Rando_Draws

There was no sound, at first. That was what struck you most in the half-second before pure animal terror when your brain caught up to what your eyes were seeing. The pavement beneath your foot didn't crack or crumble. It parted, like fabric splitting at a seam that had been under tension for too long, a ragged tear in the concrete and the air, edges flickering with some strange light that your mind refused to categorise because there was no category for it, no filing system that could accommodate a literal hole in the middle of a pedestrian crossing in broad daylight.

What the—

And then you were falling.

—FUCKKKKK

The city vanished above you—you caught one last flash of grey sky and a traffic light and someone's perplexed yet horrified face on the opposite side of pavement before it was all swallowed up and you were inside something, not darkness exactly but not light either, a rushing in-between place that pressed against your skin and filled your lungs with air that tasted different, cleaner somehow, ancient in a way you couldn't explain, like breathing in a place that had never known exhaust fumes or concrete. The wind screamed past your ears. Your jacket whipped upward.

Your stomach was somewhere way higher up then it should be.

You had just enough time to think, with the very small and still-functioning rational part of your brain,

Is that grass ?—

And then you hit it.

You bounced—genuinely bounced, once, which would have been almost funny under any other circumstances—the soft earthen grasses absorbing the impact with a generosity that almost certainly saved your life, before your body flipped and you landed face-up in the grass and the world went very, very quiet.

The sky above your body was wrong.

You might have even thought that yourself if the darkness hadn't taken you completely on landing—that the sky was the wrong shade of blue, too deep, too clear, too utterly empty of the background smear of city light that had coloured every sky you'd ever looked at.

Stars were just beginning to show at the edges of the horizon even in the afternoon light, faint and cold and impossibly numerous.

The company heard it, well before they saw it. A sound like a warbling scream carried on the wind, sharp and brief and wholly impossible in the barren field—Dwalin's hand went to the axe at his belt without conscious thought, and several of the ponies shied sideways in alarm, ears flattening.

Thorin, who had been riding in characteristic silence at the head of the line, raised one fist and the company drew to a halt with the practiced ease of dwarves accustomed to reacting first and questioning later.

"What in Durin's name—" Glóin began.

"There," said Fíli, sharply.

They all turned.

Fifty yards ahead and slighty to the right, something had fallen out of the sky.

One moment the field was empty—rolling green hills full of patches of tall grasses, a scatter of late wildflowers nodding atop them in the breeze, the distant line of trees that marked the edge of the next valley—and then the next in sprays of lighter green tree tops, a shape lay crumpled in the grass where no shape had been before.

A beat of complete silence fell over the company.

Then Kíli said, with the barely-suppressed excitement that characterised most of his observations "Is it alive?"

"It fell from a considerable height," Balin said slowly, his brow creased with something between scholarly puzzlement and genuine concern. He was already dismounting, with more agility than his years might suggest. "Whether it remains so is the question."

"Could be a trap," Dwalin said, not moving his hand from his axe.

"Trap?" repeated Bofur, pushing his hat back on his head and squinting at the crumpled form in the grass. "Set by what, exactly? I've not heard of Orcs using—whatever that was—as bait."

"I have heard of many things," said Gandalf from the rear of the company, his voice carrying with its customary unhurried gravity, "but I confess even I am curious."

They approached as a group, ponies and all, clustering at a respectful distance before those at the front pressed closer. What lay in the grass was, unmistakably, a person. A woman, to be precise—Fíli's first startled thought was hobbit, before he registered the shape of her ears and the particular length of her limbs, troso and the like and revised his initial assessment.

Not a hobbit. Not an elf either, not with that build, not with those clothes. A woman, then, of the race of Men, though dressed in a fashion none of them had ever encountered—strange close-fitting dark trousers, a jacket of some lightweight material in deep blue, a small bag still somehow looped over one shoulder despite her fall.

Her face, turned slightly to the side in the grass, was pale with unconsciousness but unmarked, no blood, no visible injury, which given what they'd just witnessed seemed nothing short of miraculous.

She was breathing. Balin confirmed it with his ear close to her lips, straightening with an expression of considerable relief.

"The Lass is alive." He annouced to the company before looking uoward and into the sky for a few seconds of deliberation "Don't ask me how."

"She fell from the sky," said Ori, in a very small voice from somewhere near the back. "She just—fell. From nowhere."

"I have eyes, Ori," said Dori, though his own voice wasn't entirely steady.

Fíli and Kíli had exchanged a single glance—that rapid, wordless communication unique to brothers —and within approximately seven seconds had sourced a long stick from the edge of the road and were crouching and applying it with investigative purpose to her shoulder.

"Don't," said Balin.

"We're just checking if she—" Kíli began.

"She's breathing, I just said—"

"Aye, but is she—" Kíli poked her lightly with the stick again. Nothing happened. He poked again. "She doesn't seem to know it."

"Leave the poor lass alone," Balin said firmly, in the tone that had on occasion made even Thorin Oakenshield reconsider his decisions. Both dwarves withdrew the stick with identical expressions of reluctant compliance.

Thorin, for his part, had not dismounted. He sat astride his pony at the edge of the gathered company and looked down at the unconscious woman in the grass with an expression that those who knew him well would have identified as deeply perplexed—a rare thing, and therefore notable. His dark brows were drawn together, not in anger, but in the particular furrow of a man confronted with something his extensive experience simply did not account for.

"Where," he said, with the measured deliberateness of someone picking their words very carefully, "did she come from?"

No one answered, because no one had an answer.

"The sky, laddie," said Balin, straightening from beside her and meeting Thorin's gaze. "Or something very like it. We all saw it with our own eyes and I've no better explanation than that to offer you."

Thorin's frown deepened. He looked at Gandalf.

Gandalf, leaning on his staff with the unhurried air of a man who had seen a considerably manner of things, raised one silver eyebrow in an expression of mild but genuine interest. He said nothing for a long moment, simply looking at the woman in the grass the way one looks at a puzzle one hasn't quite decided to solve yet.

"Well," said Gandalf, eventually.

"Well?" said Thorin.

"Well," said Gandalf again, as though the word contained multitudes, which in his experience it generally did.

"Brilliant," muttered Dwalin.

Deliberation, when it came, was not entirely civilised.

"We leave her." This from Thorin, who had finally dismounted and was standing with his arms folded across his broad chest, speaking with the flat certainty of a man who had not survived as long as he had by making sentimental decisions. "She is unknown, unaccounted for. And she will slow us down."

"She fell from the sky." Bilbo said, for the second time in as many minutes, because he felt this point was not receiving adequate weight in the discussion. He had the contract still in hand, the company being an adventure he had only recently decided to have, but which had already involved considerably more than he'd bargained for. He gestured at her. "You can't just leave someone who fell out of the sky."

"Master Burglar is right," said Balin firmly. "Wherever she's come from, she is unconscious in a field, and we are the only people for miles in any direction. To leave her here is to let her die."

"She should not have fallen into our path to begin with," Thorin said, though his voice carried slightly less conviction than it had a moment ago. Balin had a way of stating the obvious that made argument feel not merely difficult but small.

"And yet she has, I dont imagine she got much choice in the matter." said Balin. "What we should do and what is before us are two different things, as they so often are."

Dwalin made a sound that expressed his opinion of the entire situation without requiring words.

"She's bigger than a hobbit," said Kíli, looking down at her with an expression that had shifted somewhere between curiosity and concern, as his expressions often did with startling speed. "Propably weighs more, but not by much."

"That's not the point—" Dwalin began.

"The point," said Bilbo, rallying his nerve in the way he was slowly discovering he had more of than he'd previously credited himself for, "is that leaving an unconscious woman in a field is not something decent people do. And whatever else we may be, we are—well, we are decent people."

He said this last with the slightly defiant air of a hobbit who has committed to a position and intends to see it through.

Several of the company turned to look at Thorin. Thorin was looking at the woman. His expression had not changed, but something behind his eyes had shifted—a small, almost imperceptible adjustment.

"A stretcher," he said at last, the word landing with the finality of a decision made and moved past, because Thorin did not linger over such things. "We are not stopping. She travels with us until she wakes and can speak for herself." He turned away, dark coat sweeping behind him, the matter apparently concluded in his mind if in no one else's. "I want to be past the ridge before dark."

Balin murmured to himself as he mounted his pony again, with the quiet satisfaction of a man who has lived long enough to know when to count a victory and say nothing further about it.

Gandalf was already moving, his tall figure separating itself from the group with the particular ease of someone accustomed to occupying any space and leaving it with equal efficiency.

"Where are you going?" Bilbo called after him, because it seemed like the sort of thing someone should ask.

"To consult the only person who makes any sense of such things," said Gandalf, without turning around.

Bilbo stared at his retreating back. "And who is that?"

A pause. "Never you mind Bilbo." said Gandalf pleasantly. And continued walking.

Bilbo looked at Balin. Balin looked at Bilbo. Neither of them had a response equal to this, which was, Bilbo was beginning to understand, rather the usual effect of Gandalf.

The stretcher was the work of cooperation between Bofur, Bifur, Óin, and Glóin, who between them produced rope and found wood and the kind of practical efficiency that spoke to long experience solving problems on the road. It was not elegant, but it was solid, and they settled you onto it with a care that was perhaps more gentle than some of them would have liked to admit, Balin tucking your arm in against your side with a pat so it wouldn't trail, Fíli straightening your jacket collar with an expression of vague concern that earned him a look from his brother.

"What?" said Fíli.

"Nothing," said Kíli.

The stretcher was slung between four of the ponies with the remainder of the rope, balanced with the kind of improvised ingenuity that dwarves had refined over centuries of mountain living, and the company reformed around it and moved on. The road stretched ahead, long and winding, beginning its gradual rise toward the distant hills that marked the first true miles of the journey east.

You lay between the ponies, your modern clothes catching the afternoon light at strange angles, your chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of someone who had no idea yet what world they'd woken into.

Or rather—hadn't woken into. Not yet.

Above the company, the sky deepened toward evening, impossibly clear, impossibly full of stars not yet visible but waiting. The kind of sky that existed without any city throwing its glow upward to compete with it. The kind of sky you had never, in your entire ordinary Tuesday life, seen before.

The company walked on. And somewhere ahead of them, the road curved east toward Erebor, toward danger and wonder and things not yet dreamed of.

There's a quiet kind of anticipation sitting in his chest, steady and familiar. You'll probably be asleep by now, or pretending to be, maybe upset because he didn't text you.

He can already picture it, the faint glow of the lamp, the way you'd shift when he walked in, like you always knew it was him even before he said a word. Maybe you'd mumble something about how late it is, voice thick with sleep, but your arms would still find him anyway. That part never changed, even if you were upset.

Leon exhales, long and slow. He's tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes in a single night, but the kind that lingers in the muscles, in the back of the mind, in the quiet spaces between thoughts. The mission hadn't been catastrophic, nothing that would make headlines or stick with him for years, but it had been enough. Enough to leave his shoulders tight, his reflexes still a fraction too sharp, his awareness just slightly out of step with the calm around him. It takes time for that to fade. It always does.

But you help. Just being near you does something he can't name. Like his body remembers how to stand down, how to unclench, how to exist without scanning every shadow for movement. It's a rare thing; he doesn't take it for granted.

The houses sit quietly, windows dark, the world settled into that deep, unmoving stillness that only comes in the middle of the night. No movement, no noise, just the low hum of distant electricity and the soft crunch of tires against pavement.

Leon slows as he pulls into the driveway, engine idling for a second longer than necessary. The engine clicks as it cools, metal ticking softly in the quiet. His gaze drifts to the front door. Something in his chest tightens. The porch lights are off. He knows you better than that. You'd never shut the porch lights off before he's home.

He lingers for a moment longer than necessary, fingers still resting on the wheel, that feeling brushing again at the edges of his awareness. It would be easy to dismiss it, to chalk it up to fatigue or the remnants of adrenaline that haven't quite settled yet. That happens sometimes. The body takes longer than the mind to understand that it's safe.

"Get a grip," he mutters under his breath, voice low and rough in the confined space of the car.

The night air is cool when he steps out, sharp enough to cut through the lingering haze in his head. It grounds him, brings everything back into focus as he shuts the door and starts toward the house. The walk is short and familiar, each step guided by routine more than by conscious thought. He's done this hundreds of times, returning from missions at odd hours, slipping back into a life that exists in the spaces between everything else.

His keys slide easily into the lock. The mechanism turns with a soft, familiar click. The door opens, and something shifts. It isn't immediate, not something loud or obvious. There's no sign of forced entry, no overturned furniture, no visible disruption waiting to greet him. At a glance, everything is as it should be. The entryway is intact, your shoes still near the door, your jacket hanging in its usual place. The house looks lived in, normal, untouched.

Leon pauses just inside the doorway, one hand still resting lightly against the door as it swings closed behind him. The silence presses in, thicker than it should be, carrying a weight he can't immediately explain. It isn't just quiet, it's still, the kind of stillness that feels unnatural in a space that's usually shared. His gaze moves automatically, sweeping the room with quiet precision. Every detail registers. Every shadow is accounted for. He doesn't think about it. He never has to.

"Hey," he calls out, his voice steady but low, carrying just enough to reach the next room. "I'm home."

The words settle into the silence and go unanswered. That, on its own, isn't unusual. You could be asleep, the house wrapped in the kind of quiet that comes with it. It wouldn't be the first time he's come back late enough to find you already resting, the world reduced to soft breathing and dim light.

Leon steps further inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seems louder than it should. The sound echoes faintly, swallowed quickly by the stillness. He shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair without looking, his attention already shifting past the entryway and into the rest of the house.

The living room is undisturbed. The couch sits as it always does, a blanket folded neatly over the arm, the pillows on either cushion are perfectly shaped in the corners, and the remote rests in its usual place on the table next to your book.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly as he moves past, his focus narrowing toward the kitchen. There's a light on. It's a small detail, the kind most people wouldn't think twice about, but it stands out to him. You don't leave lights on when you go to bed. You never have. It's a habit, one of those small, consistent things that become part of a person without them realizing it.

Leon slows as he approaches, his steps quieter now, more deliberate. "You still up?" he calls again, softer this time, the words carrying less distance.

No answer.

He crosses the threshold into the kitchen and stops. At first, it doesn't fully register. His gaze catches on the shape, the disruption in the otherwise clean lines of the room, but his mind takes a fraction of a second longer to process what he's seeing.

A mug lies shattered on the floor. The pieces are scattered unevenly, some larger, some reduced to sharp fragments that catch the light at odd angles. A dark stain spreads beneath them, long since dried, its edges faintly dull against the tile. It's been there for a while.

Leon doesn't move. His attention fixes on it, sharp and unblinking, his mind beginning to assemble the details whether he wants it to or not. The position. The spread. The way the pieces fell. You dropped the mug. You didn't set it down or knock it over. You dropped it. His mind is already working, already assembling the sequence of events in the only way it knows how, reconstructing motion from stillness, cause from aftermath.

His gaze shifts, slow and deliberate, tracing the subtle disruption in the room. The chair. The scuff along the floor. The angle of it was just slightly off, like it had been forced back rather than pulled. There's no sign of a prolonged struggle, nothing overturned, nothing chaotic. Whatever happened here was quick. His realization settles somewhere deep, heavy, and unwelcome.

Leon exhales quietly, the sound barely audible, and steps further into the kitchen. His boots avoid the larger shards without thought, his path instinctively careful as his attention moves beyond the obvious, searching for what doesn't immediately stand out. That's where the truth usually hides.

His fingers brush lightly along the edge of the counter as he passes, grounding, steadying, before his gaze catches on something near the sink. At first, it doesn't register as anything unusual. Just another piece of the kitchen, another detail in a space he knows well enough to navigate in the dark. But something about it holds his attention a second longer than it should.

Leon steps closer, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as the details come into focus. It's a casing. Metal, cylindrical, no larger than his thumb. Clean. Intact. Deliberately set, not dropped or discarded.

He doesn't touch it immediately. Instead, he studies it, his gaze narrowing as recognition begins to surface, slow and unwelcome. The design is subtle, almost unremarkable to anyone who doesn't know what they're looking for. No obvious markings, no bright identifiers.

But Leon knows better. He's seen something like this before. His hand moves then, precise and controlled, fingers closing around the casing with practiced care. It's lighter than it looks. His thumb turns it slightly, just enough for the faint etching along its side to catch the light. It's small. Nearly invisible unless you're looking for it. Not exactly Umbrella's symbol, but something newer, built from the debris.

Leon's jaw tightens, a muscle in his cheek flickering once as the last piece slides into place. This wasn't random. It wasn't a break-in. It wasn't chance, or opportunity, or someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was deliberate, targeted, and whoever did it wanted him to know.

The air in the room feels different now, heavier, like the walls themselves are closing in around the realization. Leon's grip on the casing tightens just slightly before he forces it to ease, control reasserting itself with practiced precision. Emotion can come later.

Right now, he needs clarity. He sets the casing back down exactly where he found it, careful not to disturb its position any more than necessary, and reaches for his phone. The motion is smooth and efficient, his mind already several steps ahead, pulling threads together and mapping out what comes next.

There are only a handful of people in the world who would leave something like this behind. Fewer still would dare to use it as a message.

The phone rings once. Twice.

Leon's gaze drifts back to the shattered mug on the floor, to the silence that's settled into every corner of the house, and for a brief moment, something flickers beneath the surface. It's cold and dangerous, leaving no room for panic.

The line clicks, and he wastes no time. "I need everything you have on Victor Gideon."

THREE HOURS EARLIER

The quiet in the house isn't unsettling. It settles around you like something familiar, something earned after a long day, the kind of silence that doesn't press too heavily but instead exists in soft layers. The lamp in the living room casts a warm, golden glow that pools gently over the couch and the edges of the coffee table, leaving the rest of the house in a comfortable dimness. Outside, the night has already taken hold, the world reduced to distant sounds that barely reach you, a passing car, the faint whisper of wind brushing against the windows, nothing that demands your attention.

You sit curled into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked beneath you, a book open in your hands. The pages shift slightly under your fingers as you read, though your focus drifts more than it settles. Your eyes move across the lines, but the words don't always stay with you, slipping away as your thoughts circle back to the same place they've been returning to all evening. You glance at the clock without fully meaning to, then back down at the page, then toward the door, a quiet, unconscious pattern that repeats itself before you even realize you're doing it.

Sometimes he doesn't have a chance to tell you he's going to be late. You knew that. You told yourself you wouldn't wait up this time. But here you are.

A small breath leaves you, something softer than a sigh, as you tilt your head back against the couch cushion. The book dips slightly in your hands, your thumb still marking your place even as your attention drifts completely away from it. It's not worry that keeps you awake, not exactly. You're used to this part of his life, the late nights, the unpredictability, the quiet spaces between when he leaves and when he comes back. It doesn't scare you the way it might have once. Not anymore. But that doesn't mean you don't feel it.

You sit up a little straighter after a moment, closing the book carefully and setting it aside on the table. The room feels just a touch too quiet now, the kind of quiet that makes you aware of your own breathing, your own movement, the small sounds that would normally go unnoticed. Your gaze drifts again, this time lingering on the front door, as if you could will it to open just by watching it long enough.

You push yourself up from the couch instead, the fabric shifting softly beneath you as your feet meet the cool floor. You fix the pillow in the corner of the couch, pushing it back and fluffing it up. The movement feels natural, easy, like slipping into a routine you didn't realize you'd already decided on. If you're going to stay up, you might as well make it count for something.

The kitchen light clicks on with a soft snap, brightening the space in an instant. The contrast from the dim living room is enough to pull you fully into the present, your surroundings sharpening into focus as you move further in. Everything is where it should be. Clean counters. Familiar shapes. The quiet hum of appliances that fill the silence just enough to keep it from feeling empty.

The coffee maker hums to life as you set it going, the low, steady sound filling the room in a way that makes it feel less still. You lean lightly against the counter while you wait, arms folding loosely as your gaze drifts again, unfocused now, pulled back into thought.

You wonder how the mission went. Whether it was one of the easier ones or something that left its mark in quieter ways. Leon never comes back unchanged, not really. Even on the good days, there's always something lingering beneath the surface, something in the way he holds himself, the way his eyes settle on things just a second longer than they should. You've learned to read those details over time, to understand them without needing him to explain.

Your expression softens without you realizing it. You'll see it the moment he walks through the door. You always do. And you'll meet him there, the way you always do. Sometimes with quiet, sometimes with warmth, sometimes with both. It's never something you plan out, never something you rehearse. It just happens, instinctively, the same way breathing does.

The coffee maker clicks softly as it finishes, the sound pulling you gently back into the present. You reach for the mug, wrapping your hands around it as the heat seeps into your skin, steady and grounding. For a moment, you just stand there, letting the warmth settle into your palms, letting the quiet exist around you again.

Your gaze drifts toward the doorway, toward the darker stretch of the hallway beyond it, and a faint smile touches your lips, subtle enough that you barely notice it. "C'mon," you murmur under your breath, your voice soft in the stillness. "You're taking too long."

You hear a soft tick against the window, like maybe a branch in the wind tapping against the glass. You look over, a weird feeling pooling in your stomach. At first, it's just a feeling, a subtle shift that brushes against your awareness without fully forming into thought.

You straighten a little, your fingers tightening just slightly around the mug as your gaze moves across the kitchen. Everything looks the same. Nothing has changed. The counters are clean. The light is steady. The space is exactly as you left it. And yet, the feeling lingers.

You listen more closely this time, your attention sharpening as you try to pinpoint what caused it. For a moment, there's nothing. Just the quiet hum of the house, the faint buzz of electricity, the soft settling of something far away.

Another sound. It's faint. Quick. Easy to miss if you weren't already paying attention.

Your head turns toward it immediately, your brows knitting slightly as your pulse gives a small, unexpected jump. "Leon?" you call, the name leaving you instinctively, hope threading through it before you can stop it.

The silence that answers is immediate.

Your grip tightens around the mug, the heat suddenly too noticeable, too sharp against your skin as your awareness shifts, sharpening into something more alert. "Hello?" you try again, quieter now, your voice carrying less distance, less certainty.

No response. But the silence has changed. It isn't empty anymore. It feels occupied. Your breath slows, shallow without you meaning it to be, as your eyes move carefully across the room, tracking shadows, edges, the negative space between things. Your body has gone still, instinct taking over in a way your mind hasn't quite caught up with yet.

There's a presence here. You can't see it. But you can feel it. A subtle awareness presses at the back of your neck, a quiet, unmistakable certainty that settles in before you can rationalize it away. You're not alone.

The realization doesn't come all at once. It unfolds slowly, like something being revealed piece by piece, each second stretching just long enough to let it sink deeper. Your heart picks up, not racing yet, but faster, heavier, each beat more noticeable than the last.

You take a small step back without thinking, your fingers brushing against the edge of the counter as if anchoring yourself to something solid. The kitchen suddenly feels too open, too exposed, every angle unfamiliar in a way it never has before.

There's a shift behind you, closer this time, unmistakable. Your breath catches as you start to turn, instinct finally overriding hesitation. But you don't get to finish turning.

The movement behind you is faster than your body can react to, faster than your mind can process, a sudden shift in the air that collapses the space between awareness and action into nothing. One second you're standing there, breath caught somewhere between instinct and realization, and the next there's a hand on you, firm and unyielding.

It clamps around your arm and wrenches you backward with a force that steals the ground out from under your feet. The world tilts sharply, your balance gone before you can even try to recover it. The counter digs briefly into your hip as you're pulled away from it, your body twisting on instinct, a startled breath tearing from your chest before you can stop it.

The mug slips from your hand. You don't feel it leave your fingers so much as realize it's gone, the warmth vanishing in an instant as gravity takes over. There's a split second where it hangs in the air, suspended between what was and what's about to happen.

Then it shatters. The sound is sharp. Violent in the quiet. Ceramic breaking against tile in a way that feels far too loud, far too final, the pieces scattering outward in a jagged arc as dark liquid splashes and spreads across the floor. It happens in the background of everything else, but it sticks, imprinting itself in your mind even as everything around you spirals out of control.

Your hands come up instinctively, grabbing at the arm holding you, fingers digging in as you try to twist free, your breath coming faster now, sharper. "Hey!" The word breaks out of you, half-formed, more reflex than intention, your voice catching as your body fights to regain control.

It doesn't work. The grip on you tightens, not frantic, not rushed, but controlled in a way that's somehow worse. Whoever is behind you knows exactly what they're doing. There's no hesitation in the movement, no wasted motion, just precision.

Your shoulder is forced back, your balance shifting again as your heel catches against the tile. For a brief, disorienting second, your gaze catches on the floor, on the shattered remains of the mug, on the dark stain already beginning to spread outward between the pieces.

Your heart is pounding harder now, the rhythm uneven, loud in your ears as adrenaline begins to surge, your thoughts scrambling to catch up with what's happening. You're not confused anymore. This is real, and this is happening to you.

You try again to pull free, your other hand coming up, reaching back, searching for anything you can grab onto, anything you can use. Your fingers brush fabric, then something harder beneath it, but before you can react, before you can even see, something presses against your face.

A cloth, rough and sudden. Your breath catches as the smell hits you, sharp and chemical, unfamiliar and immediately wrong. You jerk back on instinct, your body reacting before your mind can fully understand it, but the hold on you doesn't falter; it tightens.

Your lungs burn as you try not to breathe it in, your head turning sharply to the side, your movements desperate now, less controlled. Your hands come up again, grabbing, pushing, nails digging into anything they can find as panic begins to break through the edges of your control.

"Stop—" The word comes out strained, uneven, your voice already weakening as the world tilts again, the edges of your vision beginning to blur.

The room starts to slip, the sharp lines of the kitchen softening, distorting at the edges as your strength begins to falter. Your movements slow, not by choice, but because your body is betraying you, your limbs growing heavier with each passing second.

Your gaze drops again, unfocused now, catching one last glimpse of the floor. The shattered mug. The spreading stain. A moment frozen in place, already turning into something that will be left behind.

Your chest tightens as you try to pull in one more clean breath, but it doesn't come the way it should. Everything feels distant, like you're being pulled away from it piece by piece, your awareness slipping no matter how hard you fight to hold onto it.

The last thing you feel is the grip on you shifting, steady, controlled, as your body gives in. The last thing you hear is the quiet sound of movement in the house that was never empty, and then nothing.

Consciousness doesn't return in a clean, merciful line. It comes apart and back together in fragments, thin slivers of awareness pushing through a heavy, resistant fog that clings to you no matter how hard your body tries to surface. At first, there's no sense of where you are, no clear thought to anchor to, only sensation. A dull, distant awareness of your own weight presses against something solid beneath you, your limbs feeling slow and unresponsive, as though they belong to someone else entirely. There's a strange disconnect between intention and movement, like the signal is there but the response is delayed, muffled.

Sound finds you next, seeping in gradually rather than arriving all at once. A low, mechanical hum settles into your awareness, steady and unwavering, its presence so constant it almost feels like part of you rather than something external. It doesn't fluctuate or shift in tone. It simply exists, filling the silence in a way that makes the space feel controlled, contained. Beneath it, there's something softer, less predictable, a faint, irregular noise that might be water or machinery or something else entirely. It's too distant to identify, but close enough to remind you that you're not in a place meant for comfort.

Your breathing deepens unevenly as your body begins to catch up, each inhale dragging in air that feels heavier than it should, as though it carries a weight your lungs don't quite know how to process. Your chest rises a little too quickly, then steadies, then falters again as your system struggles to find a rhythm that feels natural.

When your eyes finally open, the light doesn't welcome you. It hits too harshly at first, blurring your vision into indistinct shapes and washed-out edges that refuse to settle into anything recognizable. You blink slowly, your lashes dragging as if even that small movement requires more effort than it should. The second attempt is steadier, your vision beginning to sharpen in reluctant increments until the ceiling above you comes into focus.

It's all wrong. That realization settles almost immediately, cutting clean through the haze with a clarity that feels almost jarring. The surface above you is smooth and industrial, broken only by faint seams that run in measured lines across it. A light fixture is embedded neatly overhead, its glow sterile and uninviting, casting illumination that feels functional rather than warm. There is no softness to it, no variation. It simply exists to reveal.

Your stomach tightens. Memory doesn't return gently. It forces its way in, sharp and fragmented, each piece colliding with the next in a way that leaves no room for denial. The kitchen. The quiet. The shift in the air. The hand. The smell. The mug.

Your breath catches, the reaction immediate and involuntary as your body attempts to respond before your mind can fully process. You try to sit up, the movement sudden, instinctive, driven by a need to orient yourself, to do something. The world tilts in response, your equilibrium failing you for a split second as your muscles protest the motion. A wave of dizziness pulls at the edges of your vision, the room threatening to slip out of focus again as your body struggles to cooperate.

Something stops you. The resistance is immediate, firm enough to halt your movement without jerking you back. It takes a second for your mind to catch up, for your gaze to drop and register what your body has already begun to understand.

Your wrists are bound. The realization lands heavy and cold, your pulse spiking in response as your hands instinctively pull against the restraint. The movement is quick, uncoordinated, driven more by reflex than thought, but the result is immediate and unchanging. There's no give, they're tight, and hold you down exactly like they're supposed to.

You slow, not because you want to, but because you have to, your breathing sharpening as you force yourself to look more closely. The material is unfamiliar, smooth against your skin but unyielding beneath your grip. It is not rope, not anything improvised or hastily applied. It feels intentional and manufactured. Meant to hold without question.

Your fingers flex against it again, more deliberately this time, searching for a shift, for anything, any weakness in its structure. There are none.

A slow breath moves through you, deeper this time, though it still catches slightly at the end as your chest tightens. Panic presses at the edges of your awareness, sharp and insistent, but it doesn't overtake you. Not yet anyway. You hold it there, contained, forcing yourself to focus on what you can control instead of what you can't.

The room is small, but not claustrophobic. Contained in a way that feels deliberate rather than accidental. The walls match the ceiling, the same sterile material, seamless and uninterrupted. There are no windows, no variation in texture or color, nothing to suggest time or place. The space feels isolated, cut off from anything beyond it.

Across from you, a door is set into the wall. It's solid, featureless from your side, with no visible handle or mechanism to open it. It blends almost too well into its surroundings, as though it is meant to go unnoticed until it becomes relevant.

Your shoulders tense slightly as your gaze drops again, taking in your position more carefully now. Your arms are secured in front of you rather than behind, which feels intentional in a way you don't like. It allows for movement, but not freedom. It gives the illusion of control while ensuring you have none.

A slow, measured breath fills your lungs as you force your body to settle, your thoughts beginning to align despite the lingering fog. You swallow, your throat dry, the motion grounding in its simplicity.

"Think..." you whisper, barely audible.

You piece it together as best you can, working backward from what you know. You were at home. You were waiting. You were safe until you weren't. The shift from one to the other had been fast. Too fast to fully process, too controlled to have been random. Whoever took you knew what they were doing. There had been no hesitation and no fumbling.

Your chest tightens again, thinking of Leon. The thought of him lands heavier than anything else, threading through the fear and the confusion with a sharp, undeniable weight. He wasn't there. He didn't see it happen. He doesn't know where you are. But one thing is certain, he'll know something is wrong. He'll know it the second he sees the porch lights off and the shattered mug.

Your eyes close briefly, not in defeat, but in focus, as you draw in another slow breath. He'll see it and he'll understand. And when he does he'll come looking.

The thought isn't really hopeful in the way you might expect. It's not fragile or uncertain either. It's something you hold onto without question. He will come.

Your eyes open again, sharper now, your awareness settling into something more controlled, more deliberate. Your gaze moves across the room once more, but this time with purpose, taking in every detail, every possible variable: the walls, the door, the light, the sound.

You're not safe. But you're not helpless. And whoever brought you here? They made one simple mistake, and that was taking you away from Leon.

The kitchen doesn't change. Even as Leon steps back, even as he forces himself to take in the full space again from a distance, nothing shifts, nothing rearranges itself into something easier to accept. The shattered ceramic still litters the floor in the same uneven arc, the dried coffee staining the tile in a way that speaks too clearly of time passed. The chair remains slightly out of place, the scuff mark near its leg catching the light just enough to make it impossible to ignore.

Everything is exactly as it was. And that's the problem. Leon's gaze moves slowly, deliberately, retracing the scene with sharper focus now that the initial shock has burned away into something colder. He doesn't rush. He never does. Every detail matters, and he knows better than to miss something because he moved too fast. His eyes track the path of disruption, from the counter to the floor, from the chair to the empty space where you should be.

He reconstructs it without thinking.

You were standing here. The mug in your hand. The machine still warm, recently used. You hadn't been waiting long. Maybe you were thinking about him, maybe you were distracted, maybe you didn't hear the first movement behind you. That's when the contact must have happened.

The mug drops. Shatters. You don't get the chance to react properly before you're already being restrained. There's no sign of prolonged struggle, which means whoever took you didn't need one. They knew exactly how to handle it. How to end it before it could escalate. All signs point to Victor.

Leon's jaw tightens slightly, the muscle flickering once as the image settles into place.

Staying won't give him anything new.

Finding you will.

He moves with purpose now, the transition so clean it almost feels like a switch has been flipped somewhere beneath the surface. The part of him that came home, the part that allowed himself to think about warmth, about rest, about you waiting on the couch, is gone. What's left is sharper, focused. Built for this, but wishing it wasn't you he was looking for.

"I need everything you have on Victor Gideon." Leon says, his tone even, stripped of anything unnecessary. There's no hesitation in it, no lead-in, no explanation offered before the request.

"That's not a name you drop casually," Hunnigan replies, quietly. "What happened?"

Leon steps out of the kitchen as he speaks, his gaze sweeping once through the living room, not searching anymore, just confirming. The space feels wrong now in a way that can't be fixed, the absence too loud to ignore.

"She's gone."

Hunnigan doesn't respond right away. He can hear it in the silence, the shift from listening to processing, the moment where this stops being a call and becomes a situation.

"When?" she asks.

"Within the last few hours," Leon answers, already moving toward the door. His free hand reaches for his jacket without looking, pulling it back on in one smooth motion. "It was a surprise attack."

"You're sure it's him."

Again, not a question.

Leon's expression doesn't change, but something in his posture tightens, something subtle that only shows if you know where to look. "I'm sure."

There's the faint sound of keys on the other end, fast and efficient, the rhythm of someone digging through things that aren't meant to be found easily. Leon steps outside as she works, the cool air hitting him again, sharper now, more grounding. The quiet of the neighborhood hasn't changed, but it feels different to him now, like a layer has been stripped back.

"Gideon's been buried for years," Hunnigan says after a moment, her voice threading through the line with a tighter edge. "Everything tied to Project Elpis was wiped or sealed. Official channels won't give us much."

"I don't need official," Leon replies, already moving toward his car. His steps are quick but controlled, each one placed with intent. "I need what slipped through."

"You'll have it," she says. There's no hesitation there, no pushback. She knows how this goes. "Give me a few minutes. I'll start with old Umbrella splinter data and see what overlaps."

Leon opens the car door but doesn't get in right away. His hand rests briefly against the frame, his gaze lifting toward the dark stretch of road ahead, his mind already moving beyond this moment, beyond this place.

"Leon," Hunnigan adds, her tone shifting just slightly. Not softer, but more deliberate. "If Gideon's involved, this isn't just leverage. He doesn't operate like that."

Leon's grip tightens almost imperceptibly against the door. "I know." Which means this isn't just about taking you. It's about using you.

The thought settles in without resistance, cold and immediate, but it doesn't derail him. It sharpens him further, narrows his focus into something that doesn't leave room for hesitation.

"I'll send you anything I find," Hunnigan continues. "Locations, contacts, even rumors. But Leon... don't disappear on me."

He exhales quietly, the sound barely audible over the line, more a release of breath than anything else. "I won't."

The line goes silent, an understanding quiet from Hunnigan as she works on her end. She'll dig, pull threads, and find what she can. Leon doesn't wait for it to be enough. He gets into the car, the engine turning over with a low, steady sound that cuts clean through the stillness. His hands settle on the wheel, familiar, steady, but there's a difference now in the way he holds it, a tension that wasn't there before, something coiled beneath the surface.

The car pulls out of the driveway, tires rolling over pavement with quiet intent as the house disappears behind him, shrinking into the dark like something already past. Somewhere out there, you're still breathing, and Leon is going to make sure it stays that way.

Time doesn't move the way it should in a place like this. It stretches, folds in on itself, becomes something difficult to measure without anything familiar to anchor it. The steady hum in the room never changes, never rises or falls, and without windows or shifting light, there is no natural rhythm to follow. You're left with your own breathing, your own thoughts, the subtle shifts in your body as the only markers that time is passing at all.

You've tried to count it. At first, it felt like something you could control, something to hold onto. Seconds stacking into minutes, minutes into something longer, a quiet attempt to impose order onto a place that clearly wasn't designed to have any. But the effort didn't last. Your focus slipped, your thoughts pulled elsewhere, and somewhere along the way, the numbers stopped meaning anything.

Now, you rely on smaller things. The way the air feels against your skin. The slight stiffness settling into your shoulders. The faint dryness in your throat that comes and goes in waves. They're not precise, but they're real, and right now that's enough.

You shift slightly where you sit, the movement careful, deliberate, testing the limits of what the restraints allow without drawing unnecessary strain. They haven't loosened. Not even slightly. Whatever they're made of, whatever mechanism holds them in place, it was designed with intention, with the expectation that resistance would come.

Your gaze drifts across the room again, slower now, more practiced. The walls haven't changed. The door remains closed, silent, offering nothing in the way of clues. There are no seams visible from this side, no indication of how or when it might open. The light overhead continues its steady, sterile glow, unchanging, indifferent.

It would be easy to let the stillness get to you. Easy to let your thoughts spiral, to fill the silence with fear, with everything you don't know, everything you can't control. The uncertainty presses at the edges, persistent, waiting for an opening.

Leon is still on your mind. But the thoughts come quieter than before. You picture him the way you last saw him, not physically, but in memory, in the small details that always stick. The way he moves when he's tired but trying not to show it. The way his voice softens just slightly when he's talking to you, even if he doesn't realize it. Surely he's on his way by now. He has to be looking for you already.

A sound breaks through your thoughts. It's subtle, like a door somewhere else in the building closing. Your body stills instinctively, your breathing slowing as your focus sharpens, every sense narrowing toward the source.

It's nearly silent, the kind of movement designed not to draw attention, but you feel it more than you hear it. A faint change in pressure, a slight adjustment in the air as the seam of the door separates just enough to allow it to open.

The light in the hallway beyond is dimmer, cooler, casting a muted contrast against the sterile brightness of the room. A figure steps through it, their movement unhurried and controlled, immediately setting the tone of the space. He's in no rush. And he probably doesn't need to be.

The door closes behind him with the same quiet precision, sealing the room again as if it had never opened at all. Your gaze lifts to meet him fully now, your posture tightening despite your effort to remain composed. Every instinct in your body sharpens at once, awareness spiking as you take him in.

There's nothing subtle about the wrongness of him. He stands just within the light, and it reveals too much all at once. His frame is tall but uneven in a way that isn't immediately obvious until you look closer, his posture held upright with deliberate control rather than natural ease. The long coat he wears hangs heavily from his shoulders, patterned and textured in a way that feels almost ornamental at a distance, but up close only adds to the sense that everything about him has been chosen with intention rather than comfort.

His skin is the first thing that truly settles in. It's pale, but not in any natural sense of the word. The color sits wrong, stretched thin across his face and neck with a texture that looks almost brittle, as if it might crack under pressure. Faint, branching lines run beneath the surface, subtle but visible, like fractures that were never meant to heal properly. They trace along his jaw, disappear beneath the collar of his coat, and reappear again near his mouth, where they pull slightly when he speaks, distorting the movement just enough to make it feel off.

Your focus shifts higher to his eyes. Or what's been done to them. Metal curves along his temple and cheek, anchoring multiple lenses over one eye, each one different in size, each catching the light in a way that makes it impossible to tell where he's actually looking. One lens glows faintly, a dull, artificial point of red that remains steady even as he moves, unblinking, unchanging.

"You're awake," he says finally.

Your jaw tightens slightly, but you don't respond immediately. You hold his gaze instead, steady despite the tension coiling beneath your ribs, refusing to give him anything more than what he can already see.

He takes a step closer. Then another. Each one is deliberate, controlled, the distance between you closing in a way that feels calculated rather than threatening. He stops just outside your reach, his attention never leaving you, his expression unchanged.

"Good," he continues, as if confirming something to himself rather than speaking to you directly. "That makes this easier."

Your fingers curl slightly against the restraint, the motion subtle, controlled, as your mind begins to work again, piecing together what you can from what little you've been given.

"Where am I?" you ask, your voice steady despite the dryness in your throat.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, his gaze shifts briefly, taking in your position, the restraints, the room, as if reviewing something already familiar. When his attention returns to you, there's something faintly different in it now. Interest.

"That's not the question you should be asking," he replies. A small pause follows, just long enough to make the silence feel intentional. "You should be asking why."

Your stomach tightens, but your expression doesn't change. You don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction, even as the weight of his words settles in. Because he's right. You know as well as he does that this was planned.

His head tilts slightly, studying you in a way that feels less like observation and more like evaluation, as though he's measuring something you can't see.

"Tell me," he says, his tone still calm, still clinical. "How long do you think it will take him to find you?"

Your breath steadies, your shoulders squaring just slightly as you meet his gaze without hesitation.

"...Not long," you answer.

For the first time, something shifts in his expression. It isn't a smile, but it's damn close.

"Good," he says quietly. "Maybe he will enjoy this show."

Even as every instinct in your body urges you to, even as the weight of his attention presses heavier with each passing second, you hold your gaze steady. There's something instinctive about it, something that refuses to give him more than he already has. If he's studying you, measuring you, the least you can do is make sure what he sees isn't fear.

His head tilts slightly, the movement small, almost thoughtful, as though he's adjusting his perspective rather than reacting to anything you've done. The lenses over his eye catch the light as he shifts, reflecting it in fractured pieces that make it impossible to track where his focus truly settles.

"Confidence," he says quietly, more to himself than to you. "Interesting."

The word doesn't sound like praise. It sounds like a note he says out loud.

Your fingers tighten slightly against the restraint, the motion subtle, controlled, your body grounding itself in something physical as your mind continues to work. Every word he says matters. Every reaction, every pause. You don't know what he's looking for yet, but you can feel the structure of it, the way this interaction isn't random. It's being observed.

"People tend to default to fear in unfamiliar environments," he continues, his tone calm, measured in a way that never rises or falls enough to offer you anything to read. "It's efficient. Predictable. Useful, in its own way."

He takes another step closer, closing what little distance remains between you. Not enough to invade your space completely, but enough that you can see the fine details more clearly now, the unnatural texture of his skin, the faint pull of those fractured lines when he speaks, the stillness of him that never quite resolves into something human.

"You didn't," he adds.

You don't respond immediately. Your throat is still dry, your body still adjusting, but your mind is sharper now than it was when you first woke up. You weigh your words before you let them go, not out of fear, but out of instinct.

"I don't know what you want yet," you say finally, your voice steady despite the tension coiled beneath it. "Seems like a waste to panic before I do."

There's a pause. It stretches just long enough to feel intentional, to make you aware of the silence again, of the hum threading through it, of the way his attention sharpens just slightly in response.

"Efficiency through restraint," he murmurs, almost thoughtfully. "You're already adapting."

Your chest tightens slightly at that, the implication settling in before you can stop it. This isn't just a conversation. It never was. Every response, every choice you make, is feeding into something larger, something you still can't fully see.

"You're trying to understand the situation before reacting to it," he says. "That's... uncommon, given the circumstances." Another small pause. "Encouraging."

Your jaw tightens, but you don't let it show beyond that. You don't give him the reaction he might be looking for, even as your mind starts connecting pieces you didn't want to consider.

Encouraging. Not for you. For him.

"For what?" you ask, the question leaving you before you can stop it, quieter than before but no less steady.

This time, he doesn't answer immediately. His gaze shifts, not away from you, but through you, as if he's considering how much to say, how much to reveal. When his focus settles again, there's that same faint edge of interest behind it, something clinical and precise.

"You're not here by accident," he says. "Of course, I'm sure you've noticed that already."

Your breath slows, just slightly, your body stilling in a way that has nothing to do with the restraints. He knows you knew that already. You felt it the moment you woke up, the moment everything about this place told you it had been planned.

"That still doesn't explain why." Another pause, longer this time.

He studies you in silence, the kind that feels less like hesitation and more like calibration, as though he's deciding how to frame something in a way that serves his purpose best. When he speaks again, his voice hasn't changed, but the weight behind it has.

"Your physiology is unusual," he says, the words chosen carefully, deliberately. "Your system doesn't respond the way it should. Exposure markers without degradation. Cellular stress without collapse. You maintain equilibrium where others don't."

Your stomach drops. You don't interrupt him, but your mind begins to run wild.

"You've been exposed before," he continues, his voice lowering just enough to feel more precise, more deliberate. "Not directly. Not in a controlled environment. But enough to register. Enough for your body to adapt."

"That's why you were viable," he continues, stepping just slightly closer again, close enough now that there's no distance left to soften the details of him. "Your body doesn't reject. It regulates. That makes you exceptionally useful."

"And Leon?" you ask before you can stop yourself, the question slipping through the cracks of your control, quieter now, edged with something you don't fully let surface.

His gaze sharpens just slightly. The reaction is immediate, though subtle, the kind you would miss if you weren't already watching for it. For the first time since he entered the room, his focus shifts in a way that feels more deliberate, more precise.

"Ah," he says softly. He's not surprised. "So that's where your thoughts go."

Your chest tightens, but you don't look away. You won't give him that. He watches you for another moment, that same quiet assessment settling back into place before he continues.

"He is not the reason you're here," he says. "He is the reason this works."

The distinction is small, but it changes everything. Your breath catches, just slightly, the meaning threading through his words before you can fully stop it. This isn't about leverage. Not in the way you expected. Not in the way it should be. This is something else.

"You're measuring him," you say, the realization forming as you speak it, your voice quieter now, more focused. "Through me."

That almost-smile returns faintly.

"Not just him," he replies. "Both of you."

The room feels smaller now. Tighter, like the walls have shifted inward without actually moving.

"You are the constant," he continues, his tone returning to that same calm, clinical cadence. "He is the variable. Time, distance, stress. All measurable. All predictable to a degree."

Another pause.

"But what interests me," he adds, his gaze settling fully on you again, "is where those predictions fail."

The hum in the room seems louder now, but maybe you're just more aware of it, more aware of everything. Whatever this is, it didn't start when you woke up. It started without your knowledge, without Leon's knowledge, long before this kidnapping.

The road stretches forward in a long, unbroken line, disappearing into darkness that feels thicker the further it goes. The headlights carve a narrow path through it, illuminating just enough of what's ahead to keep moving, but never enough to feel certain about what comes next. It's the kind of drive Leon has made countless times before, late hours, empty roads, the quiet space between one mission and the next. Usually, it gives him time to think, to let the tension settle, to put distance between what happened and what comes after.

Tonight, though, it does none of that.

The engine hums steadily beneath his hands, the vibration traveling up through the steering wheel and settling into his arms, a constant, grounding presence that does little to ease the pressure building in his chest. His grip is firm, controlled, but tighter than it needs to be, the leather faintly creaking under his fingers before he forces it to relax again. His gaze stays locked on the road ahead, sharp and unwavering, but his mind isn't there.

It keeps going back to the house, the silence, the space you were supposed to be when he came through the door. He's already reconstructed it more times than he can count, every detail, every shift, every second leading up to the moment you were taken. Not because he doubts what happened, but because that's how he works. He breaks things down until there's nothing left to question, nothing left to guess.

But there's still something missing. A gap he can't quite fill yet. And until he does, everything feels slightly out of reach.

His phone cuts through the silence. The sound is sharp against the steady hum of the engine, immediate and unwelcome, and Leon answers it without hesitation, his thumb moving across the screen before the second ring can finish.

"Talk to me."

On the other end, Hunnigan wastes no time. There's a tightness in her voice that wasn't there before, something controlled but unmistakable, the kind of tone she uses when what she's about to say matters more than the way she says it.

"I found something," she says. "But you're not going to like it."

Leon's expression doesn't change, but his attention sharpens, narrowing further as his grip adjusts slightly on the wheel. "Start talking."

There's a faint pause, the quiet sound of keys in the background as she pulls something up, cross-checking even as she speaks.

"I went back through what's left of the Elpis records," she says. "Most of it's been scrubbed, but there are fragments, overlapping data sets that didn't get fully erased. Personnel logs, incident reports, civilian exposure lists."

Leon's jaw tightens just slightly. "Get to it."

"Your wife's name is in one of the files."

Leon doesn't respond immediately. His grip tightens without permission, the leather pressing back against his palm before he forces his hand to ease again.

"That's not possible," he says finally, his voice low and even, but there's something under it now. Not disbelief.

"It shouldn't be," Hunnigan replies. "But it is."

The silence that follows stretches just long enough to make it feel heavier than it should.

"There was an incident," she continues. "Years ago. Small-scale containment breach tied to an off-site Elpis facility. It never went public. No major outbreak, no media coverage. It was contained quickly and buried even faster."

Leon's eyes flick briefly to the side, catching his own reflection in the mirror for a fraction of a second before returning to the road. His focus splits, part of him still driving, the rest already moving through what she's saying, fitting it into something that makes sense.

"Location?" he says.

"I'm sending it," she replies. "But listen first."

He doesn't interrupt again.

"There was a civilian exposure list," she says. "People in proximity to the breach. Most of them showed standard symptoms. Some didn't survive. A handful were flagged for follow-up monitoring and she was on that list."

The confirmation settles into him slowly, like something sinking deeper the longer it stays there. It doesn't hit all at once. It builds, piece by piece, until there's no space left to ignore it.

"She never told me," Leon says.

The words are quiet, more to himself than to her, but they carry weight all the same.

Hunnigan exhales softly on the other end. "She might not have known the full extent of it," she says. "Or it was downplayed. Low-risk exposure, no visible symptoms, something they monitor quietly and then classify out of relevance."

Leon's jaw shifts, tension settling in his shoulders as he processes that. It doesn't sit right. None of it does. "Define monitored."

"Periodic evaluations," Hunnigan answers. "Bloodwork, cellular scans, long-term observation. Nothing invasive on record, but enough to track irregularities."

Irregularities.

"What kind?" Leon asks.

There's the sound of keys again, faster this time. "Adaptive response markers," she says. "Her system didn't react the way it should have. No degradation, no instability. It just stabilized. Balanced itself out."

Leon's grip tightens again before he reins it in, the motion controlled but deliberate. The road ahead blurs slightly at the edges, not from distraction, but from the weight of what's settling into place.

"She was exposed," he says, the words quieter now, more grounded.

"Yes."

"And he knows."

"That's the part we can't ignore," Hunnigan replies. "If Gideon has access to those records, or if he's been tracking survivors from that incident, then this wasn't random."

Leon doesn't need her to finish. He already understands.

"There's more," she says after a moment. "The facility tied to that breach... it was never fully decommissioned. Officially, it was abandoned. Unofficially, there are signs of recent activity. Power draws. Data pings. Someone's been using it."

Leon's focus sharpens instantly, something locking into place with quiet certainty. "Send everything."

"I just did."

The phone vibrates in his hand, the incoming data lighting the screen briefly. He glances at it just long enough to confirm coordinates, then looks back to the road, his path already adjusting in his mind before the turn even comes into view.

"If her biology is what we think it is, then she's not just leverage."

Leon cuts her off, his voice sharper this time, but not raised. "I know what she is."

There's a brief silence after that, not tense, just understood. Because to him, none of that changes the only thing that matters. You're still you.

"Be careful," Hunnigan says quietly.

Leon doesn't respond. Instead, his foot presses down on the accelerator, the car surging forward just slightly as the dark road stretches ahead, no longer empty, no longer uncertain. Now it leads somewhere. All that's left is direction. Somewhere at the end of it is you.

Gideon's hand doesn't move quickly. There is no rush in him, no sudden motion that might trigger instinct before thought. Everything he does is measured, deliberate, as if even the timing has already been calculated. His fingers close around your wrist with quiet precision, the contact firm enough to hold, but not forceful enough to bruise. It's control without struggle, restraint without effort.

Your shoulders tense, your muscles tightening instinctively as your other hand pulls once against the restraint before you force it still again. You don't give him more than that.

"Try to remain still," he says, his voice low, even, not unkind but entirely without comfort. "Movement interferes with consistency."

Instead, you focus on the pressure of his hand, on the grounding weight of it, on the way your breathing moves in and out of your chest as you force it to slow. You tell yourself to watch. To remember. If this is happening, then it matters how.

His other hand comes into view. A small device rests between his fingers, compact and precise, more clinical than threatening at first glance. The casing is metallic, clean, designed for efficiency rather than intimidation. A narrow chamber holds a clear substance that catches the light just enough to make it visible without revealing anything about what it actually is.

Your stomach tightens. "What is that?" you ask, the question quieter than you intend, but steady enough to hold.

Gideon doesn't look at the device. He's watching you.

"A variable," he says.

Your grip tightens slightly against the restraint, your breath slowing again as you brace yourself without meaning to. Your body knows before your mind fully accepts it. There's no time to argue, no space to negotiate. 

He adjusts your wrist, turning it just enough to expose the inside of your arm. A sharp, precise pressure breaks the surface of your skin. A quick, controlled intrusion that sends a reflexive jolt through your system before you can stop it. The substance pushed into your system with practiced ease before the device withdraws just as smoothly as it entered. Gideon releases your wrist immediately after, stepping back without hesitation.

You don't speak. You can't even really try. Any words dissolve somewhere between your chest and your throat as the sensation deepens, spreading through you in a way that is impossible to ignore now. What began as something subtle, something easy to question, shifts into something far more defined, far more present. Heat blooms beneath your skin, not sharp or burning, but insistent, like your body is trying to correct something it doesn't understand.

Your breathing falters, then steadies, then falters again as you try to regain control over it. Each inhale feels just slightly heavier than the last, your lungs working harder for something that should come naturally. Your shoulders tense, pulling inward without permission as your muscles react to the unfamiliar strain. It doesn't hurt but the sensation is wrong.

Your fingers curl against the restraint, tightening instinctively as your pulse begins to climb, each beat more noticeable than the last. You can feel it in your wrists, in your throat, in the space just behind your ribs, a steady, growing rhythm that feels just slightly out of sync with everything else.

You force a breath in slowly, deliberately, holding it for a second before letting it out through your nose, trying to anchor yourself to something familiar, something controlled. It works, for a moment. The sharp edge of the sensation dulls just slightly, enough to give you the illusion of stability.

Gideon watches all of it. He hasn't moved from where he stepped back, his posture unchanged, his gaze fixed on you with that same clinical precision. There's no urgency in him, no concern, only observation, as though everything happening is exactly as expected.

"Elevated response," he says quietly, almost to himself. "But contained."

The words settle into the space around you, detached and measured, like he's reading from something already written rather than reacting to what he sees.

You swallow again, your throat tightening as the heat shifts, pulling inward now, concentrating somewhere deeper in your chest. For a brief moment, it feels like your body is bracing for something worse, something sharper, something that hasn't fully arrived yet. Your shoulders draw back as you try to sit straighter, your body instinctively fighting the sensation, pushing against it rather than giving in. Your breath comes faster for a second, then you force it to slow again, dragging it back under control one piece at a time.

Another wave moves through you, stronger this time, your muscles tightening in response as the heat spreads again, this time more evenly, less chaotic. It rolls through your arms, your chest, your core, like something searching for imbalance and failing to find it.

Your brow furrows slightly.

That's new. The initial spike of discomfort doesn't escalate the way you expect it to. Instead of building into pain, it... evens out. The sharp edges smooth, the irregular rhythm of your pulse settling into something steadier, something controlled despite the foreign presence still threading through your system.

Gideon's head tilts slightly as he watches the shift happen, the lenses over his eye catching the light as he adjusts his angle just enough to follow the change more closely.

"There it is," he murmurs.

The words are quiet and they carry something like confirmation in them. You feel it too. The wrongness doesn't disappear, but it changes, becoming something your body can hold rather than something it's fighting. The heat lingers, but it no longer spikes unpredictably. Your pulse steadies, your muscles easing just slightly as the initial strain fades into something more controlled.

The realization settles in slowly, unwelcome but undeniable.

You draw in another breath, deeper this time, testing it, measuring it the same way he is. It comes easier now. Not normal, not entirely, but closer than it should be given what just happened.

"What did you do?" you ask again, your voice quieter now, steadier despite everything.

Gideon doesn't answer immediately. His gaze remains fixed on you, tracking every shift, every subtle adjustment in your posture, your breathing, your expression.

"A baseline disruptor," he says after a moment. "Something that should introduce instability."

Your jaw tightens.

"Should." His head tilts again, that same small, thoughtful motion.

"In most cases, it does," he replies. "The body rejects it. Overcompensates. Breaks equilibrium in an attempt to regain it."

His gaze sharpens just slightly. "Yours didn't."

You swallow again, your throat less dry now, your body still humming faintly with the aftereffects of whatever he introduced.

"You're watching for failure," you say, the realization forming as you speak it, your voice gaining a slight edge despite your control.

A faint shift crosses his expression again, not quite a smile, but something that acknowledges the accuracy of it. "Yes."

The answer is simple.

"And when you don't get it?" you press, your fingers tightening slightly against the restraint again, grounding yourself in something solid as your mind continues to move.

"Then I adjust," he says.

Your chest tightens again, but not from the lingering effects of whatever he gave you. This could be just the beginning. Gideon steps back slightly, creating distance again now that the immediate observation is complete. His attention doesn't leave you, but his posture shifts just enough to signal that this phase, whatever it was, has reached its conclusion.

"For now," he adds quietly, almost as an afterthought, "you stabilize."

The second time, there is no warning. You see it in the shift of his posture, in the way he reaches for the panel again with the same precision, but there's something different now. Not in his movement, or in his expression, but in the certainty that settles into the space around him.

He's no longer observing you. He's about to escalate this.

Your body tenses before he even turns back toward you, every muscle tightening instinctively as your pulse begins to climb again. The lingering effects of the first injection haven't fully faded. You can still feel it beneath your skin, that faint, controlled hum of something unfamiliar that your body has somehow contained.

Gideon steps back into your space, the device in his hand similar in shape to the first, but not identical. The chamber holds something darker this time, the liquid catching the light in a way that makes it impossible to mistake the difference.

"That one didn't break me," you say quietly, your voice steadier than you feel. "So now you're going to try harder."

He doesn't deny it. "Adjustment is necessary," he replies, his tone as calm as before. "The first response confirmed baseline stability. This will test the limits of it."

You close your eyes and think of anything else. Home. Leon. He'll be here soon, you know it. Your fingers curl against the restraints again. 

"He's still a variable." Gideon adds, almost absently.

"You mean me," you say.

"No, you're the constant."

Before you can respond, before you can push back against it, his hand closes around your wrist again, firm and controlled. This time, you don't pull away. Not because you don't want to, but because you already know it won't matter.

You brace. The injection comes faster. The pressure is sharper this time, the intrusion deeper, less subtle. Your breath catches immediately, your body reacting before you can suppress it, a sharp inhale breaking through your control as your muscles tense hard against the restraint. 

It hits hard. There's no delay this time, no gradual creep. The sensation floods through you all at once, a violent surge beneath your skin that feels like your body is being pulled in two different directions at the same time. Heat spikes instantly, sharper than before, not spreading evenly but crashing through your system in jagged waves that refuse to settle.

Your breath breaks. You don't mean to. You want to keep quiet, composed. But the sound tears out of you anyway, raw and uncontrolled as your back arches slightly against the chair, your muscles tightening in a way you can't stop. It hurts and it hurts deep. Your chest constricts, your lungs struggling to pull in air as your pulse spikes violently, each beat slamming harder than the last. The heat turns into something sharper, something that burns through your limbs and settles in your core, like your body is trying to reject something it can't.

You try to fight it instinctively. Your hands clench, your shoulders pulling tight as you try to force your breathing back under control, but it slips, stutters, breaks again as another wave hits. Another sound escapes, and you don't recognize it at first, then you realize it's you.

Leon continues moving in. There is no space for distraction, no room for anything beyond the task in front of him. His breathing is steady, his pulse controlled, his body moving with the kind of precision that comes from years of experience and instinct working in perfect alignment.

When he reaches the door, he waits, listens. At first he hears nothing and reaches for the handle. Just the faint hum of something internal, too low to identify clearly from outside, too consistent to ignore completely. It's the kind of sound that suggests machinery, containment, something running beneath the surface where it can't be seen. 

Then he hears it. Faint, distant, but unmistakable. A sound that doesn't belong to the building. His body stills instantly, every sense sharpening as his head tilts just slightly, his focus shifting inward, past the walls, past the structure, toward the source.

It comes again. Muffled and broken. Something in him snaps. He knows that sound, even distorted beneath layers of concrete and distance. He knows your voice, and you're not speaking this time, you're in pain.

Leon's hand closes around the handle, the controlled precision changing into something sharper, something faster as his entire focus locks onto one singular point. You're here. And you're close enough to hear.

Inside, the pain doesn't fade. It only builds. Another wave crashes through you, harder than the last, tearing through whatever control you managed to hold onto as your body fights something it doesn't understand. Your breath fractures again, your chest tightening painfully as you try to pull in air that won't come fast enough. Your vision blurs at the edges, the room tilting slightly as your muscles strain, your entire body reacting in ways you can't stop.

Gideon just stands there watching. Unphased by your struggle. Focused on whatever it is he's trying to figure out now.

"Instability present," he murmurs, his voice distant against the rush of sensation flooding your system. "But not catastrophic."

Your hands clench harder, your body trembling now, caught between resisting and adapting, between breaking and holding. Another scream tears from you, louder this time, less controlled. Somewhere beyond the walls, Leon is moving as fast he as can, getting closer with every second.

The door doesn't creak. It opens easily. Leon notices as he slips inside, his movement controlled and immediate, his body already adjusting to the change in the environment before the door fully closes behind him. The night are disappears in an instant, replaced by something cooler, denser, the faint sterile scent of filtered air layered over something metallic and difficult to place.

The darkness inside isn't complete. Low-level lighting runs along the edges of the corridor ahead, thin strips embedded into the walls that cast a dim, clinical glow across smooth surfaces. It isn't enough to illuminate everything, but it doesn't need to. It's designed for navigation, not comfort.

Leon pauses just inside the threshold out of instinct. His gaze moves quickly, but not carelessly, tracking the length of the corridor, the corners, the ceiling, the floor. Every surface is too clean, too controlled, the kind of space that isn't meant to be lived in, only used. There are no visible cameras, no obvious surveillance, but that doesn't mean he isn't being watched.

Leon steps forward. His footfalls are silent against the smooth flooring, his weight shifting with practiced precision as he moves deeper into the corridor. The hum he heard outside is louder now, no longer distant, but integrated into the structure itself. It vibrates faintly through the walls, through the floor, through the air.

Every doorway he passes is closed, seamless against the walls, giving nothing away about what might be behind them. There are no signs, no labels, nothing to indicate function or direction. The only thing that keeps him directionally bound is the sound of your pained screams.

Leon's jaw tightens slightly as he continues forward, his mind mapping the space as he goes, committing every turn, every distance, every possible exit to memory. If something goes wrong, he needs a way out. He needs a way to you. The thought sharpens his focus further.

Another scream escapes you. Leon stops. Not abruptly, but enough that his entire body stills, his head turning just slightly as he isolates it. The corridor stretches ahead in two directions at the next intersection, identical in structure, identical in lighting, offering no immediate indication of which path leads where.

Something shifts in Leon instantly, something deeper than instinct, something that bypasses thought entirely. His chest tightens hard, his breath shortening for a fraction of a second before it steadies again, forced back under control through sheer discipline.

He moves faster now, but not reckless, his steps still placed with precision as he turns down the corridor where the sound came from. The distance closes quickly, the hum of the facility growing louder as he goes, layered now with something else.

Every second stretches. Every step matters. He passes another door, then another, his gaze flicking briefly toward each one, searching for anything that stands out, anything that breaks the pattern. Then he sees a difference.

One of the doors ahead is slightly recessed compared to the others, its surface broken by a narrow panel along the side, faintly illuminated in a way that suggests active use. It isn't obvious. It isn't meant to be.

Leon slows as he approaches, his body lowering just slightly, his hand moving instinctively toward his weapon as he positions himself beside the frame rather than directly in front of it. His breathing steadies again, controlled, measured, his focus narrowing to a single point.

Another pained sound escapes your throat and Leon knows that you're in the other side. For a brief moment, everything compresses, the space, the sound, the distance between where he is and where you're collapsing into something immediate and undeniable.

He reaches for the panel. His fingers hover for half a second, assessing, calculating. Locked, most likely. Secured in a way that won't respond to a simple override. So he doesn't try. Instead, he shifts his stance slightly, his weight settling, his grip tightening as he prepares to force it. Inside, the sound rises again. Sharper. More raw. And that's all it takes.

Leon moves. The impact is controlled, precise, his force directed at the weakest point of the frame rather than the center. The panel cracks first, a sharp fracture that breaks the seal just enough to compromise the structure. He doesn't stop there. A second, stronger hit. The mechanism gives. The door buckles inward with a dull, heavy sound, the controlled quiet of the facility breaking for the first time since he entered. Leon doesn't wait for it to settle. He pushes through.

Inside, the world doesn't make sense all at once. It comes in fragments. The dim lights are too bright. The air is too cold. The sound of your own breathing breaking apart as another wave crashes through you, your body no longer able to hold the same control it did before. The heat has turned into something sharper, something that burns through your system in uneven pulses that refuse to stabilize.

Your hands are clenched tight enough to ache, fingernails cutting through your palm, your muscles trembling under the strain as your chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow.

The door breaks. The sound cuts through everything. Sharp. Violent. Wrong.

Your head jerks instinctively toward it, your vision struggling to focus, the edges still blurred, the room tilting just slightly as your body tries to keep up with everything happening at once. For a split second, you don't understand what you're seeing. A familiar shape, quick movements. Another yell rips through you, the pain washing through your entire body again.

Gideon turns slightly, a full smirk playing on his lips as he recognizes who came through the door. He doesn't startle and doesn't retreat. He wanted this moment, he waited for this moment.

Leon.

The room seems to hold itself in suspension, the harsh overhead light cutting everything into sharp, unforgiving clarity. There is no shadow deep enough to hide in here, no corner untouched by the sterile brightness that reveals every detail whether it should be seen or not. The hum of the facility continues beneath it all, steady and mechanical, a constant reminder that this place was built for function, not for the moment unfolding inside it. The only sound to be heard now is your panicked breathing between screams.

Leon stands just inside the broken doorway, his body angled slightly forward, not quite advancing, not quite holding back. His breathing is controlled, but not calm, each inhale measured, each exhale tight, like something is being forced into place rather than settling naturally.

His gaze doesn't go to Gideon first. It goes to you. It finds you immediately, as if there was never any question where you would be, as if every step he took through the facility had already narrowed down to this exact point. His eyes move over you quickly at first, instinctively checking, assessing, searching for what's been done, what's still happening, what he might already be too late to stop.

He sees the tension in your body, the way your hands are clenched too tightly against the restraints, the uneven rise and fall of your chest as your breathing struggles to keep pace with something inside you that hasn't settled. The faint tremor running through your muscles isn't subtle enough to miss, not to him.

His jaw tightens. Something shifts behind his eyes, something darker, sharper, but it doesn't break through his control. Not yet.

"Leon—" Your voice doesn't come out the way you expect it to. It catches halfway, thinner than it should be, pulled tight by everything still moving through your system. Even saying his name takes more effort than it should, your breath hitching slightly as you try to push past it. But he hears it.

"I've got you," he says, his voice low, steady in a way that feels deliberate, like he's anchoring both of you at the same time. There's no hesitation in it, no question, just certainty, even if the situation in front of him doesn't offer any.

Gideon moves, turning with the same measured precision he's carried through every moment so far, his posture unchanged, his attention shifting from you to Leon as though the interruption is simply another variable entering the equation.

He studies Leon in silence for a moment, his head tilting slightly as if adjusting to a new data point rather than reacting to a threat.

"Earlier than projected," he says, his words calm. Observational.

Leon's attention shifts then, just enough to acknowledge him, but not enough to lose sight of you. His body remains angled between you and Gideon, instinctively placing himself in that space, that line, even before he's fully closed the distance.

"You picked the wrong person," Leon says, his tone controlled but edged now, something tight beneath it that doesn't quite surface but doesn't hide either.

Gideon doesn't react to the threat. If anything, his focus sharpens.

"No," he replies. "I selected precisely the right one."

Leon's gaze flickers back to you, just for a second, taking in the way your shoulders tense again as another wave moves through you, the way your breathing stutters despite your effort to keep it steady. Grunts of pain escape your lips.

"What did you do to her?" he asks.

There's no softness in his voice. Gideon doesn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze shifts between the two of you, not weighing, not comparing, but observing, as if this moment itself is something worth studying.

"A controlled introduction," he says finally. "A stressor designed to disrupt equilibrium."

Your fingers tighten again as another pulse moves through you, your body reacting despite your efforts to contain it. You try to steady your breathing, to keep yourself grounded, but the sensation hasn't fully faded. It lingers beneath your skin, quieter than before, but still present, still wrong.

"And?" he presses, his voice lower now, more dangerous.

Gideon's expression doesn't change. "She stabilized. Handling it quite well actually."

The words hang in the air. Leon's jaw tightens harder, his focus snapping fully to Gideon now, the meaning settling in faster than it should.

"That wasn't supposed to happen," he says.

Gideon's head tilts again, that same small, deliberate motion.

"Not typically," he agrees. "But she is not a typical subject."

Your chest rises sharply again as another smaller wave moves through you, your body still adjusting, still reacting in ways you can't fully control. You grit your teeth against it, forcing yourself to stay present, to stay aware, because Leon is here now, and that changes everything.

Leon takes a step forward slowly. His attention splits again, half on Gideon, half on you, calculating distance, timing, risk. Every movement is deliberate, every shift controlled, but there's something coiled beneath it now, something that's getting harder to keep contained the longer he stands there.

"You're done," Leon says.

Gideon doesn't move to stop him. Doesn't reach for anything. Doesn't even step back.

"If that were true," he says quietly, "you wouldn't have made it this far."

Leon moves again, faster this time. He closes the distance between you in a matter of seconds, his focus narrowing completely as he reaches your side. His hands come to the restraints immediately, his touch careful despite the urgency behind it, his fingers checking the mechanism, the material, the way it's secured.

"Hey," he says, softer now, his voice dropping just enough to reach you through everything else. "Stay with me, alright?"

Your head tilts slightly toward him, your vision still not fully steady, but clearer now than it was before. Being this close to him, hearing him, it cuts through some of the noise, some of the disorientation.

"I'm—" You try to answer, but the words falter as your breath catches again, your body still not fully cooperating.

"I know," he says quietly. "Just breathe."

Behind him, Gideon watches. Unmoved. Uninterrupted.

"Observe," he says softly. The word is almost lost beneath the sound of your breathing, but Leon hears it.

"I'm not part of your experiment," Leon says.

Gideon's gaze doesn't waver. "You already are."

Leon's grip tightens slightly against the restraint before he forces it to ease, his focus snapping back to you, back to what matters. The mechanism gives slightly under his touch, not completely, but it gives you some relief.

"Almost there," he murmurs, his voice low, steady, meant for you alone.

Your breathing hasn't fully settled, but it's better than it was. The violent spikes have dulled into something more contained, your body still reacting, still adjusting, but no longer overwhelming you completely. You hold onto his voice, onto the presence of him beside you, grounding yourself in something real while everything else still feels just slightly out of place.

"Leon..." Your voice is quieter now, strained but clearer, your fingers twitching faintly against the restraint as you try to steady yourself.

He glances at you briefly, just enough to confirm you're still with him, still holding on. "I've got you," he says again. And for a second, you believe it.

His hands still against the restraint, his body pauses just long enough to register the change before his head lifts, his attention snapping back toward Gideon. "You should have left when you had the opportunity, Leon."

Leon's jaw tightens, his posture shifting almost imperceptibly as he angles himself more fully between you and Gideon, his body placing itself there without thought, without hesitation.

"You're done," he says, quieter now, but edged with something harder, something less controlled.

Gideon's head tilts slightly. And then he moves. There's no warning, no buildup. One moment, he stands across the room, the next, he's there, the space between them collapsing in an instant. Leon reacts on instinct, his body turning, his arm coming up to intercept. But Gideon doesn't strike. He grips Leon's shoulder, then the force hits.

Leon's footing breaks as he's yanked sideways with a strength that doesn't belong to anything natural. The world shifts violently, the ground slamming into his back with a force that knocks the breath from his lungs before he can brace against it.

The impact echoes through the room, sharp and final.

"Leon!" The sound leaves you before you can stop it, your voice breaking through the space with a sharp edge of fear you can't contain this time.

Even as the air rushes back into his lungs in a strained inhale, his body rolls with the impact, momentum carrying him through the motion as he pushes himself back up. There's no pause, no recovery beyond what's absolutely necessary. His focus snaps back immediately, locking onto Gideon with a precision that overrides everything else.

Something in Gideon begins to change. A tension that wasn't there before, something coiling inward rather than expanding outward. His posture tightens, his shoulders drawing slightly as though containing something that no longer fits cleanly within him. The fractured lines beneath his skin darken, spreading in faint, branching patterns that pulse subtly with something alive.

You gasp because you can see it now. Something moving under his skin.

"Adaptation requires progression," Gideon says, his voice lower now, heavier, as though it's being pulled from somewhere deeper.

The mechanical apparatus over his eye flickers, the lenses shifting rapidly, adjusting in small, precise movements as if recalibrating to match whatever is happening inside him.

Leon's stance lowers instinctively, his weight settling, his body aligning for impact as his gaze tracks every shift, every unnatural movement.

"Yeah," he mutters under his breath, quieter, sharper. "Saw that coming."

A sound comes next. It's wet and wrong. A tearing pressure beneath the surface that builds for just a second too long before it breaks. His arm jerks slightly, not in pain, but in adjustment, his fingers flexing once, twice, before something forces its way through. The fabric of his sleeve splits as dark, sinewy appendages push outward, emerging from beneath the skin with a violent, organic motion that defies anything natural.

They unfurl rapidly, extending outward with unsettling control, each one moving with a purpose that suggests awareness rather than randomness. 

Leon doesn't wait. He moves first.

The moment the tendrils fully extend, he closes the distance, fast and direct, his movement cutting through the space before Gideon can fully settle into whatever he's becoming. His strike is precise, aimed to disrupt, to interrupt the transformation before it completes.

But one of the tendrils reacts faster. It lashes out, snapping forward with unnatural speed, wrapping tightly around Leon's arm mid-motion. The grip is immediate, constricting hard enough to halt him completely, the pressure sharp and unyielding. Leon's jaw tightens as he tries to pull free, his muscles straining against it.

You see it before it happens, faint arcs of electricity flickering along the length of the appendage, gathering, intensifying, the air around it crackling with something volatile. You try to call to Leon but another wave of pain rushes through you, head to toe, halting everything and stealing your voice, your breath, your mind.

The discharge hits. It tears through Leon in a sharp, violent burst, his body locking for a split second under the force of it before the sound breaks from him, low and strained, forced out despite his control. The tendril releases him just as quickly. He's thrown back, his body hitting the ground hard enough to echo again, the impact reverberating through the room.

Leon lies unmoving on the floor and it's the most helpless you've ever been. Restrained with no way to help your husband, who is only here to save you.

His hand presses against the floor, his body pushing up again, slower this time, but no less determined. His breathing is heavier now, sharper, each inhale drawn in with effort, but his focus hasn't shifted a single time.

Across from him, Gideon stands taller. The human shape is still there, but it's no longer dominant. The tendrils move slowly behind him, shifting, adjusting, as if testing their range, their strength, their control. The air around him feels charged now, faint arcs of energy flickering intermittently, unstable but contained.

"This is where it becomes meaningful," Gideon says, his voice steady despite everything else.

The room doesn't hold its shape for long. It gives in stages, like something under pressure, finally reaching the point where it can no longer hold.

At first, it's only the sound. A low, strained groan somewhere deep within the structure, metal bending where it was never meant to, the clean lines of the facility distorting under the weight of what Gideon is becoming. The sterile hum that once filled the space flickers, falters, then surges unevenly, as if the systems built to sustain control are now struggling to contain it.

Gideon stands at the center of it, no longer still in the way he had been before, but not uncontrolled either. The transformation does not make him wild. It makes him larger, more present, more impossible to ignore. The tendrils extending from his body shift with a purpose that's no longer exploratory. They coil and stretch in slow, deliberate motions, each movement accompanied by faint arcs of electricity that crackle through the air and dissipate against the walls in sharp, fleeting bursts of light.

Leon watches him without retreating. His breathing is heavier now, his chest rising and falling with effort, but there's no hesitation in the way he holds his ground. His body adjusts in small, precise ways, weight shifting, stance lowering, every muscle aligning with instinct and experience. He's already recalculating, already adapting to something that should not exist, because that is what survival has always required of him.

Gideon tilts his head, the mechanical lenses over his eye flickering rapidly as they track Leon's movement. "You continue to respond within projected thresholds," he says, his voice altered now, layered faintly with something deeper that resonates beneath the words. "Even under escalating conditions."

Leon doesn't answer. There's no space for it, no value in it. The moment Gideon's tendrils shift inward, drawing close to his body as the electricity along them intensifies, Leon understands what's coming. The air sharpens, the faint scent of ozone thickening as the energy builds, no longer scattered but concentrated, focused into something far more dangerous.

He moves before it releases. The discharge tears through the space where he stood a fraction of a second before, a violent arc of electricity that slams into the far wall with enough force to fracture the surface, the impact flashing white-hot before fading into smoke and sparks. The light burns briefly across Leon's vision, but he doesn't slow. He uses the opening created by the attack, the brief window where Gideon's focus shifts to recalibrate, and closes the distance instead of retreating.

The first strike lands cleanly. It snaps Gideon's head to the side, not with enough force to drop him, but enough to confirm what Leon needs to know. The thing in front of him can still be hit. It can still be interrupted. It can still be fought.

The response is immediate. The tendrils lash outward with far less restraint than before, their movements sharper, more aggressive, each strike aimed not just to stop Leon but to overwhelm him. He pivots through the first, deflects the second, the impact sending a jolt up his arm that he absorbs without breaking rhythm. The third comes from behind, forcing him to drop low, the appendage slicing through the air just above him before slamming into the wall hard enough to crack it further.

The room is coming apart now. Panels loosen and fall, fragments of the controlled environment scattering across the floor as the fight pushes beyond anything it was designed to contain. The hum of the facility distorts into something uneven, lights flickering in brief, erratic pulses that cast the entire space in shifting brightness.

It's all too much for your body as you fight whatever is coursing through your veins. The flashing lights, the pain bursting in waves. Darkness creeps at the edges of your vision as you watch Leon try to take down Gideon.

Gideon steps forward into the chaos, his movement heavier now, less human in its weight but no less precise. "Damage acknowledged," he says, the words strained slightly as the transformation continues to push through him. "Adaptation required."

The tendrils retract again, but not in retreat. They coil tightly around him, drawing inward as the electricity intensifies along their length, brighter now, more volatile. Leon recognizes the shift immediately, his posture tightening as his focus sharpens further. This is not another strike. This is an escalation.

Gideon's body convulses with sudden force, the remaining structure of his human form breaking further as the mutation surges forward. The tendrils expand again, thicker, longer, their movement more erratic as the transformation accelerates. His frame distorts, growing beyond its original shape, the balance of control giving way to something far more aggressive, far less contained.

The walls crack under the pressure. Metal groans and bends as the space struggles to hold him, the controlled environment collapsing into something unstable and dangerous.

He moves through the chaos, faster now, more direct, his path cutting between the snapping tendrils and crackling arcs of energy with a precision that leaves no room for hesitation. One shot strikes his shoulder as he passes, the impact heavy enough to stagger him a step, but he doesn't stop. He can't. Another slams into the ground beside him, sending debris upward in a sharp burst that grazes his side, but he pushes through it, closing the distance before Gideon can fully adjust.

This time, Leon commits. There's no testing strike, no probing movement. Everything aligns into a single, decisive action as he drives forward, his focus narrowing to a singular point. The moment opens, brief and dangerous, and he takes it.

The shot lands. The sound cuts through the chaos, sharp and final, the impact hitting with enough force to break through what remains of Gideon's structure. For a fraction of a second, everything seems to hold, the movement, the sound, the space itself pausing as the effect settles in.

Gideon collapses. The tendrils recoil violently, the electricity along them snapping out in erratic bursts before dying completely. Gideon's form distorts further, not expanding now but breaking down, the structure of it failing in on itself as the mutation loses cohesion. The surface of him shifts, softens, destabilizes, the defined shape melting into something unrecognizable. He doesn't fall, but dissolves.

The mass that was Gideon collapses inward, losing form, losing structure, the remnants of his transformation breaking apart into something viscous, unstable, spreading across the fractured floor in uneven, darkened pools. The last of the energy dissipates into the air, leaving behind only the fading hum of a facility no longer fully functioning.

The silence that follows doesn't feel real. It settles too suddenly, too completely, pressing in around the room like something waiting to be acknowledged. Moments ago, everything had been noise and motion and impact, the air alive with electricity and strain, the structure itself fighting to hold together under the weight of what had been happening inside it. Now, all of that is gone, leaving behind only the faint, uneven hum of failing systems and the quiet drip of something cooling against the fractured floor.

Leon doesn't move right away. His chest rises and falls with heavier breaths than he'd allow himself under normal circumstances, each inhale dragging in air that still smells faintly of ozone and heat. The tension hasn't left his body yet. It lingers in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way his fingers flex once at his side like they're still expecting resistance.

His gaze remains fixed for a second longer on what's left of Gideon, the dark, formless remains spread across the floor where something controlled and deliberate once stood. There's no movement there now, no sign of reformation, no indication that anything is coming back from it. Just the aftermath of something that pushed too far and lost its shape completely.

Only when that certainty settles does Leon turn. Everything that had been held tight during the fight, all that focus, all that precision, redirects in an instant, snapping back to you with a force that feels almost physical. His eyes find you quickly, already expecting to see you where he left you, restrained, struggling, still fighting through whatever Gideon put into your system.

You're there. You're upright. The restraints still hold you in place, your body angled slightly forward where you'd been straining against them earlier. But the tension is gone. The movement is gone.

Leon's chest tightens sharply.

"Hey..." The word leaves him before he's even fully crossed the distance, his steps closing the space between you faster now, no longer measured, no longer cautious. The control he held onto through the fight slips just enough to let urgency through.

He reaches you in seconds, hands coming up to your cheeks. "Hey, hey—" His voice drops, softer but edged now, the words coming quicker than before as he leans closer, his gaze scanning your face, searching for any sign of response. "Come on, stay with me."

Your skin is warm beneath his hand, warmer than it should be, the heat lingering from whatever Gideon forced into your system. Your pulse is there too, faint but steady against his fingers, a rhythm that reassures him just enough to keep moving, to keep focused. But your eyes don't open.

Leon exhales through his nose, the breath sharper than he intends as he shifts his grip, his hand sliding more securely along your arm as he checks you over with quick, practiced movements. There are no visible wounds beyond the restraint, no obvious signs of physical damage from the outside, but that doesn't mean anything here.

"What did he do to you..." he mutters under his breath, the question not meant for an answer, just something that slips out as his mind tries to piece together what he's seeing with what he already knows.

He adjusts his position, moving closer, his hands returning to the mechanism with more urgency than before, but not less care. His fingers find the weakened point he'd started working earlier, the subtle give in the structure that hadn't been enough then but might be now.

"Alright," he murmurs, quieter again, as if you can hear him even like this. "I've got you, sweetheart. Just hold on."

His grip tightens slightly as he applies pressure, shifting his angle and forcing the mechanism in a way that strains against it rather than working with it. The material resists at first, holding firm like it was designed to, but Leon doesn't stop. He adjusts again, changes direction, increases force just enough to push it past its limit without snapping it in a way that could hurt you.

Finally, the first wrist comes loose. Leon doesn't hesitate. He works the opening immediately, pulling it wider, freeing your other wrist carefully but quickly, his hand catching yours the second it's loose, steadying it before it can fall.

"Got it," he breathes, more to himself than anything else.

For a second, he doesn't move you.

He just stays there, one hand still around yours, the other hovering near your shoulder like he's bracing for something, like he's expecting you to wake up, to react, to do something. When you don't, the tension shifts again. Softer this time. More careful.

Leon slides his arm behind your back, supporting your weight as he eases you forward, out of the position the restraints held you in. Your body doesn't resist. It leans into him instead, unsteady, the lack of awareness making the movement feel heavier than it should.

"I've got you," he says again, quieter now, the words closer to a promise than anything else.

He adjusts his hold, one arm secure around you, the other steadying your head as he lowers you just enough to get a better look at you. His thumb brushes lightly along your cheek without thinking, grounding himself in the contact as much as he's checking you.

Leon's jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn't let it spiral. Not now. Not when you're right here, when you're breathing, when he can still do something about it.

"Come on," he murmurs, his voice low and steady again as he shifts his grip, preparing to move. "You're not staying here."

The facility groans faintly around them, a reminder that whatever stability it had before is gone now, systems failing slowly in the aftermath of Gideon's collapse. The lights flicker once, then again, the hum dipping unevenly as something deeper in the structure begins to shut down.

Leon doesn't wait to see how far it goes. He gathers you more securely against him, lifting you carefully, mindful of your condition, of the way your body still hasn't fully recovered from whatever was done to it. His movements are controlled again, but the urgency is back, sharper now, focused entirely on getting you out.

As he turns toward the broken doorway, his grip tightens just slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to make sure you're there.

The facility doesn't sound the same on the way out. What had once been a steady, controlled hum has fractured into something uneven, strained, like the structure itself is struggling to keep up with systems that are failing faster than they can compensate. The lights flicker overhead in irregular pulses, casting the corridor in shifting bands of brightness and shadow that make the space feel unstable, unfamiliar, even though Leon had just moved through it minutes before with absolute clarity.

Your weight is secure against him, one arm braced firmly around your back, the other supporting you beneath your legs as he moves through the corridor with controlled urgency. Every step is precise despite the pace, his body adjusting instinctively to keep you steady, to minimize the jarring motion that might make things worse.

Your head rests against his shoulder, your breathing warm against his neck, uneven but present. He keeps track of it without thinking, each inhale and exhale a quiet reassurance that cuts through everything else.

"Almost out," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his voice low and steady even as the world around him shifts.

The door he forced open earlier hangs unevenly now, the frame warped just enough to leave it partially ajar. Cool night air seeps through the opening, cutting through the sterile atmosphere behind him and bringing with it the scent of damp earth and open space.

Freedom.

Leon doesn't hesitate. He pushes through, stepping out into the night in one smooth motion, the shift in environment immediate and grounding. The air is colder here, cleaner, and for the first time since he entered the facility, his lungs pull in a breath that doesn't feel heavy.

The car is exactly where he left it, partially obscured by the treeline, its dark silhouette blending into the surroundings. He heads straight for it, his pace steady but urgent, every second outside the facility a step further away from everything that just happened.

Your body shifts slightly in his arms. At first, it's subtle. A change in weight. A small, uncoordinated movement that could easily be dismissed as nothing. But Leon feels it immediately. His grip tightens just slightly, enough to steady you as his gaze drops briefly, searching your face for confirmation.

Your brows furrow faintly as your breathing changes.

"Hey," he says, softer now, his voice dropping instinctively as he adjusts his hold just enough to support you better. "Easy. You're alright."

"...Leon?" The word comes out quiet, rough around the edges, like your voice hasn't fully returned yet.

He hears it immediately.

"I'm here," he answers without hesitation, his voice closer now, steadier, like he's anchoring you through the haze. "I've got you."

Your eyes open slowly, the night sky above you blurred at first, shifting slightly with each step he takes. It takes a second for things to settle, for your vision to catch up enough to focus, and when it does, you see him again. Up close and real, not the image you forced yourself to see while Gideon was tormenting you.

Your fingers twitch weakly against his jacket, the movement small but intentional as you try to ground yourself in something you recognize.

"I told... told him you'd save me." You barely get out. "You're... okay?"

"I'm fine," he says, though it's not the point. "You're the one I'm worried about."

You let out a faint breath, something that might almost be a laugh if your body had the strength for it. It fades quickly as a dull ache rolls through you again, your muscles tightening instinctively before easing.

"Feel like... a million bucks..." you murmur.

Leon reaches the car quickly, shifting his hold just enough to open the passenger door without setting you down, his movements efficient despite the care behind them. He lowers you into the seat gently, one hand steadying your back as the other guides your legs in, making sure you're settled before pulling back.

For a moment, he doesn't close the door. His hand lingers briefly against your shoulder, his gaze scanning your face again, checking, confirming, making sure you're still with him.

"I'm right here," he says quietly, reaching up to caress your cheek.

You nod faintly, your head resting back against the seat, your body still heavy, still not fully your own, but more present than before.

Leon closes the door and rounds the car quickly, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine without hesitation. The headlights cut through the darkness ahead, illuminating the path back in a way that feels far more real than anything inside that facility ever did.

As the car pulls away, the building disappears behind them, swallowed by the trees and the night as if it was never meant to be found. For a few minutes, there's only the sound of the road under the tires.

Leon taps a few buttons on his infotainment screen. The dial tone sounds in the car.

"Leon?" Hunnigan's voice comes through, alert immediately.

"I found her," he says.

There's a pause. Then relief, quiet but unmistakable. "Is she—"

"She's alive," he cuts in, glancing briefly toward you before returning his focus forward. "But Gideon got to her first. He injected something. I don't know what."

Your eyes shift toward him slightly at that, your focus hazy but present enough to follow the conversation. There's a brief sound of typing on the other end.

"If it's Elpis-related, it's not going to be simple," Hunnigan says. "You need to get her checked out as soon as possible. I can pull what I have on Gideon's compounds, but if he refined anything—"

"Bringing her now," Leon says, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument.

There's a pause.

"Understood," Hunnigan replies, quieter now. "Monitor her until then. Watch for instability, changes in heart rate, neurological response, anything abnormal."

Leon's grip tightens slightly on the wheel. "Yeah," he says. "Already am."

"I'll send you everything I find," she adds. "Leon, you did well."

He doesn't respond to that. He ends the call a second later, the quiet of the car settling in again as the road stretches ahead.

Your head turns slightly toward him, your voice softer now, more grounded despite the lingering exhaustion. "...You always do that," you murmur.

He glances at you briefly. "Do what?"

"Act like... you weren't worried," you say, your words slower now, but clearer.

Something in his expression softens, just slightly. "I was," he admits.

The answer is simple. Honest. And it sits between you in a way that doesn't need anything added.

The road carries you forward, the distance between where you were and where you're going growing with every second. It still feels longer on the way back. The distance hasn't changed, but every second now carries weight Leon didn't have time to feel before. The urgency hasn't left him. It's just changed shape, sharpened into something quieter, more focused, more dangerous in its own way.

He doesn't take the direct route home. He turns off sooner than expected, the car shifting onto a narrower road that disappears deeper into the trees. The headlights carve through the darkness in long, steady beams, illuminating a path that doesn't look like it leads anywhere permanent.

You notice the change, even through the lingering haze. Your head shifts slightly against the seat, your eyes half-lidded but tracking the unfamiliar surroundings as best you can.

"This isn't home," you murmur, your voice still softer than usual, weighed down by exhaustion and something else you can't quite place.

Leon glances at you briefly, just long enough to confirm you're still with him.

"No," he says. "Not yet."

The road narrows further before it opens into something unexpected, a structure set back from the tree line, low and unmarked, its exterior deliberately unremarkable in the same way the facility had been, but cleaner, maintained. A single light glows near the entrance, steady and controlled. Safe. Or as close as it gets.

Leon pulls up without slowing more than necessary, the engine cutting the moment the car stops. He's out of the vehicle in seconds, moving around to your side, the door opening before you fully register the shift.

"I've got you," he says again, quieter now as he reaches in, one arm sliding behind your back, the other beneath your legs as he lifts you carefully from the seat.

Your body responds this time. Weakly. Your hand finds his jacket again, fingers curling into the fabric without thinking, holding on as the ground shifts beneath you.

"Leon..." you breathe, your voice unsteady but present.

"I know," he murmurs. "Just trust me."

The door to the building opens before he reaches it. Hunnigan stands inside, already moving and prepared. There's no surprise in her expression, no wasted time on relief, just immediate focus as her eyes take you in, assessing faster than words could keep up.

"This way," she says, stepping aside.

Leon doesn't stop. The interior is brighter, cleaner, the air carrying that same clinical sharpness, but without the wrongness that clung to Gideon's facility. This feels controlled in a different way. Not experimental. It's protective.

He follows her down a short corridor and into a room already set up, equipment active, monitors ready, everything positioned with intention.

"Set her here," Hunnigan directs.

Leon lowers you onto the table with care, his hands lingering just a second longer than necessary as he makes sure you're stable before pulling back. He doesn't step far and doesn't look away.

A nurse comes over immediately, her hands steady as she begins checking vitals, attaching sensors, her focus sharp and efficient.

"Heart rate elevated but stable," she murmurs, more to herself than to either of you. "Temperature's up, not unexpected."

You flinch slightly at the contact, your body still sensitive, still not fully under your control as the lingering effects of the injection continue to hum beneath your skin.

"What did he give her?" Leon asks, his voice low, controlled, but tighter than before.

She doesn't answer right away. She moves quickly, pulling a sample, running it through a portable analyzer already humming to life on the counter beside her.

"Give me a second," she says.

The machine processes faster than anything standard, its quiet mechanical sounds filling the space between your uneven breathing and the tension settling heavier in the room.

Leon's attention doesn't leave you. Your eyes drift toward him, unfocused at first, then clearer as your body fights its way back toward something resembling normal.

"I'm okay," you try, your voice softer now, but he doesn't buy it.

"I know," he says, but it doesn't sound like agreement.

It sounds like reassurance for himself more than anyone.

The machine beeps. Hunnigan's attention snaps to it immediately, her eyes scanning the results as they populate across the screen. Her expression tightens, just slightly, something small but enough for Leon to catch it.

"What is it?" he asks.

She exhales quietly. "It's a modified Elpis compound," she says. "Derivative strain. Designed to destabilize cellular response and force rapid adaptation."

"And?"

The nurse looks at you, then at the screen, chiming in. "It should've caused systemic failure," she says. "Organ stress, neurological breakdown... worst case, full collapse."

Your stomach drops faintly, even through the haze.

"But it didn't," Leon says.

"No," Hunnigan replies. "It didn't."

She taps the screen lightly, pulling up another set of data.

"Her system compensated," she continues. "Regulated instead of rejecting. It's stabilizing the compound instead of letting it spread."

"What does that mean?" you ask.

"It means you're not in immediate danger," the nurse says. "But it also means whatever he put into you isn't gone."

Your fingers curl slightly against the surface beneath you, your breathing steadying more now as the worst of the earlier effects fade into something duller, more manageable.

"...so I'm not dying tonight?" you ask, your voice quiet, but clearer now.

Hunnigan looks at you directly.

"No," she says. "You're not."

Leon exhales, probably louder than he intended. It's the first real release of tension since he found you. Hunnigan's gaze shifts back to the screen.

"But we're going to need to monitor you," she adds. "Closely."

The house is quiet when the door opens. Not the heavy, suffocating quiet Leon had walked into earlier, the kind that had pressed in on him with something wrong beneath it. This is different. Softer. The kind of quiet that belongs to a place waiting to be filled again, not one that’s already been emptied. Still, when he steps inside with you in his arms, something in him tightens.

For a split second, the image overlaps, the broken stillness from before, the absence, the space where you should have been. It flickers through him before he can stop it. Then you shift against him.

Leon exhales slowly, the breath quieter this time, less controlled, as he nudges the door closed behind him with his foot. The soft click of it sealing shut sounds louder than it should, final in a way that settles something deep in his chest. You're here, and that's what matters.

“I can walk,” you murmur against him, your voice still a little worn, a little softer than usual, but stronger than it was before.

He doesn’t answer right away. His grip doesn’t loosen either.

“I know,” he says after a second, glancing down at you briefly. “You don’t have to.”

You huff a faint breath that turns into a smile, your hand shifting slightly where it rests against his jacket, fingers brushing the fabric like you’re reminding yourself he’s real, too.

“You’re stubborn,” you mumble.

“Yeah,” he replies. “You married me anyway.”

You break out into a sleepy grin. He carries you further into the house, his steps slower now, no urgency pushing him forward anymore, just care. The rest of the house comes into view, familiar in a way that almost feels surreal after everything that came before it.

Then he stumbles upon the kitchen. The light is left on, the chair is still slid out, and the broken mug is still there. Ceramic shards scattered across the tile, the dark stain long since dried where coffee had spilled and been left behind, frozen in the moment everything went wrong.

You follow his gaze, your brow knitting faintly as your eyes settle on it, memory catching up in pieces, the last normal moment before everything had been ripped away.

“And that was my favorite one too,” you murmur quietly.

Leon exhales, something in his chest shifting again, not sharp this time, not panic or urgency, just something quieter, something closer to relief tangled up with the remnants of everything else.

“I’ll get you a new one,” he says.

He carries you past the kitchen, leaving the broken pieces where they are for now. It can wait. None of that matters in this moment, not compared to the weight in his arms, the warmth of you against him, the quiet proof that he didn’t lose you.

When he reaches the couch, he finally lowers you carefully, his movements slow and deliberate as he eases you down into the cushions. This time, he doesn’t pull away immediately. His hands linger on your, one at your back and the other at your arm. He's not ready to let go just yet.

Instead, your hand finds his wrist again, your fingers curling lightly around it before he can step back, holding him there in a way that’s gentle but unmistakable.

“Stay,” you murmur.

He shifts instead, sitting beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch, his body angled toward yours without thinking. For a second, neither of you says anything, the quiet settling in around you again, but this time it feels different. It's safe and full.

Your head tips slightly toward him, your body leaning just enough that he reacts without hesitation, his arm coming around you instinctively, pulling you closer, steadying you against his side. You melt into him naturally, more dramatically than usual.

His hand moves slowly along your back, his thumb brushing lightly in absent, repetitive motions that feel more like habit than thought.

"When you weren't home, I thought..." his words drop quietly. They don't come easily.

You tilt your head slightly, your cheek brushing his shoulder as you glance up at him. “I know,” you say softly.

You don’t make him finish it. You don’t need to. His jaw tightens faintly, his arm around you pulling just a little closer, like the thought alone is enough to make him hold on tighter. You shift slightly, turning more toward him despite the lingering heaviness in your body, your hand sliding up from his wrist to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric there as you steady yourself.

“I’m here,” you murmur.

This time, it’s for him. His gaze drops to you, something in it softer now, less guarded, the edges worn down by everything that’s already passed.

“I know,” he says.

You study him for a second longer, then lean in, closing the small space between you. The kiss is gentle, slow, less about reassurance and more about presence. Your hand stays against his chest, grounding yourself in the steady rhythm beneath it as his hand comes up to your jaw, holding you there with quiet care. There's no urgency; it's just warmth and you.

He leans into it fully this time, the tension finally easing from his shoulders as he lets himself settle into something that doesn’t require fighting, doesn’t require thinking, doesn’t require anything except being here with you.

When he pulls back, it’s only slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath steadying in a way it hasn’t since before any of this started.

“Next time,” you murmur softly, a faint hint of teasing threading through the exhaustion, “I’m making tea instead.”

That almost makes him laugh. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Safer choice.”

The quiet stretches around you, soft and steady, the kind that doesn’t press in or demand anything. It just exists, wrapping around the two of you like something familiar, something earned.

You don’t realize how heavy your body feels until you try to move again. It’s subtle at first, a shift against him, your muscles protesting just enough to remind you that you’re still recovering, still not fully back to yourself. The exhaustion settles deeper now that everything else has quieted, pulling at you in a way that’s harder to ignore.

"We have to get cleaned up, sweetheart," he says, kissing your head.

"Okay," you reply, half asleep.

Before you can argue, before you can insist on anything else, his arm shifts around you, steady and sure as he moves to stand. The motion is smooth, practiced, like he’s done this before, like taking care of you has always come this naturally. Your arm slides around his shoulders without hesitation, your body settling against him with a quiet acceptance that feels as natural as breathing.

“You’re really not going to let me walk, are you?” you murmur, your voice softer now, edged with tired amusement.

“No,” he replies simply.

The two of you move together down the hall, slowly, quietly. The bathroom light flicks on, warm and soft, filling the space in a way that feels almost jarring after everything else. It’s normal, ordinary, safe. He sets you down on the closed toilet lid. Leon moves ahead just enough to start the water, adjusting it carefully, testing the temperature with his hand before letting it run. Steam begins to rise slowly, curling into the air and softening the edges of the room.

You lean lightly against the counter, watching him through the haze of exhaustion, the small, familiar movements grounding you in a way nothing else quite has yet.

“You do this a lot,” you murmur faintly.

He glances back at you, brow lifting just slightly. “Take care of you?” he asks.

You nod once. Something in his expression softens, just a fraction.

“I always will,” he says quietly.

He steps back toward you then, slower now, his hands gentler as they come to rest at your arms, steadying you again. His gaze flickers briefly over your face, checking, making sure you’re still with him, still present.

“Can you stand?” he asks.

You nod. “I think so.”

He doesn’t completely take your word for it. He stays close anyway. Careful and patient. There’s no rush in what comes next. Just a quiet understanding between you as he helps you out of your clothes, his movements respectful, unhurried, like this isn’t something to get through, but something to do right. His hands are steady, never lingering where they shouldn’t, never pulling away too quickly either.

When you step into the bath, the warmth surrounds you immediately, sinking into your muscles in a way that makes your breath catch softly in your chest. You lower yourself slowly, the water rising around you, easing tension you didn’t even realize you were still holding. It’s not just relief, it’s release.

Your shoulders drop, your head tipping back slightly against the edge as your eyes close for a second, letting yourself settle into it. Leon stays close. Not in the water yet, but right there beside the tub, one hand resting lightly along the edge, his attention still entirely on you.

“Too hot?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head, your voice softer now. "Perfect."

He nods once, then reaches for the shampoo, his movements slower, more deliberate as he shifts closer. His hand brushes lightly against your shoulder first, a silent check, a pause to make sure you’re with him.

You tilt your head slightly in response, and that's all he needs. His fingers move through your hair gently, working the shampoo in with care that feels like heaven. There’s no rush, no distraction, just the steady rhythm of his hands, the quiet presence of him there with you. The tension leaves you in pieces. 

Your head leans back a little more, your eyes slipping closed again as you let yourself relax into it, into the warmth of him.

“You’re really good at this,” you murmur, your voice barely above the sound of the water.

When he rinses your hair, one hand steadies at the back of your neck, careful, protective, making sure the water doesn’t hit too hard, doesn’t pull you out of the quiet you’ve finally found. You lean into that touch without thinking.

By the time he's done, the air feels different. You feel lighter, cleaner, safer. He lingers for a second, his hand still resting lightly along the edge of the tub as he watches you settle deeper into the water. The tension that had been sitting in your shoulders has eased; your breathing is slower now, your body finally beginning to let go of everything it had been holding on to.

His gaze shifts, thoughtful. “You sure you’re steady?” he asks quietly.

You open your eyes just enough to look at him, the faintest hint of a smile returning. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur.

He exhales softly, then moves, slower this time. There’s no hesitation in it, just a quiet decision as he steps back, shedding the last of his own clothes with the same unhurried care he showed you. It’s simple, practical, like this is just the next step.

Then he steps into the bath behind you. The water shifts around him, rising slightly, warmth settling over both of you as he lowers himself carefully, mindful of your space, of your balance, of everything you’ve just been through. His movements are controlled, even here, even now, but there’s something softer in them too, something that isn’t about precision anymore.

You feel the warmth of his chest against your back. His arm comes around you almost immediately, instinctively, resting lightly across your middle, not pulling you in too tightly, just enough to steady you, to keep you anchored there with him.

You exhale, slow and quiet. “That’s better,” you murmur.

A faint breath leaves him, something just short of a laugh. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, it is.”

The water laps gently against the sides of the tub, the only sound in the room aside from your breathing, which has finally evened out into something calm, something steady. The warmth sinks deeper now, loosening what little tension remains, dulling the last edges of pain into something manageable.

Leon’s hand shifts slightly against you, his thumb brushing absent, slow patterns along your arm. It’s not deliberate, not something he’s thinking about. It’s just there, familiar, grounding, something he’s done a hundred times before in quieter moments.

“You still with me?” he asks after a while, his voice low, close to your ear.

You nod faintly, your head tipping back just enough to rest lightly against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just tired.”

“I know.”

His hand tightens just a fraction, then eases again, like he’s reminding himself you’re here, that he doesn’t have to hold on so tightly anymore.

You reach back slightly, your fingers finding his arm where it rests around you, tracing lightly over his skin without thinking. It’s a small movement, but it’s enough to pull his attention fully to you again.

“You okay?” you ask, softer now.

There’s a pause. “I am now,” he admits.

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him, your gaze meeting his in the soft, warm light of the room. For a second, neither of you moves, the space between you close but unhurried.

Then you lean in. The kiss is gentle, slower than before, your hand coming up to rest lightly against his jaw as your lips meet his. There’s no urgency in it, no need to prove anything, just quiet reassurance, the simple fact that you’re both here, both real, both okay.

He responds just as softly, his hand shifting from your arm to your side, holding you there with a steady, careful touch as he leans into it. It lingers just long enough to mean something, to settle into something real, before he pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours.

"I was scared," he murmurs.

"I know," you whisper. "Me too."

His eyes close briefly at that, his breath steadying as he leans into your touch for just a second. The water cools slowly around you, but neither of you moves right away. There’s no rush to leave this moment, no urgency pulling you forward. Just warmth, and quiet, and the steady presence of each other. Eventually, though, he shifts.

“Come on,” he murmurs gently. “Let’s get dried off and get to bed.”

Leon reaches for a towel immediately, wrapping it around your shoulders before you can even think about it, his hands moving with that same practiced gentleness as he draws you closer, drying your hair first, slow and careful, working through it like he had in the water.

Another towel follows, this one warmer, softer as he drapes it around you and guides you to sit on the edge of the tub for a second, making sure you’re steady before stepping back just enough to grab fresh clothes.

He helps you again, keeping you steady as he eases the fabric over your arms, adjusts it at your shoulders, and makes sure you're comfortable before moving on. By the time you're both dressed, the whole world has softened. The sharp edges from before have faded into something else.

Leon’s hand finds yours without thinking as he leads you back toward the bedroom, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as you walk. You don’t pull away. If anything, your grip tightens slightly, grounding yourself in the warmth of him, in the steady presence that hasn’t left your side since he found you.

When you reach the bed, he slows, turning slightly toward you instead of immediately guiding you down. For a second, you just stand there.

"Thank you, Leon," you say quietly, looking at his tired eyes.

The words are simple, but they carry everything behind them, everything you don’t need to explain because he already knows. Leon’s expression softens in that small, almost imperceptible way it does when something gets past his guard. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his free hand comes up, resting gently at your jaw as he leans in just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

“I love you, okay?” he murmurs against you, his voice low, steady, like he needs you to hear it, to hold onto it.

Your breath catches just slightly, something warm settling in your chest as you meet his gaze.

“I love you too,” you reply, just as soft.

He leans his forehead briefly against yours, then shifts, guiding you gently down onto the bed, his hand never quite leaving you as he settles beside you moments later.

You turn toward him instinctively. He meets you there. His arm wraps around you, pulling you close, your body fitting against his like it always has, like it always will. The exhaustion is heavier now, pulling at you in a way that’s impossible to fight, but it doesn’t feel overwhelming anymore.

Your hands come up to rest against his chest, and you listen to the steady sound of his heart where your head lies near his chest. Leon’s hand moves once along your back, then stills, holding you there as the quiet settles in fully around you.

When sleep finally comes, it's gentle and safe. And this time, home finally feels like home again.

-----

My requests are open! <3 I would love to hear from you!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rookies.

Always rookies.

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

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

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

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

Leon Scott Kennedy. RPD’s newest golden retriever.

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

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

The quiet survived for exactly twenty-three seconds.

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

“Morning!”

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

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

It didn’t dissuade him in the slightest.

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

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

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

You didn’t look up. “Then get a map.”

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

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

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

Leon just smiled wider.

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

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

Good. Let him spread the energy over there.

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

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

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

The bullpen burst into laughter.

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

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

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

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

You kept reading.

Then you made the mistake of glancing up.

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

Right at you.

You were mid-sip.

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

You froze.

He was coming back.

Fantastic.

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

“Most of it wasn’t worth seeing.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Paperwork.”

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

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

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

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

“KENNEDY! You still owe me that coffee!”

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

“Let’s not.”

“Cool, see you soon!”

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

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

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

You ignored it.

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

And then you heard him again.

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

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

Your pen stopped.

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

Of course he wanted you.

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

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

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

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

More laughter.

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

Then Leon spoke again. And his tone was different.

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

The laughter faltered.

He didn’t stop.

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

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

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

He defended you. Why?

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

You finally let yourself glance over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sheriff Graham walked in.

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

“Morning, everyone!”

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

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

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

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

Of course he said that.

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

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

You closed your eyes.

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

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

There it was.

The thunderclap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The second his door shut, the bullpen erupted.

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

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

“I give him three days before he cries.”

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

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

“So! Partnered up, huh?”

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

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

“No.”

“Sensei?”

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

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

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

“Not that either.”

“Understood, coach.”

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

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

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

“Guess I’m good at it, then.”

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

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

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

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

“First, you’re getting a leash.”

He laughed. Of course he laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He could follow any one of them.

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

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

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

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

You almost smiled.

Then you heard it.

Boots. Jogging.

“Wait up, partner!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did not.

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

“No,” you said. Short. Flat. Final.

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

He pivoted too.

You stepped left. He stepped left.

You faked right.

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

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

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

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

“I get that a lot.”

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

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

Maybe he thought this was trust-building.

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

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

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

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

Leon was still right beside you.

Of course he was.

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

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

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

“Drop me off where?”

“Anywhere else.”

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

“I’m not pretending.”

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

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

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

You shut your door very pointedly.

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

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

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

The ride started in silence.

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

You drove.

He fidgeted.

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

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

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

“Then maybe stop thinking.”

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

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

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

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

You turned the radio off.

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

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

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

“Too long.”

“You like it?”

“Define like.”

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

You didn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

“It wasn’t a joke.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re a walking incident report.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s called experience,” you said.

“I like that,” he said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s an A-plus, right?”

“A passing grade, at best.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your pen stopped in mid-air.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That makes one of us.”

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

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

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

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

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

You ignored him.

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

“He’s a sweet one, huh?” she called.

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

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

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

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

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

Which, in your book, counted as a win.

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

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

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

His smile widened. “So… like a C+?”

“A generous C+.”

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

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

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

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

He grinned. “Still counts.”

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

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

Leon just grinned. “She was great!”

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

“Sure thing, boss.”

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

“See you tomorrow, partner!”

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

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

You didn’t turn around.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Morning, partner!”

You didn’t look up. “You’re late.”

“It’s seven-oh-one.”

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

You sighed. Of course.

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

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

“Nice! First call of the day.”

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

He shrugged. “Could be a dangerous raccoon.”

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

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

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

“Something wrong with it?” you asked dryly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t bother correcting him.

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

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

You parked at the curb, engine idling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Charming,” you muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey—!”

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

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

“Leon.”

He froze. “—Stopping.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t vote,” you reminded him.

“Right. Observing. From behind. Quietly.”

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

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

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

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

You shook your head and turned back to the dark.

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

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

You didn’t answer.

Because you weren’t entirely sure anymore.

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

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

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

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

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

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

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

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

Nothing but crackle answered back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No answer.

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

You turned the corner.

Empty hall.

“Leon!”

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

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

Then you saw it.

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

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

The beam came from beyond the next door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your instincts took over.

“Leon—down!”

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

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

Then the shadows erupted.

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

“No, you don’t.”

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

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

For a long second, neither of you moved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the air still felt wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The crack was deafening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Noted,” he whispered.

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

Neither of you moved away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed under his breath. “Fair.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The rain followed you in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You did not have the energy for this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unfair.

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

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

He hissed. Loudly.

“Don’t move,” you warned.

“That burns.”

“That means it’s working.”

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

Still, the room sounded different now.

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

You were also very aware of him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tried not to notice that, too.

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

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

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

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

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

He winced, shoulders tensing.

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

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

“It’s supposed to be.”

“Pretty sure that’s a tourniquet.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m kind of funny.”

“You’re really not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You crossed your arms. “What?”

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

It was simple. But it landed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still true.”

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

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

“See you tomorrow, partner.”

You didn’t stop him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The RPD after dark never quite sleeps. It hums.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then: “Hey.”

You look up anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, but it’s a nice river.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Little of both.”

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

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

You don’t ask. You don’t need to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry to disappoint.”

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

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

“Didn’t say it was.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brow furrows. “Why not?”

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

The room goes still again.

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

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

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

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

Neither of you laugh this time.

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

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

“Why are you really here, Kennedy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you do. Quietly. “Don’t.”

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

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

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

Then he nods. Once. “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You should go home soon. It’s late.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The quiet returns, heavier now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then you make time, rookie.”

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

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

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

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

“That’s not the point.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thing about adrenaline is it never leaves cleanly.

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

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

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

“You saw a bad idea.”

“It worked.”

“It almost didn’t.”

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

“You could’ve gotten hurt.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t not care about you!”

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

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

He realizes what he said the exact second you do.

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

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

He shuts his mouth.

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

That’s when he laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He takes a step forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rain always makes things worse.

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

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

Then Leon says it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t grow out of the people who change the way you breathe,” he says.

You hate that it lands. You hate that something in you knows what he means, that small adjustment your chest makes when he appears in a doorway, the way the bullpen noise dulls when he’s near, the way your hand pulled him behind that desk without even thinking. You hate that your body recognizes him even when your brain refuses to.

The air goes different after that. Thinner. Charged. Delicate like glass held too tight.

You become aware of everything at once, of the rain soaking into the collar of your shirt, of the way your hair sticks to your cheek, of the way his jacket is dark with water and still steaming slightly in the cold night air. You can hear his heartbeat, or maybe it’s yours, loud in your ears. You can see the way his hands flex like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

You tell yourself to walk away. Right now. Say no. Say we can’t. Say this is the job and the job comes first. You have said no to easier things. You have walked away from softer people. You know how to do this.

But your feet don’t move.

Because he’s looking at you the way people only look when they’ve decided something, not about you, but about themselves. He’s not asking. He’s not trying to win. He’s just… telling you where he ended up.

You meet his eyes and it hits you, all at once, how young he is and how old this kind of courage is. His eyes are wide but sure, and behind the rain and the tiredness and the last dregs of adrenaline you see it all, laid bare: the fear when he lost sight of you, the admiration when you cleared that room, the way he listened to every order even when he didn’t like it, the devotion that was growing even when you were trying so hard not to water it.

It isn’t grand. There’s no swelling music, no dramatic camera pan. It’s just two people on a wet street, too stubborn and too tired to keep lying.

You swallow, throat tight. “Leon,” you start, because his name is the only thing you trust yourself to say without breaking. “This city eats people alive. It eats partnerships. It eats good intentions. You can’t—”

“I know,” he cuts in, gentle, not arguing. “I know it’s messy. I know it’s wrong on paper. I know I talk too much, and I follow too close, and I make you crazy.”

“You do,” you say, because you need him to know that part is still true.

He almost smiles. “I know. But I still—” He looks down for half a second, searching for the word. When he lifts his head again, it’s there. “I still choose you.”

The way he says it,not I love you, not please love me back, not you owe me this, just I still choose you, makes something in you lurch.

You look past him for a second, out over the empty street, as if the answer might be in the shapeless dark. There’s nothing there. Just puddles catching light and the shape of his shoulders in your periphery.

“I don’t know if I can give you what you want,” you say, quietly, because you’ve always been more honest than kind. “I don’t— I’m not—” You gesture vaguely at yourself, rain flicking off your fingers. “I don’t do this.”

He nods, too fast, like he expected that. “That’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” he insists, stepping just close enough that his words warm the space between you. “Because I didn’t tell you so you’d say it back. I told you because I didn’t want you thinking I was just… following orders.” His eyes search yours, steady, pleading only for understanding. “I follow you.”

That almost undoes you.

Because you remember him in the hallway, in the car, in the building, saying I’ll follow your lead like it was easy. Like it didn’t cost him anything. You remember thinking he was just a golden retriever rookie with too much heart and not enough sense.

Turns out it wasn’t thoughtless. Turns out it was deliberate.

You let out a slow breath, barely more than a sigh. “You make things complicated, Kennedy.”

He huffs a laugh that’s wet and shaky. “You make things worth it.”

God, he’s so earnest. So painfully sincere. So unashamed to feel things out loud. It’s recklessness of a different kind, not the kind that chases suspects into alleys, but the kind that sits in front of someone guarded and says I care anyway.

You look at him, really look, and realize there was never going to be a different ending. Not with the way he kept showing up. Not with the way you kept letting him. You’ve both been walking toward this street, this rain, this confession since the morning you told him to get a leash and he laughed like that meant stay.

“It’s not going to be easy,” you say at last, voice tired and soft and so, so honest.

He nods. “I know.”

“You might regret it.”

“Doubt it.”

“You might.” You search his face for some sign of uncertainty. There isn’t one. Only rain. Only him. “I might.”

His eyes soften like he’s already made peace with that. “Then we regret it together.”

The rain eases like it finally got tired. What was coming down sideways a minute ago softens to a fine, steady drizzle, the kind that hangs in the air and clings to your lashes.

Leon’s watching you like he’s afraid you’ll spook.

Not afraid of you, afraid of losing you. There’s a difference. It’s in the way his shoulders stay squared but his hands won’t quite settle, in the way his breath catches halfway in, in the way his eyes keep flicking from your mouth back to your eyes, checking, checking, checking.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

He waits, and that, somehow, is what undoes you the most. That he’d follow you into a collapsing building without hesitation but won’t cross this last inch of rain-wet air without your permission.

You don’t take a step back. You don’t even tilt your head away. You just… stay.

That’s all he needs.

He exhales, slow, shaky, full of the day and the fight and the confession he just put in your hands. Then he leans in.

Not fast. Not reckless. Slow. Careful. Every inch is a question. Here? Is this okay? Still okay? He gives you a chance to stop him at the start, and then again halfway, and then again when you can feel the warmth of him through the cold.

You tell yourself you’ll pull back.

You tell yourself you’ll stop it before it lands, before it becomes real, before it becomes something the two of you will have to carry in the morning.

Any second now. But you don’t.

Because by the time he’s close enough that his breath ghosts across your cheek, you realize you’ve been waiting for this without letting yourself want it. Every near-miss, every shoulder bump, every “stay close, rookie”, all of it was orbit. This is the center.

His mouth meets yours like a secret.

Not crushed, not frantic, just placed. A confession made in the only language that won’t crack the night in half. It’s warm despite the rain, soft despite the tension braided through both of you. He tastes like coffee gone cold, like rain, like the copper tang of adrenaline fading, like someone who ran too hard and still came back.

For half a heartbeat, you’re too stunned to move. Then your body remembers what to do.

Your hand finds his jacket, not delicate, not practiced, just a fistful of damp fabric right over his chest. He makes a tiny sound against your mouth, not quite a laugh and not quite a gasp, more like oh, surprised you’re pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

His hand comes up, hesitant at first, like he thinks touching you will break the spell, and hovers near your jaw. Then it settles, fingers splaying gently along the line of your face, thumb brushing the rain from your cheekbone. He holds you like you’re something he found in a burning building.

The world shrinks.

No squad car. No reports. No sheriff. No RPD. Just the heat of him and the cool rain and the way his heartbeat slams against your knuckles through his jacket. The streetlight hums above you; the city blurs at the edges. Somewhere, water runs into a gutter. Somewhere, somebody’s closing up shop. None of it matters.

He kisses you like he meant every word he said. Like I can’t not care about you didn’t fall out by accident. Like he’s been holding this back since the first morning you told him to get a map.

It isn’t a kiss that asks for more. It’s a kiss that says this is it. This is what I meant. It aches, not because it’s hungry, but because it’s careful. Reverent, even. He’s not trying to take anything. He’s just trying to give you the truth the way you’ll actually let yourself take it.

You tilt your head a little, not much,  and the angle changes, deeper but still soft. His thumb strokes your jaw once, slow, grounding. You can feel the shiver that runs through him where your hand is fisted in his jacket. Not fear. Just too much feeling with nowhere to go.

You should stop.

You tell yourself again. Any second now. I’ll stop. I’ll pull away. I’ll tell him we can’t.

But he’s warm, and the rain is cold, and his mouth is gentle, and for the first time in a very long time, you don’t feel like someone asking too much of you, you feel chosen. You feel seen.

So you don’t stop.

You let it last. Just long enough for it to sink in. Long enough for him to know you’re kissing him back, not letting him. Long enough for that stubborn, bright, rookie heart to understand you didn’t just tolerate his confession, you accepted it.

When you finally break, it’s not dramatic. You just breathe.

You pull back an inch, maybe two. Your fingers are still knotted in his jacket. His hand is still on your jaw. Both of you are breathing like you ran another alley, short, hitched, trying to catch up.

His forehead tips forward until it’s resting against yours, rain dripping from his hair onto your nose, both of you laughing these tiny, ridiculous, breathless half-laughs that come from relief more than humour.

He whispers, voice rough from holding it all in, “God… I really like you.”

You huff, but it comes out softer than any insult you’ve ever thrown. “You’re an idiot.”

He grins, wide now, unstoppable, stupid-happy even in the rain. “Yeah. Your idiot, though.”

You don’t say no this time.

The next morning you tell yourself nothing’s changed. You walk in exactly on time, hang your jacket on the same hook, brace for the usual RPD chaos — phones, printers, someone swearing at the copier. The bullpen looks the same: too bright, too loud, too gray. Nobody here knows you kissed a rookie in the rain. Nobody knows your heart is doing something stupid about it.

Then you get to your desk. There’s a coffee waiting. Not the burnt communal sludge, a real one, still steaming, your first name messily scrawled on the side. Next to it: a folded sticky note.

It says, in all caps: “FOR STAYING ALIVE. – L” and underneath, smaller: “p.s. if you don’t like this coffee I will cry in the locker room (quietly)”

You snort. Out loud. “Something funny?” someone calls. “No,” you say way too fast, already sipping. It’s good. Of course it is. He paid attention.

You feel him before you see him — that Boy Scout gravity. He leans on your desk like he owns the spot, hair still damp, uniform crisp, smile criminally soft. “Morning, partner,” he says, just for you.

“You bribing your mentor now?” you mutter. “Bribing?” he gasps. “That was a romantic gesture.” “This is a police station.” “Yeah, and you’re still drinking it.”

You flick the sticky note at him; he fumbles it, laughs, tucks it in his vest like evidence. Then he strolls off and, way too loud, goes, “Morning! Don’t mind me, just keeping my officer caffeinated!”

Were you just being paranoid? It could’ve been your cat that messed with your blanket, and perhaps you forgot to put the bowl away. But then there it was again, that shuffling noise, then a small clatter. Your heart is racing now, like it’s about to burst from your ribcage. You try rationalizing it. It’s probably just your cat. What else could it be? You try to calm yourself.

“Jinx?” You call timidly, your nerves still on edge. Then, you see your little fuzzy friend run into the living room, her green eyes looking up at you with love and affection. You kneel down to her level as she trots up to you, rubbing her body against you any way she can. “Hi love,” You coo, scratching her cheeks and head in exactly the way she likes it. “Was that you making those noises?”

Just as your heart finally settles, as your shoulders relax once more and you come to the conclusion that your cat was being silly…you hear it. Well…hear and see it. 

A man comes out, his strut bold and his head held high. He wore an ancient looking helmet that had wings where his ears were hidden. It rested on top of bronze curls that cascaded down his neck. Bright eyes fell onto your figure, and he wore a tunic type of clothing, something that seemed straight out of some history book and did not cover enough (not in the cold weather at least). And to top it all off, he wore sandals that wound up his calf, and wings by the ankle. You stared at him, blinked, and backed up towards your front door, ready to run for your life. 

“Wait–” The man who was on the other side of your room in one second, was directly in front of you the next. You gasped out loud, backing up and hitting the door. “Let me explain–” You could barely hear what he was saying, your heart was beating so erratically it was all you could hear. Your eyes darted all around, trying to find an escape, or even to create some space. You could barely comprehend the fact that he crossed multiple feet within seconds. 

“How the hell did you get in my house!” You shout, darting past a small gap the man left and creating space (but also getting farther from your best exit). 

“I…I’m not sure,” The man replies, hands lifted up in a placating gesture. “I was trying to get to Mt. Olympus to deliver the final letter to Zeus, but something must’ve gone awry when I travelled between worlds.” 

You blink once, then twice, staring at the man dumbfoundedly. Was he really pretending to be Hermes? Did he really think you were that gullible and a fool? Of course you weren’t. This was a strange man, perhaps not mentally well, and your life was potentially in danger.

“You’re claiming to be Hermes…” You trail off, pulling your phone out and getting ready to dial the emergency number. “The ancient Greek god that no one’s believed in for over a thousand years.” 

“Ancient Greece?” He questioned, eyebrows furrowed. “Last I checked it was still around.”

“Yeah,” You nod. “But that mythos was from ancient times. People don’t really believe in Zeus, Hermes, or that whole pantheon anymore.” 

It seems that you may have caused the man an existential crisis, his eyebrows furrowed as he took in the information. So, you tried to placate him, and hopefully get him as far from your home as possible. 

“I mean, I really used to be into Greek mythology, it’s cool, I get that,” Your smile was strained. “But those figures were just made to explain unknown phenomena, and to make sure kids listened to their parents.”

“What year is it?” He asked, eyes flitting across your living room, like it just clicked why your home was so strange compared to what he knew. 

“2026,” You answered, glancing down at your phone. 

“How…” He trailed off, looking shaken to his core. “How have I managed to travel to such a time? It…it shouldn’t be possible.” 

“Hey,” Now it is you raising your hands up in a placating manner, the roles having reversed. You can tell that he is being genuine, his confusion and fear real. “How about we both relax, I can make some tea, or coffee, or get some water.” 

The house is silent beside the kettle boiling water. Your cat, Jinx, stares up at you curiously from under the kitchen table. The man had scared you so much that you hadn’t realized she ran and hid in the scuffle. The man was currently sitting on your couch, and while your house wasn’t big by any means, he was currently hidden from your sight by a wall. 

Your fingers drummed upon the countertop as you whispered to your cat, “Do you think he really is the god Hermes?” Now that you’ve had time to let your heart settle and think over everything, you couldn’t explain how he moved so quickly, and you were sure it wasn’t your fear addled brain mushing the details. Jinx merely blinked at you, watching you intensely as the kettle beeped, the water was ready. You steeped some lotus chamomile tea, hopefully it will settle both of your nerves, and poured two cups. 

As you reentered your living room, the man was pacing, head bowed, one hand resting on his chin in thought. You watched wearily, placing a cup on the coffee table closest to him, and sitting in the loveseat farthest away from him. You watched him pace for a few seconds more, eyeing his garb. It was so strange and well made. The cloth looked regal in a simple way, like the cloth alone cost more than all you had combined. Then you saw it, a wing on his helm, had twitched like it was alive. You stared more, refusing to pull your eyes away, and it twitched again, like his helm was itching to fly. 

This…this was a god, but not just any god. The ancient Greek god Hermes, the god of messages, mischief, theft, and those who have no home. And he was in your living room. Lost.

You felt a headache threatening you. 

It was already late, the sun had long dipped past the horizon and the moon did its best to shine through your windows that were covered by curtains. You felt the adrenalin wear off, and your eyes threatened to shut for the night as you sipped the naturally sweet tea you made. Hermes, on the other hand, was not content, anxiety thrumming through his veins as he thought about how far he will fall behind with his deliveries, how his world may fall apart without him being the thread to hold the precarious world of mortals and gods together. It was not something he had felt before, not this strongly at least. He was a god, someone who was always in control, with more power than people may realize, but now…he was lost. Lost in a strange future where he was an old god that was no longer worshipped, only spoken of for the history of an ancient civilization. Lost in a world with strange objects he had never seen before.

For once, Hermes was out of his depth. 

“The tea’s getting cold,” You spoke up, eyeing his untouched mug. He finally turned towards you, his pacing paused. With hesitation, Hermes picked up the mug, sniffing the flowery aromantic tea before taking a sip. With a sigh, he finally sat on your couch, holding the mug like a lifeline. It was silent for a few minutes, the both of you sipping at tea and thinking of what to say next. You swear you’ve been thrusted straight into a fanfiction. You were having tea with an ancient god in your living room. You couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped you, short and breathy. Hermes watched on, confusion laced within his gaze.

“I’m having tea with Hermes,” You comment, your fried brain finding it absolutely hilarious. You laughed a bit more, trying to smother your chuckles beneath your hand, but it was no use. Hermes couldn’t help to join in, pitying chuckles falling past his lips. The tension seemed to ease, and the mugs eventually emptied. 

“I don’t have a spare bedroom,” You break the silence, getting up from the comfortable chair. “But you can have the couch. I’ll go get you some blankets, and see if I have any clothes you can use for pajamas.” The god didn’t seem to have any objections, too weary from such strange circumstances. The rest of the night went by quickly. You had found some sweatpants you don’t even recall having, and somehow being the perfect size for Hermes, and a large shirt. He didn’t seem to be too stoked at clothing he’s probably never seen nor worn before, but he put them on without much gripe. 

The next day, you were half sure that it was all a dream your sleep addled brain had conjured up. Yet, to your surprise, Hermes stood entranced in your kitchen, poking and prodding at all the strange gadgets you had. 

“Good morning,” You yawned, portioning out enough coffee for two people and starting a pot. Hermes watched as you hit the buttons, wonder filling his eyes as the machine started to heat up water. 

“Mornin’,” Hermes mumbled back, eyes falling back onto you. “What exactly did you just do?”

“Started the coffee,” You reply, pointing at the pot that was slowly filling with a dark brown liquid.

These questions continued throughout the morning. You explained the toaster, the stove, the fridge, the sink. It made you realize how easy technology had made things. It was strange to have someone hovering over your shoulder, watching you do the most mundane tasks with curiosity, and it was also strange to cook for two. As you wait for the eggs to cook, Jinx runs up to you, meowing like a madwoman and scratching at a welcoming mat you kept just for her. It seemed that Hermes’ next goal was to befriend your furry companion, reaching out only for her to run towards you. He continued startling her, while her hunger for the wet can you poured in a small dish became the most important thing in her world. 

“You have to let her come to you,” You comment, bewildered that there was a pouting god in your kitchen. “She’s not the biggest fan of strangers, it’ll take a while before she lets you pet her.” 

“Is she not charmed by my beguiling smile?” He asked, arms crossing over his chest.

You simply raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at your lips, “She’s a cat.”

“You’d be surprised how many people, and animals, I have managed to charm my way out of.” You shake your head, turning back to the stove and splitting the eggs between two plates. 

“Does this mean that all those stories are true?” You ask, Hermes following behind you as you make your way to the living room. 

“Which ones?” Hermes asks, settling onto the couch like he owns the place. 

“All those myths. The greek gods, pegesus, Hercules, the minotaur. Is it all true? Is it exaggerated?” You clarify, sitting on the portion of the couch Hermes doesn’t take up.

“Of course it’s all true,” He guffaws. “Some of it may be exaggerated, but it all stems from somewhere.” You eye him with doubt, he’s still wearing the pajamas you offered him, his curls still look nearly perfect despite sleeping on your couch, and you hate to admit that he does look like those chiseled marble statues. 

“You’re telling me that a minotaur existed at one point in time,” You deadpan, not fully believing him. “I’m still wondering if you’re a hallucination from not getting enough sleep.” 

Hermes laughs joyously at your comment, “Of course he did. Poor Pasiphaë, cursed by Posidon because her husband failed the gods. Let’s just say Apollo was not happy with him after that whole debacle.” 

Your jaw dropped, “That’s insane! Why is it always women suffering for the faults of men? Boo, tomato tomato.” You made a throwing gesture at the end. Hermes once again looked confused. 

“Tomato?”

“I’m throwing tomatoes,” You explained, a smile taking over you again. The god laughed, head tilted back.

“Don’t let the other gods hear you say such things,” Hermes smiled back. “They don’t take kindly to any insult, even the mundane ones.” 

You glanced at your phone out of habit, and you felt your stomach drop as you read the time.

“Shit,” You stood up, taking your plate and rushing to the kitchen.

“What is the matter, mortal?” Hermes asks, already standing behind you, his plate already in your sink. 

“I’m gonna be late for work,” You explain, already halfway to your bedroom. Thankfully, he does not follow you into your room. You quickly throw on some clothes that are suitable for your job, and gather important things such as your keys and wallet. 

“I’ll be back in seven hours,” You state, checking the time once more. “Try not to break anything and please stay out of my room. See ya.”

Was trusting a god of mischief and thievery to your home the smartest move? No, but there wasn’t much you could do when the bureaucratic overlords deemed anyone that showed up a minute late as a replaceable cog in the work machine. Though focusing on your work was a bit of a struggle, it’s not every day that one has a god waiting at home. Well, so you thought…until a strange hawk sat on a branch just outside. You stared at it, your work begging you to get done, but the hawk seemed to be watching you, its head turned and bright yellow eyes on you. You would’ve thought you were making things up, why would a wild animal be watching you? But as you stood up to get something, its beady eyes followed you until you were out of sight. 

Shaking your head, you decide to just focus on your lunch break. You had been working nonstop for four hours and your stomach was rumbling. That was until you remembered that you didn’t pack a lunch. Debating if you should get some food or just suffer, the sound of a window opening makes you pause, your head turning towards the noise. Quietly, you step towards your office door, peaking through the small window. There it was, your single sad window that faced another building, a giant tree the only thing breaking the constant brick and concrete views of the city. And it was open. Nothing else seemed amiss, your desk was the same organized mess as always, the filing cabinet closed, and your computer still in sleep mode. 

Suddenly, someone pops into your vision, causing you to let out a scream and trip backwards. A small ‘oof’ escapes you as you fall on your tailbone, laughter sounding throughout the hallway. You put a hand to your rapidly beating heart as Hermes opens the door, his laughter dying down. 

“You should’ve seen your face,” He chuckled, wiping away a fake tear. “Ah, that will never get old.”

“What are you doing here?” You question with a huff. “I thought I left you at my place.”

“It was boring,” He shrugged, leaning against the doorway. “I was curious what people do for work, I must say, I am thoroughly confused. You have been staring at a rectangle for the past four hours, whatever could you be doing?”

“Well,” You reply, grasping the hand Hermes offers and pulls you up with a strength that causes you to trip straight into his arms. Your heart stutters for a completely different reason, but you do your best to brush off the encounter, taking a few steps back and continuing your sentence. “I was just going to have lunch. I get fifteen minutes of pure free time, baby.”

“Only fifteen minutes?” Hermes asks, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “That is nowhere near enough time for a feast, let alone a snack.” 

“You make due,” You shrug, grabbing your keys and heading out the office. “Since you’re here with me, why don’t we expose you to the worst food you’ll ever have?”

“Why would I want that?” Hermes questions, nose scrunched. 

“‘Cus it’s fast and cheap,” You reply smoothly. 

The car ride was humorous. Y’know those memes about showing a Victorian child something outlandish? This was exactly that, but with an even older god. Complete wonder overtook his features when he sat in the passenger seat, opening the glovebox, the center console. The radio was his absolute favorite, going between radio stations, listening with intent at the music and radio shows that played. 

“Apollo would riot at some of these songs,” Hermes snickered, observant eyes always trailing back to you. 

“There are so many songs I would love to get his reaction to,” You grinned, glancing at Hermes before looking back at the road, pulling into the drive thru of the nearest fast food restaurant. You quickly ordered, not wanting the god (who was still wearing the clothes you lent him) to get any funny ideas. Just like you said, the food was cheap and came out fast. Hermes peaked into the grease stained bag as you drove back to the office building. The carbonated, syrupy drinks also caused him great confusion. 

“Just what is this stuff?” Hermes asks, pulling out a single fry and sniffing it.

“That, my good sir, is called a french fry.”

“That answers nothing.”

You rolled your eyes, and answered properly this time, “It’s a potato that was cut thinly and deep fried.”

“I still don’t know any of those words,” Hermes replies, raising an eyebrow.

“You don’t know what a potato is?” You asked incredulously, sending him a disbelieving stare. 

“Should I?”

You let out a huff as you parked your car once more, and hurrying Hermes along as you grabbed all the food.

“I shall open you up to the wonderful world of potatoes and greasy food that will kill you faster than the stress of living,” You joke, bumping his shoulder with your own and sitting in your office. 

“Will this be what finally takes down the mighty Hermes?” He jokes with you, taking the seat across from you. “Believe me, many have tried, I’m sure mortal food will be the least of my problems here.” 

A mischievous grin tugs at your lips, “I wouldn’t be too sure, wing boy.”

Hermes spluttered, “Wing boy? You dare call a god ‘wing boy’?”  

“Just eat your food,” You roll your eyes at his dramatics, taking a bite of your own fries. 

“I won’t forget your transgressions,” Hermes mutters before he cautiously takes his own bite. Many emotions flash across his face at once. Confusion, awe, distaste, confusion part two, and finally acceptance. “I have eaten fruits plucked from Mt. Olympus, meats of creatures you cannot even imagine, and I have never consumed food such as this ‘fast food’.”

“Oh yeah,” You shake your head with a satisfied grin. “I don’t think you can dip any lower than this.”

“It tastes good, yet terrible at the same time. How do you even accomplish such a feat?” Hermes continues to ponder, eyeing the greasy, slightly squished food that lay before him.

“Humans will always find a way,” You shrugged, continuing to eat your meal. 

Fifteen minutes come and go quicker than you realize. In fact, you didn’t realize your break had long ended until you began to show Hermes how computers work and you caught the time. It has been an hour and a half since you started your break and now you only had a little over an hour left of your shift. 

“Ah, shit,” You cursed, pulling up your spreadsheets and data you needed to input. “You wanted to see the jobs of the future, here ya go.”

“What…even is this?” Hermes questions, pulling his chair closer to you. “It is just lines and numbers.”

“Yup,” You grumble, already starting to get back into the flow. “I’m given raw data and put it into a nice to read sheet and graphs for other people to present.”

“How…facisnating…” Hermes did not sound enthused. It didn’t take long for him to get bored. Ten minutes in and his leg was bouncing and his eyes were flittering across your office. You had a small frame of your cat next to your computer, and your desk was cluttered with loose pieces of paper and things he has learned are called pens and pencils. Your jacket was precariously thrown on the back of your chair, your trash can sat near the door and suddenly, he was curious about the rest of the building. Before you could blink he was out of sight, and who did he think you were? A babysitter of the divine? Of course not, he can do whatever he wants so long as it doesn't involve you. 

Four pm hits and you sign out of your computer in a flourish. As you pack your things you can’t help but wonder where Hermes may have gone. You walk around the office building, waving at coworkers as they pass, everyone more than excited to leave. Finally, you managed to find the curly haired god in the middle of a small group of people. It seems he has caught them in an outlandish tale—you can only hope that he isn’t giving away who he truly is. 

“Arkas,” You call out, the name sounding vaguely familiar, something you read about Hermes at some point when you were younger. Your gut feeling seemed to be right as it caused him to perk up, a dazzling smile sent your way. 

“I’m afraid the fun is over, perhaps we can talk another time about when I made it to the top of Mount Everest." Hermes nods, making his way towards you.

“You were atop Mount Everest?” You asked, falling in step with him. 

“It wasn’t called that at that time, but I learn quick,” He winked, holding the door open for you.

Time seemed to go quicker with Hermes in your life. No longer were the monotonous days of going to work, typing in numbers and coding graphs, then going home and deciding what you should sustain yourself off of. Now you had a hectic god that made even the most mundane tasks wondrous. Cleaning dishes? He was amazed that water came to your house on command. Clothes shopping? It was hilarious as Hermes tried on as many clothes as possible, even the most hideous garments. You looked forward to what every moment may bring. He had filled a lonely part of you that you didn’t even know existed.

You would bring him out and show him different scenes that even you normally wouldn’t go to, like bars, karaoke, and clubs. Hermes was having a blast. At first he was apprehensive, the thought of failing his duties weighed heavily on his heart, but as you guided him through this complete foreign world, he couldn’t help but let loose. He was no longer a god constantly on the run, he was just another man, living amongst fellow men. It was strange, to have a taste of a mortal life. Something no god can truly experience. Even now, Hermes could run so fast he disappears, morph into an animal to disguise himself, but he did that less and less often, unless it was to follow you somewhere he was not allowed (he loved to watch you present, though he could only due so as a hawk looking through a window). 

The one thing any Greek myth should tell you, is that once you grow complacent, everything goes to tartarus. Just as a routine befell you both, months of living around the other, inside jokes, knowing smiles, and eyes filled with feelings that wished to burst free, a portal opened in your living room. It blocked your t.v., where you both were watching the Five Nights at Freddy’s movie, a generational monument you had claimed. Hermes was laying in the corner of the couch, arm wrapped around your shoulder as you leaned against him with a bowl of popcorn in your lap, Jinx laying by your feet. 

A booming voice rang through the brilliant, glowing portal, “Hermes, you have abandoned your duties for far too long. Come back, or else.”

You sat up, eyes falling onto the beautiful man next to you. You had nearly forgotten that he wasn’t just anyone. He was a god, with duties that had fallen out of time. He was never going to stay, he didn’t belong in your world, no matter how much he fit in. 

The god looked torn, eyes widened in shock, many emotions held within. His gaze fell on you, mouth opening and closing. His stomach twisted and he felt sick, it was cruel for his father to make such a demand, but he had been overstepping his duties for far too long, and he was afraid that his father would take it out on you. He stood from the couch, his legs felt like jelly as he couldn’t look away from the hurt clear in your expression. 

“I’ll find my way back…” He tried to reason, his hands clenching by his sides. 

“Don’t lie,” You shook your head. Trying to be strong, you smiled painfully. “I’m glad for the time we shared together, I wouldn’t change it for the world. Even though it was scary to find a strange god in my house.” A pained laugh escaped him, and he kneeled in front of you, holding your hands to his forehead, almost like a prayer. 

“Thank you,” He muttered, squeezing your hands. “You have changed me in ways that I didn’t know was possible. Taught me things that no one will believe. You will always live inside my heart, I promise you that, my dearest.” 

It was like he grabbed your heart and squeezed as hard as he could, tears threatened to fall from your eyes and you found it hard to continue looking at him. 

“Go,” You choked, your throat tightening at the weight of the moment. “Before I do something stupid.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Hermes joked, eyes wet. Was he really going to cry over you? Was it wrong that the thought comforted you? That you weren’t the only one in pain over this. 

“I…” He trailed off, standing up slowly. “Thank you, really.” With that, he took one last look at you before entering the portal, which flashed a bright light before disappearing. 

It was hard. Trying to get back into a routine that didn’t feel like a hollow void filled your heart. Jinx would lay by you more often, sensing the emotional decay you were currently feeling. It didn’t help that nearly everything reminded you of him. How he didn’t like coffee, but always wanted to make you a pot so he could use the machine. How he’d always steal your hoodies and pretend like he didn’t know where they were. In fact, even now you wouldn’t be able to find sweaters you swore you owned (you wondered if he took them with him). The couch was too big when it was just you, and you found yourself sitting in the loveseat more often than nought. 

Oh, and work was absolutely awful. He had managed to liven it up so much, even your coworkers would ask where he went, until they saw the bags under your eyes and the distant look that haunted your features, and they figured it was a rough break up. The numbers blurred together, and you’d catch yourself looking out the window, only to be met with songbirds and squirrels. You tried to get out more, to move on. You were foolish to think it would last forever, to forget who he truly was and what he represented. Who he was to this world. 

Nothing felt the same though. No matter how much your heart grew distant, how many people you tried to relight your heart with, to forget. But once months turned to years, your heart finally settled. Jinx would steal your attention, and it warmed your heart at how much she loved you, cared for you even when you struggled to be a great owner. Work was still a blur, but going out with your coworkers seemed less of a distraction and more endearing. Listening to Max ramble about his newest project, and how Dave was terrible at his job and nitpicked the smallest thing. Jessica swooned over every word, and you couldn’t help but cringe at the possible office romance (everyone knows when those end, they end poorly). 

Things were finally looking up. While the god will always hold a piece of your heart, you knew you couldn’t let this hold you down for the rest of your life. 

It’s funny, isn’t it? That your world will always turn upside the second you make peace? Just as you accept everything that has happened, that your futures have separate endings, the fates decide to have one more laugh at you. 

The sky is dark, even though it’s only noon, rain pelting the hood of your car as you gather as many of your groceries as possible. You glanced at the house, calculating how fast you’d have to run to not get soaked, but you did a double take as a light shown through the window of your house. Your stomach dropped. Then, the door opened, and the god you never thought you would see again ran to your car door.

A torrent of emotions overtook you as he yanked the car door open. Grief, anger, relief, hurt, love, happiness…so much swirled through you, and it was hard to think as Hermes swept you into a bone crushing hug. The familiar scent of lemons and honey washed over you, and you felt your composure crack. It was like tearing open a healing wound, and you weren’t sure if it felt good or if it hurt. Tears mingled in the rain, you couldn’t tell if it was his tears or yours. His arms kept you close as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. 

“Hermes,” You choked, the rain nearly drowning you out. His grip only tightened, pulling you so close that it felt like he was trying to merge you both together. 

“I missed you,” He whispered, his voice sending chills down your spine. The water was starting to soak through your jacket, but you found it hard to care. 

“How…” You pause. “Why?”

“I couldn’t…I couldn’t live knowing what I left behind,” He explained, pulling away just enough to meet your eyes. “I felt like I had been cursed, cursed to continue on like you hadn’t radicalized my entire world, like you hadn’t shown me a reality where I wasn’t feared or cherished as a god, but loved as a man, a mortal. And to go back to my old life? It was tormenting.” 

“But…I thought you couldn’t stay?” You asked, eyes searching his own. 

“I was such a miserable mess, my siblings convinced father to let me go,” Hermes replied, his thumb tracing patterns into your hip. “He declared that I was no longer worthy of the title of god, and that I had brought disgrace upon the family, to wish to be with a mortal forever. Apparently that had crossed a line too far.”

“What an idiot,” You huffed, and thunder crackled in the distance. He looked up at the sky wearily before he grabbed your bags of food and ushered you inside. You were soaked to the bone, and you couldn’t stop shivering, which led Hermes to fuss over you. Bringing you towards your bathroom and starting to run hot water.

“So you’re staying?” You asked so softly it was nearly drowned out, but the god still heard you. “You’re really choosing this over being a god?”

“I have lived as a god for a millennia, I have traveled the world and held power for so long,” He spoke somberly, finally deeming the water warm enough and filling your bath. “You had given me a taste of something I had never experienced before. I had always watched the lives of mortals, their impossibly short life span and all the do before I carried them to tartarus. Yet actually living it was what finally opened my eyes. I understand now, why mortals live, why they wake up another day despite the end always being the same.”

Turning the faucet off, Hermes began to inch his way towards the exit, “Now warm yourself up, I’ll bring you clean clothes.”

“You’re staying…” It was less of a question and more a revelation. Hermes watched you with fond eyes, approaching you and leaving a gentle kiss to the crown of your head.

“Warm up, we can talk more once you’re not shivering to death.”

You discarded your clothes when the door closed. Your brain was struggling to keep up with the situation. He had come back. He had given up his divinity…for you. To live a life with you, to live in a world that he was not familiar with, but has learned to love.

The warm water embraced your body, softening knots you didn’t even know existed behind your shoulder blades. Once the shock and disbelief finally wore off, giddiness soon spread throughout you. He was back! He was staying! He had hugged and kissed you like you were something precious to him. You were precious to him. When the water started to cool, you pulled yourself out of the water, drained the tub and dried yourself off. You thought that Hermes may have forgotten to bring you your clothes (a nagging in the back of your head was doubting the fact that Hermes was even here, that you had finally lost it). Your fears were quickly diminished as a pile of clothes were stacked in front of the door. 

You quickly change, not wanting to spend any more time away from the one that has been driving you mad. He stood in the kitchen, masterfully using the equipment to make some meals that were common during his time (and they always tasted divine…pun intended). You approached his figure, and he sent you a soft smile. It was so warm and fond that it nearly sent you into a tizzy all over again. 

“Did you have a good bath, dearest?” Hermes asked, the vegetables cooking in a white wine. It was strange. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but you always thought that was lovesick drivel…perhaps there was more truth to that saying than you thought. You both had fallen back into a routine so distant yet familiar, one that was stronger than before, less abashed to show fondness for the other. 

“You’re staying,” You reply, your smile nearly blinding the man who stood next to you.

“I’m staying,” He echoed, putting an arm around your figure and keeping you close. It seems you really weren’t the only one that longed to be close. You wrapped your arms around his waist, holding him close and resting your head on his chest. 

“Does this mean you’ve actually lost your powers?” You question, pulling away enough to look at his face. “That you…”

“I will live by your side, and die by your side,” Hermes admits, eyes tracing your features. “I will grow old with you, and hold you closely till the end.” His thumb traces your cheekbone as he takes you in. “My only wish is that you do not tire of me.”

“I could never,” You shook your head, nuzzling further into his touch. “If anything, that should be my fear. You’re always described as moving from one place to the next, never staying in one spot for too long. Won’t you grow tired of me?”

“Of course not,” He scoffs, looking you in the eyes with determination. “I wish to take you across the world, visit sights that have dulled with all my travels and reveal them in a new light. One that only you can bring to my life.”

“If you keep buttering me up like that I fear I may do something I regret,” You warn, your traitorous eyes falling down to his lips. 

“I’m betting on it,” Hermes whispers back, face inching closer to yours. “And I hope you don’t regret it.”

A short laugh escaped you, and he looked particularly smug, which made you want to wipe that look off his face. So, you do the unthinkable (aka what you couldn’t stop thinking about since you both became close), and close the gap between you. It starts out hesitant, your lips barely touching the other, until the desperation of years of yearning and distance takes over. Hermes tilts your head just so, giving him the best angle to kiss you passionately. You find yourself lost in his touches, his kisses, his pants as he goes back in for just a few more seconds. Your body feels like it’s molten in the best of ways, every touch is like a jolt of electricity and all your brain can comprehend is him. 

…Then the fire alarm blares, causing you both to jump apart, Jinx quickly scrambling to your room in respite from the loud noise. Smoke then fills your nose and you point to the veggies that are starting to burn in the pan, shouting incomprehensibly as Hermes quickly pulls it off the stove and under the faucet. You both break out into laughter, your hearts warm and gooey with love. 

“Are you trying to burn my house down?” You smile, showing that you weren’t angry at all. 

“I can’t help that there’s a beautiful distraction right in front of me,” His silver tongue works at full speed, it seems he hasn’t lost all his powers. 

“Don’t think flattery will save you now mister,” You pretend to huff. “I’ve had a long day, and I’d rather not lose my house. Do you know how awful the market is?” 

“Don’t worry,” Hermes smiles, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, then another, and another. “I’ll make you the best meal ever, and then we can talk about everything I missed when I was away.”

That missing warmth had made it back to your house, one you nearly forgot the feeling of. Things may not have been perfect, and there would be troubles you’d both have to figure out together, but in that moment, when he held you and cherished you, you knew you both would make it through heaven and hell. He had stripped himself of his divinity to live a normal life with you, and it was a sacrifice you would not let go to waste. 

“Let’s finish that movie,” Hermes mentions, arm wrapped around your shoulders as you sat on the couch. 

“There’s a second one now,” You grin, leaning into his embrace. 

You wouldn’t change a thing for the world.