Sylusfruitss

One-Shots (>2k words)

Payback (ID!Leon Kennedy) : You walk in on your husband with his secretary, and after storming out on him, you end up at a bar down the street from your office only to run into a fellow D.S.O. employee, Leon Kennedy. You're beyond hurt, and the feeling of betrayal devastates you. He helps you work through those emotions...in his bedroom. If You Lie Down With Me (RE9!Leon Kennedy) : A new house, a moving van, and a very heavy box all lead to your introduction to your older neighbor, Leon. Brooding, burdened, and somewhat reclusive, you find a way to worm yourself into his life and knock down his defenses until he finally lets you in(to his bed). You'll Take Both (DI!Chris Redfield, DI!Leon Kennedy): You’re not quite sure how you ended up in this situation, but in the end, it doesn’t matter, because you’re exactly where you want to be, caught between two men who are very eager to share you. Polar Plunge (RE4!Leon Kennedy) : You, a young DSO agent filling in for an injured superior, find yourself trapped in the snow-banked wilderness of boreal Canada...with is partner, Leon Kennedy. A safe house in the ice-capped woods and the primal need for warmth leads you and Agent Kennedy to make use of all the cabin's amenities. Boarding School (RE9!Leon Kennedy): You want to celebrate your eighteenth birthday with your favorite teacher by surprising him in his office. Playing Dangerous (RE2!Leon Kennedy): He lets you off with a warning...this time Summer Bummer (RE4!Leon Kennedy): Your bodyguard isn't a fan of your poolside shenanigans. Is it Wrong? (RE9 Leon Kennedy x Nanny!Reader): There's a reason you put on makeup when you work for Mr. Kennedy. Night In (ID!Leon Kennedy x Reader): Your father, a very important person who made other important people very angry, deems it necessary for you to be watched by a certain special agent, ruining any plans you had for a fun night out with your friends. Maybe you'll have a fun night in instead... Sinner's Prayer (RE4!Leon Kennedy x Nun!Reader): A mysterious American soldier finds you in a chapel, praying. Your village has been overrun, and this is your only sanctuary left--a little slice of heaven on earth. That is, until said soldier shows you what heaven truly feels like. Born Again (RE4!Leon Kennedy: Your past sexual experiences have been unsavory, to say the least, and without anyone to change your mind, you have long decided that sex is terrible. That is, until you let your very convincing boyfriend try to change your mind. Buyer's Remorse (RE9!Leon Kennedy x Brat!Reader): Leon made you mad, and to punish him, you take his card for a day on the town. He comes home with a vengeance, but it's not in his nature to be mean to you, so he finds another way to get you back under his control. He prefers to kiss and make up. Thirteenth Step (Vendetta!Leon Kennedy): One week. You give Leon one week to prove to you he's serious about quitting his addiction. If he doesn't, you'll walk out the door and never come back. And if he does? Maybe there's a reward waiting for him... Oblivion (RE4!Leon Kennedy): Leon's obsession with you pushes him to new extremes...and you like it? Bump and Grind (RE4!Leon Kennedy x Agent!Reader): During a simple reconnaissance mission at a nightclub, you and Leon are tasked to lay eyes on a target allegedly selling bioweapons on the black market. The two of you don't necessarily get along, so what happens when you have to pretend to be more than agents-at-odds and get comfortable on the dance floor? Interrupted (RE9!Leon Kennedy x Brat!Reader): You're getting on Leon's nerves, interrupting him as he works from home, especially when all he's trying to do is finish up these reports so he can spend time with you. Luckily, he knows how to teach you a lesson. Luckily, that's exactly what you want.

Drabbles (<2k words)

Meeting ended early.

He was out of the meeting he prayed wouldn’t go past five o’clock. The two of you had a dinner date scheduled, tacked on his calendar for weeks now, and it was at risk of being cancelled all because of an impromptu meeting he had been pulled into at half-past four. Leon had been looking forward to this date for a while. He had scouted the location like it was the target in an operation: checking reviews, making sure there were at least three items on the menu he knew you’d like, calling ahead for a reservation at a table not too close to the kitchen or the restrooms. 

Still on for dinner.

You’d hope so, and you told him just that, tapping on the keypad of your phone with painted fingers, lacquered in a bunny-nose pink, touched-up just for the occasion. Since noon, the rest of the day had been jam-packed with primping, starting with a shower so steamy it made sure to smoke out every transgression lingering in your pores. You made sure to scrub yourself baby smooth, double shampoo your post-workout hair, and use the good body wash whose price made you wince at the checkout counter. You exited the foggy glass doors smelling like a spring bloom, gardenia and honeysuckle. 

Long before Leon had alerted you to his imminent return, you had already blown out your hair to silky smooth perfection, painted your face with the skill of the old masters, and stuffed yourself into the same dress you wore the night he found you on your front porch, soaked to the bone from the deluge. The zipper barely made it to the end of the stretch beneath your armpit, inching up the brackets like a salmon swimming upstream. Happy-relationship weight is no joke. With Leon financing most of your meals these days–damn good ones too–you no longer look like the poster child for weight-gain shakes. 

As you walk downstairs to greet Leon at the door when he arrives, the hem of the dress floats around your shins, the chiffon fabric tickling your newly hairless skin. Disembodied footsteps, clad in shiny dress shoes, click up the steps of the front porch, and with the twinkling sound of keys, and the turn of the lock, Leon is home. 

His eyes grow wide as he steps across the threshold, drinking in the sight of you, as you lean onto the crescent-moon entryway table, peering into the mirror that rests on it. He watches your image in the gilded frame, studying the lithe movement of your arm as you slip a pair of dazzling diamond drops into the pierced hole of your ear. Leon gave you the pair a month into dating. Slipped the velvet box out of his suit jacket at the dinner table. Part of you thought he was about to propose. Part of you wished he had. 

It’s taken every atom of strength you can muster not to get on your knees and beg Leon to let you love him as a wife. It wasn’t enough to live with him, to sleep in his bed, to welcome him home almost every evening with arms ready to cure. You need more. 

What’s the hold up?

 Not even a week after he kissed you for the first time, Leon confessed his long-burning infatuation for you, and not a moment after that, he told you he loved you, and had since he first snatched that moving box off your arms. Or was it when he first tasted your baking? Moot. He loves you and you love him. The sun doesn’t set without you reminding each other of that eternal fact. He made you his girlfriend the morning after he took you into his bed. You sold your home to move in with him.

He had mentioned what seems like eons ago that the only reason he bought such a large, suburban dwelling with a fenced backyard and extra bedrooms was to fill it with a family. Would he still want that with you, or has he already closed that chapter of his life? Perhaps you found him too late, and he no longer desires more than a companion he can legally keep at arm’s length.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he says, setting down his briefcase so he can wrap his hands around your middle and plant a chaste kiss on your temple, mindful not to squish your hair or smear your make-up. “Miss me?” 

You roll your eyes, meeting his gaze in the mirror. Nearly two years of knowing the man and you still cower beneath the eye contact he so insistently provides. Sometimes it’s too much to look in his eyes. Sometimes you’re afraid of what you’ll find there. Before you moved in with him, you only saw sadness, pinpricks of joy worming their way in whenever you were around. After, blissful contentment. 

“Of course I missed you, darling,” you smile, adjusting the diamond necklace around your neck, another unnecessarily expensive gift from Leon. 

I haven’t had anyone to spend my money on in a long time. Let me do this. What kind of woman would you be to turn down jewelry from such an eager benefactor? A silly one. You took the diamonds. 

“Should I go upstairs and change?” He asks, slipping off his tie, pink like a tongue. Silk. He’s wearing his typical desk-day uniform: a black suit and a crisp, white button-down shirt. It’s now unbuttoned at the top, revealing a flash of skin that begs you to touch it. You don’t deny the desires of your flesh and reach up to plant a kiss on the exposed patch of collarbone. His skin is warm, peppered with graying hair. After peppering a trail of kisses from the top of his chest, up his neck, across his jaw, you settle onto his lips, mouths meeting in a game of who can kiss the other the hardest. Leon’s winning this round, his hands coming up to hold your neck, then to cup your cheeks. He groans when you bite his lower lip, but he doesn’t pull away, continuing to hold your body flush to his large chest. It pays the debt accrued from hours of no physical contact. 

“No,” you say, answering his earlier question.

His brows knit, nonplussed and dumb after such a spectacular theater. “What?” 

“Don’t change. You look really good like this. Especially now that I’ve kissed you and gotten you all hot and bothered.”

A daring smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Hot and bothered, huh?” 

“Oh yeah, you’re totally blushing.” He shakes his head at the comment, ever so bashful. “It’s cute.”

“No, what’s cute is you being so modest, wearing hardly any jewelry tonight.” 

He has to be kidding. You’ve reached the limit of how many real diamonds one can wear without looking like an asshole for it.  

“What?” You pull away a couple inches, his hands still at the small of your back, holding you upright. “I’m wearing the earrings and the bracelet you bought me.” The ones that cost as much as the downpayment on your old house. 

He tilts his head back and forth, narrowing his eyes in thought. “I don’t know.” His eyes flutter up and down your outfit, the simple but elegant black dress clinging to your hips, the earrings hugging your lobes, the tennis chain decorating your clavicle. “It’s just so…plain.”

“Plain?” You scoff, the faint huff of annoyance cresting in your throat. One more comment and you’re going to take offense. 

“Yeah. Too plain. You need something else to complete the look.” 

Over the past few months, Leon has gifted you with more jewelry than you know what to do with or where to put. The box you’ve kept since high school, a pink wooden thing featuring a twirling plastic ballerina, is overflowing with glittering jewels far too precious to be stuffed inside it. 

“Leon, I don’t need to put on any more jewelry. This is more than enough for dinner,” you say as you turn back toward the mirror to fluff your hair and re-gloss your lips before the two of you head out for the restaurant. Through the glass, you watch Leon hold open the side of his suit jacket with one hand, the other reaching into the interior pocket.  

“Are you sure?” 

“My jewelry box is literally overflowing, yes, I’m–” 

By the time you turn back toward him, he’s lowered himself onto one knee with a little velvet ringbox pinched between his fingers. You’ve completely gone dumb, unable to speak or squeal or so much as grunt another sound. Jaw slack, and already close to trembling, you watch Leon open the box to reveal a glittering stone. 

“I’m going to keep this brief because I’m not sure how long I can kneel on this knee, and because anything I can say down here is something I’ve already told you a million times over. But, I digress, (Y/N), I love you. You have been a light in my life since you moved next door–a light I didn’t think I would ever know or could ever deserve–and each day, I become a better man for it. You have given me purpose and direction in my life. You make me want to wake up in the morning and come home from work every evening. You make me want to live another day, to be present for every moment. You ground me. I bought this ring way too soon in our relationship, but I’ve been holding on to it for way too long. My knee hurts, so I’m gonna stand up in a second, but not before I ask you…will you make an old man very happy and be his wife?” He pauses to smile. “(Y/N), will you marry me?” 

Completely entrenched in every word that dripped off his tongue, you didn’t even notice the steady stream of tears cascading down your cheeks. Thank goodness for waterproof mascara. The droplets are fierce and salty as they trickle into the crease of your lips, down the curve of your jaw, your neck, drying down in sticky patches.

You’re not sure what to say. Does an answer as simple as “yes” suffice? Do you hug him? Do you kneel down and tackle him to the floor and smother him with kisses? As much as you want to speak, to touch, or caress, all you’re able to do is stand still, your limbs not receiving the waves of commands from your brain. 

“Honey, I’m going to need you to give me an answer. My knee.” 

“Oh, right,” you giggle through a sob clawing its way up your throat. “Yes, Leon, I’ll marry you.” He brings your left hand toward him and slides the ring on your finger. Through wet, cloudy eyes, you look at the stone glinting in the light. The right shape. The right weight. The right everything. It’s so perfectly you. “It’s beautiful, Leon. Thank you.” 

He plants his hands on your hips, groaning under his breath as he lifts himself off the floor, knees popping. He pulls you into an embrace. His chest is wide and strong, a place you also call home beyond the four walls of this house. He smells like the beach–aquatic–like sand and clear skies and a sizzling sun. Juniper and vetiver and salt. 

“No, thank you,” he insists, grabbing your face, tilting your jaw upward to look at him. His eyes are as shiny as the diamond on your finger, sparkling with a damp sheen of tears. You’ve never seen him cry before. How is it that he looks even more gorgeous with tears welling up on his lashes? Frankly, it’s unfair. Everything about Leon is unfair. The finely sculpted muscles across his body, the ancient beauty of his face, the wisdom that comes with his age and experience. It leaves you wondering if you’re the one that doesn’t deserve him. 

“You’ve made me a better man. I mean that.” The crows feet beneath the tail of his brows deepen as he smiles, toothy and wide, like a kid who just got surprised with a trip to Disney World or invited to a free-for-all in a candy store. 

“And you’ve made me happier in the past year than I’ve been in my entire life.” You wrap your arms around your neck, begging him to pull you closer into him. 

“Get back to me when you’re my age and see if that changes.”

“It won’t. I’ll be saying the same thing at forty, at fifty...I could go on and on. You make me so, so happy, Leon. Nothing will change that.” 

He brings you into a kiss, hands now cupping your face, one slithering around your neck. It’s all teeth and tongue, little sparks igniting an all-consuming fire. 

“Should we cancel our reservation and take this upstairs?” He asks into your mouth, lips still half-attached to yours. 

Pulling back, carrying a string of saliva, you furrow your brows. “No way, I did my hair, and I just got this amazing ring I need to take out on the town.” You lift your hand to show Leon the new rock now settling in nicely on your finger. “Wow, it’s heavier than I thought it would be. I’ll have to get used to it.” You pull your hand into a fist and do a few mock bicep curls. 

“Don’t over-exert yourself there, babe. Gotta work your way up to the heavy weights.” 

His laugh harmonizes with yours, filling the downstairs with the sweet symphony of your shared joy. You loop your arm through his crooked elbow as he walks you outside to his car, opening the door and smothering you with a smooch as he buckles you into the seat. You’ve never seen him so giddy. He hums to himself as he backs out of the driveway, hands roaming the parts of your body he has access to as he drives. Your thigh, your knee, your forearm. Your neck. It’s like he’s so worried you’ll dissipate into thin air if he doesn’t tether you to him with his touch. 

“Seriously, though, Leon. This is the most gorgeous ring I’ve ever seen. Did you pick it out yourself?” 

He grins, nodding, very content with his choice of jewel. “I did…well, sort of. There’s this old lady that works at the store, and she helped me narrow down the choices. She’s the one who has been helping me pick out all the jewelry I’ve given you, actually. Funny enough, the ring was the first piece I bought. Every time I returned to get you something else, she would ask if I had proposed already.” He looks over at you, meeting your gaze for a split second before his eyes return to the road. “I was kind of scared to ask. That’s why I kept putting it off.” His smile has faded and his lips are parted as if he’s about to speak again, but he doesn’t. 

“Leon Kennedy, DSO agent extraordinaire, scared of little ol’ me? Color me surprised.”

“Well, you know, you’re…you’re a gem, no pun intended. You’re stunning and young and you’ve got many years ahead of you. I was scared you wouldn’t want to waste them on me.” 

Waste. 

The word flames your skin like water so hot it’s cold, scorching your skin to the bone before you can even feel the danger. 

He passes by a couple open spots in front of the restaurant, foregoing the street parking, knowing he’s not the best at parallel parking, and drives into the lot to the side of the building. He shifts gears, the car coming to a halt, humming itself to sleep before leaving you and Leon sitting in silence. It smells like new leather and his cologne. 

“Leon,” you plead, voice weak. All you can do is look into his eyes and hope yours convey the amount of love you have for him. So much love it hurts to carry it all. So much love you can’t. “Don’t talk like that. Please.” 

He leans back in his seat, palms coming to his thighs. His head turns to look out the window. You see his face reflected in the glass. 

“Leon, look at me.” He does, with a flat smile upon his lips–those perfectly shaped lips that you get to kiss for the rest of your life. You reach out and take his hand, tracing your fingers over the plump veins on the back, the valleys and ridges of his knuckles. “I know we have quite a few years between us, and I’m not going to lie and say I haven’t thought about what happens when you and I both get older and…no, I don’t want to talk about that. What I want to say is that loving you could never be a waste, whether we have ten years together or thirty. I just want to spend every moment with you, Leon. I want everything with you. All of it.”

“You want to get married?”

That makes you laugh, a breathy little half-laugh-half-sigh. “Uh, duh. That’s kind of why I have this rock on my finger.” You flash him the ring, wiggling your fingers. He smiles, hand coming up to touch the ring. He’s beaming, proud of his work, wondering what he did in his life that made him so worthy of meeting you. 

“Tomorrow, then?” 

“Tomorrow?” You repeat, jaw falling open an inch.

“Yeah? Why not? Well, maybe not tomorrow, you know, because sometimes they make you wait once you get the license. Let me check.” He pulls out his phone and immediately opens the search engine, tapping away on the keyboard at the speed of someone who knows exactly what they’re looking for. 

“Leon?” You place a hand on his forearm. He stops typing to look up at you. 

“What?” His eyes are wide, pupils blown, like he can’t wrap his head around why you would be so shocked. 

“Tomorrow?” 

“Yeah. You said you never wanted a big wedding anyway. We get married at the courthouse and we have a celebration with your family and my friends later, if you want. I’m tired of waiting. Let’s do it.” He inhales and exhales a short breath through his nose, shoulders rising and falling alongside it. “I should have asked you to marry me months ago, when I knew it’s what I wanted. Let’s not waste anymore time, okay?” 

He’s also afraid that if he doesn’t take you to that courthouse, say those vows, and get it in writing, the voices in his head will finally convince him that he’s not good enough. For the last year and a half, Leon has been battling those thoughts. He bought the ring on a good day, when he felt confident and was secure in his pursuit of a future with you. Bad days followed, one after the other, and he got comfortable in his schedule of self-flaggelation, deriding himself for being too old, too worn down, too bitter and tired. 

A couple weeks ago, when you were planting something green and leafy in the garden, and Leon was sitting on the deck with a cup of coffee you made for him, he watched as your hands, delicate and nurturing, fostered life. His hands take it. You walked up to him, wearing one of his old white dress shirts, now flaked with soil. There was a mint leaf pinched between your fingers. You squeezed it and punctured it with your nail to activate the scent, then waved it under his nose. The devil on his shoulder couldn’t convince him to leave you in that moment. The day after that, he took the ring box from the highest shelf in his closet, from its hiding place tucked behind some winter sweaters, and began carrying it in his pocket. 

“Okay, yeah.” 

You do a double-take of your surroundings to make sure you’re not sitting in a garage with the engine rolling, actively being poisoned by carbon monoxide. And you’re not drunk…on alcohol at least. No, this is real. You just agreed to marry Leon tomorrow and you meant every word of the deal.

“Really? Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well, it says here we can get married as soon as the license is issued. There’s no waiting period. So, we could get the license tomorrow and go straight to the courthouse and–uh–get married.” 

“Is this crazy?”

“Probably but who gives a shit? You’re mine. I’m yours. I want to make it permanent. We do it tomorrow. I’m not waiting any longer to have you.” 

“What if I told you that you could have me now?” 

Like a dog at a whistle–like your seat’s on fire–you lunge across the console and into his lap, shins planted on either side of his thighs, digging into the smooth leather. Your hands immediately find his face, pressing it into yours, mouths standing in position. Teeth and tongue and lips and breath. It feels like the first time, like you’re back on that porch swing, rambling about how you feel and he’s shutting you up with a kiss. Like there’s a swarm of electric eels slithering beneath your skin, lighting you on fire from your toes to the crown of your head, writing down your spine.

Your fingers weave through the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging his head back until it meets the headrest. He’s nearly fresh-shaven, just the dusting of a five-o-clock shadow across his jaw and above his lip. His cheeks are hollow. You kiss him there. 

Leon looks down at his watch, the nicer one he saves for special occasions. A mother of pearl face attached to a chain woven with alternating silver and gold links. “Our reservation’s in ten minutes, baby.”

“That’s all I need.” 

You make quick work of his belt, unfastening the metal buckle, unbuttoning his pants, unzipping the fly. Beneath the starchy fabric of his slacks, are a pair of black briefs and a growing erection straining against them. He bucks his hips, pressing your lower back into the steering wheel, shoving down his pants and underwear in one hasty sweep. You salivate at the sight of his cock, half-hard and already flushed with anticipation. As you stroke him with your hand, paying special attention to the sensitive underside of the shaft, he groans, tossing his head back against the leather, closing his eyes to block out all other distractions. 

“Just like that, baby.” His hand comes on top of yours to help you pump him to full stiffness, guiding you up and down as he sets the pace. Your thumb finds the bead of moisture leaking from the tip, and you swipe it across the head, his hips jerking beneath you. It’s disgusting and perverse how attractive you find it when his body reacts uncontrollably beneath your touch. One morning, when your body found his during the night and your hips sleepily settled against his erection, he woke you up with the most aggressive grinding. He said he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t control it. He just had to release the pressure stirred up by your proximity to him. It’s one of the hottest things he’s ever done. The way he needed you in that moment.

You hike up your dress, until all the fabric is bunched at your hips, and Leon’s hands find your thighs, caressing the fleshy meat, punctuating the gentle rubs with greedy squeezes you’re sure will leave marks. 

“No time for that,” you say, swatting his fingers away from the dampened crotch of your panties. “Need you inside.” 

“But you–”

“Leon.” You shoot him a daring glare. “We have eight minutes, and I want you inside me for every second.” 

“Okay, yeah, yeah,” he pants, pushing aside the fabric, lining himself up with your entry. Even the light brush of his head against your clit is enough to rile your senses. “Are you sure you’re ready? We didn’t–” 

Bothered by his priestly patience, you take over, grabbing his cock and sinking yourself down onto it, taking the full length in one pump. 

He groans into your decolletage, cubbing your clothes breasts as he further sinks into the flesh. The primal sounds reverberate off your cleavage as you bounce up and down, squeezing him with every pass. 

“Fuck, baby, you feel so good. How’d I–fuck–get so lucky?” His hands grab your hips, directing your movements, lowering you down even further so you can grind back and forth. 

“Oh, god,” you moan into his ear, the fingers of one hand digging into his chest. The other hand is cradling his head into your neck, he sows kisses there, tracing his lips up and down the tendon that always makes you jump and seize whenever it is touched. 

He chuckles, the vibrating buzzing against your skin. “No, it’s Leon.” 

Trying to be funny even when he’s getting fucked. Silly old man and his silly old jokes.

You continue grinding back and forth, stealing your pleasure from his lap, your clit rubbing against his pelvis, throbbing at the sensation. The familiar tightness returns to your gut, the muscles of your abdomen contracting as your orgasm builds. 

“I think I’m close,” you huff into his ear, your breath hot and labored as your nose brushes the soft strands of his hair. Leon’s ursine growl sounds through the car’s interior, bouncing off the leather seats, the tinted windows. “Fuck, Leon.”

His hands travel up your waist, snaking around your back. “Let go, pretty girl. I’ve got you.” 

Your clit throbs with the aftershocks of your orgasm. Your legs continue to shake as you come down from your high, barely enough strength in your muscles to keep you grinding down on him. Thankfully, Leon takes over, thrusting his hips upward into your sullied pussy, now dripping and eager to be filled. 

“I want you to cum inside me. I want you to be dripping down my legs when I walk into that restaurant so everyone knows I’m yours.” 

His chest shudders, hips lurching, groans getting more unhinged. “Oh, shit, baby, you can’t say stuff like that.” 

“Sure I can,” you coo. The words drip from your pouty lower lip like maple syrup from the puckered mouth of a bottle. “Just like I can say that I want you to cum so deeply inside of me, you give me a baby.” Now you’re just being mean. You know he won’t last very long after that. “I want to have your baby, Leon.”

“Oh s–fuck,” he growls, just as expected. His arms slide under yours, his palms pressing into your shoulders to push you further onto his dick as he finishes with a final few thrusts, mean and deliberate. His upper body seizes, and you can feel the erratic thump of his heart when he holds you flush to his chest, your face buried into the crook of his neck, warm and slightly slick with sweat. “Oh, sweetheart. I love you.” You lean back so his head can hang forward onto your breasts as he regains his strength. Sliding off of his raw cock, you hurriedly pull the crotch of your panties back into position as not to drip onto his nice pants. 

“First time having sex as a fiancée,” you muse, looking down at your lap where your hand rests, the ring glimmering beneath the dim lights beaming down from the lamppost above the car. “Pretty great.” 

He’s not sure if you truly meant that about having his baby, or if it was just a thing you said at the spur of the moment to get him to his climax. Neither of you had really had that discussion, not in detail, at least. He had heard you mention children in passing, way before the two of you started seeing each other, but it might be different now. He hopes you haven’t given up that dream to be with him…or that you might even be willing to explore it with him before it’s too late. Before he gets too old. Before one mission becomes his last. 

You sink back into the passenger seat, breath heavy and shaky, grabbing your purse from the footwell. “Ready?” 

Leon pushes away those thoughts, deciding to focus on the moment the two of you are about to share, a romantic dinner in celebration of your engagement. He’s not going to mention it tonight, though you wish he would, because you meant every word. 

“Yep.”

May

A black dot in the center of his palm. 

A conversation with Sherry and Claire. 

A half-empty bottle of bourbon and the sound of his wife’s wails as her knees buckle beneath the weight of the news. He’s dying.

August

The dot grew into a web of black vines beneath the skin. It’s now on his back, across his ribcage, climbing up his neck.

September

A promise and a plan. 

October 

“Leon, please tell me it’s you.”

“Hi, baby. It’s me.” 

You nearly trip down the bottom step, your feet failing beneath you as you come to a halting stop. The man standing in the foyer looks an awful lot like your husband…if your husband was thirty-five and had better posture. 

“W–who are–Leon?” You spit, a stuttering mess as you try to focus your eyes on the figure before you. He’s wearing the same clothes he left the house in last night. His car is parked out in the driveway, dotted with a fresh splatter of raindrops. His hair is still streaked with gray, the only thing about him that betrays his true age. But his back is straighter. His face is different, fuller and rosier. The fine creases that lined his forehead are now smooth. The cording across his pebbled neck are nearly non-existent. 

“Who else would it be? I’m back.” 

“What’s going on? No, you–you look–what happened to your face?” 

“I got the cure. We all did. I had to fight tooth and nail for it, of course, but I’d be damned if I didn’t make it back home to you.” He opens his arms for you and you don’t waste a moment to run into them. 

“I knew you would,” you cheer, face nestled in the broad width of his chest. He smells like gasoline and dirt. Eyes flicker up to his neck, the few inches left exposed by the collar of his favorite tactical quarter-zip. Now you can really study his skin–skin you had memorized the taste of, the texture, each line and dip and dimple. “Did it…make you younger?” 

“Sort of, I guess. Something about cell rejuvenation. I’m not technically younger, of course, but I feel better. I feel stronger and my back doesn’t hurt as much.” Still only a few steps into the house, the two of you are settled in the foyer, and Leon turns your chin toward the large mirror resting on the entryway table, prompting you to look at your reflection. “And we look closer in age now, so maybe people will stop mistaking me for your dad.” 

It was a one-time thing. Leon took you to brunch on a particularly lovely Sunday morning. Birds were chirping, singing a song to the buttery sun suspended in the cloudless sky. It was early summer and the temperature was a perfect seventy-five degrees. A waitress at the restaurant asked if you were taking your “dad” out to lunch for the special occasion. Surely she had gotten her tables mixed up–a busy day, it happens–but you looked around to see a scattering of fathers sitting with their daughters of all ages. Some were younger, with sprite, elementary-school-aged girls. Others were old with snow white hair and their college girls back home for summer break. It was Father’s Day, and you had completely forgotten. After you stared up at her, nonplussed and wide-eyed, and Leon had cleared his throat in correction, the waitress promptly apologized and spun back into the kitchen like her face was on fire. You made sure to text your actual father a little phrase of celebration and gratitude once the moment was over. 

“Right, sorry. You just–I don’t know–you look different, but it’s you, but it’s…I’ll have to get used to it.” You shake your head, feeling like an idiot for being so concerned over a few missing wrinkles when your husband was at death’s door only a week before. Fingers squeeze his biceps in reassurance. “I’m just so happy you’re back and everyone is safe. You scared the shit out of me. All of you did.” 

He confirms that Claire and Sherry have taken the antiviral with a funny name. Your heart slows for the first time in months, and you were unaware of just how stressed you had come to be. 

Leon could hit himself for ever telling you in the first place. He debated it back and forth–a mental tennis match–when the symptoms first began to rise in black dots on his skin. He knew what the stress would do to you if you found out he was dying without a cure in sight, and slowly watched as it took over both your mind and body. The bones in your wrists began to protrude. Your eyes grew glassy and the skin beneath them, blue and hollow. You weren’t eating–couldn’t–but you said you did anytime he asked, face always awash with guilt when he did. You lied. 

Just like you lied about the double lines that appeared on that little plastic stick you held in shaky hands. It wasn’t supposed to be a lie, not at first. You had planned a surprise when you got the call from the doctor’s office, confirming that those two lines were real, that you didn’t get poked and drawn for nothing, and that you and Leon were really about to start your family. You were going to tell him that night, unable to keep it a secret any longer, and so you purchased a pair of white baby booties from an overly expensive, overly frilly baby boutique in the neighborhood, wrapped them in tissue paper, and placed them in a pretty, white box. He came home from work, looking absolutely wrecked and immediately asked for a drink–something strong–so you put the box away in the back of the closet and let him recover before bombarding him with the news. To your own surprise, he said he also had something he needed to tell you, something important that couldn’t wait. 

It took a week for the blood to appear, running down your legs as you stepped into the first shower you had the energy to take in days. So you sat below a steamy stream of water, curled up against the cold, unwelcoming tile, crying for the loss of your baby and the impending loss of your husband. 

“I’m safe. I’m alive.” He whispers the last phrase like a mantra, wiping the tears off your cheeks with a delicate thumb. “Don’t cry. You don’t have to cry anymore.” 

“I know,” you say through a wet sniffle. Although your nostrils are clogged and your throat is raw, it feels like you can finally breathe. Too long have you felt like there has been a fifty-pound weight on your chest, prohibiting your lungs from expanding to their full capacity. You haven’t been able to take a deep breath in months, not like this. “I know.” 

Leon leans down and kisses you, his lips feeling no different than they did when he left last night. In one day, he was able to save three lives, maybe more. You know he can add yours to the list, because you weren’t sure you could have carried on without him if he didn’t come back. 

His hands cradle your head as he presses your mouth into his. Teeth collide. Tongues mate. His fingers wrap around your neck, one palm traveling down to cup your breast. It’s hungry and mean as it collects your flesh in its fist. 

He growls when you bite his lower lip, teeth needing something to sink into as the ache grows in your core. 

“I haven’t felt this good in a long time, baby.” Even his voice has gone back in time, clearer and stronger as he groans in your ear. You can feel the bulge straining through his pants, pressing into the apex of your thighs. Since the two of you started seeing each other, and having regular sex, it has been harder for Leon to get it up without the help of your hand or mouth, so it’s rare that he has a full erection just from kissing you. “I haven’t felt this…eager in a while.” 

“Take me to the bedroom?” You squeak and he nods before swooping you up in his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist. Is he taking the steps two at a time? 

He places you on your shared bed, your back flush against the soft cotton linens. The room smells like him, so does the comforter. Amber and cedar. You had wrapped yourself in the sheets earlier, a cocoon of his scent that lingered in the fabric long after he was gone. 

“I’ll make up for all the pain I caused you, I promise.” His face is wracked with unwarranted guilt. He hides it in the crook of your neck as he plants pointed, decisive kisses there, one languid smooch on the tendon, a sensitive spot he has memorized. You squirm beneath his lips. 

“Don’t–don’t talk like that, Leon,” you warn, voice stuttering as he kisses his way down your chest and abdomen, pushing your body further onto the bed. His self-deprecation is your least favorite quality of his. “You have never hurt me. Never will, as long as you always come back.” 

He hums in agreement, his concentration stolen away by the sight of the underwear you were hiding beneath your pajama shorts: a white pointelle pair with a little pink rosebud on the band. Cute enough to welcome him when he came home, modest enough to wear when they buried your body next to his in the event that he didn’t.

Leon toys with the elastic band stretched across your hip bones, hooking his fingers around it as he pulls them down your thighs, cradling the soaked panties against his cheek. His eyes are closed and he nuzzles his face into the fabric like a cat, eyes closed and groaning through closed lips. 

“God, I missed you,” he says with an exhale before discarding the underwear and shifting his focus back to what was beneath them. “Missed this.” 

By the time he begins playing with your clit, you’re already weeping down your thighs, coating the flesh in a lewd sheen of anticipation. Luckily, Leon is there to lap up your arousal, sweet ambrosia on his tongue, making sure not to let a drop go to waste. 

Two fingers. Three. 

You moan. He moans.

You cry out his name like a confession as he fucks your through your release, fingers relentlessly pumping inside you, tongue rolling across your throbbing clit. It’s too much and not enough. 

“I–I need you inside. Please,” you wail. All he does is chuckle at your desperation, wearing a kind of confidence you haven’t seen before. Must be the facelift boosting his self-esteem. Jerk. 

“Who am I to not give you what you want?” He flips you over so quickly you don’t realize you’re being thrown around until your chest meets the rumpled linens draped across the mattress. The springy material dips on either side of your head as Leon supports himself above you, bending down at the elbows to kiss the length of your spine, stopping at the small of your back to grab your ass and spread your cheeks apart for his impending arrival. He nudges your thighs open with his knee, and with one mean thrust, he’s inside, filling you back up again. You had missed this sensation more than anything else–the communion of your bodies, of the desire, the love that brought you two together. 

“You came back to me,” you say as he collapses on top of you, nose nestled into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you: jasmine, honey, pink pepper, and sage. A blossoming garden on a spring day. 

“Of course, I did, baby,” he mumbles into your hair before finally rolling over to gift you a better look at his face, one you’ll have to relearn. His freckles seem brighter somehow. A light dusting across his nose and cheeks. A sprinkling on his shoulders. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way.” 

“Come here,” you command softly, opening up your arms. He rests his head on your chest, forearm wrapped around your waist. Holding him feels necessary right now. 

His hair is silky between your fingers. You study the color: chestnut brown with streaks of blonde and gray, just like before. The silver strands catch in the moonlight seeping through the window. His pale skin practically glows in the sheen, the translucent scars on his shoulders and chest met with a few new cuts, treated and on their way toward healing. 

He doesn’t always come back from missions with wounds, but sometimes he walks through the door nursing a broken rib, sometimes you have to change the bandages on a nick or two. He’s been more careful since you met, even more so since you got married–taken on fewer assignments, asked for longer droughts between missions to focus on research and reports instead, anything he can do at his desk sans machine gun. You wonder if they’ll even send him back out now that he’s come back from the grave, given another chance at life. Or will they try to take it away again? 

“Whenever you get back to the office, you should probably talk to them about scaling back your field work.” 

He nods against your chest, not speaking to refute or agree, not taking the bait. 

“I’ll need you home a lot more.” 

“Right,” he murmurs, drawing circles on your ribs. “Of course.”

“You know, since we’re having a baby and all.” You rake your two front teeth over your bottom lip, digging enamel into flesh to repress the squeal rising in your throat. 

Leon jerks himself upright onto all fours like an excited puppy. All he’s missing is a wagging tail and a sloppy tongue hanging out of his mouth. His eyes are frenzied and wide. “Are you saying you’re–are we…” 

You nod in confirmation, unable to hold back your smile any longer. He pulls you off the pillow and into a hug, wrapping his arms around your waist. 

And he cries into your hair. Such a sap. 

Eighteen Months Later

Julia babbles in your arms as you bounce her on your hip. Her mouth puckers like a rosebud, flushed and pink and utterly kissable as she takes in the environment around her.

“Oh, look, baby, that’s you,” you sing, directing her attention to the mantle, specifically a silver-framed photo of a skinny, red-faced, day-old version of the doughy baby now heavy and healthy in the square of your elbow. “That was the day you were born. Your daddy cried more than I did, just started sobbing as soon as he saw your face. Isn’t that right, baby? He fell in love with you once he saw that pretty face of yours, huh?” 

You squeeze her fat cheeks and she giggles. You’re not sure that sound will ever cease to take your breath away. 

Leon doesn’t have many photos from his childhood, at least, not any that you have seen, and it leaves you to wonder if he resembled her at all when he was her age. She looks like you in some ways more than others, and her button nose is still small the way it is for all nine-month-olds, but her flaxen hair and upturned eyes are definitely from Leon. Nine months and some odd hours of nausea, back pain, and side sleeping, and she comes out looking like her father. 

“Let’s see what else we have here,” you coo, walking her down the mantle, pointing to the array of picture frames crowding the ledge.

“That’s Uncle Chris and Aunt Claire with Daddy in the mountains. You saw them yesterday, didn’t you? And your grandma and grandpa with Uncle Ethan. He’s so, so silly but he hasn’t flunked out of college yet so we’re holding out hope for the kid. Oh, and that’s me. Mama,” you enunciate, determined for her to call out for you first. She babbles, foamy spit on her tongue as she sticks it out, attempting to communicate however her little brain knows how at this age. “And that is Leon Scott Kennedy, your father. Can you say ‘father’ ? How about ‘Leon Kennedy’? ‘Scott’? No? That’s okay. Oh, and that’s us the day we got married. It’s a very funny story, but I’ll save it for another time because it sounds like your daddy’s home.”

The sound of a car door closing outside the window betrays Leon’s arrival, and it’s not long before you hear the lock turning and the sticky sound of the front door opening. He’s dressed in a clean compression shirt and a pair of cargo pants that do anything but hide his petrous thighs and the curve of his pert ass which is somehow bigger than yours. 

“I’m home,” he cheers, setting down his duffel bag. It slumps onto the hardwood next to his boots, taken off and set against the foyer wall, lined up like two soldiers retired from battle. “How are my girls?” 

He walks into the living room and tugs you and the baby into an embrace. The three of you. The perfect family you have given him. 

April, Twelve Years Later

“How about we have another one?” 

The last time you gave into that suggestion, you ended up with an extra baby neither of you had planned. Not risking that again.

“Leon,” you groan, trying to pull away from his hold around your waist. Futile attempt, of course. “We can’t.” He holds your back flush to his chest. 

“Yes, we can.” 

“We have any more and we’ll have to get a bigger car.” 

“Okay” 

“A bigger house.”

“Okay. So?” “We’ll get a bigger car and a bigger house. We’re running out of room here anyway.” 

“No,” you whine, looking around at the home the two of you have built together. The growth chart you kept for each baby, etched in different colored pens on the doorframe of their bedrooms. The clay mug Julia made in art class. Alice’s paintings hung on nearly every wall. Even the toys the twins leave scattered around the living room bring joy to your heart, even if they bring pain to your feet when you stumble over them. “I love this house.” 

“Come on, let’s make it an even number.”

“We have an even number. There’s four of them.”

“Twins don’t count as two, not really.” 

“Tell that to the preschool we pay two grand a month for.” “You do realize they’re all going to get married one day, and as the bride’s family, we are the ones who have to foot the bill for each wedding? Not to mention cars and college funds and graduate programs–because they’re all going to graduate school in one form or another–and makeup and prom dresses and summer camp and soccer. It adds up, Leon.” 

He laughs. “I forget that you never look at our bank account.” 

“Right, I don’t. That’s for management’s eyes only.” 

“How about I manage that ass in our bedroom, huh?” 

“You’re on lunch.”

“Yeah, what do you think I came home to eat?” 

“Beast,” you groan, rolling your eyes and slapping a playful palm on his chest. “You have to get back to the office in thirty minutes.”

He leans in to nibble your ear. “I can get you pregnant in ten. Maybe a boy this time.” 

But was that your mind, or the door to the bedroom that needs its hinges replaced? An intruder or the stream of water hitting your drum at the perfect angle?

Do you turn the faucet off (and do what?) or do you let this play out like you’re some blonde Hitchcockian starlet, stabbed to death in a ceramic grave, embalmed in PVC and soapy loofah net. 

You’d really hate to die all naked and wet like this. And unmoisturized. You make a mental note to include a full-body rub-down with petroleum jelly in your funeral plans. 

You glance over your shoulder, seeing only em empty bathroom through the fog-stained glass. No Norman Bates waiting on the other side of the shower door with a sharp blade in his hand and a cheshire grin on his face. Apparently, it’s not your time.

Swallowing down your paranoia, you turn around to face the cascade of steam and blue-hot pellets that cleans your body of all its sins. Leon calls you ‘Lucifer’, the way you bathe in hellfire. ‘Hotter than a bullet’, he says. Whatever that means. You never ask those types of questions. 

What did you see out there? 

Where did that scar come from? 

How the hell do you know bullets are hot?

You rinse the soap from your front, the suds from your hair, your eyes screwing shut as the shampoo runs down your forehead. And when you open them, now facing the shower door again, you see a heart drawn in the condensation. 

Then, you blink and it’s gone, the heat erasing the dripping strokes you saw only seconds ago. 

Your ancestors outran Malaria so you could be killed in the shower. 

Or.

It’s midnight and you watched a slasher movie while being home, all alone. What did you think was going to happen? And it’s not your fault, really. It was just on the television, one of the few channels that wasn’t flooded with commercials about weight-loss meal plans and insurance claims. 

Turning back toward the stream, you let the water prick your skin. And then, a pair of hands wrap around your waist. 

You’re not imagining things this time around.

“Boo.” 

You spin on your heel, grout and tile scratching the skin on your way around. Blonde, devilishly handsome, and just dim-witted enough to pull something as dumb as sneaking up on someone in the shower. He said he wouldn’t be home for another week. Now he’s here, naked as the day he was born, standing behind you in the shower, with his hands roaming your sides.

I love you, you’re back! 

I hate you, you’re a beast!

A dilemma, indeed.

“Holy shit, Leon,” you gripe, heart beating so fast, it might break free from your chest and run a marathon down the street. “Not fucking funny.” As he laughs, you throw anything you can get your hands on at the clown: a loofah, a bar of soap, almost a shampoo bottle. He grabs your wrists, snatching the bottle from your grasp, returning it to the niche in the wall as he presses pause on his laughing fit to apologize. 

An apology doesn’t carry the same weight if it’s followed up by ‘I had to’ and ‘I just couldn’t help myself’.

“You scared me, Leon. I thought I was about to be a headline on the news or show up on the side of a milk carton.” 

He arches a suspicious brow, the mist from the showerhead catching on the dark, coarse hairs. “Bit old for the milk carton, aren’t you?” 

You land a punch on his chest, knuckle digging straight into sinew. It hurts you more than it hurts him. He only winces so you don’t feel bad about being so weak. “Not. Helping. Asshole!”

“Come on,” he coos, wrapping you in his arms. It’s been nearly a month without seeing him in the flesh, and you’re not going to put up a fight if he wants to hold you, so you let him, sinking into his touch. His skin is warm, smelling like government-issued soap, skin-eating and putrid. It’ll be his second shower of the evening, and the only enjoyable one. “That’s more like it. Happy to see me now?” With his arms still wrapped around you, and yours around him, he smooths the damp hair at the back of your head.

“I would have been happier if you had a collar with a bell,” you say, retreating, letting your eyes fall to his form, drinking it up from the callouses on his toes to the tiny scrape on his forehead.

Another question you never ask: how do you know how to do that? 

To sneak up on people without making a sound? Without so much as a strand of your hair being seen? 

Dipping his chin, letting the water run down his head, drenching the blonde curtains, gluing them to his temples, he chuckles. It’s a dark, vibrational sound that echoes throughout the glass chamber, nearly knocking you off your feet. 

He glances up at you, droplets coating his eyelashes, making his blue eyes all the more piercing. “For you, I’d wear anything around my neck.” 

You pause for a moment, letting those words in their lewdness settle in your stomach. Then, you cackle. Like a witch on a broom, soaring through an inky, Halloween sky, across a big, butterball full moon. “You’re so cheesy, Leon.” His face falls and he rolls his eyes. You never let him off easy when he attempts to play these little games–one-liners and corny jokes to try and set the stage for what he really wants to say…

“Just let me fuck you, okay?” 

There it is.

“That’s all you had to say.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He’s already pumping his half-stiff cock in his hand, it sitting heavy in his palm as it slides back and forth in his fist. “Turn around, princess.” His other hand is positioning you, molding you like a ball of clay, moving your body so that your tits are pressed up against the glass wall, your cheek turned and flat above them. 

He presses his tip through your lips, shoving his length between them, gathering the slick of your arousal before thrusting himself into you, every punishing inch at once, leaving you no moment of reprieve before you’re forced to take it all. The stretch has you purring like a cat, your back arching to find the angle that guarantees almost instant pleasure–the euphoria that comes from feeling full, stuffed to the brim with his cock. 

He pistons in and out of you, muttering a few sweet nothings about the way you feel around him, how much he missed you, how he thought about you and your angelic face every day he was out in the field. You’ve missed the feeling of him inside you so much that you become as drunk as a white-trash divorcée in a bar, singing bad karaoke, pissed off long island iced teas and revenge.

“So tell me, baby, did you miss me?” He asks, nose nuzzling into your cheek as he speaks in your ear. You fail to respond, far too focused on the slow build of your pleasure, hammering the nails into the roller coaster you’ll soon ride up, then down. Unable to shut his mouth for more than five seconds, he returns to your ear, nibbling the lobe before his voice reappears. “Happy I’m home?” 

It’s distracting, sometimes. The way he incessantly pokes and prods while literally poking and prodding. The difference is, one feels good–really, sinfully, it’s-own-circle-of-hell good–and the other one makes that good go poof! 

“Can you just stop asking me questions?” You ask against the glass, backing your hips up just an inch to meet his thrusts half-way. 

He chuckles, the vibrations tickling your cheek, and his hands continue to roam your body, sliding down the sides of your torso, one settling on your throat, the other at the slope of your waist. His fingers just hold your neck, tethering you to him as he presses your front back to the glass, your spine now flush with the line of his abdomen. You can feel his quickening heartbeat against your shoulder blade, paying attention to the rhythm as it grows. 

Leon adjusts the shower head so that the stream of water can cascade down both your bodies, now melded together as one. The sound of his hips slapping your ass as he plummets into you harmonizes with the sound of the wet sheets. 

It takes a while for you to find your high, but once it’s within arm’s reach, you relax your hips and your abdomen, and let your body do the rest of the work. You scream out, crying Leon’s name as his grunts eclipse your whimpers, your walls clamping down on his cock, so tight he can hardly remove himself, and he doesn’t. He finishes violently inside you, growls hot on your neck as he spits out gratitudes to you, to the stars in the sky above, the deities that live among them, for returning him home to you once more. 

“Fuck,” he curses as he finally slides out of your pussy, taking with him the evidence of your mutual ecstasy. “That was so good.”

Planting kisses on your droplet-mottled shoulder, he exchanges the chaste pecks for bites, then kisses again, working his way up the crook of your neck, the curve of your ear. You’ve yet to remove yourself from the glass wall, too jittery to trust yourself not to fall if you do. Plus, you don’t pass up the chance to stay pressed against a hard surface by Leon’s vast chest, savoring the feeling of your skins’ union. 

His hands trail up and down the flesh of your arms, teasing you with the gentle scrape of his nails, the tickling pads of his fingers. Then, as if anything at all needed to be said to punctuate such a beautiful expression of your love, Leon speaks. 

“So, let’s talk more about that collar.”

He’s truly such a beautiful specimen, a fact that all the nosey old ladies in town couldn’t seem to keep to themselves. They would tell him every chance they got just how handsome of a man he is, petting his arm, giving him sloppy, lipstick-stained kisses on his cheek. Of course, to reach him, they'd have to rise to the ball of their Sunday's best (typically a kitten heel with a duck-mouthed toe box), holding down his forearm so he bends at the waist and meets them half-way. 

“Leon, move your leg, I need to get up.” 

He doesn’t fully wake, but he obeys the command, still half asleep, and removes his leg from across your thigh, freeing you from his hold. You want nothing more than to stay in bed all day with him, tossing and turning among the sheets, but alas, duty calls.

You get ready for the day, following your typical routine: freshening your hair, popping on something easy that can survive the bipolar weather of that limbo between summer and autumn. It’s a sundress today, one of Leon’s favorites. 

“I like that one,” is the first thing you hear him say, his body still tucked beneath the comforter when you glance toward the bed. Then, “Where are you going?” 

“Work.”

“Wait, what?” His dark brows cinch and he sits up, leaning back on a flexed arm. “I thought you were off today.” He blinks hard, kneading the heel of his palm into one of his eyes, rubbing the film of sleep from it. 

It’s unfair how handsome he always looks first thing in the morning. Absolutely unfair, but you’ll happily reap the benefits of such an injustice. 

You walk over to the bed after slipping on a pair of earrings. “I was supposed to be, but my cousin called in sick, so my aunt needs another set of hands. Why? Did you have something planned?” 

“Did I have something planned?” He repeats, chuckling, taking your hands into your grasp, tugging on your arms just an inch, threatening to pull you onto the mattress and not let you get up until the sun falls. “Yeah, keeping you in bed all day, making sweet love to you. That’s what I had planned.” He reaches up to suck your lips into a kiss. Such a sap. “Don’t go to work,” he says once he pulls away. 

It’s your turn to laugh, tossing your neck back as you keep your feet planted on the floor, unmoving. “Some of us have to make a living, Leon.” 

“You don’t. I may be retired now but I have more than enough to take care of you.” 

He looks up at you, sincerity welling in his eyes like thick, oily tears on his lashes. 

“Right. We’re not even married.” To everyone else besides the two people in this room, you’re not even dating. “I’m not that stupid.” 

“Hey,” he snaps, offended at the insinuation that he’d lure you from your job, your security, just to leave you and put you out on the street, helpless. He vocalizes the slight against him, and you roll your eyes. “I would never do that to you.” You’re inclined to believe him, never having met such an honorable, dutiful man in your life. If you were to settle down with anyone, you prefer it be with someone like him. 

“They all say that. I know too many girls in this town who have fallen for a handsome city boy like you, up and changed their lives for them, only to have to come crawling back to town with no job, no money, no ring. It won’t be me.” 

He shrugs. “Then I’ll give you a ring.” 

You giggle, patting his head. “You’re sleepy.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“Leon, you don’t even want people to know we’re dating. I’m not sure why you think I’d believe you want to marry me if you can’t even tell old Linda at the diner that you have a girlfriend. Even if it would mean she’d stop trying to set you up with her daughter.” 

“I’m just private about my personal life.” 

You bend at the hips to kiss him on the temple. “I know, honey.” He grabs your wrist as you stand up straight, turning to step away. He doesn’t speak, saying enough with the expression splashed across his face. “You don’t have to explain, Leon, I get it.” 

Coming to a small town, especially being the fresh meat that came in on a storm, paying in cash for three months at the local bed and breakfast, with unexplainable muscles and the kind of face people here have only seen on the television, the spotlight was instantly shone on him. 

Moving here, if just for a summer and a half, was supposed to be relaxing. He wanted to retire in peace, find a cabin further into the woods maybe, where he could chop wood and roast squirrels on a switch over a handmade fire (well, maybe not a squirrel). He wasn’t expecting to be, quite literally, photographed and put in the local newspaper on arrival. 

And he certainly didn’t expect to fall in love with you, the beloved daughter of two of the more prominent citizens–the girl everyone knew and watched grow up from the time you were no taller than a blade of grass. That’s how these small hamlets work. Everyone knows everyone, whether you were born and raised on the town’s soil, or a newcomer with a fancy car and a mysterious past. And nothing–nothing at all–is off-limits. Every juicy detail can be found out, picked apart, and passed around like a plate of rolls at dinner. 

There are no secrets. Privacy is a pipe dream. 

Plus, the two of you aren’t exactly close in age–at all–and he would never forgive himself if the revelation of your relationship with him managed to harm your reputation, or prompt any sort of damaging gossip, which it has the potential to do. He’s not ignorant or selfish enough to ignore that possibility. 

Knowing all of this yourself, you don’t blame Leon for wanting to keep your romance a secret. It’s much easier this way, though a quiet voice at the back of your head wonders if it’s because it’s so easy that makes it attractive to him. Easy to enjoy in peace for a season. Easy to leave without riot when the weather turns bitter. 

There’s nothing to tie him here. No mortgage, no career, no land. He could pack up and leave as quickly as he arrived. 

You, on the other hand, are tethered to this place, whether you like it or not, regardless if you wish for more–like many of the friends you grew up with who left and blossomed in the big city, now living among the clouds in swanky high-rises, carrying alligator briefcases to their corporate jobs. 

You can’t leave. You have the store, passed down from your grandfather’s father, to your father and his brother. It’s a family affair, the whole gang of you practically living inside the four walls. Silk ties and belt loops are in your blood. 

“I have to go.”

“I love you.” 

You look back at him, blowing a kiss his way. He catches it in his hand and places it over his heart. So cheesy. 

“I love you too, Leon.”

The morning has been slow, only a few window shoppers walking by, peering at the displays through the glass. Some regulars have stopped in for some tailoring. Other than that, it’s been quiet, and you’ve reveled in the peace, taking the time to tend to a few housekeeping tasks you’d been putting off.

Your aunt rounds the corner, luring your attention from the register where you were crunching the numbers of last month’s profit and loss. “Honey, will you come take this nice gentleman’s measurements?” She gestures behind her with a thumb. You were so enveloped in your work, you didn’t even hear the front door chime. “I’ve gotta call the warehouse again before they close for lunch.” 

“Sure thing,” you say, hopping off the stool, tossing the pencil down onto the counter. “Make sure to tell them we need to order more of those cotton-blend dress shirts with the wider necks.” 

“Will do, darling,” she responds as you make your wait to the back of the store, passing by racks of sports coats, shelved displays of folded polos where all the colors of the sunset are represented in the fabrics. You weave through another maze of racks, approaching the back of the store. That’s when you see him, your boyfriend behind closed doors, the exciting newcomer beyond them. 

When he sees you from his perch on the pedestal in front of the large, tri-fold mirrors near the dressing rooms, a wicked grin appears on his face, the corner of his mouth quivering in amusement. He’s wearing a plaid button-down shirt, untucked from a pair of navy pants. 

“Good morning,” he greets, that half-smile growing toothier the closer you get toward him as he extends a hand for you to shake. You do, if only to touch him.

“What are you doing here, Leon?” You ask, making sure to keep your voice down as you say his name. 

“I wanted to come by and see the store you’re always talking about.” And then, he shrugs, adjusting the cuffs of his dress shirt in the mirror. “Plus, I need some larger shirts.” He pats his stomach, the little layer of pudge fed by the diner’s signature apple pie which Leon never goes a day without getting a slice of, and the chocolate chip cookies he begs you to make every Sunday night. “Maybe a couple pairs of pants too. And a gym membership while we’re at it. Good grief.” 

He cinches his brows together at his reflection, puffing his chest on an inhale, watching the way the gaps of fabric between the buttons pucker beneath the tension.

“Looking for anything in particular?” 

You stand behind him, meeting his eyes through the mirror. 

“You look like someone with great taste,” he says. “Just pick out whatever you think will look good. I trust you.”

“Of course,” you say sweetly, clasping your hands in front of you. “Let me see what I can find.”

“Uh, Miss? Don’t you need to take my measurements first?” He bends at the waist to reach toward a limp tape measure hanging from a wooden valet. “Here you go.” 

“Right,” you say with a breath, taking it from him. “I’ll do that.” 

“Starting with the legs, thanks. Might have to kneel down to get the best angle.” 

After taking his measurements from calf to shoulder, you scurried off around the shop with your head down, cheeks aflame, searching for the most expensive pieces you can find, pulling from the shelves with enthusiasm. All cashmere and merino wool, brand names no one in this town can pronounce, and accessories Leon definitely doesn’t need but you will talk into buying anyway. 

When you walk out to the front of the store to grab a specific sweater, business has picked up. Even your father has stopped by to man the register, your mother and aunt working together to tend to the other customers that have come through the doors in drones. 

Finally returning to the dressing rooms with your hands full of clothes, Leon is there waiting, leaning against the wall with one arm folded across his chest and one ankle crossed over the other. He’s on his phone, thumb scrolling down the screen. When you approach, he glances up from the device, removing his back from the wall. 

“Show me what you’ve got,” he says, stepping toward you to relieve your forearms of some of the weight. You move past him quickly, not letting him lift so much as a single shirt, moving all the articles to balance in one hand as you pull back one of the curtains to a dressing room with the other. Hanging all the metal hooks on the rack, you dust off your hands, turning to leave the room. Leon stops you, his body standing in the gap between the long swaths of heavy velvet, barring you from entry back into the store. 

You peer over his shoulder, and though there isn’t anyone there to see, there could just as easily be, and his cover is blown. 

“Excuse me, sir,” you say. He looks down at you with a grin before stepping aside to let you pass. “Let me know if you need different sizes.” 

“Will do. Thank you.” 

He lifts his arms to close the curtains, which in turn lifts the hem of his shirt, giving you a peek at his abdomen. Though there has grown to be a healthy layer of flesh there, it doesn’t hide the muscularity beneath it, a small scattering of hair leading down to the band of his boxers. 

Before you can drool for too long, the makeshift doors of the dressing room close, and a customer approaches you from behind, asking where he can find the hats. 

It’s not long until you’re called back over to the dressing rooms by a voice on the other side of the divider. Leon says your name, a bare arm slipping from between the velvet, his biceps on full display. 

“Hi there. Could you help me with something?” He asks, beckoning you closer with a crooked finger. When you’re close enough, he says in a lower voice, “I can’t quite get my pants unzipped to try on the ones you brought me..” 

You roll your eyes. “Leon, we can’t.” 

Part of you is happy he’s being so bold in public. The other part is humiliated by his choosing to do so when your closest family members are on the other side of the store. 

Still, against your judgment, you enter into the dressing room, taking in the sight of his naked upper body, those broad shoulders, the gentle line of his collarbone, every ridge and valley of his abdomen, contracting and releasing as he shows you the “broken” zipper. 

“Help,” he says, a mocking pout appearing on his lips. “Stuck.” 

“What are you doing, Leon?” You ask, swatting his hands away from the malfunctioning fly, only to find out it’s working perfectly fine. 

“Supporting local businesses,” he quips with a wide, boyish grin. When he smiles like that, it seems to take ten years off his age, the wrinkles on his forehead relaxing though the ones near his eyes deepen. “Is that a problem?”

“It’s like you’re trying to get us caught.” 

He steps toward you, walking you back until your shoulder blades are flush to the wall, the cool plaster on your skin sending a chill across your skin. Goosebumps rise in their wake, but you have a suspicion they’re not from the cold. 

“I’m trying to fuck my girlfriend, like I planned to do. Not my fault you got called into work.” 

His voice is low and gravely, its typical dulcet tone completely overtaken by something utterly dark and wanton. He runs his hands up and down the sides of your middle, pulling and pushing the smocked fabric of your dress with every up and down stroke. 

“Leon.” 

You’re not sure why you moan his name. Perhaps to stop him from continuing. Perhaps to beg him not to. 

“Shh, baby,” he coos, pressing a cupped hand over your mouth. “Can’t let anyone hear us, can we?” 

You shake your head against his palm. 

“That’s it,” he says as you instinctively part your legs to accommodate his thigh, sinking down onto the thick sinew. Your clit catches on the dense fabric of his pants, making you yelp against his hand as you rock your pussy back and forth. “Shh, there you go. Keep going.” 

He continues to whisper praises into your ear as you climb toward your pleasure. Once it’s within arm’s reach, Leon removes his thigh from between yours. Still not able to use your mouth, you express frustration with your brows, bending them at him. 

“Not fair,” you bite when he removes his hand to shove down his pants and, while he’s at it, he yanks down your panties until they pool at your ankles.

“Hush now.” He frees his cock from the restraints of his briefs, pumping the muscle to its full stiffness in his fist. “Move your skirt.” 

You gather the fabric in your hands, pulling it up your legs until it gathers above your hips. Leon lifts one of your legs with a palm pressed into the back of your thigh, keeping your knee raised up by your shoulder as he lines himself with your entrance. 

He taps your cheek, applying the slightest unit of pressure to tilt your gaze toward the mirror. “Watch.” 

You follow his line of sight to your face in the reflection, studying the way your expression contorts as he enters you, his entire length at once, stretching you, threatening to tear you in half with his cock. 

You’ve never had to measure it. After all the years you’ve been helping your family at the store, starting in high school nearly a decade ago, you’ve come to memorize all units of measurement, knowing exactly what an inch looks like. Leon’s got eight and a half of them. 

And every single one is delicious, especially when it plows into you at such a punishing pace. 

“Fuck, baby,” he groans lowly in your hear, the sound muffled by your hair. “You’re doing so good. Takin’ it so good.” 

When you open your mouth wide, threatening to yelp, Leon covers it again. “Shh, shh, shh,” he coos. “I thought you said you could be quiet.” 

You shake your head against his palm. There’s no way you can trust yourself not to make sounds akin to those of a dying animal when Leon is pistoning into you at this angle. 

He chuckles. “Alright then, I’ll help you.” 

As he continues to thrust up into you, he keeps his hand on your mouth, the appendage swallowing each and every one of your muted whimpers. 

“Come on me,” he commands in your ear. “Wanna feel you squeezing me as I finish.” 

The two of you reach your respective highs together, Leon coming inside you as your own violent climax gushes around him, sucking every last drop. 

He pants at your shoulder for a while, caressing the thigh you have wrapped around his waist, such soft, soothing touches that nearly lull you into a standing stupor. You fold your arms around his neck, keeping yourself bound to him in fear that if you don’t, your leg, now turned to jelly, might not hold you up.

“Good job, baby,” he says, giving you one last kiss on the cheek before he pulls out, letting the evidence of your combined pleasure leak from your sore hole. 

“I’m taking these, by the way,” he adds slyly, crouching down to manually lift and lower your foot until he can free your ankle from the holes of your panties, stuffing the pair into his pant pocket. When he stands up, knees clicking, he reaches around to grab your ass, taking a handful in his grasp through the fabric of your sundress. “And don’t you dare clean yourself up.” He lowers his mouth to your ear, speaking in a near-whisper. “I want you to feel me dripping down your legs all day long.” 

The words send another wave of desert heat to your stomach, making your swollen clit throb once more, or maybe that’s still a lingering aftershock from one of the more intense climaxes of your life. 

Being with an older man was like nothing you had experienced before when you would date men your own age. You weren’t some proxy mother that had to teach him how to load the dishwasher or separate the whites from the colors so as not to stain all your t-shirts. You didn’t have to pretend to finish every time he padded at your inner thigh, thinking it was turning you on. No fake orgasms, no hoping he actually scrubbed his feet in the shower (and not just let the shampoo from his head trickle down to miraculously clean them), no second-guessing his affection. 

And you didn’t have to wait, there was no chasing after him, sitting by the phone in hopes that he would text or call. The two of you dated for less than a year before moving in together and committing with matching rings and a signed certificate, and though you swore you’d never be one of those girls who jumped into marriage without knowing the guy for at least two laps around the sun, there was something so special about Leon that you felt it almost immediately. He was the one and only man for you. And you, the only one for him. 

He was plagued, however, with the typical anxieties that come with being with someone so much younger than he. He was afraid he would hold you back from experiencing whatever it is twenty-something kids like you get up to these days. And he knew what other people would think, and some chivalrous (call it traditional) part of him didn’t want to tarnish your reputation. But you wouldn’t let him slip away. You doubled-down, adamant that he was who you wanted to be with, no matter the difference in age, the judgmental gazes of onlookers. 

Nothing could shake you, especially not the comments. 

Except for today. 

At work, before you rounded the corner to the break room, you overheard two of your coworkers conversing in hushed tones, one dropping your name, the other giggling. You listen for a few moments as they talk about your relationship with Leon, the man you have depicted in several photographs on your desk, the man you brought to the holiday party last week and introduced to your coworkers for the first time. Everyone seemed to flock to him as soon as he walked in, a magnet to men and women alike. 

“He’s so much older than she is.” It’s Shelby. She’s always had a mean-girl edge to her, one you sniffed out as soon as you began working for the company. “Like thirty years, give or take.”

“What do they even have in common,” the second voice says, the flinty tone easily recognizable as belonging to the receptionist, Trisha. 

“I don’t know. It just always gives me the creeps when an old man goes after a younger girl like that. It’s like they’re trying to live out some father-daughter fantasy or something.” 

“Gross.”

“Exactly.”

You carried around a pit in your stomach for the rest of the day. It gurgled throughout dinner, running your appetite into the ground, and shook with the rock of the car as Leon drove the two of you home from the restaurant. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on or do I have to read your mind?” He asks, coming up behind you, meeting the reflection of your eyes in the mirror, his hands taking over your trembling fingers as they attempted to unlatch your necklace. After a long day at work, your muscles are tired, your brain fried and in need of eight uninterrupted hours of shut-eye.

“It’s nothing.” 

Setting the chain down, he thins his eyes, bottom lip held hostage by his top teeth. “I don’t think so.” His hands wrap around your waist as he steps forward to rest his chin on your shoulder, inhaling the sweet scent of your hair. “Talk to me.” He plans a light kiss on your earlobe, one at your temple.

“Really, Leon,” you say, shirking away from his grasp. He stays standing by the dresser, lost and confused, as you make your way to the bed, eager to hide beneath the covers and forget that today even happened. “It’s nothing.”

“I don’t believe that.” 

He lowers himself onto the mattress beside your legs, taking your chin in his hand. His eyes, glassy with concern, stare you down, compelling you to speak. 

“Something’s going on with you, and I’d like to know what it is.” 

“So you can fix it?” 

Leon cocks his head to the side, eyes cutting back and forth, testing the idea. “I’d like to. But I can’t do anything until you tell me what’s going on.” 

You swallow hard, still debating whether or not it’s worth repeating. It does bother you, and though you’d love to choke it down and not let something so silly get under your skin, you know it always feels better to let it out, especially with Leon. He has a magic way of healing your every worry and woe. 

“Just some coworkers talking shit, that’s all.” 

Even the memory makes you cringe. 

“Ah,” he says, sitting up straight, stretching his spine. “About?” 

“You. And me.” 

“Right.” He stands up, knees popping, to finish undressing. You watch as he unbuttons his crisp white shirt, revealing his statuesque torso, the lines and ridges of his abdomen, the sheer strength of his shoulders. If only they could see him now, they wouldn’t be calling him “old” or “gross”. You smile smugly at the thought. 

“What were they saying?” 

Taking in a deep, cleansing inhale, you let your wind wander back to the conversation, not wanting to repeat a single word. 

“That our age gap is weird.” 

He rolls his eyes, making work of his belt buckle, the fly of his slacks. “Heard that one before.” 

“That you’re just with me to fulfill some twisted fantasy.” Your voice cracks as you whisper the disgusting details. 

His hands stall at his unzipped fly and he scoffs. “Well, that’s new.” 

“Yeah.” You smooth the comforter across your lap, reclining against the headboard. “I don’t know why it bothers me so much. I guess I just hate that they think that about us.”  

After pulling on a pair of his favorite pajama pants, he joins you under the covers, pulling your body tight to him, your back flush to his bare chest. 

“You don’t have to worry about what other people think, you know that.” 

It’s not a question. You’re ferociously strong, independent, marching to the beat of your own drum. 

“I know.” 

You flip over to face him, cupping his cheek, drinking in the lines between his brows, the faint creases at the corners of his eyes, the strands of snow at his temples. 

“It just hurts to hear people say things like that about you.” 

Because he’s not some predator. He’s your Leon, the most honorable, upstanding man you’ve ever met. He’s the definition of a gentleman, respectful and attentive. Never did he cross a boundary. Never did he try to coerce you into doing anything you didn’t want. Not like the other man you had been with before–always testing your limits, never respecting your word.

Perhaps if you had introduced your past beaus to Shelby and Trisha, they’d see how lucky you are to have a man like Leon in your life. 

The corner of his mouth lifts into a half-smile. “That’s sweet, baby, but you don’t have to get yourself worked up over me. I can handle myself.” 

You know he can. But you wish he didn’t have to. “Will you come to the office tomorrow and beat them up for me?”

“Hey,” he warns lowly, clicking his tongue. “That’s not how we get what we want.”

“Sorry.” 

Though you’re pretty sure that’s exactly what men in his line of work do to meet their goals.

Leon takes in a breath and smirks. “There’s always another way.” 

And right he was. The next morning, three ginormous bouquets of your favorite flower arrived at work. Special instructions dictated that they be delivered by hand to the front desk. Trish had to enlist the help of another coworker to bring them into your office, walking the spectacle of petals right past Shelby’s cubicle. 

“We’re done, Leon.” Your voice is strong, and for a moment, you almost convince yourself that you mean it.

“Baby,” he begs, pulling you back into his arms, yanking your purse from your shoulder and tossing it to the floor. His blue eyes are heavy with desperation, glossy from the dewy influence of alcohol. If he had any more in his system, he might have dropped to his knees and begged you from the floor. “Please don’t leave me. I promise I will do it this time, I swear I will.” He swallows hard, not once breaking eye contact. “I can’t lose you–not you–and I will do anything you want. Just don’t leave me.” 

Tears well on his lashes, something the reddened whites of his eyes. Like a hammer to your heart, like a blade to the strings, the sight shatters your organ into a million pieces. What would you do without Leon? Even though he breaks your heart, he’s always the one who puts it back together. 

He’s your home. Your sanctuary. Your refuge. A broken, needy man who has seen such violent, atrocious things, yet always leaves room to hear your woes, to mend your wounds. And you do the same for him. 

You would do anything for him, which is why you thought finally leaving, once and for all, would be good for him. A kick in the ass. Or perhaps a flame beneath it.

And although you weren’t planning on letting him convince you to stay, you weren’t completely prepared to face what would come after the alternative. 

“Fine,” you relent, shoulders sagging, part of you disappointed in the way you let him convince you to stay, the other part of you relieved that you procrastinated the grief of losing a relationship one more day. “I’ll give you one more chance. But, Leon?” 

He glances down at you, a curtain of dark blonde hair–so dark it’s almost brown–hanging across his temple, covering half of his eye. It doesn’t hide the glimmer of hope that appears there, though. That, you can see, and it ignites the same feeling in you. 

Maybe this is it. 

“I’m serious,” you continue. “No more drinking. I mean it.”

He nods. “Okay. Yes.” 

“Not a single fucking drop, do you hear me?” You press a finger into his chest. “So help me god, Leon, if I catch you even thinking about drinking, I’m out. For good. Got it?” 

You’re not sure how sincere your threats sound anymore–a dime a dozen they are–but you hope the violence in your voice gets your point across. 

“I swear to you,” he starts, taking your hands in his. “I’ll do it this time.” 

“You have a week.” 

“A week?” 

“You can’t do it?” You raise an inquisitive brow, prompting him to continue. 

“No, no,” he corrects quickly. “I can. A week.” 

“I’ll give you one week, and if by the end of those seven days, you’re able to abstain from drinking, I’ll rethink things.” 

His dark brows cinch together. “Rethink things?” 

“I’ll think about staying. But if–and only if–you can prove to me that you can take that first step.”

“Okay, I can do that. See?” He breaks away from you to sink further into the kitchen, raiding his cabinets for any liquor. A couple bottles in the back of the cupboard. A few shot-sized containers of liquor you’d find in a hotel mini bar. He unscrews the caps and flips them all over into the sink. The bottles gurgle as they empty down the drain, and he wrinkles them out, making sure every last drop is gone from the glass walls before chucking them into the trash. “No more.” 

“No more,” you repeat with a nod, not satisfied just yet.  

You remove yourself for the next seven days, burying yourself in work, in spring cleaning every inch of your apartment, in pondering whether you’re prepared for the rest of your life to look like last night. For anyone else, you’d have left in a flash at the first sign of danger. But for Leon? 

He texts you updates about his first step to sobriety. 

A picture of his morning coffee, only flavored with half-and-half and two sugars, not with a shot of Bailey’s. A message warning you that he walked by a bar on his way home from work, and was tempted to go inside, but didn’t. A voicemail detailing his evening, how he ate dinner without a hard beverage to wash it down, showered, and was in bed before midnight, as sober as a baby. 

By the fifth day, he still hadn’t cracked, and your absence from his life was starting to affect you in unexpected ways. He might have had alcohol, but you had him. His touch, his voice, the way he seemed to know your body better than you did. Your own fingers can’t bring you pleasure the way his can…and you’ve tried. Many times. Unsuccessfully. 

On the sixth night, he calls to ask you to join him for dinner, something neither of you have done properly since the dawn of your relationship. Another joy lost to his addiction. Dinners were sloppy, eaten out of styrofoam takeout containers over his coffee table. And then he’d drink. And drink. And drink. It was unappetizing to say the least.

You graciously accept his offer, trying your best to hide the sound of your wide, toothy smile. 

“Alright, tomorrow night, then,” he coos from the other end of the call. “My place. I was thinking we could cook together like we used to.”

Your heart warms at the memory. “I’d like that.”

“Perfect. How does six sound?”

“Six sounds great.”

“Six it is.” He takes a beat, the only thing audible over the line, a short breath. “I love you.” 

“Goodnight, Leon.”  

After work, you immediately run to your closet, hopped up on adrenaline and a bubbling excitement you haven’t felt since the night before your first date with him over a year ago. Nothing seems worthy of the occasion.

Nothing that isn’t lacy and strappy and not safe to wear on the street, at least. But also, nothing that a trench coat can’t hide. 

You pull on something distasteful and cover it with your trench, pairing the get-up with a pair of black heels, and you’re on your way. 

Click-clacking down the corridor of his apartment building, you place a palm over your racing heart, begging it to calm. It doesn’t. In fact, it hastens, especially when you knock on the door and it swings open to reveal Leon, wearing a black henley, sleeves rolled up his forearms. 

“Hi there,” he says, pulling you in for a chaste kiss on the cheek. For the first time in a while, you’re able to smell his cologne on his skin, not the bitter pang of vodka or whatever drink he’d been nursing. “Come in.” 

You step inside, and although you see all the ingredients for dinner, prepped and ready on the kitchen counter, you have something far more delicious in mind. 

With a deep breath, you unlatch the belt of your coat, and the arms Leon extended to politely take it from you, to hang it on the hook by the door, slowly lower as you slide the article off your shoulder, down your arms. The cool air of the apartment nips at your exposed skin, and Leon’s eyes widen, black pupils shot, irises glistening with unanticipated need. 

He attempts to stifle a groan at the sight of you, practically bare save a revealing piece of lingerie that all but leaves anything to the imagination. A black negligee he’s never seen before…or maybe he has and was too drunk to remember. 

“Holy shit.” 

You stifle a giggle, determined to stay in character. “Have you been a good boy this week, Leon?” Your voice is sweeter than maple syrup on a stack of pancakes and he salivates at the sound. 

“Yes ma’am,” he teases, a smirk threatening to appear at the corner of his mouth. 

“Are you lying?” You ask, cocking your head, smiling wide. 

He gestures a cross over his heart. “Wouldn’t dream of it, gorgeous.” 

“Then come claim your reward.” 

A week of sobriety has been good to Leon. Really good. 

Before, it was a coin toss as to whether or not he could get it up, let alone keep it up long enough to put it in. Nights in his bed were fruitless, often ending with a limp dick, a string of slurred apologies, and a car ride home to your vibrator so you could finish yourself off. 

But tonight is different. 

His virility has returned, even visible in the way his muscles move beneath his skin, not longer stained with a sickly pallor due to the liquor running marathons through his bloodstream. His veins are plump, his abdomen lean, the muscles contracting as he takes in deep breaths below you, underneath your fingers splayed across his pecs. 

“Oh shit,” he curses, his hands tight on your hips as they grind against him. The back of his head is buried into the pillow beneath it as he tosses his neck back, the tendons on either side of it flexing. “You feel so good.” 

“I want you to come inside,” you say, the words sliding out on the back of a moan. His eyes blink open and he glances up at you with a gaze that bubbles with incredulity. It’s an act you haven’t let him perform in months, too afraid it would result in tying you to a man who can’t face the frays of life without a low ball glass in his hand, and an oily shot of liquor in his throat. And maybe you’re jumping the gun because, hell, it’s only been a week, and maybe you’re the one that’s under the influence, cockdrunk and drooling. But you want it. 

“Are you–shit–are you sure?” He hisses through gritted teeth, the question followed by a slurring string of incoherent mumbling. 

“So sure.” 

You switch the movement of your hips from riding him back and forth to bouncing up and down on the full length of his stiff cock. It’s a guarantee that he always finishes within a minute of you pulling out this move, and tonight is no different.

His biceps flex, the muscles in his stomach tense, and his fingers dig into the flesh of your waist as he aids your ministrations. An ursine growl escapes this throat as he swears he’s about to finish. 

“Come on baby, you deserve it,” you coo, thighs beginning to burn, but you don’t care. “Come for me.” 

From below, he thrusts aggressively into your dripping cunt, the head of his cock kissing your cervix. One. Two. Three. You lose count, caught up in the whirlwind of your own pleasure that builds and releases in what feels like seconds, barely conscious when he lets out a final, primal growl and finishes, all warm and sticky inside you. 

His gaze cuts to the bed, where a few formal gowns are tossed across the comforter, bags and tissue paper scattered along the floor. He crosses the room, stepping toward the edge of the mattress, fingers grazing the assortment of textures and colors. 

“My cousin’s wedding is next week. I’m a bridesmaid, remember?” 

“Ah,” he says, mouth falling open. “I thought you all had to match each other–like the same color or something.” 

He plays with the skirt of one of the dresses, a chartreuse chiffon fabric–a color that is very popular this year à la the saleswoman who helped you pick it out. You’re not convinced. 

“Not anymore. Apparently it’s all the rage these days to have a mis-matched bridal party. Something about pinterest, I don’t know.” Your voice trails off as you head back to the standing mirror in the corner of the room, taking another look at the gown meeting your curves. It’s hot pink, the color an immaculate complement to your complexion, yet the shape is a little matronly. 

“You look beautiful,” he says, contacting your eyes in the reflection. “I like it.” 

Oh, Leon, you think. “It’s a little frumpy.” You smooth the fabric over your hips, officially signing the veto order. “Help me unzip?” 

He nods, approaching from behind, hands immediately finding the zipper between your shoulder blades. Instant relief courses through you as the fabric releases from your skin. A knuckle brushes up and down your spine before Leon helps guide the sleeves down your arms. 

“Try on another one,” he commands softly at your ear, hands returning to the balls of your shoulders to squeeze. 

You pull off the pink dress entirely, putting it back on the hanger and in its respective garment bag and into the ‘no’ pile. Leon paces back and forth around the bed, surveying the array of gowns, eventually deciding on which one he wants to see you in next, pointing to a shimmery gold dress with thick straps and a bandage-style body that is sure to hug your every curve. There’s no surprise why he picked that one. 

He helps you slip into the gown, crouching by your feet, holding the skirt open for you to step into, gliding it up your calves, your thighs, your middle, aiding you in pulling on the straps. 

“Gorgeous,” he says with a smile, spinning you around, dipping you back to plant a long, savored kiss on your lips. “But I don’t think this is the one.” 

He lets you back up, and you glance at him from beneath cinched brows. “Why not?” You turn your head to the side to catch your figure in the mirror across the room, taking in the way the fabric conforms to the slope of your hips, the length of your waist. A strong contender. “I think it looks great. Really great.”

unsuccessful. Leon was avoiding the distraction that was his wife's sweet voice. you adjusted yourself slightly in bed, until you were on your side, one hand supporting your head and the other resting in your lap. then, you insisted again: “you've been sitting there for too long…”

Leon smiled, finding it difficult to keep his gaze on the computer screen, but he tried. if he turned to look at you, he knew he would find a vision of paradise calling to him, and there was no way, not even in hell, to make him get out of that bed and go back to work if he got up to go to his wife. he needed to deliver that report. no distractions.

you soon grew bored, dramatically laying your head back on the mattress, frustrated. minutes later, you finally heard a tired sigh and the sound of a laptop shutting down. when you lifted your head, you found him standing in front of you, looking down at you with a curious smile. you smiled back, your eyes inviting him.

“the last time i fell for that look, baby…” he murmured, watching you present yourself to him in an irresistible black lace nightgown. “…nine months later i became a father.”

you couldn’t hold back a giggle. “don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“you don’t?” he challenged.

“no. just don’t want my husband to lose sleep.”

“ah…” he played along, making sure his gaze wandered over your entire body, starting at your thighs and ending at your longing eyes. when he decided to lie down, he climbed on top of you, slowly turning you to face him so that his body fit against yours.

you slid your hand across his face until it rested on his chin, just below his ear, to bring him to your lips. he went without any resistance; he had already lost his walls years ago. Leon kissed you back with the same sweetness and slowness, but nibbling your lips slightly, hand sliding down to caress your waist and hips.

“mm,” he made a sound as he parted your mouths. “and in what part does that fit in the ‘helping me sleep more’ thing?” he teased.

you returned his smile. “in the part where i make you forget about work for a little while.”

he chuckled softly, moving closer, caressing your cheek with the back of his free hand, the one with his wedding ring on. his other hand gently parted your thighs, just enough for him to fit between them. "yeah? sure you have what it takes for the job?”

“i’m more than sure.” you assured him confidently.

“then i’m all yours, hun.” he promised, kissing the corner of your mouth as he whispered the words close to your ear. a shiver ran through your body: seeing him so surrendered gave you a short circuit that completely dismantled you every time. but your hands didn't back down; on the contrary, they slid down his back, pulling him closer.