#chapter 27

Still, her mornings felt slightly off. He’d been around long enough that she’d stopped checking the street before heading out, stopped glancing over her shoulder, stopped carrying that low buzz of unease she used to ignore. He’d made her feel safer without making a point of it. That absence hung in the air now—not threatening, not ominous. Just… noticeable.

Life had picked up again—there were essays to finish, coffee orders to mess up, the unrelenting rhythm of the city around her. She’d made it this far without needing him. Whatever space he’d carved into her routine, she was clearly capable of patching over. Even he could be temporary, inconsequential.

It’s not like she was waiting for him, or something. She wasn’t. And yet…

She still half-glanced at every black car that slowed by her building. She still paused outside cafés without knowing why. Still unlocked her phone more often than necessary, only to scroll past the name that used to light up her screen.

Once, a barista drew a little bear in her foam. She smiled, took the photo without thinking, thumb hovering over the send button—before locking the phone again and tucking it deep into her coat pocket.

She didn’t want to be dramatic about it. She didn’t want to chase someone who clearly wanted space. So, she adjusted. She wasn’t going to be the one to reach out, not again. Not after that.

If he wanted space, he could have all of it. 

Lando noticed the silence long before he was ready to admit it.

No more photos in the middle of the day. No blurry videos of a latte she’d screwed up or some dog she thought looked like him. No sarcastic commentary about a book she swore he’d hate.

His phone had gone quiet. And it should’ve been a good thing.

He’d told himself he needed space, and now he had it.

Still, his eyes flicked toward his phone more often than they should. He kept it face-up now, just in case. Some nights, muscle memory had him opening their messages, stopping short of replying to any of them. He’d drafted something once. Deleted it before the second sentence.

He worked more. Stayed later at the office. Picked up meetings he would’ve normally sent Logan to handle. He trained harder. Sparred longer. There was no time to think when your knuckles were raw and your lungs were burning.

He worked until his eyes blurred, until emails bled into contracts and contracts bled into calls, until the hum of exhaustion drowned out every thought that threatened to claw through the haze of being on autopilot.

Lando was still waiting.

Not actively. Not desperately. He wasn’t weak like that. But some part of him—a stubborn, half-wounded part buried somewhere behind all the noise—kept waiting for a sign. A text. A photo. A “hey, remember this?”

But none came.

Instead, his phone was quiet. He turned the notification volume up one night, for no reason at all. Just in case, a voice had whispered in the back of his mind. Then he turned it back down the next morning, cursing himself for being so fucking soft.

He boxed more often now. Longer, harder, sometimes until his hands went numb through the wraps. Logan kept his distance, especially after the reassignment. Lando had said it was a logistics thing. No one believed him, but no one pushed.

The others didn’t bring her up anymore. And Lando made sure to keep it that way.

She was a distraction. He’d removed her. 

Everything was fine.

Well, except the mornings. The ones where she used to sit in his car with sleepy eyes and a sarcastic joke. Or the nights when he’d find a stupid meme from her just as he was ready to lose his mind over work. Or the way silence used to feel rare—earned—and now just felt like it was swallowing him whole.

Lando shrugged it all off.

She wasn’t his girlfriend. She wasn’t even—

Whatever. It didn’t matter. 

He had his reasons, and he sure as hell didn’t owe anyone an explanation. It was cleaner this way. Simpler, certainly.

He was back in control, and everything was exactly how it used to be.

Before, they’d somehow inadvertently ended up spending almost every day side by side, without realizing how tightly they were stitching themselves into each other’s lives. Now, they moved through their days like strangers—living separate lives in the same city, thinking of each other too often and pretending not to.

It was easier to believe things were different.

They were never that close. She was probably just bored anyway. He’s just been busy. That’s all. Life goes on. People move on.

They persuaded themselves with tiny reassurances, built a quiet wall of denial brick by brick. She got used to not reaching out. Told herself she was being respectful, not overstepping. Told herself that it was better this way—less confusing, less messy. He had things to do. He didn’t need her cluttering up his life with dogs and coffee and half-baked thoughts at midnight.

And Lando told himself she probably didn’t even notice he was gone. That she had a full life, people around her. That he’d been the one stepping into something that was never meant to include him.

So they moved on.

But sometimes, when she walked past a coffee shop and smelled the roast he’d once insisted was undrinkable, she smiled without meaning to.

And sometimes, when he leaned against his desk and took a moment to peer out the magnificent windows and saw the skyline—the one they’d once admired as they sat side by side, wrapped in silence and something that almost felt like peace—he remembered her voice so clearly it made his throat go tight.

But they were fine.

Everything was fine.

The café was unusually slow for a Thursday morning. Rain tapped against the windows, soft and steady, blurring the outside world into a watercolor gray. It had been a quiet morning. The kind that made you forget things had ever felt complicated.

The café hummed with its usual rhythm—steam hissing from the espresso machine, the soft clink of cups stacking, the bell above the door chiming every few minutes with the gentle regularity of breath. It smelled like brown sugar and coffee beans and the damp pavement outside each time the door opened momentarily. Y/N’s apron was slightly stained with oat milk, and her hair was frizzing near her temples from the steam, but she didn’t mind.

Margot had just made some offhand comment about a customer trying to flirt his way into a free muffin, and they’d been laughing about it. That easy, familiar kind of laugh. The kind you only share with someone who’s seen you bone-tired, crabby, half-soaked in a fridge leak, and somehow still loves you.

She stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, steam rising from the milk pitcher as she worked on a cappuccino. Margot stood beside her, elbows propped against the edge, peeling a clementine with the lazy ease of someone who’d lived three lives. Perhaps nine.

“You know,” Margot said, voice low, “I was going to give you grief for coming in early again. But then I saw the bags under your eyes and figured—ah. Boy trouble.”

She snorted, pretending to focus on the drink in her hand. The latte art she’d been practicing ended up looking disfigured anyway – like a foamy blob instead of the elegant dove she’d intended for it to be. “There’s no boy. I just didn’t sleep well.”

“Mm. Didn’t sleep well,” Margot mocked, her words teasing as she automatically handed her a wedge of orange. “Back in my day, that was code for heartbreak.”

She took the piece, popped it in her mouth. “Maybe I just drank too much caffeine.”

Margot gave her a look, eyes sharp over the rim of her glasses. “You’ve been drinking too much caffeine since you were sixteen, or perhaps since birth. What is his name, hm?”

“No one.” She tried to smile. “It’s not like that.”

Margot didn’t push. She just reached over, tucked a stray curl behind her ear like it was nothing, like she’d done since the first day they met.

“Alright. No man. Just… promise me you’re eating. And not just those old pastries. Mange un légume ou deux, veux-tu?”

She nodded, throat suddenly tight. “Oui, I promise.”

Margot patted her shoulder. “Good. Now go check if we’ve got any more of that rose syrup. Those girls from the yoga studio will riot  if I tell them we’re out again.”

“On it,” she said, grateful for something to do. She pushed through the backroom door, humming under her breath. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered and half-labeled. She tiptoed up, scanning the top rows.

“Come on, come on,” she muttered, stretching for the box.

“Top shelf, right side,” the elderly woman yelled, as if somehow magically able to tell. “Don’t break your neck.”

The stockroom was dim and tight, cold air from the walk-in leaking under the door. She scanned the shelves, fingers brushing labels. Maple, rosewater, the weird chili one no one liked…

And then—

Sharp, but distant. A car backfiring, maybe, or something falling.

What?

Then, a second one.

This one was closer. Inside. Her chest tightened and suddenly, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The bottle of syrup slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a dull thud. Her heart stopped, then slammed back into rhythm, hard and chaotic.

The air changed. The silence after the sound was worse than the sound itself.

Another one.

Then two more, fast. The fifth and sixth were unmistakable.

Gunshots.

Her breath caught in her throat. Instinct took over, pulling her down behind a stack of inventory before her brain could even process the sound. Her hands trembled where they clutched the edge of a box. Cold air from the fridge brushed her spine, but her skin was burning.She pressed herself back against the metal shelving, heart hammering so loud she was sure it would give her away. 

Something told her they stopped, but between the ringing in her ears and the hammering in her chest it was difficult to be certain. As soon as some semblance of silence settled, however, her mouth went dry.

Margot.

Her heart lurched.

Margot had been there. Margot had been standing just a few feet away. Hadn't she?

Without thinking, she moved. Her legs moved before logic could get in the way. Her hands gripped the backroom door, pushing it open with a force that sent it banging against the wall. She burst from the storeroom, shoes skidding against the tile floor. Her eyes searched, the café hazy now, her vision narrowed from adrenaline. The door had been blown inward. One of the front chairs was knocked over. And Margot—

No.

No.

There was so much red.

Margot was on the ground, crumpled awkwardly, like someone had cut the strings holding her upright. Blood pooled too fast, too dark beneath her.

It soaked through the elderly woman’s apron, smeared across the floor like someone had tried to wipe it away. Her glasses were crooked, one lens cracked. She was breathing—barely. Each inhale a wet, rattling sound.

“No—no, no, no,” she gasped, falling to her knees. “Margot. Hey. Hey, look at me—fuck—look at me.”

Y/N’s heart punched in her throat. She was already moving forward, fingers shaking as she kneeled beside Margot, blood soaking her fingers the moment she touched her. 

There was so much blood. Too much.

Pressure. That’s what you were supposed to do, right? 

She had no clue how this worked. She just remembered some basic first aid crap she’d learned ages ago, something from an infomercial, or was it a book?

So she pressed harder, trying to stop the bleeding, but—

Why was there more blood?

Her breath came too fast, her hands trembling like a leaf in the wind as she tried to find something—anything—to slow it down. She could feel the warmth of it, see the way it spread. Her fingers slipped as she pressed harder, praying for a miracle.

No. No, no, no. 

Her stomach lurched.

Margot? Margot, please.

Her fingers were slipping through the blood now, and her head spun, breath ragged. She felt useless. Why wasn’t it stopping? She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to steady herself, but it was impossible.

“No, no. Please, no—”

Margot blinked a second later, but slowly, like it took effort.

Y/N pressed her hands against the wound, not even sure which one, just trying to stop the blood from being everywhere. It just kept coming. She pressed down hard, too hard maybe, but it was the only thing she could do. “C’mon, you’re okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, it’s okay—just stay with me, please, Margot, please—”

She sounded young. She didn’t realize it until her voice cracked.

Margot was still warm. Her breath was shallow, lips parted just slightly, like she might say something but couldn’t find the words. One of her hands twitched like it had tried to move.

She curled closer, trying to shelter her somehow. As if that would help. As if her body could protect Margot’s.

Fuck. Fuck. Say something. C’mon, you gotta say something–

“You’re okay, alright? You’re gonna be okay,” she whispered, shaking. “It’s fine. I’ve got you. You’re not going anywhere.”

Somewhere outside, tires screeched. People yelled. Sirens wailed, far-off but getting closer.

Margot coughed, the faint stain of blood tinging the cracks in her lips now. Her hand reached up, weakly, touched her cheek. A gesture she’d done a thousand times.

“No, non,” she chided weakly, barely audible. “Don’t cry, mon chéri.”

“M’not,” Y/N lied, voice breaking. “I’m not crying. I’m– You’re gonna be okay.”

Y/N brought one of her own trembling hands to place over Margot’s, holding it where it cradled her cheek. She shut her eyes tightly, convincing herself she didn’t need to memorize the feel of those soft wrinkled hands in case it was the last time she’d ever get to feel them.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she tried to hold pressure with one hand now, trying to keep Margot’s blood inside, to rewind time. Her knees were soaked. The world blurred. Her lungs couldn’t find air.

“Where the fuck are they?” she screamed to no one, her voice hoarse with desperation. “Where the fuck is everyone? Anyone! Aidez-Moi! Help me!”

Margot’s fingers slipped away from her face. Y/N gave her hand a gentle squeeze before placing it in her lap, helping her save her strength. Margot would need all the strength she could get, right? 

She kept pressing, even when her hands started to ache. Even as those kind grey eyes began to blink more slowly.

“Please. Please, please, please don’t—don’t do this, okay? You still owe me that lemon cake recipe. You still haven’t met my—” Her throat caught. “You can’t. You can’t.”

Her voice broke, and she was talking to herself more than to Margot as she rambled out apologies and pleas. 

“You have to be okay. You can’t go. Please don’t leave me. I can't— I can’t do this alone, you know that.” 

The words spilled out, raw and desperate. She tried to convince herself, tried to keep some shred of composure. She shifted, trying to lift Margot just a bit, to get a better angle, but the blood kept coming. More, more, more. Her hands were slick with it now, the viscous substance coating her skin. Margot’s lips trembled, a faint breath escaping.

“I’ve got you. I’m here. You’re okay. Please, please... just be okay. Please, please. Don’t leave me, Margot. I can’t—” Her voice cracked, the words coming in jagged gasps. She was losing herself, losing control of everything, the panic squeezing her chest until she couldn’t think straight.

Margot coughed once, an ugly hacking thing before she spluttered. Her chest gave a faint, labored rise and fall, like a thread pulling through water, faint but still there. The corner of her lips formed a weak version of the smile the young woman would recognize anywhere.

“So brave, ma belle fille,” she hummed softly.

For a moment, her heart swelled with anger. Her hand trembled as she held the pressure again. “No, no! Stop it! Please, just hold on. Please, you have to hold on. I can't do this without you, I need you. You’re– You’re all I have, okay?”

Her face morphed into some sad attempt at a smile, a desperate attempt at reassurance. But Y/N’s eyes were too watery and lips trembled too much for Margot to get to see her darling girl’s beautiful smile, sweet and radiant as the sun. 

She tried to recall all the other times she’d gotten to see it when her mind provided her with the image of that very first day – a younger Y/N, shy and awkward and looking terribly lonely, smiling brightly at the sight of fresh coffee and something warm to eat.

But Margot struggled to remember that warmth now, struggled to remember the hot summer breeze from years ago. All she felt now was the cold, because suddenly it was terribly cold.

Y/N’s fingers dug into the blood-soaked fabric of Margot’s shirt, the hammering in her chest threatening to crack her sternum in half. She felt the heat of her own tears mixing with the sweat on her face. Everything was slowly blurring together.

Please don’t leave me.

Margot’s hand twitched. It was weak, but it was a movement. The tiniest sign of life, and for a second, Y/N clung to it, her breath coming back in shallow, frantic gasps.

She couldn’t lose her.

Not yet.

The phone call was a blur, the desperation in her voice barely cutting through the ringing in her ears. She wasn’t thinking, wasn’t processing the words as she frantically hit the call button with shaking fingers.

“Liam,” she gasped, the name falling from her lips the one someone may beg a saint. “I—I need you. Please. It’s Margot. She’s—” The words hit her throat like shards of glass. “She’s hurt,and now- and the blood, oh. There’s so much blood–”

The young woman let out a choked sob, something thick and ugly lodged in her chest. “I- I don’t know what to do, it won’t stop, I’m trying–”

“Tell me where you are,” he replied instantly.

“I’m putting pressure, and I keep trying to talk to her but she won’t– she won’t–”

“I need you to tell me where you are, Y/N. Now, alright?” his voice was firm, but not unkind– just stern enough to pierce through the haze of panic long enough to hold her attention.

“I’m– The cafe, the cafe. Please, Liam, hurry!”

The line went dead after that, but Y/N didn’t care. Her focus was on Margot—on the blood, the rising panic, the fear that tore at her insides. Her hands were shaking so violently now, she couldn’t hold on anymore, but she refused to let go of Margot’s limp body. She wasn’t—Margot wasn’t gone.

No, she couldn’t be.

Seconds felt like hours, but then there was finally a sound. Tires screeching, and then the rev of an engine. Her heart leaped as the door slammed open.

Liam stood there, barely minutes after the call ended. He’d come fast, so fast. There he stood, strong and steady, his eyes scanning the scene before landing on her. It was almost like he’d been waiting for her to need him, even though he had no idea how badly. But now suddenly there he was, that familiar silhouette walking through the entryway like some divine savior.

Liam’s here. He’ll take care of everything, and then everything will be okay, right? 

Liam knows how to make things okay.

Everything’s gonna be okay.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

She was kneeling beside Margot, her hands stained with too much blood, her heart so heavy it felt it was crushing her lungs, stealing her ability to breathe. Her chest tightened as she watched the paramedics step forward, the familiar beeping of equipment and their cool, methodical movements only making her panic worse.

“No,” she whispered, her voice cracking. She clutched tighter, desperate. Her voice wavered like a child’s, begging like she had nothing left to give. “Please, no. Please? Don’t take her—don’t you dare take her, I need her. I need her!”

They reached closer to her, to the woman who had given Y/N everything but her name – who had given her a roof over her head, clothes on her back, food on her plate, and perhaps most importantly, someone to call family. When they did, the younger woman flinched, instinctively curling around the still-warm body in her hands like there was something still left to protect.

She turned to look at Margot, who must have closed her eyes because she was tired – she always did get tired so easily nowadays – and she asked her. Margot always listened when she asked, right? Margot would listen.

A small, shaky hand barely let go of Margot’s side, only to come up and cradle the side of her face. The action caused a small smudge of deep red to appear on her skin where the color once used to be, and immediately, Y/N hated it. 

No, no, that doesn’t look right. Margot wouldn’t like that.

She quickly tried to find a clean corner of her sleeve to try to wipe it away, to wipe away the tingle of blood until she could see the natural blush that always dusted the apple of her cheeks. She’d always been beautiful, Margot – stunning eyes, rosy cheeks and lots of smile lines from decades of good laughs. She’d often tell Y/N that she’d had a “movie star” face when she was younger, that she was on her way to an audition when she ran into the man that would eventually become her husband. The name of the movie she’d gone to audition for changed every time, but they’d simply laugh about it each time.

Y/N would let her tell all the stories she wanted if it just meant she’d talk to her.

“... Margot? Margot, don’t go! Please, don’t go! Please!”

For some reason, Margot wouldn’t answer her.

Y/N shook her gently, desperate for an answer. She didn’t want to let these strangers near Margot, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t.

The paramedics were gentle but firm. They moved to try to pull Margot’s body from her grasp, but Y/N didn’t let go, her fingers wrapped around Margot’s wrist as though the force of her touch could stop everything. She was shaking, crying, unable to breathe. The world was spinning, everything spinning, until—

“Y/N,” came Lando’s voice, low and steady.

She didn’t look at him at first, couldn’t. She was caught in the agony, trapped in the raw panic that gripped her chest.

“Y/N, you’ve got to let go of her, alright? C’mon now,” he spoke, his voice calm and unwavering, but there was a tinge of pain there—something Y/N couldn’t quite place.

But it wasn’t about him. Not right now. Not when Margot was slipping away.

“I—I can’t,” she whimpered, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t... not her. Please. She’s all I have left. I need her!”

His hands were on her then—so gentle, but strong, like something steady in a world that felt like it was falling apart. His warmth wrapped around her as he knelt to sit beside her, his torso firm against her back and his voice a soft murmur against her ear, trying to pull her from the chaos.

“I know,” Lando whispered, his hand sliding stroking softly along her back. “I know, Angel. I’m here. I’m here I’ve got you, yeah? C’mon, I’ve got you, I promise.”

The paramedics approached closer as they attempted to work quickly, carefully, but they were too late. The beeping of the equipment had long since gone flat, as if there had been no pulse at all, the silence so loud it felt like it was crushing her. A deep, suffocating silence that filled the air. She couldn’t hear anything except the ringing in her ears. She could barely feel anything except the numbness that was creeping in, filling every part of her.

And then, Lando’s larger hands, warm and firm, encompassed her own as he gently peeled her fingers away from Margot’s body. His fingers slowly came to close around her own, still curled and stiff from how long she’d been holding on. He wasn’t forcing her, but his touch was steady, unyielding. She could slowly begin to feel the sensation of the pads of his thumbs gently stroking across her knuckles on each hand, a soothing back and forth motion. It was just enough to draw her out of the tight hold she had on Margot.

“Hey, look at me. Look at me.” His voice is low and calm as he crouches beside her. Her hands are slick, shaking, still pressed to Margot’s chest. “You’ve done everything you can, alright? You’ve done enough. Let ‘em take it from here.”

“Oh angel,” he breathes, softer now, like it hurts to say. Like it’s all he’s got. Her hands won’t let go—won’t stop pressing, blood blooming between her fingers. She’s crying now, whispering nonsense, pleading.

“Hey, hey,” he says again, firmer this time as he wraps his arms around her, prying her hands free. “She needs help, and so do you. It’s… It’ll be okay. She’ll be okay. You just have to let them take her, Y/N,” Lando’s voice broke through the fog in her mind. 

“Please, angel.”

She couldn’t move. Her body was frozen, her hand still clutching Margot’s lifeless wrist, but his presence was enough to make her feel like she could maybe begin to breathe again. The warmth of him—his strength—was steady, grounding. Like it was starting to melt the frost frozen around the bubble that encompassed this moment.

He pulled her gently into his chest then, his arm around her back, holding her close as she continued to shake, unable to speak. Her sobs came in ragged gasps. She was a mess—her clothes, her hands, her face smeared with Margot’s blood. Her body felt like it didn’t belong to her anymore.

But Lando held her, steady and silent. His chest rising and falling beneath her as she buried her face into the fabric of his shirt. His hand was smoothing over her back, soothing, like he was trying to piece her back together. Like if he held her long enough, she’d feel the chasm in her chest begin to close.

For a long while, they just stayed there, the paramedics doing their job in the background, the sharp scent of blood mixing with the damp smell of rain on pavement. But none of that mattered. Not anymore.

Lando had her, even when everything else slipped away.

Three Years Later

Leon wakes with her blood on his hands.

Not really.

Not anymore.

But for three terrible seconds, his body does not know the difference.

He comes awake with a sharp inhale caught halfway in his throat, chest heaving, one hand already reaching for something that is not there. His fingers close around empty sheets. Cold sheets. The room is dark around him, black and blue in the thin wash of moonlight spilling through the curtains, and for one suspended moment, the mansion is too quiet.

So quiet it feels like grief.

His heart slams once.

Then again.

Too hard. Too fast.

He stares at the empty place beside him, at the pillow still faintly indented, at the blanket pushed back like someone had been there and left. The shape of absence waits on her side of the bed with cruel patience, and the nightmare clings to him, refusing to loosen its teeth.

The shot.

He can still hear it.

That clean, awful crack through the night.

He can still see her hand hitting his chest, harder than he would have thought she had strength for after everything. Still feel the force of her body pushing his out of the line of fire. Still see the shock on her face when the bullet found her instead.

He remembers catching her before she hit the gravel.

Of course he had caught her.

He remembers the blood. Too much of it. Hot against his palms, slick between his fingers, soaking into her sweater, staining the ring on his hand. He remembers Marcus shouting. Chris’s headlights. Medical voices barking orders. Y/n looking up at him with eyes that kept trying to close.

I choose you.

Leon drags in a breath so rough it hurts.

The room does not answer.

The bed beside him remains empty.

For one sickening second, he is back there completely, kneeling in the cold outside a burning Umbrella facility with Y/n fading beneath his hands and the entire world narrowing to the sound of his own voice begging her not to leave him.

He presses the heel of his hand to his sternum.

Hard.

As if pressure can hold him together.

His skin is damp with sweat. His hair sticks to his forehead. His breathing will not settle. The old scar near his shoulder aches the way it does before rain, or after nightmares, or whenever his body decides memory should be physical.

The mansion is still.

Too still.

For years, this house had been built out of silence. Expensive silence. Controlled silence. The kind that settled into corners and under doors, polishing itself until it looked like peace to anyone who did not know better. There had been a time when Leon preferred it that way. A time when the quiet meant no one needed anything from him. No voices. No footsteps. No soft proof of another person’s life that he could lose.

Then she came.

And ruined it.

Leon closes his eyes.

The nightmare flashes again.

Her blood.

Her hand slipping from his.

Her voice, small and impossibly steady.

Don’t let the house be quiet again.

His throat tightens around something that feels too close to a sob.

He opens his eyes before it can take him.

No.

He cannot stay in the bed.

Not with her side empty.

Not with the quiet pressing in from every wall.

Leon throws the blanket back and sits up slowly, both feet touching the floor. The wood is cold beneath him. Moonlight catches along the lines of his body, bare chest rising and falling, old scars silvered in the dark. For a moment, he sits at the edge of the bed with his elbows braced on his knees and his hands hanging loosely between them, head bowed.

He looks older in the dark.

Not weak.

Never that.

But worn in the way men become when life has given them things worth fearing for.

His ring glints faintly on his left hand.

He stares at it for half a second.

The same ring.

A different life.

Then he stands.

The room is large around him, shadowed and familiar. The heavy curtains. The dark furniture. The chair near the window where a shirt is thrown over the back. A glass of water on the nightstand. A paperback novel lies beside it, left open and face down by whoever had been reading before bed. The creased spine catches a stripe of moonlight.

Leon's eyes linger on it.

Only for a second.

Then he reaches for the sweatpants folded over the end of the bed and pulls them on with movements still too quiet, too automatic, like part of him remains trapped in an operation that ended years ago. He does not bother with a shirt. He runs one hand through his hair, exhales once, and moves toward the door.

The hallway outside is dark.

Not completely.

A soft amber nightlight glows near the baseboard, shaped like a small moon, casting a warm pool of light over the runner. Leon pauses just past the threshold, hand still on the doorframe.

The mansion breathes differently now.

He notices it every time the nightmares make him walk through it.

At night, when the old terror drags him out of bed, when his body forgets time has passed and his mind insists he is still kneeling in gravel with her blood on his hands, the house reminds him slowly.

Not all at once.

In pieces.

A coat draped carelessly over the back of a chair downstairs.

A coffee mug left on a side table, half full and long forgotten.

A stack of books on the hallway console, one lying open as though someone had been interrupted halfway through a chapter.

A framed photograph on the wall that had not existed in the old version of this house, turned slightly crooked in its frame, as if someone had brushed past it and never bothered to straighten it.

Leon’s mouth almost moves.

Not a smile.

Something close.

Then the ache in his chest pulls tight again.

He starts down the hall.

His bare feet make almost no sound against the floor. The mansion is huge, old, too grand for ordinary life, but ordinary life has invaded it anyway. It has crept in under locked doors and across polished floors. It has left fingerprints on glass, toys beneath antique furniture, half-finished mugs of coffee on tables, and proof of living in places that once held only waiting.

He passes the closed door of what used to be a guest room.

Now there is a small wooden sign hanging from a ribbon.

No one would call Leon Kennedy sentimental.

He had still stood there holding the sign for almost ten minutes the day it arrived, unable to explain why the painted letters made his chest hurt.

The door is cracked open.

A soft sound comes from inside.

Not crying.

Not quite.

A low, gentle hum.

Leon stops.

The nightmare loosens one finger.

Then another.

He stands in the hallway and listens.

There it is again.

A small noise. A shuffling. The faint creak of the rocking chair.

His eyes close briefly.

The house is not quiet.

He moves toward the door.

For one second, his hand rests against the wood before he pushes it open.

The nursery is warm.

That is the first thing he notices, every time. Warm in a way his bedroom never quite manages after the nightmares. The room is painted in soft cream and deep green, moonlight pouring through sheer curtains and pooling across the rug. There is a low lamp glowing on the dresser, dim enough not to wake anyone fully, golden enough to make the room feel held.

One crib sits near the far wall.

A small body sleeps inside it, one tiny fist curled near a round cheek, dark lashes resting against soft skin. A little sigh escapes the baby, then nothing. Still asleep. Safe in that absolute, trusting way only children can be safe, because they have no idea yet what it costs.

And near the window, in the rocking chair, Y/n sits with their other child against her chest.

Alive.

Leon stops in the doorway.

The world stops with him.

She is barefoot, one leg tucked beneath her, wearing a soft cream robe over one of his old black shirts. Her hair is loose and sleep-mussed, falling over one shoulder, pale in the nursery light. The baby is curled against her, cheek pressed to her chest, one tiny hand caught in the fabric near her collarbone.

At her feet, their German shepherd lifts his head.

All black, enormous now, with intelligent brown eyes and ears that perk at the sight of Leon in the doorway. Rook does not bark. He never barks at night unless something is wrong. He only blinks once, thumps his tail softly against the rug, then lowers his head back onto his paws beside Y/n’s feet like his duty is both sacred and exhausting.

Leon cannot move.

Not for the first second.

Not for the second either.

Y/n looks up.

And immediately, her face changes.

Not startled. Not confused. Not afraid.

She knows.

She sees him standing there shirtless in the doorway, skin still damp from the nightmare, hair disheveled, eyes too bright in the dim light, and she knows exactly where he has been.

Three years.

Some wounds still do not need explaining.

Her expression softens in a way that almost undoes him.

“You could have woken me,” he says.

His voice is rough.

Lower than he means it to be.

Y/n glances down at the baby, then back at him. There is sleep in her face, but not irritation. Not impatience. Just that familiar warmth that still sometimes catches him unprepared.

“You were actually sleeping,” she says softly.

It is so married.

So ordinary.

So painfully theirs.

Leon swallows.

His gaze drops to the baby in her arms because looking directly at Y/n is too much for one second. The baby’s face is relaxed, mouth slightly open, dark lashes resting against a warm cheek. Their daughter, Lily, sleeps heavily against Y/n’s chest, completely unaware of the effect she still has on him. Her twin brother, Ethan, is asleep in the crib across the room, one tiny fist usually curled near his face in exactly the same stubborn way Leon sleeps. So small. So real. Leon has held both of them a thousand times and still sometimes looks at his twins like they arrived from some impossible future he never thought he’d be allowed to enter.

Y/n watches him watching.

Then her eyes lift back to his face.

The softness deepens.

“It was the shot again.”

He does not answer.

He does not need to.

His throat works once.

The nursery seems to blur around the edges, not from the nightmare now but from the sharp, awful relief of seeing her here. Sitting in moonlight. Holding their child. Breathing.

Her ring catches the lamp as she shifts her hand along the baby’s back.

Leon sees it.

He always sees it.

The diamond. The wedding band beneath it. The same hand that had once trembled in his. The same ring that had started as evidence, as leverage, as one more cruel line in a file neither of them wrote.

Now it rests on her finger because she put it there.

Because after everything, after Umbrella, after the facility, after blood and grief and almost losing everything, Y/n had chosen what it meant.

Not him.

Not the DSO.

Not Marcus.

Her.

The ring glimmers softly as she rubs slow circles over the baby’s back.

A choice.

Leon feels something in his chest crack open all over again.

Y/n’s voice is gentle when she says, “Come here.”

And he does.

No hesitation.

No argument.

No instinct to take control of the room or the situation or his own fear.

He goes where she invites him.

The floor creaks faintly beneath his weight as he crosses the nursery. Rook’s tail thumps once more against the rug. Leon glances down at him.

“Traitor,” he murmurs.

The dog lifts one eyebrow in a way that is far too judgmental for an animal.

Y/n’s mouth curves.

“He protected us from absolutely nothing while you were asleep.”

Leon crouches beside the rocking chair, then lowers himself to one knee, close enough that his arm brushes the edge of her robe. Close enough to feel the warmth of her, the baby, the life that somehow exists in this room after everything that tried to prevent it.

For a moment, he only looks.

Y/n lets him.

She has learned the ritual of his nightmares, just as he has learned the language of her silences. Neither of them likes that they had to become fluent in each other’s pain, but there is tenderness there too. A hard-won intimacy. The ability to know without being told.

Leon reaches out slowly.

Not to touch Y/n first.

To touch the baby.

Two fingers rest lightly against the child’s back, feeling the rise and fall beneath the soft fabric of the sleeper. Breathing. Steady. Alive.

His eyes close for half a second.

Then, before he can stop himself, he bends forward and presses a kiss to the baby's soft hair.

A tiny, reverent thing.

Almost a prayer.

His lips linger for a moment longer than necessary.

As if he is reassuring himself she is real.

As if he is thanking the universe for letting her exist.

Y/n watches his hand.

Then watches his face.

“Still here,” she whispers.

The words land exactly where the nightmare had cut.

Leon opens his eyes.

He looks at her then.

Really looks.

Her face is softer than it was three years ago, but not weaker. Never weaker. There are lines now that were not there before, from sleepless nights and laughter and the kind of life that demands all of you and gives pieces back in ways you never expected. A faint scar disappears beneath the neckline of her shirt, hidden unless he knows where to look.

He knows.

He will always know.

His gaze flickers there before he can stop it.

To the place where the bullet nearly took her from him.

To the place that healed.

To the proof that she survived.

Something painful and grateful moves across his face.

Y/n sees.

Of course she sees.

Her free hand lifts from the baby’s back and settles against his cheek.

The diamond catches the light again.

Leon turns his face into her palm immediately, eyes closing.

Then he catches her wrist gently and presses a kiss against the inside of it.

Another against her knuckles.

Another against the ring she wears.

Not rushed.

Not thoughtless.

The kind of kisses that come from relief so deep it has nowhere else to go.

Y/n's breath catches softly.

For a second, neither of them speaks.

Leon lowers his forehead against her hand, holding it there.

Her thumb brushes beneath his eye.

“You’re shaking,” she says.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He huffs a breath that almost becomes a laugh and fails halfway. “You always have to argue with me?”

“Yes.”

The answer comes so quickly, so softly, that something in him settles.

Just a fraction.

She strokes his cheek again.

Leon opens his eyes and looks at her like he is still waking up to find her alive.

Like every nightmare ends here.

His gaze moves over her face, memorizing it all over again—the curve of her mouth, the sleep-heavy softness in her eyes, the loose strands of hair falling over her shoulder.

Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to her palm.

To her cheek.

To her temple.

Gentle, lingering touches that make Y/n's expression soften further.

“Leon,” she whispers, half amused, half emotional.

He doesn't answer.

Because he can't quite explain it.

The nightmare had taken her again.

And now she's here.

Warm beneath his hands.

Breathing.

Holding their child.

So he kisses her forehead once more and lets his eyes close briefly against her skin.

Just grateful.

Just in love.

Just unable, even after all these years, to stop checking that she is really there.

“Was it bad?”

Leon’s jaw tightens.

He could lie.

He has lied about worse.

But not to her.

Not anymore.

“Yes.”

Her eyes hold his. “The same?”

He nods once.

Barely.

Her expression shifts with pain, not pity. Never pity. Pity makes him feel alone. Y/n has always understood that, even when she was angry enough to cut him open with words and leave the room.

“I reached for you,” he says quietly.

Her thumb stills.

His voice drops lower.

“You weren’t there.”

The words are small for how much they carry.

Y/n’s face crumples only slightly before she reins it in. Not because she is hiding from him, but because the baby stirs against her chest, tiny face scrunching at the change in her breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Leon immediately shakes his head. “No.”

“Leon—”

“No.” His hand covers hers against his cheek. “You don’t apologize for being in the next room.”

A sad little smile touches her mouth.

“You know what I mean.”

“I know.”

This time the words are quiet.

Gentle.

Not the old I know that once carried guilt and fear and everything he could not say cleanly.

This one is different.

This one has a life around it.

Y/n studies him for a moment, then shifts carefully in the chair.

“Here,” she murmurs.

Leon’s eyes drop to the baby.

“She just settled.”

“I know.” Y/n’s smile softens. “Take her anyway.”

His throat tightens.

He reaches carefully, reverently, sliding one arm beneath the baby and supporting the tiny head with a tenderness that still surprises him in his own hands. Y/n transfers their daughter into his arms slowly, guiding him with practiced ease even though he does not need guidance anymore.

He needed it at first.

Badly.

The first time he held them, he had looked at Y/n like she had handed him a live grenade made of glass.

Marcus still brings that up whenever he wants to be punched.

Now, Leon settles Lily against his bare chest, one broad hand covering almost her entire back. She makes a sleepy sound of protest, a tiny wrinkle appearing between her brows.

"Hey, Lily-bug," he murmurs immediately, his voice dropping into that softer register he seems to reserve only for her and her brother. "Easy."

He shifts her slightly, supporting her head more securely against his shoulder.

A low hum rumbles from his chest, quiet and steady. The same absent-minded tune he has used since she was born, though Y/n is fairly certain he doesn't realize he does it.

Lily's fussing eases almost instantly.

"There you go," Leon whispers. "That's better."

Her tiny fingers flex against his skin.

A faint smile touches his mouth.

"You keeping your mom up again?" he asks her softly. "Thought we talked about this."

Lily responds with a sleepy sigh.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

He continues humming under his breath, one large hand moving in slow circles over her back. Within seconds, she relaxes completely against the warmth of him, settled and safe.

Y/n watches it happen.

Her eyes shine.

Leon looks down at their daughter, his face still shadowed by the nightmare but softer now, broken open by something stronger than fear.

“She’s warm,” he says.

Y/n’s smile trembles.

“She is a baby.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

He looks at her.

There she is.

Still teasing him in the dark after he has dragged his ghosts into the nursery at three in the morning.

Still alive.

Still choosing him.

Still here.

The ache in his chest shifts.

Not gone.

Never gone completely.

But bearable.

He looks back down at the baby, brushing one finger over the soft curve of her tiny hand.

“She was fussing?”

“A little.” Y/n leans back in the rocker, watching them both. “I think she just wanted to be held.”

Leon’s mouth tightens around something too tender to name.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”

Y/n’s hand moves into his hair.

Not pulling.

Just there.

Fingers threading through the strands at the nape of his neck, grounding him the way she learned years ago. The way he lets her now.

The room is full of small sounds.

The baby’s breathing.

The gentle creak of the rocking chair.

Rook’s slow exhale from the rug.

Ethan sighing in the crib.

The old mansion settling around them, not empty, not silent, not waiting for loss.

Living.

Leon leans forward carefully, still holding the baby, and rests his forehead against Y/n’s.

She meets him halfway.

Their noses brush.

Her hand stays in his hair. His free hand settles over her knee, thumb moving once against the fabric of her robe.

For a moment, they stay like that.

No apology.

No promises demanded.

No blood.

No running.

Just warmth and breath and the impossible fact of a life after.

Y/n closes her eyes.

Leon keeps his open a moment longer.

He has to.

He looks at her face from inches away, at the curve of her lashes, the faint shadow beneath her eyes, the scar half-hidden at her collar, the ring on her hand, the baby sleeping between them.

He lets himself check.

Y/n knows.

She lets him.

After a while, without opening her eyes, she whispers, “Satisfied?”

His mouth almost curves.

“For now.”

“That’s progress.”

“It is.”

She opens her eyes then.

Her gaze moves over his face, taking in what the nightmare left behind and what the room has managed to give back.

“You know,” she says softly, “you can wake me.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to walk the house alone.”

His hand tightens slightly over her knee.

Lily stirs, and he gentles immediately, rocking her with an instinct that is still new enough to hurt sometimes.

“I didn’t know where you were,” he admits.

Y/n’s expression softens.

“I was here.”

Leon’s eyes meet hers.

The old answer rises automatically.

I know.

But he does not say it this time.

Instead, he presses his forehead more firmly to hers and closes his eyes.

“I found you.”

Y/n’s breath catches.

Then her hand slides from his hair to the back of his neck, holding him there.

“You always do.”

The words move through him like something sacred.

Not because they erase what happened.

They cannot.

Nothing can erase the facility, the shot, the lies, the blood, the months of healing that followed. Nothing can erase the way she woke screaming in the hospital, reaching for wounds that were already stitched closed, or the way Leon learned every monitor alarm by sound because he refused to leave her side for more than a few minutes at a time. Nothing can erase the endless days that blurred together beneath fluorescent lights, the whispered conversations doctors thought they couldn't hear, or the way Marcus slept in a chair outside her room like penance could become posture. Nothing.

Nothing can erase Leon signing paperwork with a hand that still shook after surgery, or the first time Y/n asked him to leave the room because she needed to be angry and alive without comforting him for surviving too.

Nothing erases.

But some things grow around the wound.

A nursery in the room beside theirs.

A black German shepherd sleeping at her feet.

Two babies with Y/n’s mouth and Leon’s eyes and the terrifying ability to turn Marcus into an absolute idiot with one smile.

A ring worn by choice.

A house that is not quiet anymore.

Leon opens his eyes.

Y/n is watching him.

“What?” she whispers.

He shakes his head once.

“I love you.”

Her face changes every time he says it.

Still.

After all this time.

Not with disbelief anymore. Not with fear. Not with the old hurt that used to move behind her eyes when love sounded too close to control.

Now it changes because she lets it land.

Because it belongs to her.

“I love you too,” she says.

Simple.

Sleep-rough.

Certain.

Lily sighs between them.

Rook thumps his tail once like he approves.

Y/n glances down at the dog. “Thank you for your input.”

Leon lets out a quiet breath that nearly becomes a laugh.

It is not much.

But Y/n hears it.

She smiles.

The nightmare is still somewhere behind him. It always is, waiting with its teeth and its blood and its terrible timing. But it is farther now. Outside the room. Outside the circle of warm light.

Leon shifts Lily carefully against his chest, palm broad over her back, waiting until her breathing evens out again. Y/n watches him in silence, the rocker moving beneath her in slow, small creaks. There is something about the way he holds their daughter that still threatens to undo her if she looks too long.

The same hands that had once dragged men through hell.

The same hands that had held pressure against her wound while he begged her to stay.

Now cradling Lily like she is made of light.

“She’s out,” Y/n whispers.

Leon looks down.

Lily’s mouth has fallen open slightly against his chest, her entire body slack with sleep.

“She was faking earlier.”

“She is four months old.”

“She knows what she’s doing.”

Y/n huffs softly. “You are ridiculous.”

Leon stands slowly, carefully, as if the floorboards themselves might betray him. He moves to the crib with the same focused precision he once used clearing rooms, only now every ounce of it is gentled into something almost reverent.

Ethan shifts in the opposite crib but does not wake. His fist remains tucked beside his cheek, brows faintly drawn, looking offended by dreams.

Leon lowers Lily onto the mattress with painstaking care.

Y/n watches from the rocking chair, chin tucked against her hand.

He keeps one hand on Lily’s back after setting her down, waiting. Counting breaths. Making sure the transfer holds. Lily makes one tiny noise, flexes her fingers, then settles deeper into sleep.

Leon does not move for another few seconds.

Y/n rises quietly and comes up beside him.

“You can let go,” she murmurs.

“I know.”

He still waits one more breath.

Then another.

Finally, his hand lifts.

Lily stays asleep.

Leon exhales like he has completed a high-risk extraction.

Y/n presses her lips together, trying not to laugh.

He cuts her a look. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking you’re very good at this.”

That stops him.

Just enough.

His eyes soften as they meet hers over the crib, the nursery lamp catching the tired blue of them.

“Yeah?”

Y/n’s smile gentles. “Yeah.”

For a second, they stand there in the warm low light, their twins asleep beside them, the dog watching from the rug like a silent guardian. Y/n reaches down and smooths the blanket near Lily’s feet. Leon’s hand finds the small of Y/n’s back out of habit.

Not to guide.

Not to claim.

Just to touch.

Her body leans toward it before she thinks.

His thumb moves once over the robe.

“You should sleep,” he says.

“So should you.”

“I did.”

“For about forty minutes.”

“That counts.”

“It absolutely does not.”

Rook rises with a long stretch, nails clicking softly against the floor. He shakes once, tags giving the faintest sound, then pads toward the nursery door as if deciding the emotional portion of the evening is over.

Leon looks down at him. “You abandoning your post?”

Rook pauses at the doorway and looks back.

Y/n whispers, “He’s off duty.”

“He’s never off duty.”

“He’s a dog, Leon.”

“He’s a poorly disciplined dog.”

“He’s a perfect angel.”

Rook gives another low sigh and disappears into the hall.

Leon stares after him. “He’s dramatic.”

“He learned from you.”

Leon’s eyes slide back to her.

Y/n smiles.

Not wide.

Not teasing fully.

Something softer.

Something that knows exactly what it is doing.

Leon’s gaze drops to her mouth.

The air shifts.

Only a little.

Enough.

For hours, everything had been quiet and careful and tender. The nightmare. The babies. The nursery. His hands shaking when he touched her. Her palm against his cheek. All of it soft around the edges, intimate in the way survival had made them intimate.

But now the twins are sleeping.

The hallway is dark.

The house is warm.

And Y/n is standing in front of him in his shirt and that cream robe, hair loose, ring shining, mouth curved like she can feel the moment turning too.

Leon swallows.

Y/n sees it.

Of course she does.

“Come to bed,” she says.

His hand tightens at her back.

Not hard.

Just enough that she feels it.

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

They leave the nursery with the door cracked behind them.

Rook has already settled in the hallway, massive black body stretched across the runner just outside the nursery door, head on his paws, eyes half-open. Guarding the twins from absolutely nothing and everything all at once.

Y/n pauses beside him and bends to scratch behind one ear.

“Good boy,” she whispers.

Rook’s tail thumps once.

Leon looks down at him. “Show-off.”

The dog ignores him.

Y/n straightens, and Leon’s hand finds hers in the dark.

Their fingers lace without effort.

The walk back to their room is slow.

Not because it is far.

Because neither of them is rushing.

Moonlight drifts along the hallway in pale blue rectangles. The old floor creaks beneath them. Somewhere downstairs, the house settles with a sigh. The mansion that once felt too large, too empty, too full of rules and locked doors, now holds the quiet remains of their life: toys tucked under tables, books stacked where they do not belong, a framed drawing Marcus had helped the twins make by mostly covering their tiny hands in paint and letting chaos happen.

Leon had pretended to hate it.

It hangs in his office.

Y/n’s thumb brushes his.

He looks at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That is rarely true.”

She smiles faintly. “I was thinking about how quiet the house used to be.”

Leon’s expression shifts.

So does the air between them.

Y/n squeezes his hand before the thought can sharpen too much.

“It’s not anymore.”

His eyes hold hers.

“No,” he says quietly. “It’s not.”

His thumb brushes over her knuckles.

“I kept my promise.”

Y/n’s breath catches.

Years ago, in a hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and fear, with stitches pulling at her skin and death still too close behind them, he had promised her a life.

Not survival.

Not duty.

A life.

Messy and loud and real.

A home.

A family.

Something beyond missions and blood and loss.

Leon’s gaze never leaves hers.

“I told you I’d give you one,” he says softly. “And look at this.”

Y/n’s eyes sting immediately.

The creaking old house.

The twins asleep down the hall.

The dog guarding them like a soldier.

The noise and chaos and love filling every room.

Their life.

Her life.

Their fingers tighten around each other.

“No,” Leon says again, a faint smile touching his mouth. “It’s not quiet anymore.”

They reach the bedroom.

Leon opens the door and lets her go in first.

The room is still dark, bed unmade from where he woke, sheets twisted, her side empty and waiting. The sight of it makes something flicker across his face again — old fear, quick and involuntary.

Y/n sees.

She steps in front of him before he can retreat into it.

“Leon.”

His eyes drop to hers.

She reaches for the tie of her robe and loosens it slowly, not as performance, not as seduction first, but as an invitation into the present. The cream fabric slips open just enough to show the black shirt beneath, the curve of her throat, the scar partly hidden near her collar.

His gaze follows.

Softly.

Carefully.

Always careful there.

Y/n steps closer.

“Come here,” she says again.

The same words from the nursery.

Different now.

Leon does not hesitate this time either.

He comes to her.

She lifts both hands to his chest, palms spreading over warm skin, feeling the steady, living beat beneath. His breath catches under her touch. Even after years, that response still moves through her like heat.

“You’re still shaking,” she murmurs.

“A little.”

“Good. Honesty. Growth.”

His mouth twitches. “Don’t start.”

“I’m proud.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You married me.”

His hands slide to her waist, slow and firm. “I did.”

The words land differently now than they ever could have before.

No bitterness.

No trap.

No file stamped and signed by people who thought they could own the shape of her life.

Only him.

Only her.

Only the choice she had made and kept making.

Y/n’s fingers move up his chest, over his shoulders, into the hair at the nape of his neck. His eyes darken slightly, grief giving way to something warmer, hungrier, still threaded with tenderness.

“You okay?” he asks.

She gives him a look.

“I’m the one asking you that.”

“I know.”

“Leon.”

His thumb moves over her waist. “I’m here.”

She studies him.

Then nods.

“Then be here.”

That does it.

His face changes.

Not drastically. Not like the old days when want came with restraint so sharp it almost looked like pain.

This is quieter.

Deeper.

A man allowing himself to want what is already his because she has told him, again and again, that he is allowed.

Leon leans down.

Y/n meets him halfway.

The first kiss is soft.

A check.

A question.

Her answer is immediate.

She presses closer, fingers tightening in his hair, mouth opening against his. Leon exhales into the kiss like he has been holding his breath since the nightmare, since the empty bed, since the memory of blood and gravel and her voice saying she wanted a life with him.

His arms close around her.

Careful at first.

Always careful.

Then Y/n pulls him harder against her and makes a small sound of impatience against his mouth.

Leon groans softly.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

“Do not start with me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You absolutely would.”

He kisses her again before she can say anything else.

This time, it deepens quickly.

The room seems to fall away at the edges, moonlight and shadows and the faint scent of her shampoo against his skin. Y/n backs up until her calves hit the bed, and Leon follows with one hand at her waist, the other cradling the back of her head as if he cannot quite stop needing to protect even the softest parts of her.

Her robe slips from one shoulder.

He notices.

His mouth leaves hers only long enough to press a kiss there.

Then another, lower, along the exposed skin where fabric has fallen away.

Y/n’s breath catches.

Leon feels it.

His grip tightens slightly.

Not enough to hold her still.

Enough to let her feel what she does to him.

She pulls his face back to hers.

“No disappearing into your head,” she whispers against his mouth.

His eyes open.

She is close enough that he can see the gold flecks in her eyes even in the dark.

“I’m not.”

“You were about to.”

He pauses.

Then gives the smallest nod.

Maybe.

Y/n’s hand softens at the back of his neck.

“I’m here.”

His expression breaks open around the words.

Not fully.

Just enough.

“I know.”

She kisses him then.

Harder.

Not gentle.

Not careful.

This is not the nursery. This is not the nightmare. This is not blood or fear or survival.

This is the bed they share.

The room they return to.

The place where her side is only empty until she comes back.

Leon responds with a low sound in his throat, walking her back another inch until the mattress presses against her legs. Y/n sits on the edge of the bed and pulls him down with her, refusing to let the kiss break.

He follows easily.

Too easily.

One knee sinks into the mattress beside her hip, his hands bracketing her as he leans over her. The robe falls open more, spilling cream fabric across the dark sheets. Y/n’s fingers drag down his back, feeling muscle shift beneath warm skin, the scars she knows by heart, the man who still sometimes looks at her like he cannot believe he gets to come home.

Leon kisses her like he is remembering too.

Not the shot.

Not the nightmare.

The life after.

The morning she first walked downstairs without help, furious that everyone clapped.

The day she put the ring back on herself, silent and trembling, and told him not to make a big deal about it while both of them cried anyway.

The night they found out there were two heartbeats.

The first time Lily wrapped tiny fingers around his thumb and Y/n laughed because he looked more frightened than he had in an active combat zone.

The way Y/n had looked at him across the hospital room, exhausted and glowing and alive, and said, “You’re hovering,” with tears in her eyes.

He kisses all of that into her.

Y/n feels it.

Her hands frame his face, thumbs brushing over the rough stubble along his jaw. She kisses him back with the same urgency, the same ache, the same impossible tenderness that had taken years to become simple.

Leon’s mouth moves to her jaw, then her throat, stopping just above the faint marks time has healed but not erased. He pauses there.

Y/n knows why.

She always knows.

Her fingers tighten gently in his hair.

“It’s okay,” she whispers.

His breath warms her skin.

He presses one kiss to the side of her throat.

Soft.

Then another.

Reverent.

Not taking.

Thanking.

Y/n’s eyes sting.

She tilts her head, giving him room, and feels his whole body tense at the trust in it. His hand slides beneath the edge of the robe to her waist, warm against bare skin where the shirt has ridden up. He stills immediately, waiting.

She almost laughs.

Not because it is funny.

Because it is them.

Because he has killed men for touching her and still asks permission with a hand at her waist in their own bed.

She catches his wrist and presses his palm more firmly against her.

Leon lifts his head.

Their eyes meet.

The hunger there is real now.

Not veiled by the nightmare anymore.

Not swallowed by fear.

Y/n’s voice is low when she says, “I said be here.”

A slow breath leaves him.

Then his mouth is on hers again.

Hard.

Deep.

The kind of kiss that steals the room’s gravity.

Y/n falls back against the mattress, pulling him with her, and Leon follows without hesitation, careful to brace his weight even as she tries to drag him closer. He lets out a rough sound against her lips when her legs part around him, when her hands slide over his shoulders, when the robe tangles between them and she laughs breathlessly in frustration.

“Stupid robe,” she mutters.

Leon’s mouth curves against hers.

“You picked it.”

“You distracted me.”

“I was holding a baby.”

“Still distracting.”

His laugh is quiet, almost disbelieving, and the sound breaks something soft open inside her.

She kisses him again just to feel it disappear into his mouth.

The kiss turns messy then.

Married.

Familiar.

Hungry in the way that only exists after love has learned where all the wounds are and chooses to touch gently anyway. Leon’s hand slides over her hip, then up her side, his thumb brushing beneath the hem of his shirt on her body. Y/n arches into him, and he pauses again for a fraction of a second, eyes searching hers.

She wraps one hand around the back of his neck and pulls him down.

“Leon.”

It is all the permission he needs.

He kisses her harder, his body settling between hers, warm and solid and shaking for an entirely different reason now. Her hands move over him with purpose, mapping the proof of him beneath her palms. His shoulders. His back. The line of his spine. The scar near his ribs where Evan’s blade had caught him years ago and she had cried when she saw it later, angry because he had not told her how much it hurt.

He had said, very stupidly, “You had a bullet wound.”

She had thrown a pillow at him.

The memory makes her smile into his mouth.

Leon pulls back just enough to see it.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That is never true.”

She brushes his hair from his forehead, softer now.

“I was remembering when I threw a pillow at you in the hospital.”

His eyes warm.

“You had terrible aim.”

“I had been shot.”

“You still missed.”

“You deserved worse.”

“I know.”

There it is again.

I know.

No longer a wound.

A language.

Y/n’s smile fades into something more tender.

Leon sees it and lowers his forehead to hers.

For a second, they breathe together.

The intensity quiets but does not leave. It only changes shape, becomes something fuller, heavier, threaded through with all the years behind them and the babies sleeping one room away and the dog guarding the hall like he has been entrusted with the entire future.

Y/n’s hand slides over Leon’s cheek.

“I choose you,” she whispers.

His eyes close.

Even now, after three years, the words still hit him like impact.

She knows.

That is why she says them sometimes.

Not constantly.

Not carelessly.

Only when she feels the old fear in him start looking for a place to live.

“I choose you,” she says again, softer. “This. Us. The chaos. The sleepless nights. Your terrifying coffee strength. Your ridiculous SUV. The way you pretend not to love that Marcus brings pastries every Sunday.”

“I do not love that.”

“You eat three.”

“I’m being polite.”

“You hate being polite.”

“I tolerate it for pastries.”

She smiles.

He opens his eyes.

There are still shadows in them, but less now. More blue. More him.

Y/n pulls him down again, but this kiss is slower. Deeper. A promise made with mouths instead of words.

Leon’s hand cups her face.

Her ring touches his jaw.

His thumb brushes her cheek.

The mansion is quiet around them, but not empty.

Never empty.

Not anymore.

And when Leon kisses her in the dark, Y/n feels the last of the nightmare leave the room.

Leon’s hand cups her face as the kiss deepens, slower now, heavier with everything they have carried and chosen to keep. Y/n’s fingers trace the line of his jaw, then slip into his hair, holding him there as if the steady press of his mouth against hers can anchor them both against the night’s lingering shadows.

He pulls back just enough to breathe her in, forehead resting against hers. His thumb brushes her cheekbone, and she leans into the touch. 

The robe has fallen open completely now, the black shirt beneath rucked up around her ribs, and Leon’s gaze drifts downward—reverent, careful. His hand follows, sliding beneath the hem of the shirt to rest warm and still against the skin of her waist.

 Then lower, tracing the faint line of the scar that sits just beneath her ribs, in the soft hollow between lower chest and upper abdomen. The skin there is slightly raised, a pale ridge that time has softened but never fully erased.

Leon’s breath catches. He shifts down her body without a word, pressing his lips to that place with aching tenderness. His mouth lingers, warm and slow, as if he could kiss away every echo of that night. Y/n’s fingers tighten gently in his hair. A soft gasp escapes her when his tongue traces the scar’s edge, not with heat but with worship—gratitude made physical. He kisses it again, then once more, like a promise renewed.

“You’re here,” he whispers against her skin, voice rough with emotion. “Still here with me.”

Y/n’s eyes sting. She strokes his hair, guiding him gently as he continues downward, peeling the rest of the fabric away with patient hands. He settles between her thighs, broad shoulders framing her, and looks up at her once—blue eyes steady and open, full of the kind of love that has survived blood and loss and chosen to stay.

Then his mouth finds her, slow and devout. Like prayer. Like coming home after every long, brutal road that had tried to keep them apart. Leon settles fully between her thighs, his broad shoulders holding her open with gentle strength, hands cradling her hips exactly as he cradles their children—protective, awed, impossibly tender. His thumbs trace slow, soothing circles against the soft skin there, grounding her as his breath ghosts warm over her most sensitive flesh.

Y/n’s breath hitches sharply at the first deliberate press of his lips. A soft, broken sound escapes her throat, half gasp, half sigh, as his tongue moves in unhurried, reverent strokes—mapping her with the same careful precision he once used to clear rooms and save lives, but now turned entirely to worship. He savors every inch, every subtle shift of her body beneath him, like he is learning her all over again, like this is the only truth that matters after every lie and every scar.

He lingers at the places that make her tremble, tongue circling and flattening with patient devotion, drawing out the pleasure in long, rolling waves rather than sharp peaks. The wet heat of his mouth is overwhelming in its gentleness—slow licks that build like quiet promises kept, the faint scrape of stubble against her inner thighs adding a grounding edge to the softness. Leon hums softly against her, the low vibration traveling straight through her core, and Y/n’s fingers flex tighter in his ash-brown hair, not guiding, not demanding, simply holding on as sensation and emotion crash over her in equal measure.

Her back arches faintly from the bed. Another soft gasp slips free, then a trembling exhale as he finds a rhythm that makes her toes curl against the sheets. Through it all, his eyes lift to hers whenever he can—piercing blue steady and open in the moonlight, full of raw, unguarded love. I see you. I have you. I will spend the rest of my life proving this is real.

Leon doesn’t rush. He never does here. He takes his time, mouth moving with deep, savoring strokes—alternating between broad, worshipful passes of his tongue and focused, gentle suction that pulls desperate little whimpers from her lips. One of his hands slides up her body to rest over her scar, palm warm and steady against that raised line between lower chest and upper abdomen, as if anchoring them both to the miracle of her survival. His other hand stays at her hip, thumb still brushing those endless soothing circles, holding her steady through every building wave.

“Leon…” she breathes, voice frayed with feeling, eyes locked on his.

He answers not with words but with another slow, devoted pass of his tongue, deeper this time, more intent, like he could pour every unspoken vow into her—every night he sat by her hospital bed, every nightmare he walked off alone, every quiet morning he woke beside her and thanked whatever force had let her stay. The pleasure coils tighter, sweeter, laced with the profound ache of how far they have come. Y/n’s thighs tremble around his shoulders. Her fingers tighten in his hair as the waves crest higher, slower, more intense because of how completely he gives himself to this.

When release finally breaks over her, it is deep and shattering in its quiet intensity—her body bowing into his mouth, a long, trembling gasp of his name falling from her lips as pleasure rolls through her in powerful, lingering surges. Leon stays with her through every pulse, mouth gentle and unrelenting in its tenderness, tongue slowing but never stopping until the last tremor fades and she is left boneless and gasping beneath him.

Only then does he press one final, lingering kiss to her before kissing his way back up her body—scar, ribs, sternum, throat—each press of his lips another silent thank you, another I love you, another affirmation that she is here, alive, his.

Y/n pulls him up to her with trembling hands, legs wrapping around him, drawing him close so she can feel the full warmth and weight of him. He enters her slowly, deep and full, both of them breathing the same shared air. A low gasp leaves her at the stretch, at the perfect, overwhelming closeness. Leon stills, forehead pressed to hers, letting them both feel it—the way they fit, the way they have always found their way back.

They move together in slow, deliberate rhythms. No frenzy. Just depth. Each thrust measured, profound, their bodies speaking the language they have learned through every hard year. Y/n’s hands map his back, feeling the shift of muscle, the warmth of him, the life beating strong beneath her palms. His eyes never leave hers for long—deep, unwavering eye contact that strips everything bare.

“I love you,” he whispers against her lips, voice low and ragged with feeling. “Every day. Every night. Every lifetime. You are my destiny.”

Y/n’s breath catches on a soft moan, her fingers tracing his cheek. “I love you,” she answers, the words trembling with emotion. “This… us… all of it. You gave me everything I never thought I’d have.”

He moves deeper, slower, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other rests over her heart, thumb brushing near the scar again. Their foreheads stay pressed together, breaths mingling, eyes locked in the moonlight. Whispers pass between them like sacred things—promises of mornings with the twins, quiet evenings in this house that is no longer empty, a future they fought for and chose.

“You’re my home,” he murmurs, voice thick as pleasure builds again, slow and intense.

“And you’re mine,” she gasps softly, holding his gaze, letting him see everything she feels.

Their release comes together—quiet, shattering in its depth. Leon’s arms tighten around her as he buries his face in her neck, a low sound of pure emotion escaping him. Y/n holds him just as fiercely, legs locked around his waist, fingers in his hair, both of them trembling with the force of it.

For long minutes afterward they stay entwined, breaths slowing, hearts beating against each other. Leon presses soft kisses to her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Y/n traces idle patterns on his back, grounding them both in the present.

The nightmare feels distant now, pushed back by warmth and skin and the steady, undeniable truth of her beside him. Not erased. Not defeated forever. But quieter than the life they have built around it.

The mansion is quiet, but not empty.

Never empty again.

Lily and Ethan sleep down the hall. Rook huffs in the hallway, stretched across the floor as he guards the door like the world is still something that might need keeping out. And here, in this bed, with Y/n warm beneath his hands and her heartbeat steady against him, Leon understands that they have made something the nightmare cannot touch.

A life.

A home.