Let me just… for a second,” he rasped low, dipping down toward you, his steely body pressing closer against yours.

A peck to your lips – so brief you almost pulled him back in – your chin, then lower, to your neck.

Your soft skin melted perfectly beneath his lips, tasted sinful as he dared a small nip – quickly followed by a soothing lick when you responded with an enticing sigh to his machinations.

An even louder sigh escaped you when large hands grasped your breasts, kneading them, stroking the skin your bra didn’t cover – this irritating piece of clothing.

Leon had let himself be carried away by your body, the way it arched toward him, searching for his touch, for his lips – just as he had been searching for you for so long.

He scattered heated kisses across your equally heated skin, lower and lower, over your collarbone – your breasts a perfect handful, at least until his hands were replaced by his mouth.

He hooked his fingers beneath the fabric of your bra, pushed it aside, exposing your flushed skin to the open air. The way your chest pressed toward him with every heavy breath nearly put Leon into a trance – but the pull in his body was stronger, the tension greater, the need to taste you, to hear you, overwhelming.

“Oh my god…,” you sighed as the tip of his tongue flicked playfully over your nipple.

You could only let him – far too desperate to form any kind of demand, your body a throbbing mess, the pull between your legs so intense it felt unreal. 

Your lower lip caught between your teeth as Leon worked on you – one, two, three more kitten licks against your nipple, savoring the way your back arched into him.

“More –,” was all you managed, earning a low, wanting grunt from him before his lips closed around your nipple, sucking gently. The other side was freed as well, your second nipple teased by deft fingers.

It was easily too much.

If he kept going, you would come.

Not like this.

“Leon…,” you breathed, fingers gliding through his hair, nudging him down – unable to help yourself.

He stilled, looking up at you through hazy eyes, licking over his lips before nodding.

“I know. I know. You just taste so damn good,” he rasped, but he didn’t make you ask again. Not when you looked at him like that – completely desperate.

His attention shifted to your pants. Quick fingers undid your belt and button. You helped him push the tight fabric down over your hips and legs. Your panties went with them. Shoes, stockings, pants, panties – all pooled into the footwell – and finally, your lower half was free.

A small blessing, really, that you’d been soaked by the sprinkler system earlier. It made it impossible to tell how much of the warmth between your legs was your own and how much belonged to the pesticide.

But one thing was certain – you had never been this wet in your life.

Leon straightened.

The sight of you – spread across the backseat, eyelids heavy, breath uneven, clothes barely clinging to your body, exposed – stirred something wild in him. Something between possession, reverence, and the faintest edge of something softer.

“You are perfect.”

The words slipped from his lips, smooth and low, while his cock throbbed for you – and he followed its demand.

Calloused fingers traced over your bare skin, down into the bend of your knee, lifting your leg with gentle pressure. You followed instantly, the sight of Leon above you – hungry, reverent – more intoxicating than anything you’d ever known.

Your ankle came to rest on his shoulder, kissed by his soft lips, his eyes never leaving yours.

He moved lower, leaving no inch of your skin untouched. The closer he got to where your core called for him, the more he wedged his broad shoulders between your legs, adjusting your position until you were half suspended across the seats – just to give himself enough room to lift your other leg onto his shoulder and grip your thighs.

Searching for something to hold onto, your fingers dug into the seat beneath you, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt his hot breath exactly where you needed him. 

Time seemed to stretch endlessly as Leon simply took you in – memorizing every inch of skin, committing it to memory for darker days.

He licked his lips, knowing he wanted to devour you. Here, he would give you exactly what you needed.

A surprised squeak slipped from you when he pressed a kiss directly to your clit without warning – only to part his lips over your cunt a second later and send you straight to heaven.

Everything that had been indulgent before became consuming now – as if he took the phrase eating out very literally. His tongue spread wide over your most sensitive spots, dragging slow, deliberate strokes, dipping into you, drinking in your juices. 

It was like he was in a wild make-out session with your pussy.

“Fuck–fuck–fuck,” you gasped, high-pitched, your body trying to arch – but he had you in an iron hold.

You pushed yourself up as far as you could, finding leverage against the headrest, driven by the overwhelming need to see him.

Your eyes met.

He looked up at you, studying your pleasure-dazed gaze, your parted lips, the way your face twisted under the weight of sensation – enough to drive him further.

A whimper tore from you as he shifted his focus to your clit, his tongue first teasing with its tip before pressing flat against it, dragging the throbbing bud back and forth like he’d done this a thousand times – like he knew exactly how to make you see stars.

“When we do this again, you have to sit on my face,” Leon rasped breathlessly during a brief pause for air, before diving right back in.

The image – him beneath you, face buried between your thighs, completely at your mercy – sent a jolt through your entire body.

So much so that your hand returned to his hair, gripping, your hips grinding against him, spreading your wetness further over his chin, his lips, his nose.

He groaned appreciatively against you, the vibration traveling straight into your clit.

The friction lined up perfectly, and something unfamiliar began to build inside you. Between the slick sounds of his tongue against your soaked core and your broken, breathy moans, a sensation surged through you, more than just an orgasm.

You exhaled sharply. “Fuck–oh my god I’m gonna come–”

You barely registered the low groan against you before your body was overtaken by a wave – higher, deeper, more consuming than anything you had ever felt before. It crashed through you, the delicious pull from your stomach down between your legs stretching on and on, a loud moan spilling from your lips as your orgasm hit with such force it made you dizzy. 

Leon’s grip on your thighs tightened, almost bruising, holding you in place as your body threatened to jerk out of his reach. 

Wet sounds filled the interior of the Porsche, mingling with your high, continuous cries as you squirted over his entire face. Never before had your body done that – and it felt so good you never wanted it to end.

Your fingers tangled in his hair weren’t necessary – Leon stayed right where he was, more than willing, drinking you in, pushing you further, chasing more from you.

It was heaven.

Normally, he wasn’t the type to think about dying – but if he did now, he’d be content with it, right here, between your thighs.

“Stop–stop,” you panted, the pleasure too much, overwhelming – yet your hips still ground against his mouth, searching for the friction of his stubble, for more of him, more of that feeling. “Oh my god–more–,” you whimpered right after.

And Leon chose to listen to that second plea.

His tongue swept over your clit again, gentler this time, easing you down from the edge. Your breathing softened slightly as he continued to kiss and soothe you, his hands no longer gripping tight but resting against your flesh, stroking in slow, reassuring motions.

He suckled and teased, eyes flicking between watching you and closing in quiet indulgence – until, almost unnaturally fast, the pleasure built again. 

You couldn’t hold yourself up anymore, your body sinking back into the seat, fingers slipping from his hair, eyes falling shut as your hips began to move against him once more. He read you effortlessly, picking up the pace again – his tongue firmer now, flicking over your clit, feeling it throb beneath him. 

All the while, his mind had already moved ahead, imagining how he’d fuck you senseless once you’d had your fill. God, he’d take you apart so thoroughly you wouldn’t be able to walk for a while.

His cock twitched in his pants, painfully hard…but just once more.

Just one more time having your pleasure soaking his face.

That wish was granted quickly.

You squirmed against him, your sounds growing louder. Your body tensed again, urging you to hold onto anything you could, driving you higher and higher.

“’m coming–holy shit, yesyesyes–” the words tumbled from your lips before you were overtaken once more, wild electricity surging through you, making you shudder as you came over Leon’s face again – this time pushing him away, overstimulated.

He resisted playfully, pressing the gentlest of kisses to your clit before finally pulling back and sitting up.

You almost didn’t dare look – but curiosity got the better of you.

Even after coming twice in such a short span, your stomach tightened pleasantly at the sight of him, desire flaring right back to life.

One hand braced against the seat beside him, the other wiped at the mess you’d left clinging to his stubble. Even then, the dampness still shimmered – and somehow, it only made you more feral.

Your breath hitched as his fingers found your skin again – and you realized everything beneath you was soaked. Not just damp from arousal, but completely, undeniably wet.

“Jesus,” you murmured, your senses slowly returning after the intensity of your orgasms. “I’m sorry about the upholstery. This never happened to me before.”

As you spoke, you let Leon guide you – he motioned for you to sit up, dropping back against the seat with a strained grunt before pulling you onto his lap. Now straddling him, your legs wide, your gazes met again – faces close, his carrying a soft, affectionate smile that nudged you to mirror it as your hands rose to his damp stubble.

“I’ll pay for the cleaning,” you whispered against his inviting lips.

He exhaled, taking your hand, looking deep into your eyes – wild, burning desire blazing in his own.

“Are you kidding me?” he asked, voice rough with need. “You’re so hot I almost want to keep it that way.” A smirk tugged at his lips. “Just to remind me how you came undone like that. You really never did that before?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you shook your head.

“Gotta be the plant…” you muttered, prompting Leon to waste no time, pulling you into a kiss, your tongues meeting instantly, letting you taste yourself on him.

“Well,” he murmured back, “I intend to get you off like that without the plant. Now we know you can.”

The thought sent warmth spreading through your entire body.

Time to return the favor.

“Let’s take care of you first,” you whispered seductively, already working at his belt.

“Oh, yes please,” he purred, letting you take over as his cock finally got the attention it had been demanding for far too long.

He held you steady as he nibbled at the soft skin of your neck while you opened his pants, pulling his boxers down along with them. Leon lifted his hips to help, and a satisfied groan vibrated against your neck as his length sprang free, finally able to fully harden.

Distracted by his mouth on your skin – by the way he brushed your hair aside, tilting your head for better access, his hot breath against you – you only managed to push his pants down far enough before your hips instinctively rolled forward, pressing against the hardness of his erection.

A hot exhale spilled into your ear at the contact, matched by your own soft sigh.

He was so hard. So big. So wet – slick with precum in a way you’d rarely, if ever, experienced before.

You had to see him.

And you weren’t disappointed.

His cock was beautiful – perfectly straight, flushed at the tip, a thick, full head glistening, precum gathering and spilling freely.

“Mhm, you’re a big guy,” you teased, grinding against him with your own slickness – only to be quickly humbled by a love bite at your earlobe and his hands gripping your ass, lifting you slightly.

“That big guy needs you biblically,” he growled hotly into your ear. “Need to fill that pretty pussy up. That alright with you?”

Guided by him, you aligned yourself with him – his tip catching at your entrance, your slickness letting him slide into you with ease.

“Yes,” you answered without hesitation, your nerves lit up by his words, your desire surging again – that instinctive pull to be taken, to belong to him in this moment. “Fuck me like there’s no tomorrow.”

His hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back so your eyes met.

And now – there was more than lust in his expression.

Need. Raw, endless need. And something almost desperate beneath it.

His brows knit together in concentration, his gaze searching for you – only you.

“Fuck –”

Leon’s jaw tightened as realization hit him.

He was already too far gone.

There would be no slow, drawn-out session like he had imagined.

You were too sensual. Too beautiful. Too you.

Just as you lowered yourself another inch onto his cock, his nerve endings detonated into something uncontrollable. He felt it surge through his body, there was no stopping it.

“Fuck!”

His hands clamped around your hips as he slammed you down, his own jerking upward, both of you so slick that you slid together without the slightest resistance.

You gasped sharply at the sudden fullness, the stretch – small, but enough for your cunt to adjust to his size. The sound you made was the cherry on top, sending a powerful pull through his balls and his cock, wrapped so perfectly by you that Leon’s vision blurred. He came – hard and mercilessly – with a force he hadn’t known he still possessed. He could feel it, wave after wave, hot ropes spilling into you, so much that his entire body trembled. His mouth fell open in search of air, a deep groan rolling through his chest like distant thunder. His eyes fluttered shut, his head falling back against the seat as he pressed shallow thrusts into your warmth – nothing like he had planned, but desperately needed.

He breathed heavily once it was over, his gaze briefly fixed on the ceiling of the Porsche, your hot, sweat-slick skin still beneath his fingers. His lips pressed together before he lifted his head again.

You blinked at him, surprised – no wonder. Leon could see the flicker of disappointment in your eyes before you masked it behind a practiced composure.

“Well, that was –” he swallowed, fingers brushing over your skin, “ – embarrassing.”

“Ah, well,” you said, making an effort to sound understanding. “We both were pent up. It’s okay.”

Leon grunted in response. That wouldn’t be the last time – he had to prove to you he could do a hell of a lot more than that.

“Is it… over?” you asked carefully, studying your own body’s reactions – his, too.

He let out a half-thoughtful, half-amused sound as he realized, “Still hard.” And as much as he hated to admit it, that was exactly the boost he needed. 

This was far from over.

To test his claim, you rolled your hips against him – and sure enough, he was still rock hard, brushing against your walls. It made you realize the effects were still raging inside you too, every movement, every glide hit something perfect. Everything in you was completely receptive to stimulation.

An excited tingle shot through your body at the realization. Restraint was gone. Reason, thrown overboard.

“We should call the others and talk about an antidote,” you said anyway – already lazily bouncing on that perfect length inside you. “Or –” you sighed softly, and the fire flared back in his eyes, “ – we wait at my place for them. You know… with the effect wearing off over time.”

You both knew exactly what the responsible choice would be.

But maybe – for once – it wasn’t the time for responsibility.

“That’s one dangerous proposition,” Leon murmured with a low grin. “I think we should…”

Your naked bodies collapsed onto the soft, springy mattress of your bed, clothes discarded along the way from your apartment door to the bedroom in a trail of frantic kisses and uncoordinated make-out sessions against every available surface.

A startled hiss, a thud, and the frantic patter of paws broke through the moment.

“Sorry, Luna,” Leon joked. “I think she doesn’t actually love me like you said.”

You let out a hoarse giggle that melted into a content sigh as Leon was already back to exploring your skin, scattering kisses across it.

“You can give her treats later. No problem.”

God, he felt perfect. His skin so firm, his body so big above yours – comforting in a way, but also so, so enticing to hold onto. Beneath your fingers, you traced the subtle ridges of scars, ones not unlike your own. It only made him more attractive, knowing he understood what they meant.

“Gonna give you your treat first, gorgeous,” he rasped into your ear.

He settled over you, your soft body fitting against his so well it almost surprised him. Almost as much as the fact that you’d made it here without a speeding ticket.

Your breath hitched as he wasted no time, reaching between you to guide himself into place – your shared arousal still pulsing, between you, within you, around you, unyielding and insistent.

“Ye –”

The word broke into a satisfied, instinctive sound as Leon pushed forward, burying himself inside you. He let out a low grunt, taking a moment to savor your silky walls, his face buried in the crook of your neck. Then he reached back, gripping the flesh of your thigh and thrust.

“Ohmygod,” the words rushed out of you as each of his movements electrified your body, every stroke pulling you closer to your next orgasm. Everything felt so sensitive – any thought beyond how good he was fucking you vanished completely from your mind.

The air in your bedroom turned thick, heavy with sex, the slick sounds of hard, deep, perfectly angled thrusts and the sharp snap of Leon’s hips against yours filling it, paired with your breathless sighs and moans of bliss and his low growls as he finally took you the way you deserved.

“You have no idea how often I thought of this.” Leon was dragged into a maelstrom of sensation, everything heightened – his cock felt so good inside you he could see stars, maybe even the stairway to heaven.

“Is this the spores talking?” you asked, vulnerable and curious all at once.

He answered with a hoarse laugh, meeting your eyes, slowing into shallower movements for just a moment.

“No. No, you’re too beautiful to ignore.” His lips claimed yours, demanding, showing you just how much he wanted you. “Mhm,” he murmured against you. “So fuckable.”

Okay – maybe that part was the spores talking. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t be this blunt on a first date, or this possessive in the way he took you. He’d imagined something very different for your first times all these years… but he wasn’t complaining now.

The next hours – days? – blurred together into tangled, sweaty bodies, lips exploring, fingers teasing, hands grasping, deep looks, voices growing hoarse, minds clouded, and perfect orgasms – again and again, in every position you could think of.

Missionary. He kept up slow, exploratory thrusts, learning your body while holding your gaze, reverence written in his, receptiveness in yours. He felt bold enough to let one big hand rest against your throat – not to hurt, just to hold you there, to make it more intense, so much more intense.

To his relief – and delight – you answered with an eager little mewl, prompting him to tighten his grip just slightly, his cock twitching at your responsiveness, your blind trust.

“That’s it, baby,” he praised, thrusting a little harder, watching your reaction. “You’re amazing.”

His lips claimed yours possessively, stealing even more of your breath – and with it, more of your mind.

Cowgirl. It didn’t take long before he pulled you down from your bouncing rhythm just to drive up into you himself, your pelvis pressed flush against his with one strong arm at your back – angling you just right so your clit dragged against the fine hairs of his happy trail, building you toward another deep, perfect orgasm.

Against your ear, his voice dropped, dark and sultry: “Taking me so good. What a good fucking girl.”

You moaned in response. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, beautiful.”

Doggystyle. Where Leon could finally give in to that daydream from the lab – gathering your hair, twisting it around his wrist, using it for leverage as he drove into you relentlessly. With every passing minute, he got more lost in you, his mind clouded with lust, barely holding onto control – as you took control over him in the best possible way.

Your slick walls fluttered around him as you came again, your body trembling, the faint sting at your scalp only making it better.

Leon never truly hurt you – only amplified what you responded to, what you welcomed. A perfect gentleman, in every way that mattered.

You wished you could see him like this – you could only hear his strained groans, imagine the way his strong arms flexed as he let your hair slip from his grip to take hold of your hips instead, pulling you back against each punishing thrust. The way his face must tighten with each series of grunts, in sync with the sharp snap of his hips – until it all broke with a groan and another orgasm.

“Wanna sit on my face?” he asked, his eyes hopeful, the question more of a command than anything else.

He sank back against your soft pillows, the scent of your home wrapping around him, more comforting than his own. For a fleeting second, the thought of simply staying here crossed his worn mind, before his focus snapped back to you as you positioned yourself over him.

He almost panted as your cunt – coated with both your arousal – lowered toward him, and then he dove in.

It was everything he’d imagined – and more.

You took the moment to rest your damp forehead against your arm braced against the headrest, looking down at him through heavy breaths.

The way his nose pressed against your mound, just above your clit, while his lips closed around you, sucking softly, his tongue circling – his eyes never leaving yours, burning into them.

It was so hot, you were already spiraling toward yet another orgasm.

Slowly, you rocked against his face, spreading slick warmth across his mouth and chin, soft moans slipping from your lips.

Leon steadied you, bringing you to a halt, just to breathe, just to worship you.

“You’re perfect,” he panted, and you weren’t sure if he meant you or your cunt. “Perfect pussy as well. Wanna come from my tongue again?”

“Mhm,” was all you managed, an eager sigh slipping from you, barely capable of forming words anymore.

Leon licked lazily over your clit, looking up at you with lidded, yet playfully sparkling eyes.

“What was that?” he teased, letting his tongue flick over you again, making your thighs tremble with need.

“Please, Leon, pleasepleaseplease,” you managed, the words blending together, language itself slipping from your grasp.

“Use your words, sweetheart,” he went on, though he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep this game up much longer himself. His cock was already demanding you again, hard and upright like he was a teenager all over.

You huffed in mild frustration, gathering what little strength you had left. “Make me come…”

And come he made you.

Spooning. By the time you ended up like this, your body had gone limp, taking whatever Leon gave you – a babbling mess of moans, orgasms, more moans, overstimulated but utterly unwilling to stop.

He held your leg up, giving himself the access he needed to bury himself inside you, his body moving on pure instinct now, driven by something so primal he couldn’t think – couldn’t do anything but take you. Completely pussy-drunk, he groaned against your shoulder uninhibited – deep, loud rumbles – each thrust just a little too much, his cock raw, oversensitive, yet it felt so damn good.

And you took it. Took everything he gave.

The bed was soaked – sweat, cum, more cum – your bodies tangled together in a mess of heat and devotion. With every thrust of his aching hardness into you, he pushed his spill in and out, a white ring around his base bearing witness to how completely you’d given yourselves to each other.

“Fuck.” Leon licked over his dry lips, looking down at you as your body trembled and whimpered beneath him.

“Baby, we need to stop and ping the agencies about that antidote,” one single, clear thought broke through – only to be swallowed again as your velvety walls pulled him back in, replacing words with another downright desperate, needy groan.

You didn’t have nearly as much control as he did. Your hand clamped down on the arm beneath your head, pulling yourself closer against him. 

“Pleaseplease, just one more, just one more,” you babbled, chasing that next climax, that perfect feeling only he could give you.

Leon’s synapses fired wildly at your need, driving him to act. To give you exactly what you wanted.

“Can’t resist you.” He let your leg fall, his hand slipping between you. “Never can again.”

Rough fingertips found your clit, rubbing in perfectly timed circles with his thrusts. You whimpered, moaned, squirmed. Almost… almost…

Somewhere deep inside you, something shifted – your tightly shut eyes snapped open.

“Leon…”

For a few seconds, your voice was calm, clear despite his movements. Your hand left its grip and reached back instead, finding his stubbled jaw, gentle, searching.

“I know, beautiful. I know,” he answered just as softly. “Kiss me.”

Your lips met in a devoted kiss that broke the final dam. Your moan into his mouth no longer carried the same overwhelming edge of climax – instead, Leon grounded you, guiding you through it, holding you close, moving carefully, keeping you afloat on the wave for as long as you needed before easing you back down when you were ready.

And suddenly – the tension broke.

The heat ebbed.

Everything… softened.

Silence settled between you, broken only by your breathless panting after the marathon you’d just run.

Blue eyes found yours – relief in them, and something softer, something tender. His arms wrapped around you, pulling your sweat-slick body against his, his heart pounding so hard you could feel it against your back.

You both needed a moment to realize it – just lying there, trying to steady your breathing, clinging to each other for grounding, for understanding.

“Is it… over?” you asked hoarsely.

Your throat was dry. You were so thirsty.

“Seems so…” Leon replied, thoughtful.

You both waited, half-expecting another wave of desire to crash over you.

But it didn’t.

At the same time, you both let out a heavy breath.

“You okay?” he asked after another quiet moment – the kind of quiet that suddenly felt… good.

You turned toward him on the soaked bed, his cock slipping from you, finally softening.

The longer the effects stayed gone, the more you became aware of what your bodies had actually been through – thirst, hunger, aches, exhaustion creeping in all at once.

“I’m okay,” you said quietly. “You?”

A satisfied smile tugged at his lips as he answered:

“Feel like a million bucks.” His arm reached out for you, tracing your contours – and thankfully, it didn’t spark those overwhelming, all-consuming sensations anymore. Just a quiet sense of contentment. “Come here, you.”

The tender words nudged you into his arms, and you settled against his damp but slowly drying skin. His heartbeat, too, was finding its way back to a steady, calm rhythm.

A soft kiss landed on your head as you both took in the closeness, the quiet.

“We should take a shower,” he murmured tiredly, fingers brushing gently over your shoulder.

“I need to feed the cat,” you replied, amused.

He smirked. “Maybe call our colleagues.”

“And replace my mattress.”

You both laughed, light and easy.

“If people ask how we got together, we’ll just tell them we like the same mattress firmness,” Leon joked. “Yours is really comfortable. We’ll get a new one – I could sleep here just fine.”

Your body tensed slightly at his words. A glance into his eyes revealed nothing but pure sincerity.

“What?” he asked with a smile. “Did you really think that was just the spores?”

Before you could answer, he kissed you – deep and deliberate, showing you that what had happened between you wasn’t just a side effect.

“I mean…” you started, but he cut you off.

“Had a thing for you forever,” he admitted.

“Oh really?” you asked, delighted, hiding it behind a playful tone.

Leon chuckled softly. “Yeah. Didn’t think it would turn out like this, but… if you’re up for it, I can take you on a proper first date.”

You didn’t need a second to think about it. “I’d love to.” A little shy – completely unnecessary after everything you’d just shared – you added, “Had a thing for you forever too.”

A satisfied rumble vibrated through his chest. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as he kissed you again – familiar, like you’d been this way for years, like you always would be.

A loud pounding at the door tore through the serene atmosphere like a thunderclap.

“Open up! It’s Dave!” his voice carried all the way from the front door into your bedroom. A second later, the doorbell rang insistently. “We tracked your location. Got the antidote. Hey! Are you two flombies already?!”

There was rattling from down the hall.

“Guess honeymoon’s over,” Leon noted, as you both scrambled out of bed, throwing open a window for fresh air and pulling your disgusting tactical clothes back over your equally disgusting, but very satisfied bodies.

It’s everything else.

From the way your shoulders tense every time someone looks your way during a conversation. How your fingers curl into your sleeves like you’re bracing for impact. To the way your voice starts out steady, only to thin out and trail off the longer you speak, like the words are quietly abandoning you mid-sentence.

It’s subtle.

Easy to miss.

But not for him, no, no.

He doesn’t point it out.

Of course he doesn’t—this is Leon we’re talking about. Subtlety isn’t always his strong suit, but somehow, with you, he manages.

He just… adjusts himself around you, like it's second nature.

His voice softens when he talks to you—not by much, just enough that you notice the difference. He gives you space when you need it, but never enough that you feel like you’ve been left behind.

When conversations start moving too fast, he slows them down in ways that don’t draw attention—redirecting things just enough to give you an opening.

And when you take it, when you manage to get your words out, he listens.

You were pleasantly surprised with how well he listens at times.

“Hey,” he says one afternoon, leaning against your desk like he’s been there the whole time. His voice is quieter than usual, meant only for you. “You did good in that briefing.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the welcomed intrusion. “I—I didn’t really…”

“Yeah, you did.” There’s a small smile tugging at his lips. “You caught something the rest of us missed.”

You stare at him for a second. Hesitant, briefly wondering if this is a trap.

It’s not. It’s Leon. He doesn’t do traps. He falls into them.

“T-thank you,” you manage, softer than you meant.

He gives a small nod, like that settles it.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he adds, pushing off your desk. “You’re better than you think.”

And then he’s gone, like he didn’t just say something that sticks with you longer than it should.

You hate how easy he makes it sound.

After that, it turns into something unspoken.

A routine.

He doesn’t hover—he’s too careful for that—but he’s always within reach. Close enough that you don’t have to look for him, but not so close that it feels obvious.

During briefings, he somehow ends up within your line of sight every time. When conversations get crowded, his voice naturally cuts in—not overpowering, just enough to keep things from overwhelming you.

It’s subtle.

You pretend not to notice…but you do.

Sometimes, when things get a little too loud, he’ll slide a cup of your favorite drink toward you like he just happened to grab an extra.

You’ve tested this.

He did not grab an extra.

You don’t call him out on it.

Mostly because you like it.

And slowly—so slowly it almost feels accidental—you stop tripping over every word when you’re around him.

Sentences come out easier. Thoughts don’t feel as fragile.

You laugh once—really laugh—before you can stop yourself, immediately covering your face out of pure instinct.

Your cheeks blooming a shade of pink.

Leon pauses mid-sentence.

The look on his face is almost startled, like he didn’t realize how much he wanted to hear that.

“See?” he murmurs, quieter now. “Knew you had it in you.”

You lower your hands just enough to glare at him.

“I always had it in me,” you mumble.

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, yeah.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

He doesn’t even try to hide the hint of amusement.

Then…the new guy shows up. The fire nation to your peaceful little bubble.

He was a transfer.

Confident in a way that feels loud even when he’s not talking, like he’s constantly taking up more space than necessary.

At first, you try to be polite.

But he stands too close. Talks too fast. Doesn’t give you time to catch up, let alone respond. He doesn’t notice how your answers get shorter, thinner, or how your hands start to shake the longer that he stays in your space.

“C’mon, you don’t have to be so quiet all the time,” he says one day, leaning over your desk, some of your things being pushed aside—like the space belongs to him. “We’re teammates, right? You can loosen up a bit.”

“I—I’m—” Your throat tightens, the words catching before they can form properly. “I just—”

He laughs.

Like it’s nothing.

Like you’re overreacting.

“Relax, I’m just talking to you.”

You consider, briefly, passing away on the spot. Maybe even digging your own grave while you're at it. At this point it feels like a viable option.

The space feels too small. Too loud. Too much.

Your chest tightens, breath catching somewhere it shouldn’t—

“Hey.”

Leon’s voice cuts in, calm but firm, with just enough weight behind it to make the room pay attention.

The new guy straightens slightly. “What?”

Leon steps in beside you, close enough that the shift in space is immediate.

“Give her some room,” he says, tone easy—but not optional.

“I was just—”

“I know.” Leon cuts him off, not sharp, but firm enough to stop him anyway. His gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re crowding her.”

There’s a brief stretch of silence.

The kind where you can hear your own pulse, feel your fingers tightening against the desk. But then Leon shifts slightly, his arm brushing yours.

The action was barely noticable.

But it steadies you.

You resist the urge to grab onto his sleeve like a lifeline.

You have some dignity.

The new guy scoffs, mutters something under his breath, and eventually backs off.

And just like that…you can breathe again. All thanks to the action hero extravaganza that is Leon S. Kennedy.

Leon glances down at you after a moment.

“You good?” he asks, voice lower now.

You nod too quickly, then stop, forcing yourself to take a breath before trying again.

“I think so.”

He watches you for a second longer than nececours—noting how your voice wobbled slightly.

“Alright.” His tone softens just a bit. “You don’t have to deal with that, you know.”

“I k-know.” You hesitate, fingers twisting around your bracelet. “I just… I don’t always—”

“—get the words out?” he finishes.

You nod, a little sheepish.

Leon exhales quietly, then shifts so he’s not towering over you.

Less intimidating.

As if he was ever intimidating to begin with—to you that is.

“Then you don’t have to,” he says. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Your brows knit. “…what?”

He shrugs, like it’s obvious.

“If someone’s making you uncomfortable,” he continues, like it’s obvious, “you don’t have to explain yourself.”

“Just look at me.” His gaze meets yours—steady, certain. “I’ll handle it.”

Your chest tightens—not like before. Something warmer settles in its place.

You glance at him, then away, then back again.

“…okay,” you say softly.

He gives a small nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

Later, when things have quieted down and most of the office has cleared out, you find yourself drifting back to him.

Standing next to him, you don’t feel like you’re shrinking.

Which is new.

Nice…

A little suspicious, even.

“…Leon?”

He glances over. “Yeah?”

You hesitate—but only for a second this time.

“Thank you. For earlier.”

He studies you briefly, like he’s thinking something over.

Then he shakes his head lightly.

“Anytime.”

You look at him for a second longer than necessary.

“…you’re kind of nice, you know.”

He snorts. “Don’t let that get around.”

You huff quietly. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Good,” he says. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

“What reputation?” You glance at him again, unimpressed. “Brooding government agent?”

“Careful,” he says, glancing at you. “You’re getting bold.”

You smile, this time you don’t hide it.

Both caught in the middle of the mess, fighting for your lives. You didn’t know what point in the day you ran into each other, but he saved your life that day. If you’d been on your own for another hour you probably would’ve died from paranoia alone. But then Leon showed up.

Young, blonde, round faced and still full of his innocent rookie charm. Between his arsenal of police-issue weapons, and the sawn-off shotgun you’d found under the counter of the store below your apartment, you both survived the day.

You’d been picked up by the government early on. You learnt they snooped into the records of all the survivors of Raccoon City and they picked you out as an office worker who had much potential to be trained up as an agent. With Leon they weren’t so lucky, they had to wait to get him to join. When he did, founding the DSO upon his arrival, he was like a seeker missile with how fast he found you on his first day of work.

And if he wasn’t out getting his hands dirty, he was sitting in whatever free cubicle was nearest to yours.

“Another coffee Kennedy?” You asked, leaning over the divider above his computer screen. His head perked up, eyes softening. He was obviously very focused today, usually he’d already be looking your way by the time you started walking in his direction.

“If you’re going that way, thanks.” he said, handing his empty mug into your outstretched palm.

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.” you replied, sliding around his cubicle until you nearly stood at his side. You watched his eyes flick, down then up again, you could tell his eyes wanted to linger, but he was trying to be decent in not ogling you when he knew you could see him doing it.

“You don’t have to go out of your way for me.” He said. You stepped closer, crossing your arms and tapping his mug on your hip.

“Again, I wouldn’t offer if I was.” your voice softened, “You’ve taken bullets for me and refuse to let me return the favour, the least I can do is get you a fresh coffee.”

“You could always buy me a drink instead.” he suggested, offering you one of his smirks. One of his eyes nearly shut at how he was nearly smiling, creases around his eyes crinkling. Even with the light catching the grey in his whiskers, he could still remind you of that rookie from all those years ago.

“One of those fruity ones with a little umbrella and slice of lime?” You said, starting to turn on your heel.

“Those are my favourites, now you’re talking dirty to me.” he said, throwing your cheek back at you.

“I’ll make sure to add that to my usual order of scotch.”

You drove Leon insane. It wasn’t always like that though.

Sure when you first met all those years ago he would’ve given you a second glance, you were pretty and any guy like him would want to give you the time of day if you asked - but then he got to know you. He was a goner.

He was a little older than you, only by a few years, but a lot of time passed between you and no doubt he grew as a person too - but to see you grow from a pretty young lady to a woman who demanded attention without ever asking for it was, as Grace would say, ‘a whole thing’.

Leon rarely saw you outside of work, and then it was more often in the office than in the field, but he didn’t mind. Getting distracted by you was a lot safer when the only thing at risk was turning in a report late.

And you were a distraction.

No one else in the building made a white blouse and pencil skirt look as good as you did. Black heels and a long expanse of your stocking covered legs on display.

He remembered clearly the first time you’d caught him eyeing you - he was too busy following your figure as you walked away, thinking about those heels… well it didn’t matter really. What mattered was how far back he leant in his chair, and how it gave way under his weight. He crashed to the floor, chair falling over beside him. He landed hard, and if anyone wasn’t looking at him gawking at you, they would be looking at him sprawled out on the floor like a fool.

It was years ago now, back when he first joined the DSO offices, but he still copped flack about it.

“Another coffee Kennedy?” Speaking of the devil, there you were. Perched over his cubical divider, looking down at him with a half smile. It took him a second to register what you were saying, he was too distracted at the way your glasses were half-down your nose.

“If you’re going that way, thanks.” he said, handing his empty mug into your outstretched palm. You fingers brushed, and he watched as your perfect manicured fingers curled around his mug.

Fuck, he was in trouble.

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.” You walked around until you nearly stood at his side. He loved when you wore slacks, it showed off your thighs so nice, but he was weak for your skirts. How could something so basic look so good? But he couldn’t linger on the way your hips smoothed down to your thighs, or how that soft bump of your stomach looked above the apex of your legs. You deserved better than to be openly gawked at, he knew it.

“You don’t have to go out of your way for me.” He said, trying to remember what you were here for, what you were talking about, but then you stepped closer. Your arms crossed, pressing your chest together and up, a button of your blouse strained, but he refused to look. He decided to just look at your eyes.

As if that was any less distracting.

“Again, I wouldn’t offer if I was.” your voice softened to something smooth, “You’ve taken bullets for me and refuse to let me return the favour, the least I can do is get you a fresh coffee.”

He’d take more than bullets for you, he’d catch a grenade with his teeth if you asked him to and never ask for anything in return. He doubted he was the only one - surely he wasn’t the only one, not with how intense you made him feel.

“You could always buy me a drink instead.” he suggested, offering you a smirk. You looked at him and he couldn’t help how that look faded and was replaced by a real smile. You could strip away whatever womanising part of him was still left and render him a virgin cop-in-training any day of the week with nothing more than a whiff of the perfume you’d been using since you were nineteen.

“One of those fruity ones with a little umbrella and slice of lime?” You started to turn on your heel, thank god, and better yet replied to his quip with familiar and comfortable territory. He can do jokes in his sleep.

“Those are my favourites, now you’re talking dirty to me.” he said, attempting to make himself sound less like a pining fool as you walked away.

“I’ll make sure to add that to my usual order of scotch.” You threw back at him. He could feel his jaw grind behind his smile as you left him with the clack-clack of your heels and a perfect view of your swaying hips.

Yeah, Raccoon City was the worst day of his life, leaving him with day after day of trouble. But at least you were the good kind of trouble.

Leon turns his stool around, setting his whiskey down next to a puddle of beer. He doesn’t need to watch what you’re doing, now. Next initiative; standby, wait for your exit.

He throws the last of his whiskey back, gesturing for a refill. It’ll do nothing to quell the writhing in his gut, but he’s learned to ignore it.

Fucking Black Jacket & Glasses.

Speak of the devil.

The man appears at Leon’s left, flagging down the bartender and ordering something fruity and strong. Leon side-eyes the guy, sour. He knows you can hold your own, but he doesn’t like the zero to sixty of it.

Going for blind drunk, huh? Working with some deficits?

The guy doesn’t order anything for himself. No card, no tab; he pays cash. He also doesn’t tip, folding a thick wad of small bills away before walking off. Leon snorts into his whiskey glass, the golden liquor thick and warm as it slides over his tongue.

What a catch.

He stays at the bar, hunched, a passive observer to the raucous, bustling life around him. He rations his whiskey, rubbing his thumb along the rim of the glass. Once, he catches your reflection in the mirror among the liquor shelves; your arms are up, dancing, Black Jacket & Glasses tight against your back.

He avoids the mirror.

Leon counts two more of the fruity, strong drinks leaving by BJ&G’s hand before he finally spots you heading for the door on the guy’s arm. You glance back, the usual acknowledgement. You’re leaning into Black Jacket’s side like you’re more than a few sheets gone, but your eyes are keen and alert when they meet Leon’s. You’re still in control.

Leon subtly raises his glass in a tiny ‘cheers’ gesture, only half looking your way.

You disappear into the night.

Leon looks down at his watch. He always stays for another fifteen, in case you come back.

He lifts his finger for another drink, shoulders low.

You’ve never come back.

His name is Jon, with no H. Lazy.

The hair at the crown of his head is thinning, but it’s just started, and it’s subtle. He missed a patch at the back of his jaw shaving, and he dances a little stiff, like he’s counting time or remembering choreography. To grind?

But it’s not nothing he’s working with while he grinds. So.

And he’s handsome enough. Athletic. Nice hands. You wish he had some scruff, a ticklish bristle to tease your neck while you were dancing, maybe some broader shoulders. But nobody’s perfect.

As soon as you’re out in the night air, he wraps his arm at your waist. It’s kind of tight. Not supportive, like he's just helping you walk after three (strong) drinks. No, it's a little bit… captive.

Like he expects you to run.

“I’m parked around back, baby.”

He steers you towards the dark alley that flanks the bar. There is parking at the back, but there’s also now a flag waving at the back of your mind.

It’s red.

“Ooo, hold on, hold on,” you say, and you keep it giggly. You stumble to a stop before the mouth of the alley, digging in your purse, making a show of it. “Shit. I think I left my card.” You didn’t.

His hand tightens at your waist, a little clench. Involuntary.

“It’s probably in there,” he says of your purse. “Come on, it’s dark out here. You can look in the car.”

He’s pressing you towards the alley with the bar of his arm. You keep your stance subtly wide, resisting.

“I think I left it on the bar,” you say, less giggly, more serious. “I shouldn't leave it, I’ll be right–“

You start to step out of his grasp and he redoubles it, crowding in close to mouth at your neck.

“Come on, baby. It’ll still be there tomorrow.”

“Jon, just let me–“

He shoves you past the threshold of sodium light, into the heavy shadow of the alley, and follows.

Leon glances up when the bar door swings open. He straightens, watching you push through the crowd, reading your tension, noting the hair fallen loose over your forehead.

You touch the firm, comforting heat of his shoulder, stealing his drink and knocking it back. You’ve put him between you and the door and your eyes are on it, sharp.

His eyes are on your hand with his stolen glass.

Your knuckles are busted.

Leon barely has time to open his mouth before the door swings open again, spitting Black Jacket & Glasses back into the bar.

Black Jacket & Busted Nose. His glasses are broken, clutched in his hand, and he’s holding his stomach, hunched over.

There’s murder in his eyes.

“Oh, fuck.” Leon deftly wraps you around behind him, and the motion draws Jon’s attention. Leon stands up, walling you off entirely. He’s taller than Jon. Definitely broader.

“Looks like she said no, buttercup.”

Jon’s apparently not firing on all cylinders, because he acts like he’s going to square up to Leon.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Your next problem, unless you walk away.”

“That bitch owes me for the drinks.”

“Ooh, keep talking,” Leon says, low and dangerous, just as you step out from behind him, pissed off.

“That’s not how it fucking works, jackass,” you say, putting extra sauce on the fricative. “Take the L and go, you creep.”

Jon smiles, condescending, and there’s blood on his teeth.

“I’m not leaving without my money, sweetheart.”

“Better start selling blowies in the bathroom, then, sweetheart, ‘cause you’re not getting anything from me.”

The confrontation’s drawn a small audience, because of course it has. You’re not being quiet. Some women nearby holler YEAH in dark delight, and some guy whistles.

Jon growls and lunges forward, but you’d read the intention and you’re already in motion.

You step back, pressing Leon up against the bar as you shove his empty barstool forward with your foot. Jon trips over it and goes tumbling gracelessly to the floor, tangled, and voices raise in surprise and curiosity as nearby patrons back quickly out of the way or crane to see what the commotion is.

The bartender’s not having it.

“HEY! Take that the fuck outside! Get out!”

You raise your hands in surrender, heading for the door and shouldering out into the night without looking back.

Leon eases away from the bartop. It leaves a harsh impression at the small of his back. He feels it less than the lingering weight of your body, your heat down his front.

When he steps outside, you’re not there.

Oh. No, you are, you’re just halfway down the sidewalk, doing your Fast Angry Walk.

“Hey,” you hear him say, but you don’t slow down. You’re seething.

“Fuck that guy.”

He catches up, keeping pace beside you. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.”

“What did he–“

“Unlock the car.”

You’re standing at the Porsche parked on the curb, your hand on the passenger’s side handle. Leon pulls the key from his pocket and the lights flash; you get in and shut the door, firm, knocking your skull back against the headrest once. Frustrated.

Contained. You move your hand with the busted knuckles onto your lap. It’s throbbing, hot and stinging. You hide it under your other hand, loose.

Leon gets in on the driver’s side, another car swishing past on the road, uncomfortably close. He shuts out the night and bubbles you both into an intimate quiet.

He glances in the rearview.

“What did he try.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Let me see your hand.”

You think about refusing, continuing to play avoidance, but the adrenaline is waning and you don’t want to pick a fight. Not with Leon. You sigh through your nose and set your hand on his waiting palm.

His thumb is gentle, running parallel to the broken skin. Even in the low light you can see the dark beginnings of bruising.

You don’t regret it. You’d do it again. Harder.

“We should be icing this.”

“I’ll live.”

You both look up when you hear shouting down the street; Leon ducks to see by the rearview and you lean forward to check the side mirror, looking back towards the bar. Jon is out on the curb, arms waving, belligerent. He’s standing in a perfect rectangle of yellow light from the door of the bar, propped open by whoever threw him out. His broken glasses are on the sidewalk; he bends to swipe them up, still raging, but the yellow light narrows into nothing and then leaves him in the dark to yell at the disinterested brick facade, alone.

You sit back, shutting your eyes.

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“What a waste of a night.”

You hear Leon’s clothes rustle; he’s checking his watch.

“Still early.”

You roll your head to look at him, his face in shadow save for a vague streetlight-orange highlight tracing his jaw, his nose, catching the shine on his lips.

You lift your busted hand.

"I should be icing this.”

Leon starts the car.

“Roger.”

So, everything’s gonna be a trial now.

It's your dominant hand you’d busted on that jackass’ face; it’s turning the simple task of unlocking your apartment door into an impossible puzzle of painful workarounds. You give up and try your non-dominant hand. You’ve almost got it, and then you fumble and drop the keys onto the coir mat.

“Come on.”

You hear a car door and then Leon’s coming up the steps behind you, taking them two at a time.

“Here.”

He unlocks the door and swings it open, leaving the keys hanging in the deadbolt. You grab them on your way past but leave the door wide open, heading for the kitchen. You thought it was a clear invitation but Leon isn’t following. You roll your eyes and call out to him.

“Mr. Chivalry. You got somewhere to be?”

You’re carefully arranging your busted hand flat on the countertop, weighing it down with an icepack, when he joins you in the kitchen. He’s left his coat in the foyer.

Thank god. You didn’t want to be alone.

“I’m hungry and I’m not putting in the effort,” you tell him, bending over your phone on the counter and pulling up a delivery app. “What’s good one-handed food?”

“I could always spoon-feed you,” Leon says, leaning back against the sink and crossing his arms. You throw him a look.

“Let’s save that for the nursing home.” You scroll past a menu photo that snags your attention; you scroll back up. “Ooo, fuck. We’re doing that.”

You put the order in and straighten up, lifting the icepack and checking your hand. It’s even more stiff than it was, cold and swollen. You eye the purpling bruises, the cracking scabs, the violent picture it all makes in the bright light of the kitchen, and remember the crunch of the would-be one-night-stand’s nose, the way it seemed to reverberate up your arm.

Leon’s mind seems to be on a similar track.

“Remind me never to piss you off,” he says.

“Yeah, you’re not an asshole,” you say, stashing the icepack and heading down the hall to your bedroom. You wanna get cozy before eating your weight in expensive takeout.

So then of course you can’t get a handle on the fucking zipper of your dress.

Leon’s quietly perusing the exploded gallery that is your fridge doors – photos, postcards, receipts, novelty magnets, save-the-dates, recipes, stupid doodles on post-it notes – when you come back out.

“I’m starting to regret my life of crime,” you tell him, and turn your back. “Help.”

His fingers brush your skin as he gets the zipper started. You keep your head tipped down, holding the front of the dress in place as the sides come apart and gape open at the back.

“Hey,” he says, and you feel his fingers press by your low shoulderblade. It burns and you flinch, turning your head like you can see anything without a mirror.

“What is that?”

He pushes the fabric aside, his thumb tracing a frame around something on your skin.

“That bastard forced you into the wall, didn’t he.”

“Goddamn it,” you mutter. You need a mirror.

He follows you to the bathroom, watching you twist to try to see your back, catching the tiny slump of your shoulders when you see it.

“Great.”

There’s a livid scrape the size of a matchbook where you’d caught the brick wall of the alleyway. It’s red and raw like rug burn.

Leon’s tone is tight, to match his jaw.

“Where’s your first aid?”

“Under the sink,” you say. You’re not going to argue, not going to insist you can do it yourself. It’d be a difficult spot to reach even with full mobility in both hands. You can let him take care of you.

You stand out of the way, still holding the front of your open dress, feeling a bit like a child watching someone else clean up your mess. First aid open on the sinktop, Leon rotates you gently, hands on your waist, to put your back in better lighting. You hear a foil packet tear open.

“It’s cold,” he warns you, and he’s right. You hiss when the antiseptic touches, stinging against your raw skin, but he soothes the wipe over it until the burning fades and all you can feel is the way he’s touching you. Careful, thorough.

Tender.

He rips open a card-sized bandage, places it methodically, smooths the adhesive edges down. You shiver, your skin raising goosebumps under his fingers.

“Okay,” he says, quiet. You open your eyes. When did you close them?

“You’re not gonna kiss it better?”

You go to throw him a smirk in the mirror, because you’re joking.

He must've missed it. He’s getting down on his knees.

Your pulse picks up.

“Leon,” you start to say, but you don’t know where to go with it. You were kidding. Maybe you don’t want to be. Don’t stop?

Don’t stop.

His hands are on your hips. There’s heat coiling low in your belly.

He kisses over the patch of the bandage. It’s not right. You can’t feel it.

“Lower,” you whisper.

His lips are warm and soft brushing your skin, his breath humid, his scruff a pleasant rasp that makes you shiver hard. Your breath tumbles from your open mouth.

He slips his hands under the open sides of your dress, palms dry against your naked skin, fingertips pressing in. He kisses over your spine, follows the low curve of your ribs, climbs to your shoulderblade, his mouth leaving wet impressions. You’re swaying, body warming, your heart thumping wildly.

“More,” you breathe.

He stands to mouth at your shoulder where it meets your neck, his hands sliding over your stomach under the dress, hugging you back against him.

You let go of the dress. He slides his hand up between your breasts, tips your head back. You receive his tongue with yours, meeting his kiss, and your body ignites.

God, you’re already soaked. You can feel the air of the bathroom cold against the wet fabric of your panties. You’re also feeling something else, pressed flush as you are against Leon’s front. You shift your hips, rubbing your ass against his fly, and he breathes hot into your mouth. You smile, grinding firmer on the hardening line of his cock.

“What’s that on my six?”

His fingers slip into the creases under your asscheeks, squeezing you, lifting as he rocks against you.

“It’s at least a ten,” he says, voice smoky and right by your ear.

“Damn right.” The roll of his body is hypnotizing, but he’s still wearing far too many clothes. You reach back, tugging his shirt from his waistband, and he lets you go so you can turn, helping him take it all the way off. He wraps it around his wrists, belting it under your ass, keeping you trapped. Like you want to go anywhere.

“Fuck, look at you,” he says, low.

“You’re one to talk.” The jingle of his belt echoes, your fingers deft as you open it, open his jeans, pushing the sides wide. You run your hand over his shaft, already straining the front of his boxer briefs, and he watches your face with half-lidded eyes, lips parted. You lean in, brushing his lips with your own, stealing his groan when you dip your hand under his waistband and squeeze him, so hot and full and satin-soft.

His hands are back on your ass, twin handfuls pulling and squeezing as he kisses you, and you laugh into his mouth.

“Can I interest you in something?”

You feel his teeth, nipping at your lips.

“Bend over the counter,” he tells you.

“Fuck.” Yeah, you’ll do that.

He smooths his hands down your back, going wide to avoid the bandage, and hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs. You step out of them, kicking them to one side, and feel his hands on your thighs, widening your stance. He kisses the rise of your ass, gently squeezing the flesh in his teeth, and travels lower.

“Hips back.”

You give a breathy moan at the first touch of his mouth to your drenched pussy. He kisses you there, firming his tongue to tease your clit, laving back through your folds and sucking light, releasing with a pop. You cry out when he turns his head, breaching you with his tongue, humming, fucking you with it before easing back, breathing out hot against you. You feel his teeth scraping your ass cheek again.

“Fuck, you taste sweet."

“You’re gonna spoil your dinner,” you gasp out, almost delirious. You moan when he rubs through your dripping slick with his fingers, slowly pushing one inside you. You rock back against it, fucking yourself on it, greedy.

“God. More, Leon. Stand up.”

His second finger stretches you; your hips stutter, breath hitching, then you press back and take him to the knuckles, groaning.

“Fuck.” He’s thrusting shallowly into your grip, your good hand tight around his cock, his waistband shoved down under his balls. You look back over your shoulder, watching the flushed pink head of his dick as it pushes through the tight circle of your fist, his tip leaking. You rub your thumb through it and he drops his head back, the luxuriant roll of his body almost too much for you to watch, his belt buckle clinking, cold against the back of your thigh.

“Jesus, Leon.”

You twist your wrist on the upstroke and he gasps, looking down at you, chest flushed pink, eyes completely blown.

That’s too much.

His back hits the wall; you’re shoving his clothes down his legs and off, his belt smacking the baseboard when you fling his pants away. You grab his shoulders and he hauls you up onto his waist; you belt your legs around him, your hips shifting as you try to catch the head of his cock where you desperately want it to go. He adjusts his grip on you, reaching down to line himself up, and you both gasp as he breaches you.

He lets you sink down on him, easing you, careful, pushing up with shallow thrusts. You take all of him, every throbbing inch until you’re flush against his pelvis. He stays there, letting you adjust.

You stir your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, looking down at him.

“I think you’re fired,” you tell him, a little shaky. He just looks at you, studying you, half his brain too blissed out to function.

“You’re a terrible wingman,” you say.

“Yeah?”

“How is anyone supposed to compete?” You rock your hips, biting off a groan as his cock strokes along your walls. He can reach deep, thick and hot inside you. “Fuck. You’re not supposed to ruin me for anyone else.”

“Oops,” he says without a shade of remorse, and snaps his hips in a short, deep thrust. You cry out, bouncing with it, and he does it again. And again.

“Oh my god, Leon, ruin me,” you whimper.

Your ass hits the cold sink countertop, Leon leaning forward to brace as he starts fucking you in earnest, your legs falling wide from his hips. He gathers them back in, blunt fingernails scraping down your thighs, and you press your hand to the mirror behind your head, body rocked by every thrust, the countertop unyielding against your tailbone. You can’t find it in you to care.

Leon reins it back for a stretch, going slow and deep, dipping his head to kiss the swell of your breast, drag the flat of his tongue over your nipple, circling it, sucking. You keen, digging your heel into the small of his back, sighing as he sucks lightly on your other nipple, scraping his bristly cheek along the skin of your chest to bury his face in the side of your neck, bracing his arms on the countertop again. The sound of skin slapping skin picks up, echoing around the bathroom, obscene.

“Since I'm not on payroll,” he starts conversationally, against your shoulder.

“You volunteered,” you say, breathless.

“I hated it,” Leon says.

“What?”

“Playing wingman.”

You push him back so you can stare at him. “You never said–“

“Yeah. Cuz I'm a quitter,” he says, gruff. “And I'd love to let you down.”

He pulls you up, down off the countertop, slipping out of you. He bends you over, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, lining up and pushing back in slow. He brings your leg up, the side of your knee against the countertop. You sigh, then moan loud when every new thrust starts slapping his balls against you.

“Oh, fuck, Leon!”

He grips your ass, his breathing harsher, fucking into you hard and fast. You feel the coil start to build, your toes curling, canting your hips just so, pushing yourself back against every thrust.

“God, like that,” you whine, face pinched in desperation as you near the edge.

“That’s it, shit – I can feel you,” he says, and then his fingers are circling your clit and you cry out, clutching at his arm. “Come on, sweetheart, I got you.”

And that’s you gone.

You crash down into a white-out orgasm that has you jerking and writhing beneath him, groaning brokenly, grasping at the countertop, grasping at him. He curses around your name, drapes himself over your back and fucks you through it, slow and rocking, then manages only a few more rapid thrusts before he’s bottoming out and pulsing inside you with a guttural moan, hot cum coating your walls that still convulse with aftershocks.

You both slide down onto the bathroom rug, gelatinous and spent. Leon slips out and you feel his cum following, trickling out onto your thigh, but it’s not on the rug so it’s not worth moving about.

Neither of you so much as twitch when the doorbell rings.

“Food’s here,” you say, eyes closed.

Behind you, Leon hums and drapes his arm over you.

“Don’t get up all at once.”

“Thanks, I won’t.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Shower?”

“Seems excessive,” you say, your eyes still closed. They flare open when Leon drags lazy fingers through the mess spilling out of you, smearing it up onto your stomach.

“You’re a monster.”

He smiles and pulls you to lie on your back, bending to kiss you slow and deep, fingers dipping inside you, gathering more of his cum. He paints it onto your thigh in little circles and swirls, languid and ticklish, and you can’t even be mad. The shower’s right there.

You pull his hand from between your legs and press it flat to his own chest, dragging it down.

“Better start the water. Our food’s gonna get up and walk away.”

The hot water stings your busted knuckles.

You hold your hand clear, smiling quietly while Leon massages shampoo into your hair and then tips your head back against his shoulder to rinse. You sigh when he runs his slippery, soapy hands all over your body, kissing your shoulder, your neck, your mouth.

You turn in his arms, push his wet hair back from his eyes, run your hands down his face. The pad of your thumb fits perfectly at the corner of his mouth; you run it along his bottom lip.

“Can I be honest?”

“Probably unwise.” You can see his eyes tracing arbitrary paths between your freckles; over your cheeks, nose, forehead.

“You’ve always been my metric,” you tell him, quiet. “I was always looking for someone like you.”

His gaze settles on yours, a pinch forming between his brows.

“And where was I?”

“Out of my league.”

He snorts. “You've gotta be shitting me.”

“Don’t give me that.”

He holds your chin, tips your face up to kiss you.

“Couldn't read me for shit, could you.”

“That's not fair, you're trained to be unreadable.”

“Guess I played myself.”

You study him, searching his eyes.

“What?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I told you.”

“No, I mean, when the door was wide open,” you say. “When I broached the subject of a wingman. Could’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”

“It wasn’t right,” he says. “You were looking for fun.”

Your brow creases. “What are you looking for?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then,

“Keeps,” he admits, quiet.

Your heart does something probably medically suspect in your chest.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You kiss him, winding your arms around his neck, loose.

You’re smiling.

“Good.”

On AO3

Well this was a bolt-out-of-the-blue two-day rabid writing experience,, Fs in the chat for my other WIPs 😔

Thanks for reading! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist when I post these fics 🧡

Spencer's hands are careful as he fastens your bulletproof vest over your chest, his brows furrowed. The fluorescent lights of the bullpen wash him pale, catching the faint shadows under his eyes from too many nights spent buried in files.

“You tightened it too much,” you mumble, wincing as he tugs the straps.

“It’s supposed to be tight,” he says automatically, not looking up.

“Pretty sure breathing is also supposed to happen.” That finally earns you a glance. Not amused. Just worried.

“You joke when you’re nervous.”

“And you lecture when you are.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. My lungs would like to file a formal complaint.” His mouth twitches despite himself, but it disappears almost immediately. Spencer smooths his hand over the front of the vest one last time, checking for gaps like he doesn’t trust the fabric to do its job properly. You study him for a second.

“You know,” you say quietly, “most people just say ‘be careful.’”

“I did say that.”

“Three times.”

“Because you ignored me the first two.” A snort escapes you, but it fades when you notice the way his fingers linger near your ribs. Restless. Anxious.The case had gotten ugly fast.Three victims in four days. All connected to the Bureau in some way. Retired agents. Informants. One federal prosecutor. And now the unsub had escalated from taunting the BAU to targeting your father directly. Aaron Hotchner had made enemies before. Plenty of them. But this one felt different.

Personal.

The unsub had been sending photographs for weeks now. Grainy shots of Hotch entering Quantico. Jack at soccer practice. You grabbing coffee outside the bullpen with Spencer. Watching. Waiting. The latest message had arrived that morning.

Tick tock, Hotchner.

And underneath it:

What hurts worse? Losing your team… or your daughter?

Hotch had gone frighteningly still when Garcia read it aloud. You’d watched the muscle in his jaw tick once before he started assigning teams like the world wasn’t tilting beneath his feet. Now the bullpen buzzes around you—agents moving quickly, radios crackling, Emily and JJ arguing quietly over routes—but Spencer still hasn’t stepped back.

“Spence,” you say softly. His eyes flick to yours immediately. “I’ll be okay.” The problem is he doesn’t answer. Because Spencer Reid has seen too many people promise that before bleeding out anyway. Behind you, your father emerges from his office already shrugging into his jacket.

“We hit the road in two,” Hotch says. The entire room shifts instantly into motion. Spencer finally lets go of your vest, though reluctantly, like peeling his hands away from something important.

“You stay with Luke,” he says firmly. “Don’t split up. Don’t go anywhere alone." You blink at him.

“Wow. You and my dad should start a podcast.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re always serious.”

“That’s statistically inaccurate.” That almost gets a real smile out of you.Almost. Then Hotch’s voice cuts through the bullpen again.

“Let’s move.” You reach up and pull Spencer down towards you, catching his lips in a quick kiss as your dad, Luke, Walker and Emily all walk towards the black SUV's waiting for you downstairs.

The kiss barely lasts two seconds.

Still, Spencer chases it for half a heartbeat when you pull away, his hand catching briefly at your wrist like he’s fighting the urge to keep you there.

“Be careful,” he says quietly. You soften a little at the look on his face.

“Spence, we’re literally just surveilling a warehouse.”

“That statement significantly increases the statistical likelihood something catastrophic is about to happen.” Luke snorts from beside the elevators.

“He’s got a point.” You roll your eyes, backing toward the bullpen doors.

“You’re all dramatic.” Hotch appears behind you, expression unreadable but tired in the way only your father can manage.

“Move.”And just like that, the moment’s over. Everyone scatters into motion.

The unsub’s name is Daniel Kessler.

Former paramedic. Former military. Smart enough to stay ahead of the BAU for six weeks and angry enough to make mistakes.

More specifically: angry at Aaron Hotchner.

Three years ago, Hotch testified in a corruption case involving Kessler’s brother. The brother went to prison. Died there eleven months later.

Kessler blamed Hotch.

And now bodies were piling up across Virginia with surgical precision and handwritten messages left behind at each scene.

The latest lead had come fast—a possible location tied to one of Kessler’s shell companies just outside Quantico. Which was why the team was mobilizing so quickly. Three SUVs. Hotch and Rossi in the first. JJ and Tara in the second. You, Luke, Emily, and Walker in the third. Spencer stayed behind with Garcia to monitor incoming intel. He looked miserable about it.

At first, the drive is almost painfully normal. Walker’s driving. Emily sits shotgun flipping through case notes while Luke scrolls through updates on his phone beside you in the backseat. Rain taps softly against the windows. The highway stretches dark and endless ahead of you. Your phone buzzes.

SPENCE You forgot your scarf.

You smile despite yourself.

YOU Tragic. I’ll hold a funeral later.

Three dots appear immediately.

Then:

SPENCE Funny people are statistically more likely to survive traumatic situations.

You bark out a laugh. Luke glances over.

“Pretty Boy?”

“Unfortunately.” Emily sighs dramatically from the front seat.

“You two are disgusting.”

“You say that like you haven’t watched them stare at each other for ten straight minutes in briefing rooms,” Walker says.

“I have,” Emily replies. “That’s why I said it. I've also watched them pine for each other for years. This sudden shift in dynamics is weird. I honestly liked it better when Reid was all stuttery and shy around her."

"We didn't pine." You grumble, shifting in your seat. Four separate looks immediately get directed at you. Luke actually lowers his phone.

“Be serious.”

“He wrote you a six-page apology because he accidentally snapped at you once,” Emily says to absolutely no one’s surprise.

Walker snorts from the driver’s seat.

“Reid used to look like he was being held hostage every time she touched him.”

“He still does sometimes,” Luke says.

“Okay, wow,” you mutter. Emily twists slightly in her seat to look back at you.

“Sweetheart, he once walked into the glass conference room wall because you smiled at him.”

“That happened one time.”

“Twice,” Luke corrects. Walker laughs.

“Nah, my favorite was the coffee thing.” You narrow your eyes.

“What coffee thing?”

“You brought him coffee every morning for like eight months,” Walker says.

“Because he forgets to eat when he’s working.”

“And Reid started memorizing your coffee order after day two,” Emily adds smugly. Luke points between all of you.

“See, this is why none of us were shocked when they finally got together.”

“You were all shocked,” you argue.

“We were shocked it took this long,” Emily corrects. Emily cackles. “You're dating a textbook.”

“A very pretty textbook,” you mumble before thinking better of it. Unfortunately the entire car hears you. Walker makes a wounded sound.

“Oh, that’s disgusting.” Emily clutches her chest dramatically.

“No, let her continue. This is healing me.” You flip her off from the backseat. Rain continues tapping softly against the windshield as the SUV speeds down the dark stretch of highway. The radio crackles quietly every few seconds with updates from the other cars. Somewhere ahead, Hotch and Rossi are already discussing entry routes. JJ’s voice cuts in briefly over comms before fading back out. For a moment, everything feels strangely normal.

Easy.

Luke elbows you lightly.

“You know Reid almost called Hotch Sr when he asked permission to ask you out.” Your head whips toward him.

“What?” Emily bursts into delighted laughter.

“He did.” Walker nearly misses the curve in the road because he’s laughing too hard now.

“No he did not.”

“Oh, he absolutely did,” Emily says. “Hotch just stared at him for like ten full seconds while Reid visibly aged.” Luke deepens his voice badly in imitation. “‘Agent Hotchner, respectfully, I was wondering if—’”

“Stop talking,” you groan.

“—if your daughter would potentially—’”

“You’re all dead to me.” Emily wipes tears from under her eyes.

“Your father looked so uncomfortable.” Walker grins into the rearview mirror.

“Honestly brave of Reid. I’d rather fistfight a bear than ask Hotch for dating permission.”

“He didn’t ask permission,” you defend automatically. Luke raises an eyebrow.

“He absolutely did.” Luke laughs. And for one perfect, stupid second, everything feels fine.

Then you see it. Up ahead. Small. Sharp. Metal glinting beneath the headlights. Your stomach drops instantly.

“Walker—” Too late. The SUV hits the spike strips hard. The sound is explosive. All four tires blow at once.

"Shit !" Walker jerks the wheel violently as the vehicle fishtails across the slick highway. Emily shouts something.

"Everybody hold on !" Luke grabs for the handle above the door. Your seatbelt locks brutally across your chest as the world spins sideways.

Then— Headlights. Blinding. A truck horn screaming— And impact. Metal shrieks. Glass detonates. Your body whips sideways so hard your vision whites out completely. Something slams into your ribs.

When you wake up, you can’t breathe. Pain hits first. Not sharp. Everywhere. Burning agony flooding through every inch of your body like someone poured gasoline into your veins. A broken sound leaves your throat. Smoke curls through the crushed SUV. Your head lolls sideways. Everything looks wrong. The windshield is gone. The dashboard is crumpled inward. Blood streaks the windows. Your seatbelt digs painfully into your chest. For a second you can’t understand why your left arm won’t move properly. Then feeling rushes back all at once and you nearly black out again.

“Fuck—” Your voice comes out shredded. You force your head up. Emily’s slumped against the passenger door, unmoving, blood running down the side of her face. Luke’s crumpled awkwardly beside you.

Walker— Walker’s head hangs at an angle that makes your stomach twist violently. Too still. Far too still.

“Walker,” you croak. No response. You try again, panic climbing your throat. You reach forward, wincing at the pull of your seat belt, shaking him. “Walker!” His entire body slumps forward, head landing on the steering wheel with a deafening thud. You bite back the bile threatening to spew out of you, your vision tunneling as you jerk back. Your chest caves inward.

Oh God. Smoke thickens around you. The car groans. Somewhere outside, people are shouting. You fumble clumsily for the seatbelt release with trembling fingers. It finally clicks. The second it unlatches, your body pitches forward violently and agony tears through your side hard enough to make you scream. Something’s wrong. Something is very, very wrong. You look down. Blood. So much blood. A jagged piece of metal protrudes from beneath your ribs. Your vision flickers.

“No no no—” The driver-side door suddenly jerks open. Cold rain floods in. A man appears beside the wreckage wearing EMT gear. Reflective jacket. Medical gloves. Calm eyes. Relief crashes through you so hard you almost cry.

“Ma'am,” he says firmly. “Stay still.” You nod weakly.

“My-My friends - Please you have to-” Your eyes dart around, trying to catch a glimpse of the other cars. You can see smoke and fire from somewhere behind you, and panic claws up your throat. "Oh, god- my-my dad is in- please, you have to-"

“We’ll get them,” he says quickly. “I need to move you first.” Your brain feels slow. Foggy. He cuts through your vest with terrifying efficiency. Strong hands slide beneath your arms. Pain explodes through your abdomen as he pulls you free from the wreckage. You scream.

“I know,” he says soothingly. “I know. I got you.” Rain pours down around you. Lights flash red and blue across the highway. Your head lolls weakly against his shoulder as he carries you toward the ambulance. You can barely keep your eyes open. Your body feels heavy.

Wrong.

“Dad,” you mumble. “Need my dad—”

“We already got the two other cars evacuated. We have extra RA's en route to escort your friends to the hospital. Your father is waiting for you there.” the EMT says. You nod, rain soaking your clothes. He loads you onto the stretcher. The ambulance doors stand open behind you.

Then— Movement. Across the wreckage. Another SUV. Crushed against the guardrail. And stumbling out of it— Hotch.

Your father can barely stand. Blood runs down the side of his face. One arm hangs limp. But the second his eyes land on you— Pure horror floods his expression.

“Sweetheart !” Your breath catches.

What ?

Your breath catches. The EMT had said Hotch was already at the hospital. Your stomach drops so violently it almost makes you vomit.

No.

No, no—

Hotch stumbles forward through the rain, slipping against the soaked pavement as he tries to run toward the ambulance. Rossi is behind him shouting for medics, for backup, for somebody to stop the vehicle, but your father’s eyes are locked entirely on you. On the man beside you. And suddenly you understand. The EMT’s hand tightens on the stretcher rail.

“Wait,” you whisper. Hotch sees your expression change.

“No!” he roars. The ambulance doors slam shut. The sound nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. Panic detonates through your body. You jerk upright instantly despite the agony ripping through your abdomen.

“Stop the fucking ambulance!” you scream, scrambling backward across the stretcher. Pain tears through your ribs so hard your vision whites out, but adrenaline keeps you moving. “Stop—” The EMT grabs for you. You swing first. Your fist cracks against his jaw hard enough to snap his head sideways. For one glorious second, he actually looks surprised.

“Bitch,” he mutters. You lunge for the door handles. Your blood-slick fingers almost catch them before he hauls you backward violently. Agony explodes through your side and a scream rips out of your throat. Outside the tiny rear windows, you can still see your father. Hotch is running after the ambulance. Actually running. Broken. Bleeding. Desperate.

“Dad!” you sob, slamming your palm against the doors. “Dad!” The ambulance swerves sharply.

The EMT hooks an arm around your waist and drags you back against him with brutal force. You fight instantly, elbows flying despite the pain.

“Get the fuck off me!” you choke out.

“Jesus Christ,” the man snarls, struggling to keep hold of you. “You really are his kid.” Something cold presses suddenly against your neck. A syringe. Your blood runs cold.

“No—” The needle plunges into your skin. You gasp sharply and shove at him harder, but your limbs already feel wrong. Heavy. Slow. “No no no—” The man restrains you easily now, forcing you back onto the stretcher as the sedative floods your bloodstream. Your vision starts swimming almost immediately. Outside, through the blurred back windows, you see Hotch reach the ambulance for half a second— His hand slams against the rear doors as he screams your name.

“No !” The sound breaks something inside you. Then the ambulance surges forward. And your father disappears into rain and flashing lights. Your body stops cooperating.

Your arms feel numb.

Your heartbeat echoes strangely in your ears.

The EMT pulls off his mask calmly while you struggle weakly beneath him.

Not an EMT.

Kessler.

You recognize him now. The eyes. Cold. Empty. Patient.

“You should’ve stayed still,” he says, almost disappointed. Your mouth won’t work properly anymore.

“You…” you slur weakly. Kessler sighs, pushing you flat against the stretcher as your body goes limp beneath his hands.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “You’re bleeding internally. This is keeping you alive.” You try to fight him again anyway. Your hand barely lifts. Kessler watches you with detached fascination.

"Let's see if Aaron Hotchner's precious daughter is more important than putting me behind bars." He grabs another needle and grabs you arm.

You try to fight back- God, you try.

But your body feels like it's been filled with concrete, like your veins are hardening with every passing second, weighing you down.

Kessler grins.

"Sweet dreams."

-----------------

"Aaron- Aaron, listen to me-" Rossi is waving his arms in front of Hotch as real sirens flood the space. Emily crawls out of the car, coughing and bleeding from her temple, her hand pressed to her side as she limps her way over to Luke's side of the car and tugs him out. JJ stumbles from another wreckage, waving her hand in front of her face as she coughs, a large gash running down the side of her arm. Tara doesn't look badly hurt, just concussed as she stumbles down the stretch of highway, her hand pressed to her head in confusion as Derek helps her forward.

And Aaron Hotchner can't fucking breathe.

"N-No, we- we have to go after her." He rasps, shaking his head. "The ambulance didn't have a license plate but-but it was him. It was him, Dave." Rossi grabs Hotch hard by the shoulders.

“Aaron!” Hotch’s chest heaves violently. Rain pours down his face, mixing with blood from the cut at his hairline. His eyes are locked on the empty stretch of highway where the ambulance disappeared into the storm.

“The ambulance didn’t have plates,” he says again, voice shredded raw. “It was him. Dave, it was fucking him.” Behind them, chaos erupts across the crash site. Actual EMTs flood the highway now, shouting over each other as they move between the wrecked SUVs. Red and blue lights flash violently across twisted metal and shattered glass. Somebody yells for extraction tools. Another medic shouts about fuel leakage. Walker’s body is finally pulled from the front seat. Emily sees the tarp being unfolded and stops dead.

“No,” she whispers. Luke catches her arm before she can stumble forward. JJ presses a trembling hand over her mouth, blood still running down her forearm. Tara stands dazed beside Derek, one hand against her temple as she tries to process the devastation around her. For one horrible moment, nobody speaks. Then the highway explodes back into noise.

“Aaron,” Rossi says again, more firmly this time. “Talk to me.” Hotch looks like he can barely breathe.

“She saw me,” he rasps. “She looked right at me.” His voice breaks on the last word. Dave’s stomach twists. Because Aaron Hotchner does not break. Not like this. “She realized it wasn’t real,” Hotch says, staring blankly down the road. “She started fighting him.” Emily looks up sharply.

“What?” Hotch drags a hand over his bloodied face.

“He was dressed like an EMT.” His breathing turns uneven. “I thought she was being transported until I saw—” He cuts himself off hard. Too late. Rossi catches it immediately.

“What did you see?” Aaron closes his eyes for one second too long. When he opens them again, there’s something almost haunted sitting behind them.

“She was hurt.” The team goes still.

“How bad?” JJ asks quietly. Hotch swallows.

“I don’t know.” Lie. Everybody hears it. Aaron’s jaw tightens violently. “There was blood,” he says carefully, like each word physically hurts. “A lot of blood.” Emily’s face drains of color. Luke curses under his breath.

“She couldn’t move properly,” Hotch continues hollowly. “He had to carry her." Nobody says anything after that. Because they all know what that means. Then headlights tear onto the highway. A black SUV brakes hard across the shoulder. Spencer is out of the vehicle before it fully stops moving. Garcia barely gets the car in park before he’s sprinting after him.

“Hotch!” Spencer shouts, panic already threading through his voice as he takes in the wreckage. “What happened?” Garcia steps out behind him—and freezes completely.

“Oh my God.” The highway looks apocalyptic. Smoke. Rain. Crushed SUVs. Flashing lights reflecting off blood-slick pavement. Spencer eyes scan frantically across the scene.

JJ.

Emily.

Luke.

Tara.

Derek.

Rossi.

Hotch.

His stomach drops. Because you’re not there. Spencer’s breathing changes instantly.

“Where is she?” Nobody answers quickly enough. And terror detonates behind his ribs. “Where is she?” Emily looks away. Garcia starts crying immediately. Spencer stares at them.

“No.” Luke steps forward carefully.

“Reid—”

“No.” The word cracks out of him violently. “What happened?” Hotch finally steps toward him, rain dripping from his ruined suit.

“Kessler staged the crash,” he says hoarsely. “He took her.” Spencer just stares at him. Like the sentence physically does not make sense.

“Took her?” he repeats faintly.

“The ambulance was fake,” Rossi says grimly. “He disguised himself as an EMT.” Garcia lets out a broken sob behind them. Spencer’s face goes completely white.

“When?” he asks.

“Less than four minutes ago,” Luke says. “Local units are already searching—” Spencer looks immediately at Hotch. Not Rossi. Not Emily. Hotch. Because Hotch saw her last. And Aaron realizes Spencer already knows that too. Their eye contact lasts half a second. It’s enough. Spencer’s expression changes instantly.

“How bad was she hurt?” Hotch doesn’t answer quickly enough. Spencer takes a step forward. “How bad?” Aaron looks wrecked. Actually wrecked.

“She was conscious,” he says carefully.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Aaron,” Rossi warns quietly. But Spencer doesn’t look away from Hotch. Hotch exhales shakily through his nose.

“There was blood.” Spencer’s breathing stutters.

“How much?”

“I don’t know.” Another lie. Spencer hears that one too. And suddenly he looks furious. Terrified, grieving, furious. “She couldn’t move on her own,” Hotch admits quietly. “He carried her into the ambulance.” Garcia breaks down harder behind them and Derek crosses the space immediately to grab onto her. Spencer physically sways where he stands. For a second it looks like he might actually collapse. Then his face hardens into something sharp enough to cut glass.

“What direction?” Hotch blinks.

“Reid—”

“What direction did he go?”

“Eastbound,” Hotch answers carefully. Spencer immediately turns toward Garcia’s SUV. Hotch grabs his arm before he gets two steps. “You are not going alone.” Spencer jerks free instantly. His eyes are glassy with panic now.

“You let her get in that ambulance.” The words hit like a gunshot. Silence crashes down around the wreckage. Spencer looks horrified the second he says it. Because he knows exactly who he just said it to. A father who watched his daughter get kidnapped while injured and bleeding. Hotch recoils anyway. Not angry. Just devastated.

“I know,” he says quietly. That destroys Spencer more effectively than shouting ever could. His face crumples. Rain pours around all of you in endless sheets as sirens scream across the highway.

And somewhere out there— You’re alone with Kessler.

--------

When you come to, the first thing you feel is that the pain at your abdomen has lessened.

It’s still there.

Deep. Burning. Wrong.

But dulled somehow, like your body’s been wrapped in cotton. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy as you force them open. Darkness swims above you for a second before dim industrial lights sharpen into focus overhead. Concrete ceiling. Rusted pipes. Water dripping somewhere nearby in slow, echoing intervals. Your wrists jerk instinctively.

Metal rattles. Cold panic slams into you. You're strapped upright to some kind of steel chair bolted into the floor. Thick restraints pin your wrists and chest in place. Your injured side throbs violently when you struggle, making black spots burst across your vision.

“Easy. I bandaged you up but you're still actively bleeding out.” The voice comes from somewhere ahead of you. Kessler steps into view calmly, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he’s in the middle of an ordinary workday instead of holding an FBI agent hostage. Your breathing quickens immediately.

“Fuck you,” you rasp. He actually smiles faintly.

“That’s usually the morphine talking." Morphine. That explains the floating feeling in your limbs. You look down quickly. Your vest is gone. Soaked bandages are wrapped tightly around your abdomen beneath a gray thermal shirt that definitely isn’t yours. There’s dried blood everywhere. Along your arms. Beneath your fingernails. Across the floor near the chair. Your stomach twists hard.

“How long—”

“Thirty-six minutes since the crash,” Kessler answers smoothly. Ice floods your bloodstream. The team. Your dad.

“Where are they?” you demand. Kessler ignores the question entirely. Instead, he walks toward a camera mounted on a tripod across the room. And your blood runs cold all over again. “No.” Kessler adjusts the lens casually. “No no no—”

“You know,” he says conversationally, “your father’s reputation in the Bureau is fascinating. Aaron Hotchner. Untouchable. Unshakeable. Men like him always think they understand sacrifice until it becomes personal.” Your restraints clatter violently as you fight them.

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.” He doesn’t even blink. Then he reaches beside the camera and wheels something large into frame. A timer. Digital.

Bright red numbers glaring through the darkness.

00:59:48

Your stomach drops.

“What is that?” Your voice cracks. Kessler finally looks at you directly.

“The amount of time your team has left.” He grabs your arm, sighing as he squeezes and IV bag and mounts it onto the stand beside you.

“Kessler—”

The dosage is regulated electronically.” He taps the pump beside the bag. “Small increments over time. Once the drip reaches completion…” He shrugs lightly. “Multi-organ failure. Cardiac arrest shortly after.”

Your mouth goes dry instantly.

“No.”

“The fascinating thing about poison,” he continues conversationally, “is how personal it feels. Bullets are loud. Explosions are chaotic. But poison?” He tilts his head. “Poison makes people wait.”

Your stomach twists hard enough to make you gag. You stare at him in horror. Then fury detonates through you.

“You’re a fucking coward.” Kessler hums softly.

“And yet your father still can’t catch me.” He presses a button. The camera light turns red.

LIVE.

—————————

The BAU bullpen is chaos. Medics move between injured agents while tech analysts flood every available screen searching traffic cams, road footage, satellite hits—anything. Nobody’s winning. Hotch stands in the center of it all like a ghost. Still covered in blood. Still soaking wet from the rain. Spencer sits at Garcia’s station beside her, fingers flying across the keyboard so fast they blur. His hands are shaking violently.

“Nothing,” Garcia whispers tearfully. “No ambulance hits, no hospital pings, no traffic cams—he scrubbed everything.” Emily presses gauze harder against the cut on her temple.

“He planned this for months.”

“No,” Spencer says instantly. Everyone looks at him. Spencer’s eyes stay locked on the screen. “Longer.” Before anyone can respond— Every monitor in the bullpen flickers. Static crackles. Garcia startles violently., fingers flying over her keyboard, trying to figure out how this is happening. Then your face appears onscreen.

Bruised. Bloodied. Restrained.

The room stops breathing.

“No,” Hotch says faintly. Your head lifts weakly toward the camera, disoriented and terrified and alive. Spencer goes white beside Garcia.

“No…” The digital timer flashes beside you.

00:58:03

“What the hell is that?” Luke breathes. Then Kessler steps into frame. And the entire room explodes into motion.

“Trace it now!” Emily shouts. Garcia is already typing frantically.

“I’m trying!” Kessler looks directly into the camera.

“Good evening, Behavioral Analysis Unit.” Kessler smiles like he’s hosting a lecture instead of a hostage broadcast. Garcia’s hands fly across the keyboard.

“I can’t get a lock—he’s bouncing the signal through multiple servers—oh my God, oh my God—”

“Penelope,” Emily snaps, though her own voice shakes. “Focus.”

“I am focused!” Onscreen, Kessler slowly circles your chair. The camera quality is grainy but clear enough to show the blood staining the bandages around your abdomen. Clear enough to show the IV line running into your arm. And the transparent liquid steadily dripping through the tube. Spencer goes completely still beside Garcia.

Not calm.

Worse.

The kind of stillness that means he’s trying very hard not to completely lose his mind. Your head hangs weakly forward before lifting slightly at the sound of Kessler speaking. Your eyes look unfocused. Drugged. Terrified. The bullpen falls silent. Even the analysts nearby stop moving. Because this isn’t just being streamed to the BAU.

This is public.

News stations are already picking it up. Social media feeds explode in real time across nearby monitors. Millions of people watching an FBI agent tied to a chair with a countdown beside her.

“Aaron Hotchner,” Kessler says smoothly, looking directly into the camera. “You know, I expected someone taller.” Hotch doesn’t react outwardly. But Rossi sees his fist tighten. Sees the blood dripping from where Aaron’s fingernails cut into his own palm.

“You built your career profiling monsters,” Kessler continues. “You taught agents how to think like predators. How to anticipate violence.” He tilts his head slightly toward you. “But you never considered what happens when someone decides to study you instead.” Your breathing trembles onscreen.

“Kessler—” you rasp weakly.

“Shh.” He adjusts the IV line almost tenderly. “You don’t need to talk right now.” Spencer physically flinches. Luke swears violently under his breath.

“The poison entering Agent Hotchner’s daughter’s bloodstream,” Kessler says calmly, “is administered incrementally through an automated pump system. By the time the timer reaches zero…” He smiles faintly. “Well. I imagine your Dr. Reid can explain organ failure better than I can.” All eyes snap toward Spencer automatically. Spencer’s face has gone corpse pale. But his voice still works. Barely.

“It depends on the toxin,” he says mechanically, eyes glued to the screen. “If it’s ricin-based or synthetic colchicine compounds, systemic collapse would begin gradually. Respiratory distress first. Then cardiovascular instability. Seizures. Multi-organ failure—”

“Spencer,” JJ says softly. He cuts himself off instantly. Onscreen, your eyes flutter shut for a second too long.

“Hey,” Kessler says sharply, gripping your jaw hard enough to force your head back up. “Stay awake. It's not fun for our viewers if you die right now." You whimper, trying to inch away from him. He chuckles, low and mean. A broken sound leaves your throat as your body jerks weakly against the restraints. Spencer’s breathing changes instantly.

“What just happened?” Emily demands. Spencer stares at the screen.

“The poison’s already active,” he says quietly. Garcia looks horrified.

“But there’s still fifty-seven minutes left—”

“The timer isn’t for symptom onset.” Spencer swallows hard. “It’s for fatal dosage completion.” Nobody speaks. Onscreen, Kessler steps back toward the camera.

“You have one hour,” he says conversationally. “Find me before the drip finishes…” He shrugs. “And maybe she lives. But I should warn you,” he continues. “Removing the IV incorrectly triggers the failsafe.” He taps the side of the electronic pump. “And if the line stops prematurely…” Another small shrug. “The dosage accelerates.” Garcia lets out a strangled noise.

“That’s impossible,” Luke snaps.

“No,” Spencer says faintly. Everyone looks at him again. Spencer’s eyes stay locked on the screen. “It’s not.” Hotch spins around, his chest heaving.

"Garcia, get me a list of Kessler's known adressesses, a list of his spending info- maybe he rented out a place- i want everything you have on him, now !"

Garcia is already moving before Hotch finishes the sentence.

“I’m on it, I’m on it - okay- okay - ” Her voice is high and strained, fingers slamming across the keyboard like she’s trying to outrun panic itself. Multiple windows open and collapse across her monitors. “Known addresses are mostly burned, he went dark after his brother's death but - there’s financial ghosting here, offshore shells, prepaid infrastructure - he’s not staying anywhere with a paper trail -he’s not staying anywhere period -”

“Focus,” Rossi says sharply, but even he sounds strained now. Emily is already leaning over her shoulder.

“What about municipal access points? Abandoned government facilities?” Luke shakes his head.

“We’re checking transit grids already. He’s not static - he’s moving through infrastructure, not occupying it.” Spencer doesn’t blink.

His eyes are locked on the screen. On you.

00:53:18.

Your head droops again, just slightly, and Spencer’s breath catches so hard it sounds like it hurts.

“Hey,” JJ says quietly, noticing him. “Reid, stay with us.” But he doesn’t answer. Because his brain is already somewhere else. Already rebuilding everything Kessler just showed them.

The IV pump. The feed latency. The lack of metadata. The stabilization pattern. Spencer swallows hard.

“He’s not in a building,” he says suddenly. Garcia looks up.

“What?” Spencer’s voice tightens.

“The signal stability - there’s too little fluctuation for a fixed structure. No HVAC interference, no power grid variance, no reflective bounce patterns consistent with concrete reinforcement -” Emily frowns.

“Then where is he?” Spencer doesn’t look away from the screen.

“Mobile containment unit,” he says. “Or a retrofitted transport shell. Something insulated enough to mask environmental noise.” Luke curses under his breath.

“Like a van.” Spencer shakes his head once.

“Bigger.” Silence. Hotch turns slowly.

“Bus?” Rossi suggests grimly. Spencer finally looks at them.

“No,” he says. “Something that can support medical-grade equipment, power draw for a stabilized livestream, and internal temperature control without drawing attention.” Garcia’s hands freeze mid-type.

“Oh my God.” Emily’s voice drops.

“A mobile medical unit.” Rossi’s jaw tightens.

“Like disaster response.” Hotch’s eyes sharpen instantly.

“Ambulance.” Spencer nods once. But it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels worse. Because that still leaves too many possibilities. Too many jurisdictions. Too many vehicles. Too much ground to cover while the clock keeps bleeding out.

00:53:04.

Onscreen, Kessler steps back into frame briefly—just enough to adjust something near the IV stand. You flinch sharply. Harder this time. Hotch makes a sound low in his throat—barely audible, but it cuts through the room anyway. Spencer’s hands curl into fists at Garcia’s station.

“Garcia,” he says quickly, voice suddenly urgent. “Cross-reference registered medical transport units within a fifty-mile radius of the crash corridor. Anything that went off-route in the last hour.”

“I’m already - ” Her screen updates rapidly. “Got it, got it - Okay, there’s twelve possible matches - ”

“Twelve,” Luke repeats sharply.

“We don’t have time for twelve,” Emily snaps. Hotch steps forward again.

“Cut it to three,” he orders. “Now.” Garcia swallows hard.

“I can filter by signal - give me thirty seconds - ”

“Twenty,” Hotch says. Nobody argues. Because on the screen— You shift again. Barely conscious. Barely holding on. And Spencer Reid, who has spent his entire life turning chaos into patterns, suddenly looks like he’s staring directly into something he cannot solve fast enough.

Garcia’s screen updates again. Once. Twice. Then locks. Her breath catches so hard it hurts.

“I’ve got him,” she says. Nobody speaks. Hotch turns instantly.

“Where.” Garcia swallows.

“Abandoned agricultural zone outside Leesburg—old county service land. There’s a decommissioned livestock processing facility on the property. Signal’s cleanest there—he’s stationary.” Spencer is already there before she finishes the sentence.

“How far?” he asks immediately. Garcia glances at the route mapping.

“Forty-six minutes,” she says quietly. The number lands like a gunshot. Silence. Emily shakes her head once.

“We don’t have forty-six minutes.” Rossi is already moving toward the SUV.

“Then we don’t waste a second.” Hotch stares at the map like he can force the distance to shrink through sheer will. Spencer’s voice breaks through again, sharper now.

“How long—how long until completion?” Garcia’s fingers tremble over the timer feed.

“Fifty-three minutes,” she whispers.That finally shifts the math in the room. Because everyone understands it at the same time. Forty-six minutes to reach you.Fifty-three minutes until the drip completes.

Seven minutes.

That’s all they’ll have once they get there. Seven minutes to find you. Seven minutes to neutralize Kessler. Seven minutes to keep you alive. Hotch exhales once, slow and controlled—but his eyes are shattered.

“Let's move,” he says. The SUVs tear down the highway in formation, sirens splitting the night open. Inside Hotch’s vehicle, no one speaks anymore unless they have to. The countdown is on every screen.

Every phone. Every live feed Garcia refuses to close.

00:52:41.

Spencer stares at the map overlay like he can bend it into something faster. Luke grips the seat hard enough to go white-knuckled. Emily keeps her eyes forward, jaw tight, blood still drying at her temple. Rossi drives like a man refusing to accept physics as final. Hotch doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away from the road even once.

“Forty-six minutes,” Luke says quietly, almost to himself. Spencer’s voice is barely audible.

“That’s if nothing goes wrong.” Nobody responds to that. Because they all know what it means.

------------------

00:07:00.

Your body feels like lead.

Your veins are on fire.

Your mouth has gone dry, and you can barely breathe- every breath sounds like a rusty rattle of child's mobile. Your vision flickers in and out like a broken signal. Your body isn’t yours anymore. It’s heavy in the wrong places, light in others. Your fingers twitch weakly against the restraints, but there’s no strength left behind it.

The IV pump beeps steadily beside you. Too steady. Too calm. Like it doesn’t care that you’re dying.

You groan, trying hard to stay awake, to stay concsious.

They're coming for you. They have to be.

The room hums with fluorescent light and something worse underneath it—your heartbeat, irregular now, stumbling against the poison like it’s losing the argument. Kessler circles you slowly, hands behind his back like he’s inspecting something he built.

“Do you know what your father hates most?” he asks lightly. Your head lolls a fraction toward him. It takes effort just to keep your eyes open.

“People like you,” he continues. “Not weak. Not careless. Just… loved.” Your throat tightens. Spencer’s name tries to form in your mind and doesn’t quite make it. Kessler steps closer, studying your face like he’s waiting for something interesting to happen.

“You’re very difficult to break,” he says thoughtfully. “That’s what makes this worth watching.” The IV pump beeps again. Too steady. Too final.

Your fingers twitch weakly against the restraints. Kessler leans in just slightly.

“I wonder how long it takes,” he murmurs, almost curious. “For Aaron Hotchner to choose between duty and family.” Your stomach drops hard.

“Don’t,” you rasp, but it’s barely sound. He smiles faintly.

“Oh, he already has.” And then— The doors behind him explode inward. Not an opening. An impact.

Wood and metal snap as tactical force hits the room like a wave.

“FBI! DOWN!” The shout is immediate chaos. Hotch is first through, weapon up, eyes scanning—locking instantly on you like everything else in the room ceases to exist.

“Aaron!” Rossi calls, sweeping left. Emily and Luke split right. Derek comes in hard behind them, already moving. Kessler barely has time to turn before Hotch has him pinned against the nearest surface, gun pressed high, voice ice-cold.

“Don’t move.” Kessler actually laughs once. Spencer doesn’t even look at him. He’s already across the room. Everything else collapses into noise and motion behind him—Hotch securing Kessler, Rossi shouting commands, Emily cuffing him down—but Spencer doesn’t register any of it. He reaches you like gravity finally remembered him.

“Hey—hey, hey,” he breathes, hands shaking as they go to your face immediately. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Your eyelids flutter.

"Spence ?" He nods, hands working at your restraints atfer he softly tears the IV out of your arm.

"Yeah, yeah, it's me. I'm here, alright, i'm here." Your body falls forward, exhausted, the second those restraints stop holding you up, your body folding like it’s been waiting for permission to collapse. Spencer catches you before you hit the ground. Immediately. Completely.

“No - no, no, no - hey, hey, hey - stay with me,” he says, voice cracking violently as he pulls you into him. “Stay with me, okay? Stay with me-look at me.” Your head lolls against his chest. He’s on the floor now without even realizing it. One arm under your shoulders. One hand pressed hard against the bandages on your abdomen like he can physically stop what’s happening inside you. He looks up, his eyes frantic.

"Derek ! Derek !" He calls as Hotch and the others disappear outside, pushing a cuffed Kessler with them. Derek's head snaps over and his face drains of color.

"Holy shit." He gasps, his chest heaving. Spencer chokes on a sob, pushing your hair away from your face.

"We-We need an ambulance. She-She's losing blood, she-" He gasps in a breath, shaking his head. "He’s got to have—he’s not carrying something like this without a reversal agent.” Spencer doesn’t look away from you. “Shelves,” he says instantly, voice raw but focused only on survival. “Look—look everywhere. Cabinets. Lockboxes. He wouldn’t leave it unbalanced.” Derek moves immediately. The timer ticks down like a taunt.

00:04:53.

Derek rummages through shelves, cabinets, drawers, cursing under his breath as he throws things on the ground. You clutch weakly at Spencer's vest, your hands shaking.

"Spence.." He shushes you, pressing his lips to your forehead.

"Hey, hey, don't talk, okay ? You're going to be fine. Just fine, okay ?"

"I-I'm so cold." You manage, shivers coursing through your body. Spencer grimaces.

"I know, baby, i know." He looks up. "Derek, where the fuck is that antidote !" Derek rips open another metal cabinet so hard the hinge screams in protest.

“I’m looking, I’m looking!” he snaps back, breathless, scanning shelves packed with medical bags, vials, and sealed containers that absolutely should not be here. “This guy is insane—”

Spencer hears none of it anymore. All of it narrows down to you. To the way your fingers are trembling against his vest. To the shallow, uneven rise of your chest. To the way your skin feels wrong beneath his hands—too cold, too fast to lose heat.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats again, but it’s not steady anymore. It’s breaking apart at the edges. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you—just stay with me, okay? Just—just stay with me.” Your head tips slightly against him. And for a second, his entire body goes rigid.

“No,” he whispers immediately, like he can undo it with the word alone. “No, no—hey—look at me. Look at me.”

Your eyes barely open. Barely there. But they do. And it ruins him.

“Got something!” Derek suddenly shouts from the far side of the room. Spencer’s head snaps up so fast it hurts. Derek holds up a small locked case - medical-grade, reinforced, labeled in a way that makes Spencer’s stomach drop immediately. “Is this it?” Derek demands. Spencer doesn’t even hesitate.

“Yes. Yes, that’s it - bring it here, now!” Derek slams it down beside them and Spencer’s hands are shaking so badly he almost fumbles the latch. The lock clicks open.

Inside: syringes. A sealed ampoule. A vial clearly marked in clinical print- ANTIDOTE.

He’s already drawing it up.

“Where do I—”

“Her arm,” Spencer says instantly, tearing his own focus into something sharp and functional because if he doesn’t, he’s going to fall apart completely. “Right arm - no, no - left - there, there - ” Derek moves in, steady hands taking over what Spencer can’t control anymore.

“I’ve got it,” Derek says low. Spencer nods too quickly, not letting go of you for even a second. His other hand stays pressed to your shoulder like an anchor. “Okay,” Derek says. “Injecting now.” The syringe depresses. For half a second, nothing happens. Then your body jerks—just slightly. Spencer makes a sound that’s halfway between a gasp and a sob.

“Hey - hey, hey,” he says immediately, hand cupping your cheek. "You're gonna be okay." But you're still slipping somewhere he can’t follow fast enough. “I’ve got you,” he repeats again, but now it’s desperate. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you - please - please don’t do this - ” Derek looks up sharply at the doorway, where JJ stands frozen.

"We need medical backup now!” JJ nods, rushing away.

Spencer sobs, then immediately chokes on it, pressing your hand tighter against his chest like he can force you to stay by sheer will alone. Footsteps thunder back in—Hotch, Rossi, Emily. Hotch sees you on the floor. And something in his face breaks cleanly. But Spencer can’t look at him. Can’t look at anyone. Because you’re right there in his arms and still not safe.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice collapsing completely now, tears spilling down without permission as he holds you closer. “Hey, hey- don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, okay? Please - please don’t leave me.” Your fingers twitch once.

Weak. Barely there. But it’s enough. Spencer grabs your hand immediately like it’s a lifeline.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, crying openly now, forehead pressing to yours. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s it. Come back to me. Come back—please, just come back to me.” Your shiver, a soft whimper drawing from your lips.

"I-I'm tired." You manage, shaking your head. Blood from your abdomen is still soaking your shirt, your pants, and Spencer is shaking.

"You-You can't sleep, baby. You have to- You have to stay awake. Keep your eyes open." The antidote has taken effect. The colour that had drained from your skin over the hour is coming back, and your breathing has returned to a normal pace. And the pain flooding back into your body is unbearable. You can feel the blood pumping out of you from your abdomen, and you groan weakly as you try to press your hand over the wound, only to find Spencer's hand already lodged there. You gulp, bringing your hand up to softly touch Spencer's cheek.

"Yo-You came for me." You rasp. Spencer chokes on a laugh, a desperate, wet thing.

"Of course I did." He mumbles. "How could I not ? God.." He gulps, shaking his head. "I love you." You smile, holding back tears as you cough. Your body trembles with shivers, and you groan.

"I-I'm sorry." You rasp, shaking your head. Spencer's heart drops. He shakes his head.

"Hey, hey- no. Don't apologise, you're going to be just fine, okay ? Y-You're going to be fine." You nod, smiling through the pain. You want to believe him.

You really do.

The antidote is working.

Derek said it is. Spencer knows it is. But you’re still so cold. Still shaking in his arms like your body can’t decide whether to stay or let go.

Spencer sniffles, brushing your hair away from your face.

"The ambulance is gonna be here any minute. They're going to make you all better. Okay ?" You nod.

"Okay." You say, forcing a smile, choking on the blood that creeps its way up your throat. "I love you, Spence." You rasp, shaking your head. Spencer’s heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic, desperate drumbeat of denial. He tightens his grip on your hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your cold knuckles.

“Don’t you dare say that like it’s a goodbye,” he orders, his voice a raw, broken thing. “It’s not a goodbye. You hear me? It’s an ‘I’ll see you in a minute.’ We’re going to have so much to talk about. Y-You're gonna rub this in my face, yeah ? Brag about how you-you survived this and i panicked for nothing.” He’s rambling, his brilliant mind reduced to a single, primal function: keep you here. Keep you with him. Your eyes are still on him, but they’re starting to lose focus, the light in them dimming like a candle in a draft. The smile on your lips is a ghost, beautiful and terrifying.

“Spence…” you whisper, and it’s the worst sound he’s ever heard, thin and reedy, threaded with the liquid rattle of fluid in your lungs. “It’s… so quiet.” He doesn’t understand what you mean. The room is chaos-Hotch’s clipped commands, Derek’s frantic pacing, the sound of JJ’s voice on the phone with dispatch. But then he realizes. For you, the world is collapsing. The sounds are fading, the pain is receding, and all that’s left is this.

Him.

“No, no, it’s not quiet,” he argues, his voice rising in panic. “It’s not. Just listen. Listen to me. I’m right here. I’m so loud, remember? You say I never shut up. So just… listen to me. Stay with me.” He’s pressing harder against the wound in your abdomen, a futile, desperate attempt to physically hold your life inside you. His hand is slick, warm, and the smell of copper fills the air, thick and suffocating. It’s the smell of his failure. Your breath hitches, a shallow, wet gasp.

"Tell… tell my dad… I’m sorry.” The words hit Spencer like a physical blow. Dad. Hotch, who is standing just feet away, right behind that door, pacing and shouting orders. Spencer can’t call for him. He can’t give him that. He can’t acknowledge the world beyond the circle of his arms.

“You’ll tell him yourself,” Spencer chokes out, tears streaming down his face, dripping onto your cheeks. “You’ll tell him tonight. When we get home. We’ll order Chinese food and you’ll tell him you’re sorry for worrying him, and he’ll pretend to be mad but he won’t be, and we’ll all be fine. We’ll be fine.” Your fingers, the ones he’s holding, twitch weakly. Your grip loosens. The pressure is gone. “No,” he whimpers, a sound so pathetic and full of pain it doesn’t even sound like him. “No, hold on. Hold my hand. Don’t let go. Don’t you let go of me.” Your eyes open again and you nod. He smiles, kissing your forehead. And then, through the cacophony of his own despair, he hears it. Faint at first, then growing stronger, clearer. A high, insistent wail that cuts through everything else.

Sirens.

Relief so profound it’s dizzying crashes over him. It’s the cavalry. It’s the answer. It’s another chance.

His head snaps up, his tear-blurred vision finding the window ahead.

“Did you hear that? They’re here. They’re almost here.” He looks back down at you, his face breaking into a wild, desperate grin. “You hear that, baby? You hear that? The ambulance is here. They’re here. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.” He’s laughing now, a wet, hysterical sound of pure relief, staring at the window as the red and blue lights start to show.

“We did it. We made it. Just hold on. Just a few more seconds. Please, just a few more seconds for me.” He looks back at the doorway, expecting to see the paramedics burst through with their bags and their machines and their magic. But the sirens are still distant, screaming down a street that’s too far away.

He looks back down at you. And the world stops. Your eyes are still open, but they’re not seeing him anymore. They’re fixed on a point just beyond his shoulder, glassy and vacant. The shallow rise and fall of your chest has stilled. The hand he’s clutching is limp and cool in his.

The silence in the room is absolute.

“No,” he whispers. The smile is gone from his face, wiped clean away. “No… no, no, no, no, no.” He shakes his head, a sharp, jerky motion of denial. “Hey… hey, look at me. Look at me. They’re here. The ambulance is here.” He shakes you gently, then a little harder. “Hey.. hey, look at me. You’re not allowed to do this. You’re not allowed to leave me. You hear me? C'mon, this isn't funny." He shakes you."Come on! Look at me.” But you don’t. You can’t. The sirens are closer now, screaming, a piercing, torturous sound. They’re the sound of hope arriving seven minutes too late. The door bursts open. Emily is the first one in, her face flushed and triumphant.

“Spencer! The ambulance is here, they’re coming, they’re—” She stops. Her eyes find Spencer, cradling your still body on the floor, and she sees everything. The blood. The stillness. The absolute, soul-crushing devastation on his face. Her triumphant shout dies in her throat, replaced by a small, choked gasp. Hotch is right behind her. He takes in the scene with one sweeping, all-seeing glance. He sees Kessler’s handiwork, he sees the discarded antidote, he sees Spencer on the floor. And then he sees you. He doesn’t make a sound. The unit chief, the man who faces monsters for a living, simply breaks. His shoulders slump, his face goes slack, and all the color drains from his skin. He stumbles forward a half-step, his hand reaching out, then falling back to his side. He knows. Emily rushes to Spencer’s side, her hand hovering over his shoulder, afraid to touch.

“Spencer…?” He doesn’t answer. He’s lowered his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body wracked with huge, silent, violent sobs that shake him to his core. He holds you tighter, rocking you back and forth, a desperate, rhythmic motion.

And Spencer Reid - who has spent his entire life understanding loss in theory before he ever had to survive it in practice - lets out a sound that is not human.

It rips out of him.

Raw.

Shattered.

“No - no, no, no, please - please, please - ” He pulls you closer instantly, like he can reverse it if he just holds you tighter.

Like physics can be negotiated.

Like love is supposed to win this.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, but it’s falling apart now. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you- You're okay. You're okay, you're okay, you're okay-”

"Reid." Derek's voice echoes around the small space. Spencer shakes his head. Spencer doesn’t hear him anymore.

Doesn’t hear Emily crying.

Doesn’t hear the radio chatter suddenly erupting outside as the medics arrive too late.

He just holds you. Like if he stops, even for a second, the truth will finish settling. Sirens flood the building outside. Red and blue light strobing through the broken doorway.

And still -Spencer is whispering your name into your hair like it’s a spell.

Like it’s the only thing left that still makes sense.

The paramedics finally burst through the doorway, their practiced efficiency grinding to a halt as they take in the scene. No one moves. No one breathes. The paramedics slowly back out of the room, hushed whispers echoing in the small space.

Spencer looks up, devastated.

"No.. No, where are they going ? They-They have to save her, they-"

"Reid." Derek rasps again, wiping at the tears falling down his face. He looks back down at you like it’s instinct, like he can anchor himself in you. But you don’t move. Not even a tremor. Not even the smallest betrayal of life returning. Just stillness. Heavy and final.

Spencer’s breath stutters.

Once. Twice.

Then completely stops behaving like it belongs to him.

His hand shakes as it smooths over your hair. So careful. So tender. Like you’re made of glass and he’s terrified of what happens if he presses too hard.

Emily makes a sound behind him—small, broken, human.

“Spencer…” she tries again, stepping closer like she might physically pull him out of it. But he flinches at her voice like it burns.

“No,” he snaps instantly, sharper than he means it. Then it collapses immediately into desperation. “No, no—don’t—” Hotch is still at the doorway. Still completely still. Like something inside him shut off in self-defense the second he understood. But his eyes don’t leave you. Not once. Not even when Rossi puts a hand on his arm and squeezes like he’s trying to hold him together by force. Spencer presses his forehead to yours again.

Harder this time. Like proximity alone can reverse biology.

“I got you,” he whispers, voice breaking into pieces now. “I got you, I got you, I got you—” His sentences stop making sense. They turn into fragments. Into breath. Into something raw and animal and terrified. “I didn’t—” he chokes, pulling you closer like he can physically shield you from the truth, “I didn’t get here fast enough. I didn’t—I didn’t—”

Derek steps forward again, slower this time. Careful. Like approaching something sacred and shattered.

“Reid,” he says quietly. “Kid…” Spencer shakes his head violently again.

“No,” he says again, but weaker now. So much weaker. “No, no, no- Just - just help her. Just - just fix it. Fix it - please - ” His voice breaks completely on the last word. And then he tries again, because Spencer Reid has always believed that understanding something well enough means you can change it. “If I - if I give her CPR - if I - if we - ” His hands move like they don’t belong to him anymore as they lay you down on the ground, flat on your back.

One presses to your chest. Wrong. Desperate. Begging.

“Spencer,” Emily says softly, tears finally spilling over now. “Spencer, stop—”

“No!” he shouts suddenly, panicked, frantic. “No, no, I can— I can do it. I can fix it. I can- I can-” His voice disintegrates mid-sentence. Because your body doesn’t respond. Because nothing changes. Because time doesn’t care how hard he tries. And that’s when it hits him all at once.

Not gradually. Not gently. All at once. Spencer goes completely still.

His hands freeze where they are on you. His breath catches like it’s been hooked on something sharp. He falls backwards, his hands coated in blood coming up to press against his eyes as he sobs. Emily is by his side in an instant, pulling him into her, rocking him as Derek sniffles and gets to his feet, walking over to your and softly guiding your eyes shut. Hotch swears under his breath, wrecked sobs escaping him, and he turns away from you, gasping for air as he rushes out into the night. Luke, Tara, JJ and Rossi have gathered in the doorway, watching as Derek grabs a folded sheet from one of the drawers and lays it down over you, clearing his throat.

"The- uh, the EMT's should come back in here. Take-" He clears his throat, "Take her to the morgue."

The timer beeps behind them like some sick alarm clock. They all look back and the flashing numbers.

00:00:00.

The seven minutes are up.

taglist !

The killer of all things good, sunk its teeth right through Leon’s carotid and dragged him off some years ago, it seems. You lean against the kitchen island and silently take in how barren your home suddenly is now. 

The pictures were the first things that went. Not that there were many of them to begin with, only a select few handpicked by Leon himself because he always looked like he was constipated in any you took — fishing trips with Chris, one trip to Italy Spring of 08’, a few from D.S.O. holiday parties, and some from end of year ceremonies when he was in between having too dark hair to be considered blonde and hair too light for it to be brown.

It’s surreal coming to terms that in a week this place’ll be someone else's problem. A new family will settle in and all traces of your marriage will be completely overwritten. They’ll argue over what color to paint everything over and start fresh. The sage green you’d painstakingly picked out with Leon would get replaced with something beige, or worse. Grey. 

God, isn’t that a dreadful thought. 

But, that’s the point of all this, you suppose. A full, fresh reset. If they want to paint over the ghosts of your marriage and turn over a new leaf, they can, they paid for the place after all. Hopefully they get around to fixing the creaks in the staircase or the leaky sink. Lord knows Leon was never going to get around to it.

You open your mouth to speak. "You talked to the realtor? Everything's squared away?" 

Despite being in the email thread, you still ask. The answer is a confident 'yes', it's just hard to fill in the blanks where laughter and easy breezy conversation is supposed to be. 

How do you even make conversation in this sort of scenario? Are you supposed to throw a blanket over the elephant in the room and ask him how’s it going? Pretend it isn’t there and talk about work? (Last you knew he was griping about having to take a rookie under his wing again. How long ago was that?) 

Ah. It’s a little too late anyways, the boxes are piled high beside the door, tomorrow they’ll come get the last of it and it’ll be on its way to storage til’ you both get your own places and move forward. Leon hasn’t gotten his own apartment yet, neither have you. Chris’s bachelor pad has gotten a little more sadder. 

“I don’t know, she didn’t call to confirm.” Leon starts, then grumbles beneath his breath. “Let me check...” 

He pops his hip against the island and reaches into his pocket. You frown. Didn’t he reply first? You could’ve sworn he had. You don’t call him out on his ‘bad memory’. Instead you settle in and watch his fingertips dance across the screen, let him pretend neither of you are on edge and painfully aware of the other.

You can't help but notice the pattern is the same. It’s those little things that become engrained enough for you to realize he hasn't changed his password yet, a string of numericals spell out your anniversary. 

You’d click your tongue and tease him for still having it set to something so sappy, something holds your tongue, dries it up and scatters the ashes elsewhere, the words ‘Seriously? You’re so corny,’ unwilling to form. 

You like to think he’ll change it after you’re gone, replace it with some other important date or nonsense and let the wound heal over. Yeah right. You roll your eyes at that. If you know anything about Leon, it’s that even if something wasn’t to have been his fault; he’d still lose sleep over it regardless. You must’ve exacerbated it by insisting it wasn’t. 

Is there even a chance he’d change that after you’re gone? 

You really can’t imagine a world where Leon would ever be the type to turn a new leaf and let the wound scab over, he’s always been the sort to pick and prod and keep it fresh and raw. Pour salt and a splash of lemon juice in it every once in a while wondering about the what could’ve beens and the what ifs. 

“You find it yet?” You prod, his finger gets to swiping again. 

“Still looking.” Leon grunts. You have half a mind to pull your own phone out and call his bluff, you’d find it in mere seconds. Leon’s got his lip jutting out and his brow pulled tighter than usual. He’s thinking. 

About what? 

Is he just trying to come up with something to talk about too before parting ways? That’s sweet, in a real sad, prolonging-the-inevitable way. 

And also probably just you projecting. 

Whatever, you’ll play along for now, let him have this. You’ll find something else to do while he turns questions over in his head and no doubt, handpicks the best joke to lighten the mood. 

Inevitably, your eyes wander. You can’t help but note Leon looks as if he’s aged another decade this past year, oddly enough. You don’t mean it in a bad way, he looks good. More than good. 

It’d be silly to say he looked anything less because of his age; you aren’t young either anymore, your roots show just as much as his do. Greys pop in faster year after year, but that doesn’t make you any less attractive. No, a mature woman is a well seasoned one, there’s an appeal to that.

The same applies to a mature man. 

Leon’s greys stand out like little grains of rye amidst wheat. You remember when he’d first noticed them, they looked like platinum highlights then, not so much now. He’d freaked out, ran his hands through his hair and sat on the couch for a good long while, worried himself to death that he’d be slowing down soon. He’d been thirty seven then. 

What did it matter if he wasn’t that young agent anymore? An older man is still a functional one, for the most part. If you ignore the wrinkles and looked shoulders down, you’d almost forget a man like him has real bad back problems.

Leon’s always managed to look leagues better than most men his age, he still has a waist anyone would understandably envy. His biceps have real muscle coiled through them, earned through hearty meals and rigorous exercise — no steroids or supplements here. 

Your eyes dip from his pinched brow, down the slope of his nose and towards the main attraction. His sleeves are rolled up to expose his forearms, veins pressing firmly against skin, no extra skin to sag and leave him soft. 

Leon’s handsome, always has been. Makes you wonder what he saw in you to stay all these years.

 There isn’t necessarily anything special about you, as lame as it is to accept and admit. Back then you'd felt like you’d been shoved into the deep end of the pool and left to drown when you’d stumbled onto the dating scene, a doe caught in sights. 

Leon had to have had other options, anyone with eyes could come to that conclusion. It always gnawed on your nerves, that thought; he could’ve had anyone else, someone with more experience, more confidence, more everything in whatever department you lacked in. 

But he stayed with you. Through all the bumps, Leon patiently held your hand, kissed your worries away, and promised he’d be there tomorrow. You guessed it was easy for him to be there when your flaws were considerably smaller in comparison to his.

Your eyes flit up to his face again, they trace the moles and beauty marks, one hidden against his adam's apple, another beside his nose, the rest are scattered across his body. Your eyes linger on his jaw. It’s hard to ignore he’s let his stubble get a bit scruffy, salt and pepper dotting above his lips and below. 

Leon never let it stay for that long because it never came in evenly. It was his biggest gripe. He’d run his hand along his chin and complain underneath his breath every other morning. If you could chalk it up to a change in style, that he’d suddenly decided to let it go rogue, you would. 

But you know he’s the type to stick with what works. 

He cared more about maintaining it with you around, it seems. You look away before he could notice you’re staring, focus all your attention on the marble counter top. 

God you hate yourself. You hate him, you hate this house, you hate everything that has to do with the ugly thoughts that led you to settle on divorce. 

If you could disappear into the walls, tuck yourself behind drywall and become some ghost story, — ‘…didn’t Leon used to have a wife…?’ ‘Yeah, but they got her.’ sort of deal — you would. He’s used to loss and grief, it would’ve been a much easier pill to swallow if you’d been lost. It would’ve been better for your love story to end with an em dash. 

But you’re alive, and you’re here, and the papers will be signed come Monday.

Your cheek finds its place against the palm of your hand. You’re certain Leon’s bullshitting you about looking for that confirmation email. It’s been three minutes of this tense god forsaken silence. 

The grey clouds outside are suddenly more interesting than thinking about or looking at Leon, Leon, Leon.

Outside, summer rain showers bring the promise of thunderstorms, muddy roads, petrichor and puddles. There was a time where you loved the rain, before Leon. (There he is again, he waltzes around in your head and you wish he’d trip.)

You’d open your windows and let the sound lull you to sleep, then get annoyed when a puddle would form on the floor or on the window sill. A few drops splatter against the window pane, the first to trail down like tears. 

After Leon, you couldn’t find too much beauty in it, not when you’d wake and find him wide eyed, staring at the ceiling. He never did like stormy nights, you always found him staring up at nothing in the middle of the night, stuck in some trancelike state you had to navigate carefully lest you step on a landmine. 

You find yourself hoping Leon’ll be alright tonight. He never did tell you why he was so clammy, always had something to do with work and you got it, you did. You just hope he doesn’t take to the bottle again.

On the other hand, you still find it difficult to sleep without having him next to you. A mountain of pillows makes for a poor substitute, can’t replicate his warmth or the sound of his breathing whenever he would manage to fall asleep before you did. 

You shift and let hands your clasp together against marble, forehead pressed against them in mock prayer. What does he really think about all this? Like really think. Not the stuff he’d said to try and make this seem amicable and mutual. 

Is he as nervous as you are? Does he even want to make small talk? Is he just waiting for you to bring the axe down again? 

‘Hey, I gotta go, actually. Thanks for the years and whatever, bye.’ You’d love to kiss the barrel right about now if he really is just waiting for you to initiate the goodbye sequence and you’ve just been standing here waiting this whole time, deluding yourself.

You want to laugh. Small talk. That’s what you’ve both been reduced to. The last hour you had both been so focused on clearing out what was left of the place there was no real time to try and play house again. He’d give you that awkward stare if you tried to ask him what he thought about the weather lately.

God, what if he hated you?

"Mhm." Leon finally grunts and breaks you out of your reverie, pulls you out the downward spiral before it can drag you under. "Everything’s good. The attorneys are settling the split." He slips his phone back into his pocket and turns, taps his fingers idly against the marble.

You lift your head up, your smile tight and out of place. “That’s good,” You sigh and rest your chin in the palm of your hand again as you settle into a ‘relaxed’ posture. “I’m glad it sold for more. Would’ve been a scam if it didn’t.”

Leon opens his mouth to say something, all that comes out is a quiet ‘amused’ scoff before his eyes go downcast in thought. Conversation was never this hard to make with you. Its weird how suddenly you two became estranged. You shared meals, a bed, a home and last names for years, yet somehow it feels like he doesn't know you at all anymore.

It feels wrong. 

Ending things was never his forte, should he just say goodbye, shake your hand and call it a day? Things would be easier that way, it'd be a cleaner, neater, less awkward cut than whatever this was quickly becoming.

And there it is again. The silence. You run your tongue across your teeth and bite back your sigh. God you hate him.

It's funny to think there was a time where you could just skip town, stop answering calls and travel around. Just drift from coastal city to coastal city, wind in your hair, sun on your skin. But you can’t really ghost your ex-husband now can you? Not when you’re this close to the finish line. 

Maybe in the future you’ll consider it, punishment for some guy who won’t understand signals of disinterest, if you even decide to date after Leon. 

Leon opens the door for escape, "You need a ride or..." 

“No!” You scramble to pull your own phone out, “No, I got um. I got one…I’m staying with Val, she actually dropped me off so…I’ll just call…” You trail off and start typing out your; ‘Hey girl! Everything’s packed up :) Save me from this please?’ message. 

“Val?” Leon drawls the name out like it’s unfamiliar, your friend group is a variable he never considered much, a bunch of girls he’d heard about a handful of times and saw very little of towards the end. 

Your friends never really came around to begin with, living cities apart tends to put that sort of strain when it comes to keeping close. And if they did come around he was always off somewhere else, saving the world and wondering if you’d had dinner midway through. 

“Yeah, Val. You met her.” You clarify, brows drawing together in confusion. “At our wedding, she was a bridesmaid? The red head?”

Leon contemplates this. It’s not that he didn’t remember your wedding and who all was there, it’s that all he really remembers from that day is you, you can’t fault him for that. 2007 was a long, long time ago and the world nearly ended a handful of times in between the years. 

…Lanshiang, New York, Alcatraz — to name a few. Forgive him for not memorizing the bridal party. 

Then, it clicks. He remembers a Valerie, though he’s not sure if it’s this Val. How could he get it wrong? How many red heads go by Val anyways?

He nods and snaps his fingers, stuttering on a hum. “She uh, she’s the girl who fell during...” He trails off and scratches the nape of his neck. 

You finish the sentence for him. “Her heel snapped before the photos.” You snort. There we go, it did ring a bell.

“Right. Her.” He leans against the island too, mirrors you and glances towards the front door as if she’d walk right in and haul you away by your forearm, save you from this situation and that’ll be that.  

“Is she on her way?”

You glance down at your phone and feel your heart sink. “She’s forty something out…” You mutter and offer him a small awkward smile. Leon’s brows furrow again. “She lives on the other side of town.” You tack on and wave your own set of keys at him. 

“You can go, I know you have that thing with Chris, right? I can lock up.”

The thing with Chris. You say it as if it’s a super important event and not the two of them drinking themselves numb in the corner of some poorly lit dingy sports bar. He loved that about you, always managing to find some way to make things sound better than what they were. 

He’ll miss that. He’ll miss a lot of things, actually.

“I can wait.” He shrugs. “Chris isn’t doing much today. He’s..”

“…still on bed rest.”

“…still healing from his last mission?

You both finish the sentence at the same time. Different variations but the same conclusion at the end of the day; Chris’s arm is fucked.

Leon snorts, a small smile makes its way onto his face. “How’d you know?”

“Claire.” You smile back.

That’s another thing. Your lives were so intertwined it’s gonna be hard to ignore you’re gone next time they all go out for drinks. It already is.

“So forty minutes?”

“I guess.”

— x-x-x-x-x-x —

Somehow, you both end up in the garden. It’s easier to sit in silence when you’ve got the rumbling of thunder and the chirping of frantic birds to fill it for you. The only place where you can comfortably sit on is the bench bolted down to the gazebo in the backyard anyways. 

The movers took the couch weeks ago, the staircase grew to be bad for Leon’s back after five minutes. At any rate, you’re sure a nail would come through if you sat on it for long.

There’s a respectable distance between you two where you’re perched, not enough room for Jesus, but it’s certainly there. Soft purple passionflower, fruity and fragrant, trails down the column beside you, its vines searching blindly for something to cling to. 

You steal a glance at Leon. He’s sat with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his head tipped back, adam’s apple protruding like he’s got something stuck in his throat, his eyes are closed, seemingly content to take a load off and soak in the sounds. 

You settle in too, not as comfortably as he has, but enough to let out whatever tensions left over. You’ll miss this place. 

The garden always was your favorite, Leon had the gazebo installed year five as an anniversary gift, one peek at the board of magazine clippings you kept was all it took for him to hire contractors and plan it out. You’d bought flower bulbs in bulk just so you had something to do while he painted it white. 

Come spring it always brought in all sorts of bugs and pollinators — mourning cloaks, and sootywings on overcast days, monarchs and swallowtails if the sun was bright enough. You wonder if the next family will tear it down in favor of a pool or something. A playground for the children you and Leon never got around to having or if they’d install one of those little playgrounds like the neighbors had. 

Absent-mindedly, you bring up a random memory that pops up in your head. “You remember when the neighbors built that privacy fence and put that big ass camera up?”

Leon snorts, he pries his eyes open and stares at nothing in particular. “That guy was a nut job.” Leon mutters.

You laugh and shift in your seat, conversation rumbles to life, purring contentedly. “We always had shitty neighbors.” You hum, dipping further in. It’s easy to talk about the past. “Remember back when we lived in those shady apartments?” 

It takes Leon a while, but it dawns on him eventually. He only lived in two apartment complexes with you, the last one was nice and isolated, notably. The unit across was empty the two years you both stayed there — something about it being the landlord's show unit. 

That leaves the other option, and those apartments make way more sense. The apartments he used to live in near the DSO, back when he actually valued being on time and you two had just started dating. Living there was fine for him; it wasn't until you moved in that he realized he had to get you both out of there. Being near a government building doesn’t necessarily guarantee the people’ll be model citizens.

“Yeah. Yeah I do.” He grunts. “The guy who always thought we were stealing his packages. Asshole tried breaking in didn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” It sounds ugly when he puts it like that. “He was just…on something.”

Leon rolls his eyes and stares at you deadpan. ‘On something.’ It doesn’t exactly give a man permission to bust down a door over what ended up being a package that got held by customs. That’s another thing, you always downplayed things. It’s a huge part of why he can’t believe you when you say it’s not his fault. 

He’s known you for years and still can’t find a real deal-breaking fault, but he can pinpoint all of his. So how is he supposed to think that somehow you’re the reason this didn’t work? 

“Right.” he drags it out, making it clear he doesn’t believe you. He wasn’t home for it, so all he ever had to go off of was the frantic phone call you’d made. That guy was on something, though. Had to be. “I should’ve just moved into your place.” 

You quirk a brow. Your place? 

Your apartment before him was less of a home and more of a shoebox, it had the basics but that was it. One bedroom that instantly transitioned into kitchen, dining room and entryway. If the neighbors smoked, you smelled it.

You huff. “My place wasn’t any better.” 

At least Leon’s had a hallway. And it was near a park you’d both frequented when he wasn’t too tired after work. Dumbarton Oaks with its fields of peonies, tulips and draping wisteria. 

You don’t think you can ever go back to it without thinking about Leon, he’s cursed to haunt the grounds with you forever, your hand in his, his eyes on you.

Your lips curl slightly at the edges. He loved that place in the spring too. You turn your head to face him a little better. “Do you remember—“

“Sorry I never got you that dog.” Leon says out of the blue. 

Whatever you’d wanted to drudge up slinks back into sludge. It gets a little reaction out of you though, the words die in your throat. Your expression is a mix of bewilderment and amusement - brows twitching, lips pursing. Why does that matter now? 

It’s a cliche, the pet every couple gets and then has to coparent. You forgot all about that, he’s dusted those memories off and buffed them out. The late night conversations that came whenever you’d bring it up come roaring to the forefront, the ones that always ended up turning into plans for the future. 

At the time, you’d shown him some big, dumb looking chocolate lab with its tongue lolled out and its head cocked to the side, of course he said no. It was too big a dog.

‘We should get a dog, there’s this shelter nearby that...’ 

‘…No, we don’t even have room for a dog that big…‘ 

‘…we can only get a dog if our kid asks for one? That’s not fair, that’s so far away!’

‘Sounds fair to me, princess. A dogs a big responsibility…’

‘Yeah, I know. I had three, but what if…’

But that was then. This is now. A dog really would’ve been nice, it would’ve made the house feel a little less lonely, Leon wouldn’t have had to install so many cameras if you had gotten a big dog like you wanted but…

“Sorry, what were you gonna say?”

You wave the memories away, tuck them back into whatever box they tumbled out of. “No it’s fine,” You tuck one leg up onto the bench and wrap your arms around it. 

“I know you were like, scared of them.” 

Leon scoffs,  “I wasn’t scared of dogs.” It sounds absurd. It sounds weak when you put it like that out loud. Leon. The D.S.O. 's legendary and longest standing agent. Leon.

Leon S. Kennedy. Afraid of dogs. 

“You’re not?”

“No, it’s just,” he pauses, and you wish you’d just let it go. 

There’s a story there he never told you. You wish you couldn’t read him so well either, but his eyes tighten around the corners and give him away, he never could look you straight in the eye when he was hiding something or lying. 

“Does it really matter now?” He settles for that, doesn’t mean to sound so bitter, but he does. 

There’s a lot of things Leon never told you about nor explained; the keychain, the nightmares, why he’d been so exhausted as of late, and why he’d pulled away and why he’d been disappearing, — another thing you had to forgive, your lawyer would’ve hounded him in court if you hadn’t. — everything is on a need to know basis, and you technically, don’t need to know. 

There’s no point in badgering him in attempts to get him to spill his guts. These things really do just…not matter anymore, if you couldn’t get him to be honest while married or at least extend a sliver of an olive branch, then what’s the point in trying to do it now? 

They can remain as he’d like them; mystery’s, left abandoned to collect dust alongside the memories. 

You try for something light hearted, your smile is soft at the edges, understanding as much as it could be. “It’s fine to be afraid of dogs.” You tease and roll your eyes, nudge his shoulder with yours. “I would’ve been fine with a cat. Or a little dachshund, we didn’t have to get a lab.”

Leon rolls his eyes and leans away from you, slumps into his corner of the bench. It isn’t odd for him to do this, now that he’s got a grip on himself he does this when he’s found himself needled. Instead of reaching for the bottle, he shuts the doors and searches for some sort of reprieve, walks circles in that head of his and still lets the concept of ‘talking things out’ go forgotten.

Ah, you’ve walked yourself into a trap. Your smile falters, and just like that, the easy going atmosphere dissipates like a drop of water in a hot pan. 

Was it something you said? (Of course it was.) Or was it something you hadn’t? Did he want an apology? Some sort of understanding? Maybe you should’ve brushed it off, said ‘No, I really really didn’t want a dog anyways, let’s talk about the park please.’ and steered the course back to safer waters. 

It doesn’t matter, you repeat. It really doesn’t. You’re stuck in a loop of apathy, dancing to a tune you don’t quite recognize and can’t turn off. The pitter patter of rain softens its sharp edges, though it doesn’t completely erase the need to fill it with something light hearted. 

You glance down at the tan line on your ring finger. It’ll take a while to go away, a lighter shade to remind you of what once was until you slip on another. Though you doubt you’ll remarry. Your eyes find Leon again, you wish it was easy to get lost in your thoughts and forget he’s here, let the minutes pass in relative peace; it’s harder to ignore the fact he’s still got his ring on.

You curl your fist and pray he hasn’t noticed yours is missing, it’s tucked away in velvet, left on your vanity to lose its sparkle. The guilt settles heavy in your heart, a snake creeping through the grass that makes you think twice; why does he still have it on? Was it too early to take it off? 

There must be some sort of guideline to divorce etiquette you’re missing. 

Was there a vital bullet point tucked in one of the blog posts you skimmed through that you actually needed to read? ‘The Do’s and Dont’s of divorce; don’t take your ring off until months after your divorce is settled, it looks bad if you do.’ or some other quirky point written by some ‘journalist’. 

The answer to why he has his on is simple, why kid yourself? Leon didn’t want this, there’s no room for miscommunication there. No oh, well, maybe he knew it was dead and didn’t want to pull the plug first, no chance of saying it was mutual even if it might be amicable. 

He took so long to sign the papers, dragged his feet and had his lawyer plead for separation first instead under the guise of managing assets and other legal jargon neither of you ever thought you'd have to care for. 

You know he was hoping you’d change your mind, that therapy would’ve made you have a come to Jesus moment and rescind your demand. Unfortunately for him, it hadn’t. And at the altar when he’d said forever and always; he’d meant it, every single word. 

Then, his hair had been shades brighter and a little shorter, his eyes less crinkled at the edges, his suit and tie impossibly starched and a cold sweat had settled at the nape of his neck, he’d stopped wiping it away lest other people notice. 

It was funny to look back on, Mr. Suave rendered down to a fidgeting groom the second the organ began. Every nerve had lit itself on fire the moment you’d walked down the aisle to meet him at the finish line. 

At what moment in time had the spark fizzled? What had he missed? (Besides birthdays, trips you’d started to organize alone - no longer clinging to hoping he’d get the days off, and date nights.)

Suddenly the world’s been turned over on its head and he’s meant to forget all about you and all the things you like. Life is supposed to go on and he’s supposed to let the feeling of your hand in his become a distant memory; you’ll be preserved in an imperfect film, the exact moment you fell out of love burned away in the negatives.

One thing resurfaces, however, was this why?

“You think we waited too long to have kids?” Leon asks with the subtlety of breaking glass. Was it then? Had he waited too long? You never gave him a clear answer the night you’d asked for divorce, he can’t help but want to peel it all back and get some clarity. 

Would you have stayed if he had gotten you pregnant? The question buzzes around in Leon’s head violently, he’s poked a hornets nest, the poison sinks into his system because the answers yes, isn’t it? 

You stiffen visibly, the spotlight is rather harsh. Your heart stutters and comes to a stop in your chest. You hate this line of questioning, everything in your body’s gotten the jitters. So it seems he remembers those conversations too. The topic always came up, in conversation with friends, after grocery trips, in the comfortable silence that followed after dinner. 

The house always felt like something was missing. A dog, a cat, a damned parrot. Something that made noise. Something that breathed life into this house. Anything so long as it wasn’t just you and the late night news. 

Those two little babies always manifest and never go away when you think about them too hard. The pitter patter of little feet running up the stairs. A boy with that cute little dimple in his chin. A girl with moles scattered around like ink droplets. 

What traits or physical attributes would they have gotten from you? Would they have been all Leon in the face or would hints of you be there too? You would’ve torn the gazebo out for them too if they wanted a pool. But, you have to let them go. 

You know now the solution would’ve never been children, they would’ve simply been just that; another thing that would’ve filled the silence that came after he was gone.

The only semi-truthful answer you can find comes out naturally. “I…I don’t know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye. Leon’s jaw is shut tight, molars working against themselves to death.

You’ve come to terms with that, it’s too late to have any of your own either way. No choice but to march on with time. You don’t resent him for wasting your youth, Leon couldn’t ever change the fact he was a man who would’ve never really been home, you knew that when you married him. 

You just thought that something would’ve changed down the time. Maybe things would've been different. 

That’s on you isn’t it? 

“Did you really want kids?” You don’t shy away from asking. Dreaming out loud with Leon was your favorite pastime.

Leon rubs his hand against the scruff on his chin, manages to grit out, “Always wanted a girl.” He risks it, meets your gaze head on. “Would’ve looked like you.” 

Your eyes widened slightly, thrown off guard. “Still?”

You figured he would’ve changed his mind and wanted a boy like every other guy seemed to want, could’ve raised him up to be like himself. Named him Leon Jr or something dorky. Just not Scott. You wouldn’t have let him name your son something that dorky. Leon can let that die with him.

“Yeah.” Leon smiles, it brightens the storm clouds around him, it's infectious, you feel your own lips itching to match his mood. He’d have been a good girl dad, he’s got some experience, after all. 

“Yeah?” You reach out and shove him lightly, a real smile tugging on your lips. “You would’ve annoyed the hell out of her.” For the first time since you’ve started this whole process, Leon chuckles. The sound is low and rich though carrying a weight he lets out in the sigh that follows. 

“You annoyed the hell out of me.” You murmur in jest, it’s lighthearted, he knows. “But she would’ve loved you for it, I loved you for it.” You rest your cheek against the top of your knee and trace the lines on his face, he’s still as handsome as the day you met him, you don’t even notice what you’re starting to say. 

“Still do.”

Leon stares back, his eyes have widened a bit but that all doesn’t matter much now. He’s still your tired Leon with his sad blue eyes, worry lines etched in his forehead. With his greys poking out through the blonde — if it could even be considered that anymore, it’s as brown as ale now, aged just like that. — that frames his face. He barely even has smile lines but he musters another big one up for you, accentuates them. 

“Yeah?” He rumbles lowly.

You don’t retract it. “Yeah.” 

Time itself seems to come at a standstill, everything else blurs. And suddenly, it’s the first summer you both spent out in the countryside after he came back from Spain, and it’s beginning to feel like you never uttered ‘I think this just isn’t working anymore.’ to him.

It rained then too. You could almost pretend that’s where you’re at again, out in the middle of nowhere skinny dipping like brain dead teens in horror flicks, he’d questioned how smart the idea was yet still followed you into the lake muttering warnings to ward off ‘big ass fishes’.

Leon shifts in his seat, turns his body towards you subtly. This is a bad idea. You swallow the thought, Don’t, don’t.. your heart races in your ears and drowns out any reason.

You shouldn’t play with his feelings. Your gaze is pulled downward to settle on his lips, dusky pink and still plush. Don’t. You remember when he’d stopped shaving, somewhere in between 2014 and 2015, you used to hate the beard burn then, you wouldn’t mind feeling it again now.

“I’m sorry, I…” You mutter, “I..I shouldn’t have…”

Leon’s eyes flick down just a fraction too. He always did like the slow burn, you’d play coy and dance around what you wanted, and it’s killing him to know all he’ll have after this is memories that’ll slip through his hands like sand. 

The fractures start to show, eyes lingering a second too long for people who are supposed to be moving on after this. The distance between you two became negligible somewhere along the lines enough for them to have long dissolved. 

You both move at the same time, all coordination goes forgotten when you come to connect, his nose knocks against yours before your lips finally meet again after having spent half a year apart. Your other hand latches onto the front of his shirt, his finds the curve of your cheek, the jigsaws always fall into place.

Your tongue rolls over and against his, the scant space when lips part is filled with shared breaths and desperate pants, the rains pouring down eagerly now, splashing off the gazebos railing and splattering against the stone, but none of that matters now, not when he’s hauling you onto his lap by your hips like old times. 

Your hand reaches out to tangle in his hair as you shift  and crowd him against the benches corner, Leon’s hand grips your waist, adjusting your thighs to bracket his. 

“Right here?” He cracks one eye open. Yours are screwed shut.

“Mhm.” You pant, your breath is hot against his lips, his teeth clack against yours. “Please.”

That sweet little ‘please’ does all the work for you, his blood rushes southbound all in one millisecond, they left one blood cell in charge upstairs and that one too is screaming ‘go! go! go!’. 

Leon keeps you firmly on his lap, one hand rests against the small of your back while the other scrambles down south, working his fly open just enough for future ease. Your lips meet his time and time again, it’s nice to kiss him when he doesn’t taste like whiskey, even better after being deprived of him for so long, you’ll ignore that it’s self inflicted. 

His tongue licks into your mouth softly, swipes against yours with a sigh of relief. How long has he been thinking of doing this again? Too long. It’s hard to kill his attraction for you, it isn’t some switch he can just turn off. 

You’re it for him, you always were and always will be. It doesn’t matter if he’s gotta sit parallel to you and sign his name on a line come Monday, if it makes you happy. He’ll do it. But right now he can be a little selfish, can’t he?

“This is a bad idea.” You hiss, a reminder to you both, his hand still works its way up your ass, hiking your pencil skirt up enough to expose a whisper of lace. 

“I know.” Leon murmurs against your lips, swallows down whimpers and gasps alike. “Just once. ‘s all it has to be.”

Liar, liar, liar, liar— 

You cling onto that just once and guide his hands. He’s right. It’s all it has to be. Just one teensy mistake.

You nod dumbly, helping him shove your panties aside, his fingers prod along your slit clumsily, that sharp intake when he dips them between flesh makes you feel slightly self conscious, you’re wet, unmistakably so. He parts your folds with a quiet click and all your worries melt away the second he finds your clit, rubs it softly with his index and makes you stutter out a sweet little moan.

“You needed this, huh?” Leon huffs, it’s easy to fall into line, he hasn’t forgotten this dance just yet, his fingers circle and your clit, “Didn’t mean to let it get this bad.” 

Your eyes flutter shut before opening again to watch his face. Leon presses his forehead against yours and closes his own. Two slip in down to the knuckle and out to the tip, rhythmically pumping into your entrance playfully, enough to stimulate, not enough to please. 

He did let it get this bad, what with him being gone all the time and leaving you with nothing but a bunch of plastic to fill in the gaps, how gracious of him to finally make it up to you. But you won’t leave him hanging, even if you should.

“Let me help,” You sighed, “please?” 

There it is again, that magic word. He never could say no to you, didn’t help he never wanted to in the first place. Leon shifts slightly, tips his hips up and lets you do all the work, it’s hard to focus on anything else but the warmth radiating from between your legs. 

Your hand slipped in between you both to find his length, through the fabric of his briefs he’s warm but noticeably, soft. Half-hard, if you were generous, nearly flaccid if you weren’t, it would’ve been a bit of a blow to your ego if the problem was you there. But it wasn’t. Your hand still slips into that weird little gap in his briefs, it was for easy access you assumed.

It was him, age does these things after all, nothing to be ashamed about, though you know he is, in fact, ashamed. You can count on your hands how many times you’ve seen him get pouty when you’d recommend that little blue pill.

“Still having problems?” You murmur against his lips, languidly stroking him to life, thumb rubbing the vein along the side, slipping up to tug the skin encasing his frenulum down, worrying the edge of his cock head til it starts to weep pearly beads of pre-cum.

“Don’t put it like that.” Leon groaned, pushing his cock further into the cradle of your hand, rubbing his fingers through your folds a little harder before lightly smacking them against your pussy for punishment, you jolt and squeeze a little too hard. “Still working, isn't it?”

Now it is. You rut against his fingertips for more, press a kiss to the tip of his nose and smoosh your forehead against his. “Yeah.” You glance down in between you both, watching your hands work in tandem, his stuffed between your thighs, yours working over his lap. 

Leon’s cock stiffens up to attention, all his blood going right where it needs to be, thickened up and engorged as much as it could possibly go, your thumb drags a few more beads down to slicken him up, palm twisting to work him not over, but nearly. 

Your eyes squeeze shut, your strokes lose their rhythm, blurring faster than you intended, you could never lie that when it comes to this, Leon knows you as well as you know him, maybe even more so, he’d turned you into his own pull apart - put back together attraction over the span of a decade or two and somehow never managed to get bored. 

Always found something new to fixate over, a new place to bite, another to nip and suckle at. If you were in your bedroom, he’d have you belly down, ass up for the next hour or with his arm coiled around your neck, but, alas. From here on out, you could only dream. 

A choked whine leaves your lips, the slick that’s collected on his fingers makes for easy traction, his fingers work in earnest, two spread your entrance open, scissoring before twisting in deeper. Leon feels the exact moment the pads of his digits start to bully your sweet spot, your cunt clings to him and your whimpers scream: Right there, there, there, there— 

But, he stops and pulls out abruptly. Your pussy clenches strongly around nothing, a protest of its own that leaves you chasing the feeling you’re being suddenly denied of, humping the air and wondering where his fingers went. It isn’t long until you figure it out. 

You let go of his cock when you feel him take over for you, gripping at the base and effectively relieving you of duty.

“You ready?” His other hand cups the bottom of your ass cheek and tugs it aside, spreading you open and lining himself up clumsily. The tip of his cock nudges against your opening and notches itself to land. You bite the tip of your tongue and fight the urge to impale yourself with him.

“C’mon, yes or no.” Your eyes flick up to Leon’s face. He’s so smug. Staring up at you with that little gleam in his eyes and an easy grin. He sinks you down just an inch more, watches you gasp before tugging you back up. Bastard.

“Yes, please.” You nod dumbly and wrap your arms around him like he’s come home from a particularly long mission, let your body cover his and spread your legs as much as you can without making it hard on him.

The ruddy tip of his cock kisses your folds again, he misses once before he finally notches himself in, parts them with relative ease, sinking in deeper inch by inch and ignoring how his cock kicks and throbs with each warm sigh you let out against him. Your pussy is mind-meltingly warm, slick and viselike, if he weren’t careful he would’ve shoved himself into you instantaneously. 

Leon was big, there’s no room for arguing there, he’s always had a cock that makes you think twice before going in with little to no preamble like this, if it hadn’t been for his hands holding you steady you would’ve squirmed away, begged him to kiss it better and really work you open with his fingers, not whatever he was doing before. 

It felt like he was splitting you open in the best and worst ways possible, each whimper and whine soothed away bit by bit by him shushing you and rubbing little circles into the divots of your hips to distract you.

One thought makes its way through the haze. You aren’t going to last, your thighs squeeze shut as best as they can, granting your poor clit the friction it’s still begging for, though in a small amount. It’s hard for Leon to focus on lasting in the first place too when your pussy hugs him so tightly, it misses him, that much is clear. 

Maybe that’s the part of you that misses him more than your heart does. 

His fingers dimple the fat of your hips, squeezing and kneading, savoring the way flesh gives beneath the pads of his fingertips, if he holds on hard enough he won’t let himself get carried away by the wave. 

“You okay?” Leon pants. He presses kisses where your cleavage is pressed against his face. Suffocate him, why don’t you? 

You peer down and catch his gaze. Leon’s pupils are blown, black swallows up blue until it’s a thin line just around, eyes half-lidded like he’s on downers and ready to nod off. You like Leon most when he’s just as lost as you are, makes you wonder why you stopped having sex in the first place.

“Uh-huh,” You cradle the back of his head and press him closer against you. “C’mon, kiss ‘em for me.” Your other hand tugs the cups of your breast down just a bit, enough to pop a tit out and offer it up for his pleasure. 

You don’t have to tell Leon twice, he takes one into his mouth and teases your nipple between his teeth, biting down hard enough to make you shudder out a moan and shut your eyes. The pleasure-pain has your pussy clenching around him tighter than it has before.

“Fuck,” Leon hisses in between kisses, his hips jolt forward to chase his own pleasure now that your body’s reminded him exactly where his dicks at. Leon starts to steadily rut up into you like it’s your last day on earth. 

And in a way he isn’t wrong, it surely feels like it is. 

Any moment now a big rock will come flying down and wipe out humanity and you’ll die in his arms like you’re meant to. Vows always speak of for better or for worse, until death do us part. So what is he to do after this?

His palm slides down to grip onto the soft flesh of your ass, uses it as leverage and holds you just where he wants you. He’d take you hostage if he didn’t have morals. 

You tip your head back and let out a low throaty moan, arch closer and plaster your tits further against his mouth. “Shit—” You whine, your hands plant themselves firmly against his shoulders, “Leon,”

Your mouth hangs open, half choked moans and words tumbling out in between gasps. Leon’s constantly adjusting his hold on you, starting to become uncertain with where to put his hands. Too pussy drunk to really care, each thrust sends a wave of heat through your core.

Your nails dug in as much as they could, praying they’ll rip through fabric and make contact with skin, score him to make certain he’s real and this isn’t some dream you’ll wake up from to find yourself sweat slicked and embarrassed to see you’ve rutted yourself against a pillow.

How long has it been since he’s last fucked you? A year? Two? Your cunt answers for you, too soaked for it to have been any less. No, it couldn’t have been that long. The last time you’re certain he had you like this was after he’d come back from the middle of nowhere, it doesn’t narrow it down but you know you’d been crying then too. 

You always do.

Wait.

You’re crying? 

You open your eyes and stare up at the roof, a snotty intake of air and a real sob is all Leon needs to hear to come to this realization too. Your chest expands and stutters half way. You’re crying?? The lump in your throat is confirmation.

“Why’re you crying?” Leon rasps out, your heart is being squeezed in a vice, he slows his thrust. His cock slides in and out in languid, syrupy strokes meant to let you get a grip, give him an answer that isn’t ’I don’t know.’ or a moan.

You force yourself to tilt your head down, sobbing softly against him. It’s not that you don’t know what you’re about to say, it’s that fucking Leon without saying it feels wrong. You love him. You do love him. Enough to let him go. Enough to not let your relationship deteriorate further. You still love him enough to be able to say it and mean it. 

“I love you,” You whisper hoarsely, “God, I love you.”  your own hips start to work themselves in tandem with his, taking him in deep and whimpering when the tip of his cock starts to shift from hammering against that little spot to grinding against it, wringing stars out from the sky’s above. 

Leon groans like you’ve punched him in the gut, in a way you did, his head tips back and rests against the bench’s back rest. His eyes screw shut. You don’t mean that. You couldn’t mean that. Not while you’re drunk off pleasure and high off the tension, it isn’t real this way. 

“I love you,” You repeat raggedly, dipping your head down to hide against the crook of his neck, your spines being lit ablaze, flames traveling up the base to melt your brain. You whine his name and curl further into him. He shifts just enough to press his forehead against yours again. His jaw clenches.

Your noses bump against each other unapologetically. 

“I know,” He grunts, “I got you, fuck, baby I got you. Always do.”

The truth is, he doesn’t. He hardly ever had time for you those last few months. And you can’t stand feeling so alone anymore, missed birthdays, holidays, anniversaries...it all piled up. You’d rather die than end up one of those bitter bored housewives who stayed for the money. 

You love Leon enough to know he deserves better. You know he feels guilty for not being home so often, it’s best to just rip the bandaid off now. 

At least for now you can believe it, pretend everything’s alright. It feels like it is. It feels like you’re twenty six again, giggling under his bedsheets and finding out what makes him tick all over again. Pressing kisses against his face and teasing him for going redder than he already was. 

You open your eyes to find he’s already staring at you. So close you can see the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and that his lashes have got greys too. 

He's close. You can recognize that expression anywhere. His lips are pulled up in a pained snarl. His grunts turning to groans, slipping past his lips and reminding you how pretty he sounds when he’s about to cum. 

“I love you too,” He parrots, catches your bottom lip between his teeth and presses his against yours again, swallows your words before either can dig the grave deeper. His arm bands around the small of your back, his fingers dig into the fat of your waist, hips smacking up against yours, that nasty squelch of slick flesh meeting again and again emanating louder between you two.

Your throat closes up, the knot that’s formed behind your navel starts to pull loose little by little, your half-bit keen comes in time with the pulsing of your inner muscle around him, if he’s delusional enough, he could believe you’re apologizing for breaking his heart in morse code. 

Your hips twitched and jerked as you squirm and pull off, crying out that it’s too much, what hasn’t been emptied inside you spurted out and trickled down the length of his cock, both of your chests heaved in similar cadences, body’s going tense to jelly like in a matter of seconds, boneless and gone to the word.

Only when you met his gaze again and the afterglow started to fade, did you realize what exactly happened.

— x-x-x-x-x-x —

You stuff your compact mirror back into your purse.

For the last five minutes you’ve been scrubbing away the evidence off your face. Mascara trails down beneath your eyes, bits flake off and coat your cheeks like soot. Tirelessly, you’ve tried wiping away the flushed color from your cheeks, ignoring the way they burn. 

While it’s easy to blame the rain for your dishevelment, it’s harder to ignore the jelly-like condition that’s suddenly rendered your legs useless.

Leon stands awkwardly behind you, he’s been adjusting his jacket for the past couple of minutes, tucking his collar up, slipping the extra in his waist band before pulling it back out, and sneaking glances he thinks you don’t notice.

God. The silence is worse this time around.

Your gut churns violently like waves crashing again and eroding a cliffslide. You’re stupid. You’re an idiot. An ingénue who let herself get carried away with the storm and scrabbled for land, solid and familiar. It’s still raining, it’s worse than before actually. You wonder if that’s the world trying to tell you something, maybe it’s berating you; for fucking him after divorcing him, for divorcing him in the first place, for telling him you loved him during, for not taking it back after. 

Where would you two be if Leon had just tried? Would you have managed to find happiness again? Would he have found the time to come back to you as he was? 

You didn’t mind having him jaded, drunk, mean, anything so long as he was there. You patched over those gaps, tucked them away out of sight, out of mind because at least he was there. Ugly and down in it, drowning in the currents right there with you. 

And you know to some extent that these shadows and breaks were necessary, that he had to keep you in the dark and away from him as much as possible, it isn’t his fault. Leon couldn’t have known you’d grow this tired, he suspected it was a possibility, but he never let himself really acknowledge it. You’d vowed to each other, hadn’t that meant something? 

Maybe it’s for the best things ended this way. There’s no real way to patch a fracture this wide, no way to bridge it when one party can’t compromise. Things are easier this way, they’ll have to be. What other choice do you have?

You already were indifferent to some degree towards the end, if you’d have ended up really hating him, wishing he’d just die in some corner of the world so you could collect…You scrub your hands against your face again. You’d rather this than that.

Your face is wet, breaths come out in puffs against your shaking hands and you wonder if it’s left over droplets from the rain or fresh tears. Does Leon regret this as much as you do? God, you could just take it all back, throw yourself at him and beg; ‘Please don’t let me divorce you, call the lawyers, it was a mistake, I'm so sorry hun’, i’m so stupid, I love you.’ 

You could try, you could get on your knees and grovel and Leon would hold you like he always did, he’d kiss the top of your head and cradle you like you’re something soft and small and in his arms you’d believe you were, he’d say you’re not stupid and he’d promise you things like he always has—

“That can’t happen again.” You blurt out. The rustle of fabric behind you stops. Your tongues gone numb between your teeth, bad habit. 

You don’t want to turn around, your bloods both frozen in your veins and boiling hot bubbling beneath skin, the silence behind you is deafening, until you hear Leon exhale through his teeth.

When he finally opens his mouth, he tries for a joke like always, “Was it that bad?” 

It doesn’t take a genius to hear it’s lacking his usual bravado. ‘No hard feelings’, you could hear it clear as day in his tone. 

“No, it’s just…” You keep your hands pressed against your face then they slap against your sides rather loudly. Don’t make me say it, you want to say. Won’t you please tell me? you could hear him say in return if he knew.

You force yourself to turn and take one look at him, a risk, and it tells you all you need to know. He came to the conclusion the moment you’d scrambled back inside, it’s in your eyes, in your pinched brows and pouted lips, in the tears you hide under the guise of rain droplets.

“No, I know. I shouldn’t have let it go that far.” Leon apologizes first and your heart splits in two to hear that dejected tone he’s trying to hide so hard beneath gruff timbre. Your Leon, always the one to take the blame. 

Your vision blurs again, tears stinging like nettles. ‘I’m sorry, Leon.’ is all you should say, all you could say. You’d repeat it over and over again until you both believed it. But it’s exactly what you won’t say. Leon’s zipped his jacket up and settled against the doorframe, you need to pull the plug, he needs to pull it. 

It’d be better if you took one for the team, let him be the one who leaves first for once. 

“My rides almost here." You swipe at your eye and mumble. You’ve no idea where your friend is, forty minutes have long since passed. “I’ll um…I’ll see you Monday.”

Leon stays silent, stares at the floor, then at you. You think he’ll say something, fight you about it, force you to shake off this weird mood so it can be like before again. Instead he just hesitates and nods, always too good at taking orders.

“Yeah.” He mutters, patting his pockets for his phone and his keys before he reaches for the door handle. “See you.”

The door closes with a click shut behind him, and maybe you preferred the silence from before. You don’t know what’s worse. That look on his face, the flat sound of his voice, or being left behind to wait alone in this big empty house. 

Watching Leon go still makes a lump form in your throat. Reminds you of the nights he’d wake you before he went off on some mission, leaving you behind with a soft kiss and a ‘Love you, be home soon.’ 

After a few minutes of mind numbing silence, you move towards the window on your own accord and lean against the window, just out of sight. Leon’s already sitting in his Porsche, head pressed against the steering wheel. 

The rain trickles down the pane and obscures your vision. You think after today, you’ll come to hate it too.