Top Posts Tagged with #dilf leon

If You Lie Down With Me Pt. 1

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader

Summary: 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).

Word Count: 15.6k

Rating: Explicit 18+ MDNI

Tags: Protective Leon S. KennedyLeon S. Kennedy is Bad at FeelingsGame: Resident Evil 9 | RequiemPost-Resident Evil 9 | RequiemNeighborsslowish burnFluff and AngstDomestic FluffAngst with a Happy EndingEventual RomanceAge DifferenceOlder Man/Younger WomanMentioned Chris Redfield (Resident Evil)Mentioned Claire RedfieldLeon S. Kennedy is your neighborThigh RidingOral SexDrunk SexMultiple OrgasmsRidingPathetic Leon S. KennedyBroodingLeon S. Kennedy Needs a HugPorn With Plot

Part Two | Read on AO3

“‘I have led a toothless life’, he thought. ‘A toothless life. I have never bitten into anything. I was waiting. I was reserving myself for later on—and I have just noticed that my teeth have gone’.”

-Jean-Paul Sartre, The Age of Reason

July

Leon. That's the name he gives you as he jogs across his yard and half of yours to relieve you of the heavy box balancing on your forearms. Its stiff cardboard had been digging into your skin since you picked it up from the metal floor of the truck, and it left behind deep, red divots in your flesh. Such sweet reprieve to have it removed from your grasp.

“Oh, thank you,” you say, your breath returning to its normal rhythm. “That was getting a bit heavy.”

He does a few mock reps with the box to test its weight, curling it into his chest, flexing the muscles of his arms beneath his henley. “I’m sure. What’s in this thing anyway? Bricks?”

You chuckle, following him up the front steps, the wood planks softened by the humidity squishy beneath your sneakers. The weather is hot and sticky. Sweat drips down your back, gluing the fabric of the tank top you’re wearing to your burning skin. You thought you were smart in choosing the thinnest, tiniest clothes you own—a tank and cheeky cutoffs—to move around in the suffocating summer heat, but the humidity has you by the throat and perspiration has soaked through even the starchy, raw denim of your shorts.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” You shrug. “I gave up labeling them half-way through.”

When you first got the call from your realtor, and you finagled your way out of your twelve month lease, you made a very detailed, very organized plan to move. You purchased the boxes, the storage containers, the tape, and the packing peanuts, and made a list of what items were going where, planning to label each one with a strip of blue painter’s tape and a thick sharpie. You made it through two of your kitchen cabinets, gingerly wrapping each dish and mug, branding the side of each box with the details of its contents. Then, you gave up and decided that if the stuff ends up in a box, it’s a win. That’s how you got here, carrying loads of junk into your new home, without any idea where to put them.

You justified your laziness by thinking it will be like opening presents on Christmas morning.

He chuckles, the sound deep and baritone. “Just through here, then?” He nudges the box like it weighs nothing, gesturing to the front door, propped open by a plastic storage container filled to the brim with random household articles. You really should have labeled them.

“I’m (Y/N), by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, (Y/N),” he says, scanning the empty living room, eyes trickling down from the bare walls to the polished hardwood planks. “Where would you like me to put this?”

“On the floor is fine…with the other hundred boxes,” you say, pointing to the sea of beige cardboard littering the otherwise sparse floor. “You never realize just how much crap you have until it’s time to move.”

He doesn’t respond to your comment, just stares past you, through the open front door.

“How much is left in the truck?”

Your old place was by no means big, just a two-bedroom you shared with an old college friend, but in the last year, you had taken up a penchant for antique shopping, fueled by the home improvement channel and your new Pinterest account. In planning and saving up for this next step, you started collecting pieces for your new home, having to rent an external unit to store it all in because you ran out of square footage in your apartment.

Crazy enough, you didn’t think to pick up any actual furniture, just decorations that go on top of furniture.

“Nothing crazy. Just a bunch of boxes. My old place was already furnished when I got it so I don’t have any big pieces to move.”

He nods, placing his hands on his hips, taking a look around the space. The house beside his hadn’t been on the market for very long, and with the charm it holds in its historic walls, he knew it would get snatched up quickly. He expected a newly married couple or a small family to move in, maybe even a single guy with a dog. Not…you.

Your new home was one of the smaller houses in the neighborhood: a one-story cottage with whitewashed wood siding and a pillared front porch with a bench swing. It was cozy and within your price range. You don’t care that it is completely smurfed by the other homes that sprawl up and down the avenue, especially Leon’s old colonial next door. It’s tiny and perfect and yours. No more roommates. No more bad landlords.

“I’ll help you bring the rest inside.”

“No, you don’t have to do that, Leon. There’s not that much left, I swear. I can do it. Thank you, though.”

The man shakes his head, dismissing your bashful refusal of his assistance, and grins. “Come on, show me what I’m up against.”

“Fine. If you insist.”

“I insist.”

He follows you out to the moving truck parked in your driveway, the metal wall at the back slid all the way up to reveal a cab nearly full of boxes. You bite your lip as Leon’s eyes grow wide.

How much crap did this chick have, he thinks to himself.

“Not that much left, huh?”

The buttery afternoon slowly simmered into night before you knew it, and you and Leon had unloaded the entirety of the boxes left in the truck, until your living room resembled the back room of a post office, cardboard stacked from floor to ceiling.

Leon was sitting on one of the larger boxes, his legs stretched out before him, dark wash denim clinging to thick quads. His shoulders are sunken, previously impeccable posture now faltering. The man is probably worn out. You know you are.

“I should really treat you to a drink or something,” you say, sliding your hands into the back pockets of your cutoffs. “Thank you for helping, I really appreciate it.”

He nods one and the corner of his mouth twitches as he presses himself up to standing. “You’re welcome. Is it just you?”

“Yep, just me.”

“ It would have taken twice as long if not longer if you did all that by yourself. Aren't you glad you let me help?”

“Yes, I’m glad I let you help. Thank you again.”

“Don’t mention it.”

As he moves toward the door, your eyes can’t help but fall across his wide back, the shoulders so large they almost seem inhuman, more like the concoction of a sculpture chiseling the ideal man into marble. Your chest tightens and you feel an impending flush threatening to rise to your cheeks.

“I owe you a drink,” you say, taking a few steps in his tracks toward the door, not totally ready for him to leave you alone in your home yet. You’ve never lived on your own before, and as excited and ready as you thought you were, the reality that you will be by yourself once Leon shuts that door is a little daunting.

Over one of those massive shoulders, Leon steals a glance at you. He tries to keep his eyes locked on yours, not wanting to come across as the pervy, old neighbor who stares at your body, but fuck, if he doesn’t want to, especially when it is so visible to him.

You seem so kind, so genuine. So eager.

“I said don’t mention it.”

There’s a little more heat to his voice as he shuts down your proposal. “Oh, okay. Sure,” is all you’re able to muster.

He stalls by the door, giving you a moment to think about what to say next, if anything at all. That moment is cut short by Leon’s voice, taking over the conversation for you.

"Do you have a security system?" He asks, turning around to study your face as your head tilts to the side. "Like an alarm, or a camera you could put on your front door?"

"No, but I have pepper spray in my purse."

He shakes his head as a deep huff is pushed from his chest. You watch it rise and fall, the taut muscles stretching the fabric pulled tight over them.

"What? It’s a safe neighborhood,” you say, shrugging your shoulders.

“You should get one.”

“I wouldn’t know how to install it if I did.”

“I’ll do it.”

September

The last time you saw Leon was last month, when he came over to set up the security alarm, a little speck of metal that he drilled into the threshold that chirps every time you open the door. A sensor connected to a keypad installed on the wall beside the frame. He told you to pick out a four-digit code that you had to enter into it every night to activate the alarm, every morning to deactivate.

“(MM/YY).” You told him your birthday, the month and year, and he made a face, nose crinkling, eyes narrowed. He told you to pick another one, not tell him, and enter it into the keypad. He looked away when you did.

His car wasn’t in his driveway when you woke up this morning. You would assume he went to work, like you were getting ready to do, but you saw him load it up with a black duffel bag last night. It wasn’t like you were looking out for him, necessarily. It just so happens that your living room window looks out to his driveway, and while you were folding your laundry, eyes unfocused on the television playing in front of you, you heard a card door open. Right after that is when you saw him, a dark figure chopped up by the wooden slats of the blinds, putting a bag into the backseat of his SUV. He slammed the door shut and sulked back into his house.

His car didn’t return for days after that.

But when it did, wheels turning over gravel, you peered through that same window, and studied the figure behind the tinted driver’s side window as it stalled long after the ignition cut out, just waiting and waiting. He tipped his neck back until his head hit the headrest, the shadowy silhouette of his profile stagnant as he waited and waited.

Your eyes flicker to the kitchen counter, where a batch of freshly baked cookies rests beneath a glass cloche. Hands moving without any conscious direction, you place the cookies in a plastic container, slip into your sandals, and make a break for the front door. As it closes behind you, Leon’s car door slams shut, the two sounds creating a symphony loud enough to alert you of one another’s presence.

“Hi there,” he says with a wave. You hold up the container of cookies, stepping toward his house, an old Georgian.

“A thank-you. For helping me…stay safe, I guess.”

“It hasn’t been giving you any trouble, has it?”

As you draw closer to him, still standing by his car door, bag in hand, you notice the exhaustion awash across his face. Lines seem deeper. The purple moons under his eyes have darkened.

“No sir.”

The look on your face. Those words coming from your mouth. Leon’s jaw tenses as he looks down at you, wearing cotton pajama shorts and a ratty t-shirt, holding a box of treats.

“Thank you, again, really. It’s made me feel a lot better about living alone.”

“Anytime. I’ll–uh–see you around.” He flashes you a quick smile, taking the tupperware from the hands that offered them, and turns around to walk toward his front door.

October

The doorbell rang twice and your stupid hairdryer was too damn loud in your ear for you to have heard it. It was only when you switched it off that the lingering echo of the twinkling sound bounced off the hallway walls and into your ears.

Leon?

It’s not always Leon. Sometimes it’s the mailman, asking for a signature. Other times, it’s a salesperson asking if you’re interested in a new air conditioning unit. But you always, always hope it’s Leon.

Freshly-showered body clad in nothing but a haphazardly tied robe, you pad down the hall and into the living room, opening the front door just in time to see Leon’s black SUV pull out of his driveway and head down the road, passing right in front of your house. You barely have time to raise your arm, let alone wave your hand at him.

The tupperware container you gave him the cookies in, now empty and clean, rests on your doormat. Stuck to it, a note with a smiling doodle and Leon’s name in black ink.

November

For the past two months, you and Leon found yourselves talking more. Sometimes, in the warmth of your own home. Other times, standing in his driveway or yours, until he bitches about his back or his knee and the two of you move to your front porch, sitting on the swing or the steps.

He would ask about your job, your friends, your family, and you would happily tell him stories about college and your crazy, old roommate who you still keep in touch with, and silly reiterations of your younger brother’s shenanigans. He still lives at home, not yet graduated from high school, and takes every opportunity to drive your parents crazy.

“He sounds like a handful,” Leon confesses with a laugh. Gosh, you love his laugh, it’s addictive. If you could, you would bottle it up and huff it to get high. That along with his scent. What a rush you would get if you could grind it into a powder and snort it up your nose.

Good grief.

“He is. They’re counting down the days until he moves out for his first year of school. Geez,” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose at the thought of Ethan going off to college. Does he even know how to turn on the dishwasher? “I can’t believe he’ll be a freshman in college. I worry about him. The kid is such a mess.”

“He’ll be fine. If he’s anything like his…like you, I’m sure he’ll be fine. You seem to have a good head on your shoulders.”

“Ha,” you huff, flattered. The two of you are sitting on the brick step of his stoop, feet flat on the blacktop driveway. It’s warm outside, even for a late autumn afternoon in the DMV. Seventy degrees and still bright. Sunlight wanes, the butterball dipping behind near-naked trees.

It casts you in a glow that Leon cannot deny. You’re breathtaking, practically disheveled from a hectic day in the office. Your hair tousled, makeup nearly worn off, lips swollen from constant torture at the hands of your two front teeth. Strands billow down the back of your jacket as you lean to place your folded arms over bent knees, hugging yourself. He wishes he was the one with his arms around your legs. He could hit himself for letting that thought slip past the guard in his mind that guns down any inappropriate thought about his young neighbor. He’s distracted, eyelids heavy from weeks of interrupted sleep, body sore from eighty hours of back-breaking work.

“You seem to know a lot about me,” you say, your soft voice luring Leon back into the conversation, away from his mental self-flaggelation. “But I don't know that much about you.”

“Really?” He scoffs. “I’m an open book.”

That’s funny. “No you’re not,” you quip back and he nods beneath the fair assessment.

“So, can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“What do you do for work?”

It’s a simple enough question, right?

“Why that question?”

“I don’t know. You said you travel for work a lot and you always seem…” What’s the word you’re searching for? Different? Sad? Burdened? “...distracted when you come back.”

He hates that you’ve noticed that. “I work for the government. Security work.”

“Are you a spy or something?”

He chuckles, his baritone laugh filling the car and you with a warm buzz. “No, nothing like that. I work for the DSO.”

“Never heard of it.”

Good. That’s good.

“Like I said, security work.”

“Do you like it?”

Does he like it? What a loaded question spoken in so few words. He wishes you had asked him his favorite color instead. He had a much simpler, cut-and-dry response to give.

“No. Sometimes.”

“No? Sometimes?” You parrot him in the hope that he will hear the duplicity in his words and will elaborate further.

“I can’t give you a straight answer to that, I’m sorry. You’ll just have to believe me when I say that it’s complicated.” He sucks in a breath, then leans back to recline on his palms. The dark blue quarter-zip he’s sporting looks as though it’s just one size too small and the seams might rip beneath the tension of his bulging muscles. “I like saving lives,” he continues. “That’s why I got into this mess in the first place. But it’s tough work and it hasn’t left me with much room to do anything else with my life.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” He does know. “Having a family, hobbies, traveling.”

“Really? I feel like you’re always gone somewhere.”

“I should have clarified. Traveling, not for work purposes.”

“If you could go anywhere–not for work–where would you go?”

He takes a moment to really ponder your question. “I wouldn’t want to go anywhere I’ve had to go for work, that’s for sure.” Your eyebrows crease as you look up at him. You make a mental note to research what exactly employees of the DSO do when you get back home. “How about Japan? Or Greece? I think I’d like Greece. All those blue and white buildings overlooking the Mediterranean.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Greece, too,” you squeak, face aglow. “You’ll have to let me tag along when you go.”

January

“He’s taking you to a ballet?”

“Yep,” you chirp into the receiver, placing the phone between your cheek and your shoulder so your two hands are free to hold up the dresses to your frame. Option one is a strong contender, a black tea-length fit-and-flare with an Old Hollywood silhouette à la Audrey Hepburn that shows off your waist. Option two is a bit edgier. Strapless with a square neckline that doesn’t give too much away, the red satin clings to your waist, your hips, all the way down to your calves. The only con is you can barely walk in it, the skirt is so restricted, straight as a pencil. But it looks great.

Standing in front of the mirror in just your bra and panties as a blank slate, you hold up the first option against your body. It’s pretty and conservative. The shiny taffeta can easily be paired with your mother’s strand of pearls and a pair of kitten heels. But option two is sexy. It’s provocative.

Would Jackson like it? He seems so reserved and straightlaced, you think it might scare him off.

But he is a man…

“I didn’t know people still went to those,” Diana huffs on the other end. Poor thing thinks guys only take girls out to sports bars and football games. She needs to get out of your hometown. “Is he old?”

“People do still go to those, especially in D.C. The company here is incredible, or so I’ve heard.”

“The company? He’s got you talking like an old person. Wait. Is he old?”

You giggle. “No, he’s my age.”

“Is he rich?”

“Who?”

“The man who’s taking you out on a date, tonight. Who else would we be talking about?”

“Oh, right, duh. Um, getting there. He’s still just a junior associate at the firm. His parents are, though. They have, like, two houses.”

“Ah,” she clicks her tongue. “That’ll do it. Well, in that case, you have my approval.”

“Heads or tails?” You ask, changing the subject, heads being option one.

“Eenie meenie–”

“Just pick one,” you groan.

“Okay, fine. Tails.”

Of course the dress Diane psychically picked is the more daring of the two.

“Okay, thanks for picking out a dress for me. I’ll send you a pic when I’m all dressed up.”

“Wait, I didn’t know that’s what I was choosing for you. I want to see the options. Not fair.”

“Perfectly fair, that’s kind of the point of flipping a coin. Plus, I don’t have time. He’s picking me up in T-minus…” you glance at the glowing alarm clock on your bedside table. “Ten minutes.”

She groans dramatically. “Okay, fine, but I want to see the fit and you’ll have to tell me all the details after, okay? And I mean all the details, you hear me? Not the PG version either. Got it? Got it?”

“Yes, yes, yes. Photo and details. Copy that. Now, I really do have to go.”

The two of you spit out rushed “goodbyes” and “I love you’s” and you hang up the call and throw option one onto your bed, shimmying option two’s hanger straps off the wooden arms of the hanger, and toss that aside too.

It takes you a minute to shimmy into the unforgiving satin, but once you do, you begin the fight with the zipper. You get the tiny metal piece pulled all the way up your hips and half-way up your spine until it begins to rub a blister on the pads of your fingers and you feel yourself start to sweat.

And the doorbell rings. Ten minutes before he’s supposed to get here and he’s already at the door.

You hiss out a swear, slide into the heels you bought especially for the occasion, and grab the clutch that barely holds your phone and a tube of lipstick.

Swinging the door open, you whole-heartedly expect to see Jackson standing, a bouquet of flowers in tow, with the big, toothy grin he always wears warming up his face.

“You’re ear—”

It’s not your date, but your next door neighbor. Leon stands on your front porch, hands in the front pockets of his dark jeans, sporting the orthopedic sneakers he always has on, along with a sweet grin that slowly melts off his face once he sees you.

He can’t control it. His jaw went completely slack when he saw you standing in the doorway, illuminated by the dim backlight of the glowing kitchen behind you. You’re wearing a dress that is far too flattering, looking like a Barbie doll behind the plastic sheen of a display case.

“Oh, Leon,” you say, not expecting to see him on your doorstep. “Hi. What are you doing here?”

He was there to ask you to go out to dinner with him, but it looks like someone already beat him to the chase. You certainly aren’t wearing a dress like that to lounge around in your living room. You didn’t spend all that time tying up your hair just to get pizza with a friend.

“I–uh–came by to–uh–”

“Oh wait, hold that thought. Do you mind zipping me up all the way? I can’t reach.” You turn around and put your hands on your hips, not giving him time to refuse.

He wants to say “no”. A sick, jealous part of him wants to refuse having any part in readying you for another man, helping you into a dress he would never get the chance to take off. But, the hero in him wants to save the day, to come to your rescue.

“Going out?” He asks shortly, the timbre of his voice reaching a new low as he steps toward you. The top half of the dress is open, revealing a soft swatch of skin beneath the gaping fabric. With the grip of a man whose job description is to be dexterous with small, moving parts like the ribbed safety of a handgun or the inner walls of a rifle, he locates the coated metal of the zipper. As he pulls it upward, the knuckle of his pointer finger grazes the warmth of your back, the patch just across your spine. He pretends not to notice the bumps that rise across your skin, and you pretend not to feel the heat stirring in your lower belly.

How can the feather-light touch of a man you hardly know bring on such a strong physical reaction? You feel as if your limbs might turn to jelly, your heart being so fast you can hear it reverberating against the cavern of your ear canal.

“Thank you,” you squeak, turning around so Leon can take in the sight of you once more.

“Anytime.”

“I’m sorry I interrupted before. Did you say you needed something?”

“No.” He doesn’t even bother to spin a lie or make up an excuse, just wanting to get out before your date shows up and he has to come face-to-face with the man who will reflect all of his own shortcomings. He’s probably your age, still sprite and wide-eyed like you. Enthusiastic with a lust for life Leon lost a long time ago. “Have fun tonight. You look great.”

That’s all he says before he dips out of your door and you don’t see him for weeks.

March

“What in the world are you doing out there? It’s raining cats and dogs.” His voice is nearly shouting, carried across the few feet of grass between the sides of your homes, through the wet slosh of the downpour, and onto your porch.

You shudder, wholly unsure if it was from the giggle in your throat or the shiver creeping up across your skin. Either way, you’re practically buzzing, watching as Leon peers down at you from beneath the cover of his own porch. The concern on his face is borderline amusing. He’s looking at you from beneath furrowed brows, frowning with such worry as though you’re caught in the crossfire of a battlefield, not curled up, taking refuge from a thunderstorm.

“I like the sound of the rain,” you lie. “Just came out—to hear it—better.” Your teeth are chattering, and you didn’t realize just how cold you were until you needed to muster up enough warmth to oil up your pipes.

Before you know it, you hear footsteps sinking into the soggy grass of your front yard. Leon has walked over, in the rain, to your front porch. He was tired of yelling through the downpour, and decided it wasn’t going to let up any time soon so why wait? Plus your well-being is worth getting drenched.

Blonde strands, streaked with gray, cling to his temples, and with them are raindrops that trail down the skin there.

“You’re completely soaked.”

You blush only because you imagine him saying that under different circumstances. His hand down your pants, for example.

He’s right. Your dress is drenched through, the thin chiffon clinging to your goose-pimpled skin, sopping wet and—you look down at the black fabric molded to your thighs—incredibly sheer. If only you could dip into your house and grab your robe.

“And you’re shivering.” He holds out two open palms for you to take. You do, and he pulls you up to meet him, realizing how close he brought you to his own face, and he takes a step back, not sure he could control himself if he was so close to you.

Maybe having you farther away was a mistake, because now he can see the entirety of your body, clad in what he assumes was once a flowy dress, now completely soaked through and clinging to your every dip and curve. He can tell that you’re not wearing a bra, maybe one without much padding…or any underwear? No, you’re definitely wearing underwear because he sees the outline of the fabric jutting beneath your dress. It must be very thin, however, because it doesn’t do much to hide the outline of your—

Stop, Leon, he says internally. Do not look at her…there.

“Was the date so bad you had to wash it off in the rain?” He asks to distract himself, clearing his throat. It’s a futile attempt because the idea of you having dinner with another man does little to calm his nerves. The boy picked you up earlier, gave you his elbow as he walked you down from your front porch to his car, a sporty BMW. The kid held the door open as you sunk down into the seat, and he made sure the skirt of your dress was out of the way before he gently shut you inside.

He knows you went on a date. That means he saw you with Jackson, either when he picked you up, when the sky was still clear of the rumbling clouds that made an appearance during dinner. Or when he dropped you off, sheets of rain already tumbling down, when he spun you around in his arms and kissed you in the middle of the torrential deluge. At that moment, you thought it was romantic. Kissing the boy you like as the rain soaked you both, tangled in a wet embrace. It was romantic. Jackson was romantic. But he sure as hell wasn’t Leon, who saw the bookends of your night out on the town with another man. Now the memory makes your stomach sour.

“No, nothing like that,” you say with a sigh, holding up the small beaded clutch in your hand for him to see. “I changed out my purse for tonight, and forgot my keys in my other bag like an idiot.” You shake your head again. “Didn’t forget three different tubes of lipgloss though. Priorities, I guess.”

You even open up the lips of the bag to show Leon your collection of shimmering makeup products. He doesn’t quite know what he’s looking at but he chuckles anyway because you find it amusing. It snaps to a close and you place it under your arm. An arm glistening with crystal droplets.

Damp strands that once fell loose from your low bun now stick to your temples. One thick clump worms its way to the corner of your mouth. You use the tip of your tongue to push it away in an obscenely childish maneuver. What are you going to do next? Rub your runny nose with your sleeve? As much as you want to chide yourself for such a grossly immature act, Leon finds it utterly endearing. He doesn’t comment on it, though, compliment or not, because he sees the look in your eyes as you realize what you did and the immediate flush of your cheeks that followed. He’d rather not cause you any further embarrassment.

“You didn’t want to call your boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you answer quickly, chomping at the bit to shut down Leon’s accusation.

“Ah.” He looks past you to the doormat shedding scratchy fibers onto the terracotta tiles beneath it. Then to the potted plants on either side of the door, the dry leaves soaking up the mist that the wind thrusts at them. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare key hidden somewhere, would you?”

“No,” you say, and he looks at you before shaking his head in disappointment. “But I gave one to my friend when I moved in. I called her thirty minutes ago and she said she’ll be by in the next hour or two when she gets off work.”

“So you just plan on waiting out here?”

“I guess,” you say, uncommitted to an answer.

He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Come on, you can dry off at my place.”

Your arm brushes against his once on the short walk over to his front door, and your skin is still burning when he opens it, letting you in for the first time.

The space is a lot cozier than you imagined it would be. You’re not sure why, but you pictured Leon living in a more sterile environment, void of warmth and comfort—something utilitarian, shred of all the frills so that only the absolute necessities remain. He seems very Spartan in that way. But this—his home puts all of those prejudiced assumptions to shame, showing you a completely different side of the man.

Across from the crackling fireplace, there is an overstuffed couch, upholstered in a smooth linen fabric that peeks out beneath a couple blankets thrown haphazardly over the back. It looks inviting and for a moment, the image of you and Leon curled up on the seat cushions flashes across your mind. Your knees are tucked into your chest, his body is turned toward yours, close enough for him to read out and touch your knee. The still is so vivid that you can almost feel the warmth of his palm on your flesh.

The image disappears, leaving you, once again, to take in the details of the room around you. Tucked into a corner of two tall bookcases, is a brown leather wing-back chair that looks well-loved, worn at the arms and the seat. It stands regally, tucked between the fireplace and a wooden side table that holds a tall lamp and a stack of paperback books.

“Nice place,” you say sweetly, kicking off your shoes by the door. He smirks down at you, suddenly shorter than the man without your heels on to bolster you up to his height. He’s not spectacularly tall by any means, standing at five-foot-eleven.

“Thanks,” is all he says as he shuts the front door behind you, turning not one but three different locks. The metal of each one clinks. If he were any other man, that might be creepy, but after you heard snippets about his work, the paranoia makes sense. “Let me go get you a towel.”

Your eyes follow his gaze down to the hem of your dress. It’s dripping. Actual drops fall from the fabric onto the floor, pooling around your bare feet.

“Oh, Leon, I’m sorry. I’m dripping everywhere.”

He’s not looking at the puddle now dampening his floor. No, he’s looking at the dress. The one that is so damp, it clings to your thighs. Your pretty, fleshy thighs. Yeah, you’re dripping alright.

Get a grip, Leon.

“Do you want to change? I’ll get you some clothes and you can get ready in the guest bedroom. I can even hang up your dress in the shower, so it’ll dry.”

“Sure,” you oblige, and you follow him up the stairs and down the upstairs hallway, careful not to drip too much onto the polished hardwood. “Your house is really nice. Kind of big for just a single guy.” Why did you say that? You idiot freak. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

He just shrugs, stopping you in front of a closed door before taking a few more steps down the hall. “I’ll be back,” he promises, opening the door to what you assume is his bedroom, giving you just a peek into the suite before shutting it behind him. All you were able to see is a headboard and an unmade bed. Crisp, white sheets crumpled across the mattress. A grey comforter sliding off the foot of the bed. He must thrash in his sleep for the dressings to be strewn about like that. Or he’s had someone over.

You imagine sleeping there with him, your naked bodies tangled together, twisted up in those sheets. His hands roaming your bare flesh, kneading and grabbing your hips as he had his way with you.

He returns quickly and you avert your gaze from the door, hoping he isn’t a vampire or alien that can read your mind and learns that you’ve been fantasizing about him.

“Here,” he says, holding a stack of folded clothing: black sweatpants and a gray t-shirt. It seems to be his uniform.

Both of you linger silently in the hallway, just standing opposite of one another. Leon’s hands are in the pockets of his lounge pants, the t-shirt he’s wearing doing all but hiding the muscles of his chest and abdomen, not to mention the veiny biceps outstretched from the sleeves. You’re just standing there, dumb, waiting on him to say something.

He’s just so handsome, you’re completely caught up in the beauty of his face, his form. Those eyes that stare so intently. The dimple of his chin. The softness of his jaw, marked with stubble that is patchy in some places, gray in most. You want to kiss him there, feel the hair tickling your lips. You need to stop thinking about him in that way. It’s not going to happen.

“The guest bedroom is behind you.” He cuts his eyes to the side, then immediately back to you, waiting.

Duh.

“Oh, right,” you cough up a nervous breath. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll change in here.” You just keep pumping out weightless words to combat the awkwardness of the last few seconds. You hope you weren’t staring or doing anything weird with your face.

“Hand me your dress when you're changed and I can hang it up, like I said.”

“Yeah, of course,” you repeat, as if it’s the only phrase you know.

The guest bedroom is small and neat, but relatively unadorned, housing only a queen-sized mattress, two nightstands on either side of the made bed, and a dresser opposing the wooden headboard. In the corner, there is a standing mirror, also wooden, definitely old.

Your fingers struggle with the zipper, huffing and puffing until you find the right angle and grab onto the miniscule metal tongue with one hand, yanking it down with the other. Sliding the sleeves down your arms, the fabric unglued itself from your body. The tiny bra you were wearing is damp in some spots, but you’d rather not pass that on to Leon for him to hang up in his bathroom, so you keep it on, alongside the lace panties on your hips. With the towel he gave you, you dry off, starting with your neck, shuffling the cloth down to your feet, drying off every inch of skin.

Before redressing, you patter toward the door with your dress in hand and open it just a crack.

Leon turns around at the sound of the door creaking open, and he approaches to grab the garment from you as you slide it through the opening. He notices the bra strap on your shoulder and behind that, the mirror angled toward the door, giving him a perfectly good view of your bare thighs, and lace-clad cheeks.

He nearly chokes on air.

“You okay?” You ask.

“Yeah,” he nods. “I’ll go hang this up.” he skidattles before you can notice the erection straining the thin pajama pants he’s wearing.

Back in the guest room, you throw on the t-shirt and pants he provided, pattering to the hallway.

“Leon?”

He hears your voice through the bathroom door, busying himself with an empty hanger he grabbed from his closet, sliding the capped sleeves of your dress onto the wood before hanging it on the curtain rod.

“Fuck,” he hisses to himself, looking down to see how stiff he had gotten. He didn’t think he had it in him anymore, and if it were any other time, he would be pleasantly surprised to see that his body still somewhat functions in that department. But now? He needs it to go away.

His hand reaches into his pants. He palms the stiff shaft, praying the touch brings him some relief.

“I’ll just wait in the living room.” Your voice clears as he opens the door half-way through the sentence that comes from those pretty lips. Don’t think about her pretty lips, Leon, he commands himself.

“Hi,” you chirp as Leon’s bare feet bring him down the stairs and into the living room. You’re standing near the fireplace.

“Hey. Do you want anything to drink?” He asks, lingering in the portal between the living room and the kitchen, his hand resting on the painted wood frame. “I have water and whiskey, and maybe a beer or two, but that’s about it.”

There is an unidentifiable tone in his voice that weakens it. He sounds disappointed or ashamed of himself.

“Water is fine, thank you, Leon.”

You’re such a sweet girl, he thinks before dipping into the kitchen, leaving you to your own devices in his living room. You take the opportunity to give yourself a tour of the space, padding onto a red oriental rug that spans nearly the entirety of the hardwood slats making up the floor. Each vibrant, colored thread is woven into geometric shapes and motifs beneath your bare feet.

You turn back around to the fireplace. The mantle is dripping with mis-matched frames, each one filled with pictures of Leon of all different ages, of scenic landscapes that portray him as a well-traveled man.

One photo in particular stands out to you. A younger version of your neighbor in his late twenties, early thirties at most, stands between a girl around the same age and a man with similar features to hers. Their arms are all interwoven behind each other’s backs, all flashing bright, genuine smiles at the camera. He looks less…burdened here.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Leon standing once more in the doorway, watching you intently. His piercing blue eyes scan your body, stopping at the photo in your hands. He smirks when he realizes which picture rests inside the painted wood frame.

“Those are the Redfields.” Leon’s voice draws closer as he meets you at the fireplace. His footsteps are light, graceful, which is funny considering they belong to a man with such an obscene amount of muscle. A glass of ice water in his hand, he looks again at the frame in yours. “Claire and Chris. I met Claire when I was a rookie cop in Racoon City. She was there when everything went to shit.” He waits to see the look of recognition come across your face, but it never does. God, you are young, he thinks. Sweet summer child, so innocent and unaware of the kinds of horrors he has seen. “Before your time, I guess,” he shuckles deeply. “And that’s Chris, her brother. We go way back.” He points to the brunette man beside him.

“You look so young in this picture.” It’s just an observation on your part, nothing more, and Leon knows that, but the remark hits him where it hurts. He was probably your age, maybe a little bit older, when that photo was taken. It was captured during a time when he truly thought his life would amount to something, that among the smoke and blood and gunpowder, he would still be able to have it all, despite the job, despite the world he was so hastily thrown into. Oh, how wrong he was. You still get to have what he couldn’t. Maybe you’ll get married one day and have a family. Maybe you’ll get a dog. Maybe, in ten years, you’ll still be living in that house next door and he’ll get to watch you enjoy the life you created for yourself.

He’s not sure he could stick around and see you build the life he never got to have with someone else. He’d have to move if he even lived long enough to see the day.

If only he met you then, maybe things could have worked out for him. He shakes that thought out of his head, distracting himself from the idea of being with you by reverting back to the photo.

“We took a trip up to the mountains one summer with a couple other friends.”

You nod, still looking at the picture. “You never told me that you were so handsome.”

He has the same haircut, the same dimple in his chin. He just looks more weathered now, fine lines across his forehead, around his eyes and mouth. Deeper ones cut across the pebbled skin of his neck. He’s still breathtakingly beautiful.

“Maybe I forgot. That was a long time ago.”

“Sorry,” you apologize quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re still very handsome.”

You blush, so pretty and pink beneath the low light. “Sorry,” you repeat. “Was that a weird thing to say?”

Is she flirting with me, he thinks. No, of course not, he’s too old. She’s just being polite because she thought he had offended him.

“No, not weird at all.” He smirks and it goes straight to your clit, now throbbing so hard you have to cinch your thighs together to keep yourself from becoming a pile of jelly on the floor.

You’re not sure how to fill the silence that falls over the room. Leon’s smile falters and he’s just staring down at you, the rise and fall of his chest struggling to keep up with his now labored breath.

“You know you’re good-looking.” Fuel to the fire. “Not sure why you look so surprised.”

You’ve caught him off guard. He doesn’t know how to respond to that assessment.

“Maybe I just haven’t heard it in a while. Not from a beautiful woman like you.”

Now it’s your turn to be speechless. You regroup, finding your bearings again. You need to sit down before your knees give out and you melt into a puddle of nerves on the floor, staining his run. Stepping over toward the couch, Leon follows you, taking a seat on the cushion at the opposite end of the one you chose to settle on, criss-crossing your legs.

Gosh, he’s so gorgeous. Rugged and weathered, sure, that comes with his age, but gorgeous is still the first word you’d use to describe him. The slight bump at the bridge of his knows. Pretty lips that part slightly whenever you’re in his presence.

He could say the same thing about you, the absolutely stunning woman who can’t seem to leave him alone no matter how awkward, tense, or avoidant he seems. You’re always there with a smile or an offering of beer or cookies, trying to drag him out of the hole he’s created for himself.

“Can I ask you a question, Leon?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you have such a big house if it’s just you living here?”

You’re not accusing him of anything, you just want to know why a single, older man lives in such a large home all by himself. Heavy-lidded and low, his eyes flicker upward from the comfort of his lap to meet yours. The contact sends a tittering chill down your spine and lightning bolts between your thighs.

As soon as you think he’s about to answer through parted lips, Leon closes his mouth and chooses a physical response instead of a verbal one. He shrugs the shoulder not dug into the back of the sofa.

“I bought it a couple years back, thinking I might get married and have a family. Never happened.”

What do you say to that?

Oh, damn.

Woof, that sucks.

Sorry for the loss of your imaginary family.

“You still have time,” is what you settle on instead, instantly regretting it. Leon is obviously not getting any younger, and you might have just stuck the knife in deeper with that comment. He really doesn’t still have time, and he knows it.

“No,” is all he says, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t. ‘Ts why I’m selling the place.”

Like a slap to the face. Saliva pools beneath your stupefied tongue as your jaw drops open in awe.

“What? You’re moving?”

“Yeah, ‘gonna put it on the market soon. Just need to talk to a realtor.”

“Wha—where are you going to go? Are you leaving town?”

“Oh, no,” he chuckles deeply. “I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to. My job is here. I just want to close this chapter and get something smaller, less work to keep up. I don’t need all this space and I’m getting older. I don’t want to have to maintain it all. Plus, someone else will need it more than I do anyway.” Someone else with a family to care for, a dog that can run around in the backyard, children that can fill the rooms with toys and laughter.

He wanted to have that more than anything. He wanted colorful letter magnets on the fridge, ballet lessons, soccer practices. He wanted to trip over toy cars left out on the floor, and begrudgingly (but not really) play house with dolls. He wanted to be chased around with sticky, syrup-coated fingers and attend school plays.

Maybe if he was twenty-eight again, just like he was in that photo, and if you were his neighbor, as sweet and willing as you are now, he would have asked you to do it all with him.

Okay, he’s not leaving town. That knowledge calms your nerves, but the pit in your stomach is still gaping wide like a canyon.

“I’m going to miss seeing you, though,” he admits quietly, regretting the words as soon as they come out of his mouth, especially when he sees the look on your face beneath them. You’re wearing an expression he can’t quite decipher. Did he frighten you? Did he disgust you by saying such a perverse thing?

It’s borderline uncomfortable being in Leon’s presence. He’s older and stronger and could easily pounce and have his way with you in a split second. That idea should probably scare you, but no, the discomfort comes from the desire you feel pooling in your belly, the rope you feel pulling you to him as your seat comes unglued from the sofa cushion. You raise yourself slowly so as not to scare him off, and before his reflexes can react and tug him away, you move into his space and plant a kiss on his cheek.

His face is warm and soft under your pursed lips as they linger for a second too long. In those moments, you debate cupping his face, running your fingers through his hair, planting a palm or two on his chest. He backs up an inch, pulling himself from your touch before you can do any of those things.

“Leon, I’m sorry. Was that too much?”

He closes his eyes, putting up a hand between the two of you.

“You–I–we can’t do this, (Y/N).” The words feel like a kick in the face. The flame of embarrassment rises to the apples of your cheeks, lighting them up with a fierce blush. “My job is dangerous. It takes me away all the time, and I rarely know how long I’ll be gone or if I’m coming back. Sometimes, I don’t think I will. It’s part of the reason why I’m selling this place, why I never got to share it with anyone. I’m not going to drag you into that.”

Throat dry and scratchy, you swallow the lump stuck behind your tongue. “You’re not dragging me into anything, Leon.”

He gives you a weak smile and huffs. “You say that now, kid.” They all do. When the courtship is still in its beginning phases, Leon introduces the woman to his lifestyle, piece by piece, softly bringing up the intricacies of his job. While she’s still entranced by his heroic position or his good looks or the money or the car, she’s all on board. She promises to stay with him, come hell or high water, but once the threads are worn thin and she’s tired of the waiting, the worrying, she leaves. He hasn’t known you for very long, so he trusts that you will be no different. Plus, you’re young and naive. Even if you seemed one-hundred percent confident in what you wanted, Leon doubts he’d believe you enough to open up his heart to destruction again.

“I mean it–”

“No, stop. Shh,” he says, tilting his head, eyes squinted as he cuts them around the sofa. “Is that your phone vibrating?”

You almost missed it beneath the ringing in your ears, but sure enough, Cecilia is calling.

“It’s the friend I have my key to,” is all you have time to say before picking up the phone and answering. The conversation doesn’t last long. She’s parked outside, in your driveway.

“She’s here to unlock my door.” Your voice trails off into a hum as you stand up and collect your purse from the table behind the sofa. His bright blue eyes look up at you, awash with an expression you can’t quite name. “Can we finish this conversation tomorrow?”

He nods, bringing himself to standing so he can walk you to the door. Though he led you to believe tomorrow’s planned conversation would be possible, Leon knew he would be long gone to Rio before you woke up.

That night, when he’s lying in bed, on the second hour of trying to force himself to sleep, Leon thinks about you. He thinks about what you’re doing. He wonders if you’re awake like he is, if you’re thinking about him like he’s thinking about you. Of course, you’re not awake. You’re normal, probably fast asleep for hours by now. Maybe you’re dreaming about him. He wants to dream about you.

That photo. Why did you have to look at that photo?

He pictures himself at twenty-eight, around your age. His skin, smooth and mostly unscarred, untainted by twenty years of fighting. He isn’t graying. No wrinkles or joint pain. His back doesn’t yell out at him when he bends the wrong way, or lifts something heavy without first laying into his knees. You said he was handsome, so maybe you would have accepted the proposition of a date if he had asked. He would have made a reservation at a fancy restaurant and put on a suit, slicked his hair back so it didn’t flop in your face when he tried to kiss you. Would you have let him kiss you then? Would you let him now? The old, wrinkled, tired version of the boy you saw in that picture?

Leon knows the answer to that already. You tried to kiss him tonight and he didn’t let you. Why was he so stupid as to not let you kiss him? It’s one of the only things he’s been able to think about when he has a spare moment to himself. The smooth curve of your lips on his.

He hasn’t gotten hard in a while. He hasn’t tried. But the images his brain is conjuring up right now send a twinge between his thighs and he feels the fabric of his briefs stretch across his growing arousal.

“Stop it,” he berates himself aloud, rolling over to stuff his face in the pillow. He shouldn’t think of you in that way. He has to let you go.

May

The doorbell rings, and there’s only one person you hope to see on your doorstep. You say a quick prayer that it’s not Jackson, come to try and convince you to take him back after your break-up. It wasn’t messy, per se, but it was your idea, and Jackson isn’t the type of guy who just gives up on things he wants. Hopefully he doesn’t want you badly enough to show up unsolicited at your front door.

Thankfully, your prayer was answered and then some. Leon is on your front porch, standing with his shoulders rolled back, his hands clasped behind him.

“Hi,” is all he says when you swing open the door and lay eyes on him. He never fails to steep your breath, whether it’s his face or the mass of muscle that seems to be one flex away from bursting out of his clothing. The way his chest presses against the fabric of his compression shirt is enough to make your vision go blurry. “I’ve been holding your dress hostage, apparently. Totally forgot I had it.”

Both of those things are technically true. Once the dress had somewhat dried hanging up in his bathroom, the night before he left for South America, Leon had held it in his arms as he tried to go to sleep. He also might have smelled it. A few times.

After he returned from the mission, he did forget about it, the dress just hanging in his closet to only be remembered when he was looking for that shirt you once said looked good on him. He wanted to wear it when he randomly stopped by your house today, and then, to his surprise, he found the dress and a perfectly good excuse to see you along with it.

He brings an arm forward, a folded square of chiffon in his grasp. Leon’s large hand makes the dress look like a handkerchief. The sight of the thick, blue veins beneath his knuckles makes your knees weak.

“Oh right,” is all you say, the smile plastered on your face not allowing for any other words to be formed. “Thanks, Leon.”

He nearly groans when he hears his name so sweet on your lips. A quick clearing of his throat covers it up. “Yeah, of course.”

“Would you like to come in? I made cookies earlier, if you’d like one.” You open the door slightly, gesturing for him to come inside.

He saunters inside, a large arm brushing past yours as he walks past you.

“I give you permission to shoot me if I ever say ‘no’ to that invitation.”

That makes you giggle. Either the goofy quips he constantly pulls out of his pocket are actually funny, or he’s just so ridiculously handsome that anything he says can make you laugh. The latter is probably true.

He’s just so damn handsome. Is he even real? Maybe you should reach out and touch him just to make sure.

You grab a plate from the cabinet and serve Leon one of your signature chocolate chip cookies, just shy of fresh from the oven.

“Seriously, I think you put crack in these, they’re so good.” He takes another bite. You’re both leaning over your kitchen counter, across from one another.

His wide smile dwindles slightly, but he’s still looking at you with those sharp blue eyes as they flicker to each feature on your face, lingering on your mouth, your cheeks, your eyes.

“Thank you. Glad to know I’ve perfected the recipe. My grandmother would be very proud.”

June

Leon had been gone for over a month. He left the morning after he returned your dress to you. The one you wore the night you tried to lunge at him and plant your mouth all over his face. The night after he told you things would never work between you both. When he stopped by, he didn’t mention it once, which somehow made it worse.

You gave him one hour between hearing his car pull into his driveway and stomping across the patch of grass separating your homes to knock on his door. Apparently, that was more than enough time for him to clean up and start drinking.

“You’re back.” Then, “What happened?”

He’s fresh from a shower, still somewhat damp and smelling like the soap he uses, citrus and pine. The scent radiates from the warm skin exposed beneath his black v-neck t-shirt: strong, pale arms and a collarbone peppered with hair. He holds himself up with a crooked arm resting on the door frame, displaying a bulging bicep and shallow cuts across his skin. In his other hand, a sweating beer.

Staying silent, Leon just glares at you before backing out of the doorway to step aside, gesturing for you to enter his home. You kick off your shoes and pad into the living room. He follows sluggishly, catching up with you.

You hiss when the cold bottle is pressed to the bare flesh of your upper arm, snapping around to see Leon smirking down at you. He just wanted to hear you squeal. He regretted the act as soon as he did it, but your little yelp was gratifying nonetheless.

“Want a drink?” That’s all he says. You’ve been worried out of your mind for the past month and all he does is ask if you want some alcohol. Truly, you want to be mad at him, but you can’t find the anger under the relief you feel. The sight of him, living and breathing, glides over your skin like a salve.

“No, thanks. I’m so sorry to intrude.” You look around the living room, eyes immediately finding a gaggle of empty beer bottles at the foot of his chair. “I just–I saw your car in the driveway. I figured you got back from work finally, and thought I’d come by to check up on you.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” he says, stepping across you to the leather wingback chain in the corner of the living room. He sinks into it, groaning on his way down, stretching out his legs onto the rug. Bare feet splay across the geometric pattern.

You wait, still only a couple feet from the door where he left you, watching as he does nothing but drink his beer and gaze back at you.

“So how was it?” You just want to hear his voice. You want to know that he’s alright. A month is a long time for things to go awry, and from what little information you were able to glean about the work the DSO does, you’re sure a month is far too long for him to have gotten away without taking some sort of damage. Whether it’s above or below the surface, you’d like to find out so you can make it better.

“Fine.” He grunts at you. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You were gone for a long–”

“I’m fine. If you’re going to keep asking silly questions, you can go.”

His heartless words are like suckerpunch to the gut, leaving your stomach contorting itself into a knot–a raggedy nest made from twine and rags and discarded trash. You’re not even sure which emotion is at the forefront of the battle marching on inside of you. Maybe it’s sorrow for the mean, old man in front of you. Regret for ever putting your lips on him and letting him feel the softness you have for him through your skin. Shame for mentally labeling him as “mean” and “old”, because he truly is neither. Sympathy for a human being who is obviously being worked to death, the life milked out of him by the greedy fist of a vengeful, uncaring government. Maybe it’s a concoction of all those ugly, festering diseases. Or maybe it’s something altogether more primal and unwavering, something that has clawed its way into your skin like a tick, burrowing deeper and deeper until it latches itself to you, its host, and never lets go.

You might love the man. Why else would a perfectly rational grown woman have worried herself sick over her neighbor who she has spent a collective twenty hours in the presence of?

“What? I wanted to see if you were alright–”

“I said you can go. I don’t need a nurse or some woman hovering over me right now. Just leave me alone.”

You must love him. Why else would you let yourself be spoken to with such disgust and condescension and still want to kiss and caress and take care of the inductor of the pain now simmering in your chest?

Eyes stinging and tears threatening to fall, you bite your lip to keep the messy emotions at bay, fully confident that a wet tantrum would not help your case. Some woman.

He sees your face fall and sighs deeply, his shoulders drooping. “Shit, I’m sorry, (Y/N). My assignment was shitty and I’m tired and I’ve had too much to drink. I’m sorry. Don’t let me be an ass to you, okay?” He sets his beer down on the table beside him.

“It’s okay, really. I get it. I should have waited until you settled in–I shouldn’t have–”

Even though he has already apologized, the tears come anyway, welling up on your lashes, stringing as they drip down your cheeks ruthlessly. He jumps up like the seat is on fire, lunging toward you, tugging your body into his arms. Booze and wood strong on his neck as he pulls you closer, rocking you gently from side to side.

“Fuck,” he swears with a bite, moving to lock his jaw on the crown of your head. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I don’t feel like myself today.”

Baby. He just called you ‘baby’. He doesn’t notice, but you do.

You cry out into his chest, wrapping your arms around his torso, hiccuping. Gosh, you probably look so pathetic and childish right now, sobbing into this man’s shirt, but you can’t help it.

“I’m just glad you’re alive, Leon. You scared me. You said you might not come back one day, and I was so worried when I didn’t see you for so long.”

“I know, I’m so sorry. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

But he is. He’s moving, and soon at that. One day in the near future, you’ll be separated by a lot more than a patch of grass and a retaining wall that does nothing but help you step into his yard.

Maybe you can convince him to stay. Maybe your love will convince him that he is worthy of a home, of space, of beauty in his life. That’s why you kiss him, because you think your touch will keep him here.

His lips are softer than you had imagined, and his mouth tastes like the bitter tang of liquor. The touch riles up a swarm of butterflies in your stomach.

He pulls away, hands coming up to your upper arms.

“I’ve had a few drinks.”

August

“Leon, is that you?”

You know it is.

The sound of his sneaker-clad feet–the sound you have practically memorized–cut through the late summer sounds of chirping crickets and heat waves. The hot day melted into a swarthy evening, a bright yellow sun slowly dipping into the horizon, painting the sky with pink and purple clouds. The streetlamps have already turned on, and children have returned from dinner to continue their outdoor activities. A couple of kids from across the street play hopscotch on the sidewalk they painted with chalk earlier.

“Hey.” He doesn’t say anything more as he takes a seat next to you on the porch swing, the wood creaking beneath the additional weight. It swings back and forth an inch.

“It’s been a while,” you admit, already blushing beneath his gaze. Regret blooms in your chest. You really could have gone without divulging to him that you’ve practically been marking the time he’s been gone like a prisoner counting down the days until his release by scratching chalky lines into the walls of his cell.

“Yeah,” he says. His voice is low and rough, like he’s been sick or coughing a lot, at least. “I was gone for work.”

“I assumed so.”

The two of you share an understanding glance and he smirks at you. It’s a small tug at the corner of his lips, but you feel as though the ground has shifted beneath you. A tectonic shift.

You’ve gotten used to Leon’s schedule. It’s predictably unpredictable. By now, you know that if you don’t see him for days–or weeks–on end, he’s saving the world from some nasty beast, and you will be at home, on your knees, praying to whichever god will listen that he returns home safely. Sometimes, he tells you. Sometimes, you just have to wait for his car to return by nightfall and if it doesn’t, you know he’s away.

“Are you okay?” He looks particularly tortured today, shoulders heavy, the bags under his eyes more purple than normal

He nods. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Where were you this time?” You shouldn’t have even said it, but it just slips out before you can stop yourself, knowing good and well he can rarely divulge details like where he was or what he did.

“Classified,” you both say in unison, and that earns you a chuckle.

“Right. I know better than to ask.”

Pivoting on the swing until your back meets the armrest, you bend your knees to bring your legs up to the wooden slats. Leon looks down at your bare feet, slender and soft, your toenails painted a pretty pink color. And then your shins, shiny. Smooth. You have a scar on your right knee, a translucent crescent in the skin just below the cap.

“I missed you while you were gone. I had to start taking cookies over to the Anderson kids across the street.”

“Bet they loved that.”

“Yeah. Not sure their parents did, though. I put a lot of sugar in those things. They were probably bouncing off the walls.”

He just smiles, flashing a set of imperfect teeth. Crows’ feet deepen, the lines around his mouth crease. You love how real he is, even if he seems damaged or burdened, even if he sometimes only gives you one-word responses, or sulks off when you feel like he’s starting to let you in, he’s real.

“I want to be straight forward for a sec.”

He crooks a brow, turning his face toward you, and clears his throat. “Okay.” He says it like it’s a question.

“What are we doing here?”

A smile appears on his face, and you brace yourself for some joke to come slithering off his tongue.

“We’re sitting on your porch, talking about you poisoning Mr. and Mrs. Anderson’s kids with sugar.”

You can tell he thought he’d get a laugh out of you, but you’re sorry to disappoint when your face stays still.

“I’m serious.” You swing your legs around so you’re sitting up straight, toes grazing the clay tiles beneath you. He swallows, watching you adjust your hips on the wooden slats, the hips not covered nearly enough by your cotton shorts. “You’re so nice to me, and forgive me if I’m wrong and…I don’t know, maybe I’ll seem stupid and immature for saying this, but I thought you wanted something to come from this. I know I did. I–”

He shuts you up with a kiss. A real one this time. Not on the cheek. Not blurred by the fuzz of liquor or sadness in need of comfort. His hands are on your upper arms, pulling you closer to him. He tastes even better than you imagined. His lips feel better. Everything is better because it’s actually happening.

Leon Kennedy, your neighbor, the man you have been pining over like a schoolgirl for the past year, is kissing you, finally, and it’s electric. Shocks buzz beneath your skin, butterflies flutter in your low belly. Hot plasma runs through your veins. Nerve endings fire off on all cylinders.

It’s magic, and as quickly as it happened, it ends.

“Miss (Y/N)?”

You and Leon pull away from each other at the sound of Richy Anderson approaching your porch with his little sister in tow not far behind him. One of Leon’s hands falls down until it’s flush to your back as you turn to look at the pair of hooligans. Richy’s shirt is covered in what you hope is chocolate ice cream. Mia’s white-blonde hair is sticking up in all directions, loose from the braid trailing down her back. Oh to be a child drinking up the last days of summer vacation.

“Hi there,” is all you say, a fat smile plastered on your face.

“The chalk washed off and we don’t know how to draw it again.”

You glance over at Leon, still touching the small of your back as you lean forward slightly to talk to the kids. His thumb draws circles there, felt through the thin fabric of your tank top. Warmth blossoms in your chest and your stomach wobbles.

“Sure thing. Do you still have the chalk?”

“Yes ma’am,” Richy says. Mia nods in agreement behind him, the flesh beneath her jaw more pronounced as she tucks her chin into her neck, lips pressed into a pucker like she just took a bite out of a lemon wedge.

“I’m being summoned,” you say, glancing back at Leon.

He smiles wide, removing his hand from the small of your back to place both palms on his knees. “Look, I have a meeting tomorrow that might run late, but the day after, I’m going to take you out for dinner. How does that sound?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Sounds amazing.”

With a kiss to your temple, Leon retreats back into his house, leaving you with the Anderson kids as they drag you by the hand to their side of the street, leading you toward a patch of concrete left soaked by a nearby sprinkler. The phantom whisper of your mouth still tingles on his lips as he watches you through his living room window while you play hopscotch with the children, jumping from one sneaker-clad foot to the other, closing your legs then parting them as you make your way down the line of numbers you helped them redraw with chalk.

The sight makes his heart swell with desire, his chest tighten with fear. For the first time in a while, Leon Kennedy is really, truly afraid. Before, he felt comfortable admiring you from a distance. He would catch himself daydreaming about you when he was stuck in the office, writing reports under buzzing fluorescence.

He would think about the warmth of the cozy home you made yours with decorative lamps and artwork clung to the walls, the warmth of your smile, your hands. In meetings, when the lights were turned down low and the hum of the projector harmonized with the drone of whoever was presenting, he would let his mind drift to make-believe images of you in his bed next to him or sitting in his chair, on his lap as he read out loud to you from whichever book was first on the rotation. He could conjure up the smell of your hair if he focused hard enough. Jasmine and honeysuckle, like the first day of spring after a dry, decrepit winter. You smelled like the break of dawn and hope and the promise of a rainbow after a storm.

When on missions, when faced with death and all sorts of rotten things, he would picture your face–a pinprick of beauty amid the tumult and destruction–and it reinvigorated in him the desire to keep pressing forward. Your eyes, your lips, the little bump of your nose, all the light at the end of the dark, lonely tunnel that has been his life.

But now? Now, he has touched you. Even worse, he has kissed you. He felt the same electricity you did when your mouths finally collided, a testament to the chemistry between you both. He’s tried so hard to ignore it, to distance himself from the feelings that keep scratching their way to the surface, because for things to work out leaves him a lot more vulnerable to hurt than if nothing came of it, than if the kiss meant nothing.

You’ve changed him. Even Sherry had noticed a difference. She had heard him humming in his office one day. It stopped her in the tracks of her clicky high heels, but she didn’t prod or poke at him. She didn’t have to ask. She just knew. Leon was happy. Happier.

But he was also scared out of his mind. It had happened so many times before. He would find someone, open his heart to them, build with them a trust that they wouldn’t abandon him, even if things got hard. Even if he had to leave for an indefinite amount of time. Even if he got hurt. Even if he retreated so far within himself it was hard to crawl back up to the surface. They would promise him patience, promise him undying affection, long-enduring love. But those promises always ended up broken, shattered, and it would leave him hollow once more.

That’s why he has given up. That’s why he’s selling his house. That’s why he’s been taking on more missions, fully prepared for one to be his last, waiting for the final blow. That is, before he met you. Now, he’s counting down the days until he can retire. He’d do that for you. They probably won’t let him, not for another ten years, but he’d try. For you.

Leon thinks about you for the rest of the evening as he scurries around, a newfound pep in his step, as he showers, as he cracks open a chilled beer, as he settles into his chair and opens the next book in his queue.

He’s barely two pages in when there’s a knock at his door. God, he hopes it’s you.

“Leon,” you say as he opens the door, letting in a warm swath of air. It smells sweet, or maybe that’s just you.

“Hi.” Your heart is racing. You can practically hear it thumping in your ears. It only speeds up when you see Leon, shirtless, wearing only a pair of black sweatpants low on his hips. There’s a pair of wiry reading glasses sitting on the straight line of his nose. His hair is damp.

If you weren’t originally planning on jumping him when he opened the door, you definitely are now.

He is perfectly sculpted, nothing to hide the peaks and valleys of his abdomen, feathered with a light dusting of hair. Scars run up and down his chest, some translucent, blending into the shimmering paleness of his skin. Others are red and angry, fresh. Your fingertips ache to touch them, to run up and down the vein that bulges beneath the skin of his arm, his broad chest and even broader shoulders. You’ve always been a tactile being, but seeing so much of Leon’s uncharted body has you chomping at the bit to get your hands on him.

He can see that you’re flustered. Inflamed cheeks. Your hands are shaking. Breath unsteady.

“Hey. Everything alright?” He looks out at the street behind you, eyes surveilling the darkness that had fallen over the neighborhood since he lips had last been on yours.

He’s so sweet. You’re so horny your skin is itching and your ears are ringing and he’s asking if you’re okay. Fuck, you might actually love the man. No, you’re sure you do. Head over heels type of love. That’s what you feel, all the way from your feet to the top of your head.

“Yeah, I–I’m okay,” you choke. You’re tweaking like an addict on the side of the road waiting for the next hit. Withdrawal. You’re going through withdrawal. “I just…you kissed me earlier and we didn’t really get to talk about it, and I–I–we didn’t get to finish…I wanna finish–ugh, not like that. Geez, I’m so sorry. I sound like such a pervert, but I…” Leon just smiles down at you, chuckling, amused at the blubbering girl in front of him. “I just want you to kiss me again. Please.”

Leon has always been good at following orders. He pulls you into the house by your wrist, gently closing the door behind you until it clicks shut. His hands come to cup your cheeks and he presses you against the wall, but he doesn’t make a move yet. He just looks at you.

“Can I?”

You open your mouth to speak but no sound comes out, and the only response you’re able to muster is a nod. A very eager nod. With his finger still crooked beneath your chin, Leon pulls your lips up to his and the instant your mouths collide, your world is thrown upside down. It’s a chaste kiss, but it rocked you regardless. When he pulls away, you feel empty, needy for his lips to return to yours.

“I–I want—”

“What is it you want? Just tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you anything,” he promises in a whisper that tickles the sensitive skin at your ear.

“I want you, Leon, in any way you’ll give yourself to me. I just want you.” Your palm presses against his bare chest, his skin hot to the touch. Fingertips trail down his abdomen, to the waistband of his sweatpants. He grabs your wrist, stopping your hand in its tracks. “I want you to make love to me.”

Not fuck. Not screw. You want him to make love to you. And suddenly, this seems like less of a hook-up and more of…a promise of something more. He wants something more than taking you up against the wall of his foyer.

He pulls away, hands retreating from your body. Your hips scream at the sudden withdrawal of his touch. “We should stop. I should take you out on a proper date before we do this.”

“Leon?”

He sobers up at his name short and curt on your tongue, looking down at you with wide eyes.

“Do you know how long I’ve been thinking about this?” You don’t give him time to answer that question, taking his hands in yours, leading them back to your body where they belong. “Since you helped me move in last year. It’s been that long, I am not stopping now. And I don’t want to hear any more bullshit about being too young for you or too happy or innocent. I know what I’m doing.”

Leon sighs, relenting. It isn’t hard to convince him to take things further with the girl he has been dreaming about…also for a year. “But not here. Let’s go to the bedroom.” He takes your hand in his and guides you toward the stairs, glancing back to take a look at you every couple of steps as if he’s scared you’ll disappear or run away from him.

His bedroom.

You pull off your tank top and tug down your shorts, leaving yourself in nothing but a pair of white lace panties and a matching bra. He nearly chokes on air, bringing a cupped hand to his mouth as he takes in the sight of you. The sight of his beautiful, sweet, young neighbor who is standing two steps from bare in front of him—in front of the bed the two of you are about to share.

With your hair tied up at the nape of your neck, your lacquered lips, the white lingerie hugging your body…you look almost bridal and the thought of you as his wife steals the breath from his lungs.

“Please take them off,” you say in a low, hushed voice, taking a step back until the backs of your knees meet the edge of the mattress. “I wore them for you, but I want them off now.”

“You wore these for me?” His eyes are sharp with incredulity. He can’t believe that you wore these for him, that you thought ahead. That you thought about doing this with him and you dressed up for it. That you want him as badly as he wants you.

“Yes,” you say with a shy nod, taking your lower lip between your teeth. “I changed into them before I came over. I thought you might like them.”

“Fuck,” he hisses, sinking down to his knees right before you without a second thought. For a moment, you worry about his poor joints on the wood planks, but from the very few details he has told you about his job, you’re sure it requires him to go up against bigger enemies than a hard floor. “I do. I really do.”

“Good.”

“Can I taste you?” He looks up into your eyes with such yearning, you could never refuse him. He could ask you to bite your own hand off and you sink your teeth in, eagerly.

“You don’t have to ask, Leon. Take whatever you want from me. It’s yours to have.”

He mewls deep in his throat, eyes flickering back down to your panties. His fingers stay drilled into your thighs. Thick, calloused pads dig into your flesh, holding you still as he presses his nose into the drenched crotch of the garment, inhaling the scent of your arousal. A groan reverberates against your clit, sending shock waves through your veins. His lips begin kissing you through the lace. Your name is repeated on his tongue like a holy prayer.

“Will you lie back for me, baby?” He pats your thighs like a jockey giving a horse a command. You shouldn’t find that as hot as you do, but you’ll have to reschedule that psychoanalysis for another time. “And lift your hips.”

You happily oblige under his command, scooting your seat onto the mattress until you’re in the perfect position for him to guide the scratchy lace underwear down your thighs. The sudden chill of the air conditioned room slaps your wet, bare clit and it makes you shiver.

“Can I have these?” He asks, holding up the crumpled lump of lace in his fist, sincerity glassy in his eyes. No man has ever asked to keep your panties before. Then again, no other man has been like Leon. “I’ll buy you more.”

“Um, sure,” you reply with a stifled giggle and he just nods, once, with all the seriousness in the world, and stuffs the underwear into the pocket of his sweatpants before flickering his eyes back up at you.

“Thank you.” He has a ravenous look in his eyes as he stares at the flesh between your legs. “Beautiful,” he murmurs to himself before gazing back up at you. “You’re perfect, you know that? Absolutely perfect.”

He begins by kissing your clit sweetly, gradually building the tempo, licking and lapping up your wetness like he’s been wandering in the desert for days, starved and thirsty, and you’re a well of water with his name carved into it. The tip of his tongue enters you and it sends your back off the mattress as if you’ve been possessed. You instinctively try to close your legs, but the heels of his palms keep them open.

“Leon,” you whine, digging your fingers in his hair, then working your way down to his clothed shoulders.

He grins smugly against your pussy, continuing his movements in the same combination and rhythm that elicited that sound from you. If he ever fell deaf, that is the only sound he would miss, that moan and the way you say his name, so sweet and sincere. Like the song of a heavenly being.

“Don’t stop,” you beg with the most strength you can muster. It still comes out weakly, carried by a hitched breath.

He wouldn’t dream of it. In fact, he is so caught up in the way you feel on his face, your pussy wet and warm on his chin, that he doesn’t think he could stop if the house was burning around him.

“Leon, I’m so close. Please.”

You peel yourself off the mattress, pushing up onto your elbows to get a better view at the man between your thighs. His dark blonde hair, streaked with a few strands of sand and salt, flops down his temples as he worships your clit with his tongue, licking and sucking. The sounds coming from below are disgustingly explicit. Your fingers find his hair, pressing his head further into your pussy. He groans beneath the commanding touch, the vibration pushing you closer toward the edge.

A coil tightens in your belly. The muscles of your abdomen begin to tense and release. The walls of your cunt pulsate, contracting around nothing.

“I–I’m–fuck.”

The sound of his muffled groans harmonizes with your obscene cries as you huff and puff and yelp through your orgasm.

He leans back from between your legs, wiping your glistening arousal off his mouth and chin before he jumps up onto the bed, pulling you further onto the mattress on his way to you.

The next thing you know, his mouth is on yours, the taste of you still pungent on his tongue, sweet and wet. His hand dances down between your bodies to cup your sullied cunt, to grab what he has now branded as his.

“You want me here?” His eyes flicker down to where his hand has latched onto his cock as he strokes himself to fill stiffness, then glances back up at you. “Tell me if you don’t, and I’ll stop.”

You want him everywhere, but you don’t say that aloud. You don’t say anything, too dumb to speak.

“Tell me if this is okay.”

Finding the strength to speak, you finally mumble a confirmation. “Yes, yes, it’s okay, Leon. Please. I want to feel you inside.” You sound so desperate. It’s jarring hearing your own voice bending into such an indecent prayer.

He lines himself up with your entrance, which is now throbbing in anticipation of the impending stretch, and with your additional permission, this time in the form of a gasping plea, he trusts inside, not wasting another moment of not feeling you around him. Cursing under his breath, he pulls out just an inch before pumping back into you, the sound of your sappy arousal sloshing against him with every slap of his pelvis against yours, is lewd and borderline pornographic against the walls of his bedroom.

“I’ve wanted this—fuck—for so long, you have no idea,” he growls into the crook of your neck, labored breath hot on your skin. “Ever since you came over to my house that night you got locked—mhm—you got locked out—” Another bellow. “When you kissed me on the cheek.”

He continues. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you after that. Honestly–mhm–I was thinking about you before that. Fuck.”

“I know, Leon,” you gasp as he bottoms out, filling you with the complete length of his cock. You didn’t even know he wasn’t fully inside you yet. The stretch is earth-shattering. You fist the sheets beneath you, and when that isn’t enough release, you grab onto Leon’s lats, burying your fingers into the thick planks of muscle there, digging your nails into his skin until they leave half-moon indentations. “I’ve–I’ve been wanting this too. For so, so long.” You’re stuttering, voice cracking each time he thrusts himself inside.

“Use me, Leon. Use me to feel good. I want you to feel good.”

He mewls at the sound of every single honeyed word dripping from your tongue, and you mean each one with your whole heart. You want to lighten the burden that weighs down on him in any way you can, whether it’s cookies or company, or your wet pussy squeezing his cock. Anything. You would do anything to make him feel better.

“So good, baby,” he mumbles in your ear, breath foggy on the skin of your neck. “You’re so good to me, always so good. You take care of me. I don’t deserve you.”

Tears stream down your cheeks and into your hairline. You almost didn’t realize you were crying at first. You have wanted him since the day you met him, since he lifted that box off your arms and helped you move into your home. You want to do the same for him. You want to take away all the heavy things in his life, or at least help carry them.

As you wrap your legs tighter around his hips to pull him further into you, he bellows out your name. “I’m not gonna last long at this rate, sweetheart.” His breath is labored.

“That’s okay, go ahead,” you whisper. Then, “I’m safe. I want you to cum inside me.”

He retreats just an inch to look into your eyes, and you give him an assuring nod in return. Leon picks up the pace. With a final few thrusts, he reaches his climax, filling you to the brim with the gush of his orgasm, before collapsing on top of you, your name cascading from his lips on the way down.

A sliver of pale moonlight seeps through the windows, reflecting off the sheen of slick sweat coating Leon’s chest as he rolls over. He pants, his chest rising and falling. As he regains his strength, his palm comes up to your thigh, and he looks over at you. The tears you shed earlier have since dried down into sticky patches of salt beneath your eyes and at your temples. Your hair is messy, strands falling into your face. Lips, blushed and plump.

You roll over at the touch, lying on your side to get a better look at him, locking his palm between your legs. His hair is also messy. Dark blonde strands stick up at the crown of his head, at his temples, anywhere your fingers had mussed it during the act. Funny enough, he almost looks younger. The wrinkles at his forehead, between his brows, the fine lines beneath his eyes. They’re smoother. The whites of his eyes have won the battle against the purple circles beneath them–the bitter crescents born from stress and poor sleep hygiene.

He looks over at you and grins a big, toothless grin that climbs all the way up to his eyes–eyes that, for the first time since you’ve known him, look completely full of light.

You’ve done it. You’ve loved him back to life.

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