#fromvarshi

He’s a walking contradiction.

Built like a tank, acts like a soldier, but loves you with this quiet, unwavering intensity. Doesn’t always know how to say what he feels, but you’ll feel it in everything he does.

Overprotective, but not controlling.

He trusts you, but the world? Not so much. If you're out late, he checks in with a "you good?" text. Subtle but not overbearing. But if you don’t respond within 20 minutes? He’s tracking your location and ready to throw hands.

The slowest burn.

Chris doesn’t fall fast. He falls hard. It took him a while to admit he liked you, and it took longer to act on it. But once you're his? That’s it. You’re his anchor. His home.

Acts of service is his love language.

Not great with words. But he'll fix your shit without you asking. Change your oil. Carry you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. Make sure you eat. He doesn’t say “I love you” as often as he should, but he’ll show it every damn day.

His Nightmares.

He won’t tell you when he has them. But you’ll wake up and find him sitting at the edge of the bed, head in his hands. All it takes is a hand on his back, and he’ll lean into your touch like he’s trying to breathe again.

Tension relief = you or working out.

If he’s stressed, he’s either at the gym or dragging you to bed. Sometimes both. Rough hands, soft mouth, and a desperate need to feel something real.

He needs someone who grounds him.

You’re the one who brings him back from the edge. The one who reminds him he’s more than what he’s lost. And even if he doesn’t say it… he’s terrified of losing you.

Pillow talk is rare, but golden.

He’s vulnerable when he's half-asleep, fingers tangled with yours, voice all gravelly. That’s when he tells you the stuff he’s too afraid to say in the daylight. That you make him feel safe. That you're the only thing in his life he doesn't regret.

Mornings with Chris?

He’s up before you. Always. Sometimes it’s work, sometimes just habit. But if he’s not on duty, he’ll make coffee and sit on the edge of the bed, watching you sleep with this dumb, lovesick look on his face. Occasionally whispers, “How the hell did I get this lucky?”

He does laundry like he’s defusing a bomb.

Follows every step exactly. Separates colors like it’s a classified mission. But once, he shrunk your favorite sweater and felt genuinely devastated about it. Bought you three new ones and wouldn't stop apologizing.

Cuddles like a furnace.

Chris sleeps hot and wraps himself around you like you’re a damn body pillow. Big arms, warm chest, hand always on your waist or under your shirt. If you try to get up, good luck, he’ll grumble, pull you closer, and mumble, “Five more minutes.”

He talks to plants like they’re soldiers.

You bought a succulent. Chris named it “Private Green.” He gives it pep talks and watering instructions like he’s briefing it for combat. You caught him saying, “You got this, soldier,” once. He denies it to this day.

He has a “house voice.”

You know the one. Deep, a little raspy, but softened when he’s home with you. Like he’s still figuring out how to talk without shouting commands. Sometimes you catch him whispering little nothings when he thinks you’re asleep,

“You’re the only good thing in my life.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Random forehead kisses.

You could be brushing your teeth or reaching for something on a high shelf, doesn’t matter. He’s always sneaking in a kiss somewhere: your temple, shoulder, the top of your head. It’s instinct for him now.

He 100% keeps a photo of you in his wallet.

Even if he’s not on active duty anymore. It’s worn around the edges from how often he’s looked at it. Once you found it and teased him, and he said, “That picture’s gotten me through some of the worst days of my life.” You never joked about it again.

Sunday mornings are sacred.

No alarms. Just tangled sheets, soft kisses, and the quiet realization that Chris Redfield, the man who’s faced more horror than most, looks at you like you’re a miracle.

The man CANNOT cook.

He tries. God, he tries. But the moment there’s more than two steps in a recipe, his brain short-circuits. He’s used to structure, to orders, recipes that say “a pinch of salt” piss him off. How much is a pinch? What does “until golden” mean? Golden like a medal? Golden like a sunset? He burns toast because he forgets it's in the toaster, too focused on watching you move around the kitchen.

He’s a kitchen liability, but he won’t give up. He’s your slightly dangerous sous chef chopping veggies way too precisely.

He does push-ups in the kitchen while waiting for the microwave.

One time he bumped the counter and knocked over an entire bowl of cereal. He tried to blame it on the “uneven floor.” It wasn’t.

He thinks TikTok food hacks are genius.

“Babe look—they put mac and cheese in a waffle iron.” He says this while already plugging yours in, no warning. The house smells like regret in 5 minutes.

He makes the most atrocious smoothies.

Like spinach, protein powder, one sad banana, and… chicken broth??? You took one sip and nearly cried. He drinks it like it’s holy. “It’s good for recovery.” Sir. It tastes like betrayal.

He narrates chores like he’s in a survival game.

“Day 47. Supplies are low. The subject (u) grows restless. Morale… is questionable.” All while doing dishes and wearing your pink “Kiss the Cook” apron.

He has something against self-checkout machines.

Every time, without fail, “Unexpected item in the bagging area.” Chris glares at the screen like it just insulted his bloodline. “I scanned it, you piece of—”

Makeup shopping w/ him?

You’re swatching concealers, trying to find the right undertone, and this man just holds out his massive hand like it’s protocol. Doesn’t even flinch. You’re painting little lines of it across his knuckles, comparing shades, and he’s just standing there.

“Which one’s closest?” “That one looks kinda warm, do you want warm?”

He’s never had this kind of peace before.

And he doesn’t take a second of it for granted.

© 2025 @fromvarshi ✧ do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere.

Piers barely has time to kick off his boots before you’re on him, arms wrapped around his tired shoulders, your fingers tangling into the back of his hair and showering him with kisses. He melts into the touch, letting out a low sigh that’s equal parts exhaustion and relief.

“You smell like shit” you mumble into his neck.

He chuckles, the sound soft, tired. “Guess that’s the new cologne.”

You pull back just enough to see his face. There’s dried blood on his collar, a cut above his brow, bruising forming along his cheekbone.

But what gets you most is the way his eyes look, glassy, distant. Like he hasn’t really made it all the way back yet.

“How bad was it?” you ask quietly.

He hesitates. For a moment, it’s like he’s somewhere else entirely, back in the field, in the chaos, watching someone else fall. He swallows hard, jaw clenching.

“We made it out. That’s what matters.”

That answer would satisfy anyone else. Not you.

You reach up to brush your thumb gently over the cut above his brow. “You don’t have to be ‘Captain Nivans’ here."

His shoulders sag at that, like the words crack something inside him.

Piers leans into your touch like a man starved for it. And maybe he is. The B.S.A.A. didn’t leave him much room for softness.

“You’re home.” you say, quiet, like you’re not sure he’ll believe it.

A long pause. Then,

“Things got bad.”

You nod once, fingers still in his hair. “I figured.”

Another beat. He exhales through his nose.

“There was this moment..Everything was fucked. I didn’t think I’d make it back.”

You glance at him, but his eyes are somewhere else. Not here. Not yet.

“But I kept thinking, not yet. Not until I see you again.”

You don’t say anything. You just guide him to the couch and sit beside him, your thigh against his, grounding.

He leans into you fully now. Heavy. Real.

That’s enough.

You don’t press. Just hold him tighter. You know what he’s seen. What he’s done.

“Let me take care of you now,” you say, voice soft but firm.

You help him out of the heavy tactical jacket, layers that feel more like armor than clothing. His muscles are coiled tight, tension woven deep into bruises and old scars.

He twitches beneath your touch, a reflex born of pain and habit. You press kisses to his shoulder, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

“You’re not alone anymore,” you murmur.

Piers exhales shakily and lets himself sink into you fully, eyes fluttering shut for the first time in what feels like days.

And for once, he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. He just lets himself be held.

You don't realize just how tense he is until you're easing him out of his shirt, the fabric peels away with quiet resistance, sticking slightly to dried blood and sweat.

He winces, but not from the pain.

You kiss the curve of his shoulder, just below a fresh scrape.

“C’mon, soldier. Let me clean you up.”

He mumbles something under his breath—probably a protest, but you hush him gently and lead him to the bathroom.

The overhead light flickers softly, catching the weariness in his eyes, the vulnerability he keeps locked away from the world.

You run the water, warm and slow, the steam curling into the air. Piers sits on the edge of the tub, watching you with tired eyes. He looks like he’s trying to commit the moment to memory.

“You’re staring,” you say, reaching for a clean washcloth

He hums. “Just... didn’t think I’d make it back to this. Feels surreal.”

You kneel in front of him, cupping his cheek with a wet, warm cloth, dabbing carefully at the cut above his eyebrow.

“But you’re here now, with me.” You stress the last part out.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice raw. “But some of them aren’t.”

There it is. The guilt. It sits in his throat like a stone.

You pause, letting the cloth rest against his skin.

“You did what you could. I know that’s not enough to make it easier. But it’s the truth. You fought to get them home. That matters.”

He closes his eyes, breath hitching.

“And now,” you whisper, brushing your hands against his cheeks, “let someone fight for you for once.”

He doesn’t answer, not with words. Just a quiet, broken sound as he leans forward and rests his forehead against your shoulder.

You hold him there, cradling the back of his head, your palm pressed flat against his spine.

After a while, you coax him into the bath, letting the water soothe away what the battlefield left behind. You sit beside him, sleeves rolled up, knees against the tiled floors, massaging shampoo through his hair with slow, gentle strokes.

He sighs like he’s never known peace before.

“You don’t always have to be the one holding everyone else up,” you murmur into the steam. “Atleast not when I'm here."

He doesn’t say much after that, but the way he leans into every touch, the way his hand reaches for yours beneath the water, it says enough.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Later, after he’s dried off and you’ve dressed his wounds with careful hands, he eats something simple at the kitchen counter, silent, chewing slow, like every bite takes effort.

You sit across from him, your foot resting lightly against his beneath the table. It’s quiet, but not empty.

When he finishes, you take the plate from him and nudge his knee gently.

“Bed,” you say. Just that.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try, or offer some half-assed excuse to stay awake. Just follows you wordlessly, each step heavier than the last...the kind of exhaustion that lives in your bones.

Now he’s in your bed. On your side of the bed, actually. Wrapped up under the covers like it’s a shield, or maybe like it’s the only thing tethering him to here, to now, to you.

The lights are low, the kind of soft yellow that makes everything look like a memory.

You sit at the edge of the bed, brushing your fingers through his hair yet again as he blinks slow, heavy-lidded.

“M’gonna crash,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

You smile. “I know.”

He reaches out, catches your wrist lightly. Doesn’t open his eyes. “Stay.”

“I wasn’t going anywhere.”

He exhales. A soft sound. Relieved.

You crawl under the covers, and he shifts immediately, tugging you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He’s warm. Not the heat of adrenaline or blood, just the kind of warmth that says alive.

You feel him breathe, slow and deep, like he’s finally letting go of all the noise

“Y’smell like… cookies,” he mumbles sleepily, already halfway gone.

You snort. “You ate three.”

“...Was four.”

You laugh under your breath, fingers ghosting over the nape of his neck. “So dramatic.”

But he doesn’t answer.

He’s asleep.

Just like that.

Mouth parted slightly, hand resting against your waist, the weight of his body loose and trusting and all yours

And for the first time in a while, you’re the one keeping him safe.

And if he’s safe, then maybe you can breathe too.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

I memorized every piece of him in his absence.

The curve of his smile, the sound of his laugh, the way he says my name like it’s a secret meant only for him to know.

I used to replay it all in my head on the nights I couldn’t sleep, when the world felt too loud, too empty without him.

And now?

He’s right here. Lying beside me, hair messy, breath warm against my skin. I don’t even want to blink, in case he disappears again...

In case this is still just one of those dreams I used to cling to. But then he shifts slightly, fingers brushing mine in his sleep—and I know it’s real.

He’s home. He’s safe. And he’s mine.

I trace the shape of his fingers with my eyes, memorize the way his lashes rest against his cheeks. He looks so soft when he’s sleeping.

Not like the Leon the world sees—sharp and cold and always carrying the weight of everything. No, this is my Leon. The one who pulls me closer in his sleep. The one who murmurs my name like a prayer.

I was supposed to protect my heart. Keep it safe, guarded.

Instead, I gave it to the man who never thought he deserved it.

And I’d do it all over again. Every time.

His fingers twitch against mine again. A low sigh escapes his lips, and then his eyes open—slow, groggy, but searching. Like he’s trying to remember where he is. Like he’s bracing for it all to be gone.

His gaze finds mine, and something in his chest unknots. “You’re still here.”

“You say that like I’m supposed to disappear.”

He doesn’t smile. Not yet. Just pulls me closer, burying his face into the crook of my neck like he’s trying to crawl inside the moment and never leave.

“I saw your face,” he whispers. “Over and over. In the dark. When everything else was gone—I held onto you.”

His voice breaks on the last word. Barely.

I press my hand to the back of his head, fingers sliding into his messy hair, grounding him. “You’re not there anymore, Leon.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“I thought if I made it home,” he says, so quietly I almost miss it, “I’d still feel like myself. But I don’t. Not really.”

I pull back just enough to see him. “Then be whoever you are now. With me.”

His eyes lock onto mine, unsure, like he’s afraid he’s too much now. Too broken.

“You deserve better,” he breathes.

I shake my head, no hesitation. “No. I deserve you. The real you. The one who held on even when everything told him to let go.”

He closes his eyes, and this time, it’s not sleep pulling at him. It’s relief.

Surrender.

The quiet kind you only give to the one person who never stopped waiting.

His voice is nothing but a ghost against my skin when he says it:

“Don’t let go of me.”

“I won’t,” I whisper back. “I couldn’t even if I tried.”

He reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. There’s a scar there, just below his thumb. I kiss it gently.

He watches me with eyes full of something he never says aloud. But I see it. I feel it.

This is real.

No more waiting. No more dreams.

Just us.

© 2025 @fromvarshi ✧ do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere.

Home wasn’t a place. It was him. It was us

The rain tapped steady against the windowpane, soft and unhurried, like it had nowhere else to be.

You didn’t expect anyone at this hour. Not with the rain coming down the way it was, like a lullaby meant only for you and the night.

The city outside your window was a blur of lights and wet streets. You sat by the window, a robe loosely tied at your waist, warm skin kissed by the dim glow of a lamp humming low behind you.

The candle on your table flickered lazily, wax pooling at its base, scenting the room with something soft and a little sweet like honey.

And then came the knock.

Slow and Measured. Like a memory tapping back into place.

You didn’t move at first, just sat there, heart already climbing up your throat.

The way the rain paused in its rhythm, the way your skin prickled like it remembered something before your mind could.

Still, your feet found the floor. You stepped toward the door like you were being pulled, not pushed.

And when you leaned in to peek through the peephole...

Yeah.

You already knew.

That knock wasn’t just familiar. It was his — the one your soul had been trained to recognize in silence.

You opened the door slowly.

Leon just stood there, damp from the rain, jaw tight, eyes darker than you remembered. His shoulders were tense like he was holding something in. Maybe words. Maybe regret. Maybe the weight of all the shit he never said before walking away.

Water slid from the ends of his hair, down his jaw, dripping onto the collar of his shirt. His eyes met yours like a confession.

You remembered the last time he looked at you like that, when he said he couldn’t keep choosing between saving the world and loving you right.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

He stepped in. You let him. The door closed behind him with a soft thud, and suddenly the rain felt miles away ...just an echo outside your little world.

He was still staring at you.

Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re drenched,” you whispered, barely able to breathe.

“I couldn’t wait.”

You moved past him slowly... fingers grazing the edge of his jacket as you slipped it off his shoulders. It hit the floor with a quiet thud. He let you. Watched your hands, watched the way you touched him like muscle memory, like nothing had changed.

“Thought we said we wouldn’t do this again,” you murmured.

He stepped closer.

“I lied.”

Your breath hitched. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then lower... tracing the curve of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, the way your robe had started to slip off one shoulder.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, voice rough, low. “Too much. Too often.”

You didn’t speak. Just reached for his shirt, fingers curling into damp cotton, tugging him gently toward the couch. The soft shuffle of your feet, the candlelight dancing between you. No rush. Just that slow, sweet tension settling deep in your bones.

He followed.

When he sat, you straddled him like it was nothing new , as if you’d done it a hundred times before. Like the ache had always been mutual.

Your hands moved to his jaw, thumbs brushing the raindrops away.

He was so warm underneath the chill, so solid under your touch. His hands landed on your hips, gentle at first , he didn’t know if he was still allowed.

“You’re here,” you whispered.

“I shouldn’t be.”

“But you are.”

He kissed you then.

Soft at first, like he was testing a memory, then deeper, fuller, like he needed to sink into something familiar.

His lips parted against yours, tongue brushing the edge of your bottom lip, tasting you like a secret. His hands slid up your thighs, slow and reverent.

You sighed into his kiss, soft, barely there, and felt the way his hands gripped you steady.

“Still feel the same about us?” you asked, breath ghosting across his jaw.

“No,” he murmured, trailing kisses down your neck. “Feels worse now.”

“Worse?”

“I know what I lost.”

Your nails pressed gently into his shoulders. His mouth returned to yours, hungrier this time. His kiss wasn’t frantic; it was deliberate, he wanted to memorize you.

The way you tasted. The sounds you made. The way your breath caught when he slid a hand under your robe and felt the heat of your skin.

You rocked against him, slow, nothing rushed. He groaned into your mouth, voice breaking like gravel soaked in syrup.

Maybe this was all you were ever good at; the in-between. The warmth between disasters. The comfort after the chaos.

He left, but he never let go. And neither did you.

There were no promises.

No apologies.

Just two people who couldn’t stay away from each other.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

"Do you ever think about it?"

Leon's voice is quiet, almost lost in the hum of the city outside. The two of you are sitting on the floor of your apartment, backs against the couch, an open bottle of whiskey between you. It’s not unusual... late-night talks, drinks, unspoken things.

That’s just how it’s always been.

You glance at him, noting the way his fingers tap idly against the rim of his glass.

"Think about what?"

He exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. "Nothing. Forget it."

But you don’t. Because it lingers—the question, the weight of something unsaid. Because you have thought about it, more times than you’d ever admit.

About what it would be like if one of you had been brave enough to cross the line. If you hadn’t been so afraid to lose what you already had.

You let the silence stretch between you, comfortable yet heavy. Outside, the city moves on. Inside, it's just the two of you, locked in a moment that feels like it could be something more. But neither of you pushes.

Because this is what you do.

You play the long game.

And maybe, one day, one of you will finally make a move. But not tonight.

Tonight, you’ll just sit here, next to the person who means more to you than anyone else, and pretend like you don’t already know how this story ends.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The first time you met Leon, you knew he was trouble. The kind of trouble that sneaks up on you slowly, making itself at home in your life before you even realize it.

You never meant to become his best friend. It just happened.

It started with late-night study sessions in college, cramming for exams you both pretended you weren’t nervous about. Then came the post-exam celebrations, where you’d both get way too drunk and end up talking about things that felt too real in the moment but too embarrassing to bring up the next day.

Like that one time when he’d looked at you, tipsy and warm under dim bar lights, and said, "You know, if we’re both single by thirty, we should just marry each other."

You had laughed it off, shoving his shoulder. "Bold assumption that I’d still be available, Kennedy."

"Bold assumption that I wouldn’t be waiting for you," he had shot back, grinning like it was a joke.

You told yourself it was a joke. Even when the words stayed with you longer than they should have.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Years passed, but nothing really changed.

You and Leon were inseparable, bound by inside jokes, shared history, and the unspoken understanding that no one else quite fit into your lives the way you fit into each other’s.

Relationships came and went, but none of them ever seemed to last.

Maybe it was because no one wanted to date someone who was always running back to their so-called "best friend."

Maybe it was because deep down, neither of you ever really tried to make anything else work.

You both pretended not to notice.

Tonight feels different though,

The whiskey is burning slower, the silence between you stretching longer. You can feel Leon watching you, his gaze heavy with something you can’t quite name.

You turn to face him, tilting your head.

"Okay, no. You don’t get to say something cryptic and then drop it. What were you thinking about?"

He hesitates, and that alone is enough to make your stomach tighten. Leon isn’t the type to hesitate.

Finally, he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was just wondering… if things had been different, do you think we would’ve ever"

He stops himself, shaking his head. "Never mind. It’s dumb."

Your heart is pounding now, but you force yourself to stay still. "No, it’s not. Finish what you were going to say."

He studies you for a moment, like he’s trying to decide if this is worth it or a mistake. And maybe it is. Maybe this is the moment everything changes.

"If we would’ve ever worked," he finally says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

The words settle between you like a loaded gun, waiting to go off.

You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady. "I think about it all the time."

Leon stills, his breath hitching just slightly. "Yeah?"

You nod. "Yeah."

For the first time in your friendship, there is no room left to pretend.

No way to shove it aside, laugh it off, push it back down.

It’s out there now, raw and real and terrifying.

Leon shifts, turning to fully face you. He’s close now, closer than usual atleast...

Close enough that you can see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the silent war he’s fighting with himself.

Then, before you can second-guess it, before either of you can find a way to back out, he leans in.

The first touch of his lips is hesitant, like he’s giving you a chance to pull away. But you don’t.

You lean in, meet him halfway, and just like that, the long game is over.

His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb tracing along your jaw as he deepens the kiss, slow and aching and everything you never let yourself admit you wanted.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, he exhales a shaky laugh. "Took us long enough."

You smile, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt. "Yeah. It did."

At the end some things are worth the wait

© 2025 @fromvarshi ✧ do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere.

Before the date

Leon has been counting down the days to your date like it’s Christmas morning.

The day is circled on his little apartment calendar with a bright red marker, he even added a tiny smiley face next to it without thinking.

Every morning when he wakes up for work, he checks the calendar like it’s some kind of lucky charm.

He's so nervous he almost considers buying a new jacket for the date, but then decides he wants you to see the real him.

Practices "casual" smiles and greetings in the mirror — and hates himself immediately after.

As the day gets closer, his friends at the station tease him about how much he's been talking about it.

Picking You Up

He’s fifteen minutes early but spends five of them just sitting in the car, hyping himself up.

"Okay, Leon. You’ve dealt with worse. You can survive a date."

When he sees you walk outside, his whole expression softens, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

Jumps out of the car so fast to open the passenger door for you, almost tripping over himself.

"Hey! You look— wow. Seriously. Wow." he says, scratching the back of his neck, ears burning red.

His car smells faintly like cheap car freshener and anxiety but the playlist he made has all the upbeat songs he thinks you’ll like.

Keeps sneaking little glances at you while driving, grinning without even realizing it.

Roller Coasters

In line, he talks a little too much because he's nervous.

"You know, statistically, roller coasters are the safest form of thrill ride. Like... way safer than cars. Or crossing the street. Or—"

Pretends he’s not scared at all. Total lie. His hand brushes yours and he almost offers to hold it, but chickens out at the last second.

When the coaster drops?

Screams. Like, unashamed, from-the-diaphragm screaming.

When you both stumble off the ride, he’s laughing, pink-cheeked, brushing hair out of his eyes and panting like he just ran a marathon.

"You scream way cooler than I do," he jokes, nudging your shoulder. (He's also thinking you looked absolutely stunning in the lights.)

Carnival Games

He insists on winning you a prize.

He misses. Repeatedly.

Ends up spending way too much money trying to knock down bottles or land the stupid ball in the hoop, while muttering, "It's rigged, I swear."

When he finally wins, it's something ridiculously cheesy like a huge neon pink bear. He blushes, handing it over but you can tell he’s so proud.

Hanunted House

Talks a big game before going in.

"Don’t worry, I’ll protect you. I'm a cop, remember?"

Five seconds inside: screams at an obviously fake bat hanging from the ceiling.

Accidentally clutches your hand, hard — then realizes and doesn’t let go, using the excuse, "Y'know, just making sure you’re safe."

Nearly decks a guy in a costume who jumps out too fast.

Afterwards, he's laughing, face flushed, rubbing the back of his neck like, "Okay. Maybe that was a little scarier than I expected."

Still insists it was for your sake that he was jumpy. (Lies.)

Mirror Maze

Disaster. Absolute disaster.

Keeps walking into mirrors and apologizing to his OWN reflection.

"Oh, sorry— oh. Right. Mirror. Again."

You end up laughing so hard that you have to lean on a mirror to stay upright.

When you finally find him, he grabs your hand quickly, no excuses this time — holding on like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"Not losing you again," he says, giving you a shy little squeeze.

Food Stalls

"We need to try everything. It’s like... a date law or something."

Absolutely gets way too excited about food.

Tries a corndog first, offering you a bite even though he’s half-eaten it already (he blushes when he realizes how unromantic that is).

Churros, deep-fried Oreos, funnel cakes, he’s getting powdered sugar everywhere but grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.

Ends up with a stick of cotton candy bigger than his own head.

You tease him about how much he’s eating and he pouts, "Hey, rookie cops gotta keep their energy up."

Wipes powdered sugar off your nose with his thumb, a little too softly, then immediately looks flustered about how intimate that felt.

Fireworks

Finds the perfect spot, slightly uphill and away from the screaming kids and cotton candy stalls.

Sits down beside you on the grass, shoulder brushing yours.

As the first fireworks boom overhead, lighting up the sky in brilliant reds and golds, Leon’s eyes are on you.

You catch him staring, and he just smiles this shy, lopsided smile that feels way too honest. "You’re way more beautiful than any of that," he says quietly, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

When you lean your head on his shoulder, he freezes for a second, then gently rests his head against yours, heart thundering harder than the fireworks.

He swallows hard, he knows the night's ending soon, and part of him is terrified to ruin it. But another part, the braver, dumber part of him that jumped into a haunted house for you, won't shut up: "Do it. Just do it. She’s right there."

He turns his head just a little, just enough to see you looking up at the sky, your face lit soft and warm by the fireworks. God, you're beautiful.

Leon clears his throat quietly, and you glance at him, smiling. It hits him like another roller coaster drop. That smile.

You're not scared. You're not uncomfortable. You're... happy.

He leans in, slow, giving you plenty of time to pull away. You don't.

When your lips finally meet, it’s so gentle, like he’s afraid you might break if he’s not careful. His hand finds yours, tentative but firm, fingers sliding through yours until you're laced together...It’s not a practiced kiss, It’s soft, a little awkward, noses brushing, but so real it makes his whole chest ache.

When you pull back slightly, Leon’s forehead rests lightly against yours, his eyes fluttering open. He’s breathing a little harder, grinning so wide he can’t even pretend to play it cool.

"I've been wanting to do that since the second you got in the car," he murmurs, voice rough with nerves and sweetness. Another firework explodes overhead — but Leon doesn’t even glance up.

He’s looking at you. Only you.

Dropping You Off

Drives you home slowly, humming quietly to the songs on the radio.

At your doorstep, he stands there a little awkwardly, rocking on his heels.

"Tonight was amazing. You’re... amazing." he says, voice soft, almost shy.

He wants to kiss you so bad again but chickens out at the last second, instead gently squeezing your hand.

When you step inside, he sits in his car outside your house for a minute, just smiling like a lovesick idiot, staring at the dashboard.

Late Night Text

Leon [11:47PM]: "Hey, just wanted to say thanks again. That was the best night I've had in a long time. Hope you had even half as much fun as I did. Sleep tight."

Stares at the screen, panicking, debating if he should’ve added more emojis or less.

Then he spends the next hour lying in bed, replaying every moment and smiling into his pillow like the huge dork he is, and when he finally falls asleep with the biggest smile on his face, he's already dreaming about the second date.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Love

It used to mean something to you..warmth, safety, a future. But now? Now it was nothing more than a ghost, a distant memory blurred by grief. You had it once, held it in your hands, only to have it ripped away.

By them.

A machine. Cold, emotionless, precise. That’s what the report called it..An “unfortunate malfunction.”

A calculation gone wrong. An android on duty, programmed to protect, instead pulling the trigger and taking him away from you.

No remorse, no hesitation. Just a flaw in its code, a line of errors that cost you the person you loved most.

Since that day, you swore you’d never let yourself be that vulnerable again. Never trust something that couldn’t feel.

And yet, here you were.

Forced to work alongside one of them.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The precinct was eerily quiet at this hour. The usual chaos of ringing phones, hurried footsteps, and people barking orders had faded into a heavy silence, broken only by the hum of computer screens and the occasional sigh from a tired officer.

You should’ve left hours ago. Should’ve gone home, taken a shower, and maybe even slept for once. But no, you were still here, staring at the same damn case files, hoping something would magically make sense.

It was late, too late. But you knew what you were getting yourself into when you applied for this job.

The sixth deviant case this week. Six androids gone rogue, six crime scenes painted with the same unsettling pattern. The higher-ups wanted answers, and they wanted them now.

You leaned back in your chair, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes as the screen in front of you blurred.

Across the room, Hank sat slouched at his desk, a nearly empty bottle of whiskey beside him. Not that it was anything new. He’d been drinking more than usual, muttering under his breath about “goddamn plastic pricks” and “machines taking over the damn world.”

And then there was him.

Connor,

Standing there, arms behind his back, unnervingly still. His LED blinked a soft yellow as he processed data, scrolling through reports faster than a human.

Not a single ounce of fatigue, not a hint of frustration. Just that same calm, unreadable expression.

You hated it.

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to look tired,” you muttered, barely glancing at him.

Connor tilted his head slightly, as if considering your words.

"Fatigue is a human limitation. My efficiency would decrease if I—”

“Jesus, forget it.” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Of course you wouldn’t get it.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The intel was solid. Too solid.

A high-profile deviant, responsible for hacking CyberLife’s most classified systems, was holed up in an abandoned factory on the city’s outskirts.

The plan was simple, SWAT breaches first, Connor and You follow. Standard protocol. In and out.

But something felt off the second you stepped inside...

The air was thick with dust. The walls were lined with flickering monitors, lines of indecipherable code running across the screens. The place was too quiet. Too still.

Your gut twisted.

“DPD, hands in the air!”

Your voice echoed through the empty halls of the decaying factory. The deviant stood at the end of the corridor, gun shaking in their hands. A prototype model. Highly advanced. Highly dangerous.

Connor stepped forward, voice calm. “You don’t have to do this.”

The deviant’s LED flickered a frantic yellow. Their breathing was sharp, erratic. Terrified.

“They’re going to deactivate me,” they whispered. “I don’t want to die.”

You tightened your grip on your gun. “Then drop the weapon and come quietly.”

For a moment..just a moment..you thought they would.

But then, as cliche as it is.. a sound rang out like a thunderclap.

You barely had time to react before Connor moved.

He tackled you, spinning just enough to shield you with his body. You hit the ground hard, pain exploding through your ribs.

The deviant ran.

“Shit!!Connor, are you—?”

Your voice caught in your throat.

Because the blood wasn’t his.

It was yours.

The bullet had torn through your stomach.

Your head swam. Your hands felt too cold.

“Y/N?” Connor’s voice was sharp, urgent. “Stay with me.”

Your fingers grasped weakly at his arm. “You have to go—”

“I’m not leaving you.”

His LED flickered red. His systems were screaming at him..finish the mission.

But he couldn’t move.

Because for the first time in his entire existence, the mission didn’t matter.

You did

Your breath hitched. “Connor.."

Connor wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

But right now?

Right now, he was terrified.

Your breathing was slowing.

Your fingers twitched against his wrist, gripping onto him like he was the only thing tethering you to life. Maybe he was.

The deviant stood over you both, gun still raised. “I told you,” they whispered. “I don’t want to die.”

Connor’s LED flashed a violent red. Alerting him about his duties as an android.

His mind was fracturing.

The mission.

You.

The mission.

You.

There was no logical path. No perfect outcome. No third option.

But there was you.

The deviant took a step closer. Too close.

Connor moved instinctively.

A single, fluid motion.

His gun whipped up.

The deviant’s LED flickered before then dimminning.

Their body crumpled.

Silence.

Connor didn’t move.

Not at first.

Because something inside him had just snapped.

His programming had told him to finish the mission. His protocols had ordered him to stand down.

But none of that had mattered.

Because when the moment came.

He hadn’t chosen CyberLife.

He hadn’t chosen the mission.

He had chosen you.

And now?

Now he had to live with it.

Your eyelids fluttered. Your grip on his wrist weakened.

“Y/N..” his voice was sharp, desperate. “Stay awake.”

Your lips parted, a shaky breath escaping.

“You—”

Righ then, like clockwork,

Red and blue lights flashed through the broken windows.

Sirens.

Backup had finally arrived.

Connor didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Because in his hands, you felt too cold.

And for the first time in his existence—

Connor was afraid.

© 2025 @fromvarshi ✧ do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere.

If an android can fear loss and a human can obey logic… then what truly separates us?