Tender Hearts
In which your new friend Leon isn’t perturbed by your job.
Fluff, 2.6k, camgirl!reader, implied age gap (both mature adults), friends to lovers (we’re getting there)
Masterlist ❤︎
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You’re an intensely affectionate person. It’s one of the first things he discovers about you, and surprisingly, comes to like. Analyzing subtle shifts in behavior is usually enough to keep him on guard, necessary instinct meant to determine the safest angle of approach. But your warmth has a way of disarming his sense of caution.
When he watches you, you move through rooms like you’re looking for things to love.
It’s delightful, the way your hands naturally gravitate toward things, resting warmly on doorframes and settling comfortably onto counters. You treat the wood and marble with the same gentle fondness you reserve for people.
He finds himself on the receiving end of it, too, more often than not. Didn’t even spare him when he was still a mere stranger. The night you plopped onto the cushion across from him, he realized how defenseless he was against the soft sweep of your lashes over that pleasant gaze. You invaded his space without a doubt and stared at him as if he hung you the moon.
“Oh, thank god you already ordered. I’m starving.”
His brows had pinched at the sudden intrusion. “Excuse me?”
“I know, I know, I told you I'd be here in twenty.” Your fingers casually wrap around his wrist, resting above the table. "But you wouldn't believe the weirdos on the street tonight."
Leon used to be a cop. Or at the very least, enough of his early police academy training remained deeply ingrained that he knew how to read distress. Beneath your forced smile, your palm is clammy over his skin. “Who?”
“Guy by the host stand. Brown jacket."
He could easily spot him. The man awkwardly shuffling by the door was shifting his weight from foot to foot, searching from booth to booth. “How long has he been on you?”
“Since I got off the subway. I took two wrong turns on purpose, he followed both."
Smoothly, naturally, Leon turned his hand over and laced his large fingers through yours. “Don’t look at him.”
“I'm sorry.”
“It’s alright. You’re alright.”
“I kind of panicked,” you continued, “and you looked..."
He met your sheepish gaze.
“Safe?”
You gave him a tiny nod, thumb unconsciously stroking the back of his hand. “Yeah. Safe.”
He gets that a lot, surprisingly. Even looking as rugged and closed-off as he did, people in trouble always seemed to intuitively flock to him. Grace had pointed it out more than once after he saved her life. Sherry, too, never missed an opportunity to remind him that underneath all the government brooding, he had a chronic habit of adopting strays.
Looking at you, he couldn't exactly argue. Although it was certainly the first time a plea for protection had been delivered with this much endearment. It was an obvious ruse, but the urge to shield you from the rest of the room was very much real.
“Good instinct. You can stay with me.”
Gratitude melted into your sigh. “Let me pay for your dinner. Or your drink. Whatever you're having tonight you can put on my card.”
“Don't worry about it.”
“Please? I should compensate for dragging you into this."
“You made a smart call. Let’s leave it at that.” He tapped the edge of his plate, sliding it an inch closer to you. "Might want to take a fry, though. Before he figures out we aren't actually eating together.”
“He’s still there?”
“Staring right at our table.”
You looked down at his half-eaten steak and the scattered pile of fries, then back up. "You know what irks me? The fact that my disinterest meant absolutely nothing to him. He’s only hesitating because he thinks I’m with you."
Leon didn't disagree, couldn't even begin to fathom what women had to go through just by walking down the street. The world was already in enough of a shambles without having some unwanted shadow tracking your every move.
"Cowards usually are," he agreed. "Somehow he's buying it. Looks like he’s trying to figure out if I'm worth the trouble."
"Let me guess. You are.”
"I’m told I can put up a pretty good fight."
Your eyes deliberately dropped to his large frame. His chest, his biceps, the way his shirt strained against his thick arms. Your smile was bright and a little wicked. “I have absolutely no doubt in that."
Regretting having drawn attention to himself, he tapped on his plate again. “You should eat.”
“Well, I don’t know your name and I’m about to steal your food.”
“Leon.”
“Leon.” You pointed a fry at him. “Thank you.”
It was the weirdest way he had ever made a friend.
Then again, his baseline for normal was practically nonexistent. Almost everyone Leon associated with was tied to his job, relationships forged in the middle of a crisis and bonded by shared trauma. He couldn't really relate to everyday people, couldn't remember how to sit down and connect with someone who didn't carry a badge or a gun or a body count.
He suspected it was your charm taking the pressure off him. With you, connecting became easy, effortless. What began as a simple plea for help morphed into a quiet stroll through the city streets. You walked beside him like you’d done it a hundred times before, paused to follow a stray cat in an alleyway, smiled when he stopped to check it out too.
He lingered three full hours past the dinner he had planned, and tossed out jokes he usually saved for third meetings.
You laughed like he was the funniest guy in the world.
You still do, even when he's scraping the bottom of the barrel with some godawful joke. You still crack that same genuine smile when his humor gets too dry, humoring him in a way that always makes his days feel a lot better. As to the affection that constantly reminds him you’re more than the stranger he sat with three months ago. He lets you get away with whatever new nickname you decide to call him, a privilege he extends to absolutely no one else.
He’s handsome when you want to tease a faint flush out of him. Old man when he asks you to translate modern slang or internet lingo his brain can’t understand.
He secretly likes it when you call him bub.
Granted, he knows it’s a casual term of endearment you use for the people you care about. But it means you consider him one of yours, too.
Rough day, bub?
I saved a slice for you, bub.
Look, bub, another cat!
It usually warms him from the inside out. But when it’s followed by an unexpected confession that concerns you, pure adrenaline spikes right through his chest.
“What?”
You’re stealing a bite off his plate, completely unfazed. “I saw him while I was bagging my groceries.”
Leon doesn’t like the casual way you say that. You’re talking about a guy who had followed you once before, yet you're mentioning him with the same inflection you'd use for the weather. You should be concerned, should at least be a little rattled that he even showed up again. He sets his chopsticks down, twists in his seat until he's completely squared up with you.
You beat him before he even opens his mouth.
“Don’t worry, bub, I’m sure it was a coincidence.”
“Do you?” He asks.
“Do I what?”
“Think it was a coincidence?”
You chew on your food a little longer than you need to, then swallow it down with a cold sip of water. “I think jumping to conclusions isn't going to help anything," you reason, shrugging. "He was standing by the entrance, right by those buckets of flowers they keep near the carts. It was probably nothing."
“Did he try to approach you?"
"Nope.”
"You sure you weren't followed?"
"Yep.”
A low gust of air pushes past his lips. The idea of someone hovering just out of sight while you go on about your day doesn’t sit right with him. “Next time you need to go to the store, you let me know and I'll come with you. Doesn't matter if it's two in the afternoon or two in the morning."
"Aw, bub, I’m unconscious in bed at two in the morning. Like any normal person,” you muse. "And even if I was craving for a late-night snack, you’re out of town most of the time anyway."
A muscle feathers his jaw. “Don’t remind me.”
“I'm also not going to text you just because I got spooked in the dairy section.”
“It’s reasonable if you recognize the guy. He’s seen you once, been in your vicinity before.” He pops a piece of salmon into his mouth, chews, then continues. “And if I’m out of town, I’ll find someone who isn't.”
You swirl the ice around in your glass as you search for a rational explanation. "Maybe he's just a fan. People get weird when they recognize someone from the internet.”
This is why Leon fundamentally does not understand the internet. He doesn’t fault you for it, knows it’s your source of income and understands that sharing things you love online brings you genuine joy. But it always seems to reach a dangerous point where total strangers suddenly develop a sense of entitlement to your actual life.
“Doesn’t mean he can start tailing you in public.”
“With the content I put out, lines get a little blurred. Sometimes my stuff gives off a specific vibe and people take it out of context."
Genuine confusion washes over his sharp features. The logic sounds absurd to him. “What exactly about putting on makeup gives a grown man the idea that he can stalk you?"
You deliberately scrunch your nose. "I think we need to have the talk."
“What talk?”
“The talk.” You let out what seems to be the longest breath you've taken all day, and abandon your food. Shift in your seat to fully face him. "I wasn't entirely lying to you, I do post about makeup and fashion. But that's mostly just... the promotional side of things."
“Promotional for what?”
“For my actual job," you admit. "Leon, my main channel isn't exactly family-friendly. It's adult content—explicit adult content.”
Your eyes are what he focuses on. He notices the shallow flutter of lashes, the wide dilation of pupils as you look away, then back to him, lips pursed tightly. It’s obvious that you care deeply about what he thinks of you. He can see the exact moment you assume the worst, reading the defensive slope of your shoulders, of you curling inward to make yourself small in the face of his rejection.
He’s quite offended you’d think he would.
Sure, the digital landscape is entirely lost on him, and his knowledge of adult entertainment is remarkably basic. But to sit around and dictate what you do on your own time, under your rules, for your own income, isn't his style. God forbid he sits in judgment of how you earn yours when he trades his own life for a government paycheck. He’s got his own long list of things he isn't exactly proud of.
He’s just happy to know another fraction of your life. You’re offering him your unguarded trust, and he takes that as the rare privilege it is. Holding your gaze for a heartbeat, he offers you a calm, single nod.
“Alright.”
You stare at him ludicrously, then blink profusely. “Alright? That's it?” Blink, blink. “You don’t have anything else to say?”
He simply shakes his head.
“You're kidding. You really don't care? At all?"
"Should I?"
“Most people do," you point out. “Guys usually get weird about it.”
“I don't.” He pauses, slightly tilts his head to make sure he has your full attention. “It doesn't change anything. Regardless of what you do for a living, it doesn't warrant you getting stalked.”
You take another slow sip of your water. He tracks the movement as your throat bobs once, twice, before you lower the glass. “You honestly think he’s stalking me?"
"I think the first time was a coincidence. He spotted you, realized who you were, and couldn't believe his luck that you lived in his city."
"And you think the second time isn’t.”
“I think the second time isn’t,” he confirms.
You slump forward, resting an elbow on the table, your chin in your palm. "Great. Maybe this is the universe telling me to change careers. Become an accountant or something."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Amusing, when he's aware that you’re not really fond of math. He still remembers watching you pull out your phone to figure out a basic twenty percent tip. “You'd be a terrible accountant,” he laughs gently.
You’re humming in agreement. “Probably. But at least people don't stalk their accountants.”
Sometimes they do. He knows the statistics well enough to know no field is entirely immune to it. He deals with his own shadows too, occasionally, though usually by various syndicates who presumably want him dead. Not a fun way to live, but he's more than capable of handling himself, drilled from years of training and muscle memory.
He refuses to take any chances with you. He's seen enough of the world to know that people are far scarier than any creatures, especially when it involves a strange man with an unknown agenda. It's messing with his head. Something unpleasant is pinching his chest as he watches the worried crease between your brows, the exhaustion dragging down your features.
He closes the gap between you, drops an arm along the back of your chair. “You shouldn't have to quit your job just to feel safe. Why don’t you let me handle him?”
“You want to handle him?”
“Sure.”
“Bub, I’m not going to let you start a fistfight in the middle of a crowd.”
He flashes you a glimpse of straight teeth, grinning cheekily. “Tempting, but no. I’ll just have a little chat with him.”
“And say what exactly?”
“I’ll show him my badge and ask for his ID," he explains. "Get his name, maybe run his plates. Nothing too crazy.”
A loose strand falls over your cheek as you turn your head to give him a pointed look, partially hiding your pretty face. “Aren’t you, like, in national security? Is this even legal?”
“Asking a question isn't illegal.” He catches your hair and sweeps it back over your shoulder. Much better. “He’ll see the badge and assume he’s in trouble, and the second he realizes we have his name and address, he'll back off.”
When there’s still doubt in your eyes, he moves closer. Drops his chin to catch your line of sight.
“I know you think he might be harmless, but let me do this for you. You point him out, I make sure he doesn’t get close, then we go get dinner. Like we usually do.”
It’s a sensible way to frame it. If it were entirely up to him, he’d be far less diplomatic, far less inclined to leave things at a warning. Fortunately, you have a habit of looking at him with effortless trust that he can’t justify letting his temper become your burden. Restraint comes easier when it’s for you. Maybe that’s why he’s taken to returning your affection in kind, letting a thumb brush the top of your shoulder where his arm gently rests behind you.
A faint smile finally touches your lips. “Can we get tacos after?”
He visibly relaxes. Your smile is worth the restraint, too. “ ‘Course we can, bub.”
He likes the way your face lightens up, how the apples of your cheeks rise even higher. Rarely does he bother throwing nicknames around, but you do it so naturally with that tender heart of yours that it’s easy to follow. His life has always been easier when he’s with you.
