#le

The apartment is quiet except for the low murmur of the TV and the sound of rain against the windows. Leon’s in the bedroom changing after getting home late, his duffel bag dropped near the door, jacket tossed over a chair.

You’re curled up on the couch scrolling mindlessly through your phone when something catches your eye near the lamp beside the TV: a spider. Not tiny, either—actually, big enough to make your stomach immediately flip. It crawls down the wall slowly, deliberately taunting you, you think.

Your breath catches in your throat.

“...Leon?” you call out quietly, hoping not to cause the creature to skittle off. No response, of course; Leon only hears you muttering under your breath when you're cussing him out. Selective hearing, you call it.

The spider moves again. You sit up, rigid.

“Leoooon?" You wail. Still nothing. And then the thing suddenly disappears behind the lamp. Your phone drops to the floor with a bang.

“Oh my G— LEON!"

You hear heavy footsteps thunder from the bedroom and, before you can process it, Leon appears around the corner with a handgun already drawn, expression sharp and alert in a way that makes your heart jump for an entirely different reason; he's topless, still in his tactical pants, hair pushed back out of his face.

“Y/N? What's wrong?” he calls as he hastens to the living room, face strewn with concern. His eyes sweep the apartment automatically, trained instinct taking over before you can even answer.

You stare at him, mouth agape. He stares back expectantly, eyebrows raised.

“…there was a spider.”

Leon doesn’t move: the gun remains in his hand for a solid three seconds while the words process in his brain.

“What?”

You point weakly toward the lamp. “It was...huge.”

Leon lets the weapon drop to his side as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “You screamed.”

“Because it was huge.”

His shoulders sag with relief so visible you almost feel guilty. He drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart, I thought someone broke in."

“Something did break in!” you scowl.

Leon actually closes his eyes for a second like he’s reconsidering every life decision that led him here. Then, he looks at you— curled defensively into the corner of the couch, eyes still fixed on the lamp like the spider might reappear armed and dangerous— and he laughs.

He clicks the safety back on and sets the handgun carefully on the table out of reach before approaching the lamp.

“You know,” he says without looking back at you, “I’ve seen spiders bigger than cars.”

“At least you knew where they were— this one disappeared and now it could be anywhere.”

“Fair point.”

He nudges the lamp slightly; you immediately pull your legs higher onto the couch. Leon snorts softly under his breath before crouching down to inspect behind the table. His movements are calm, methodical: the same focus he uses on missions, which somehow makes this even more embarrassing.

“There it is,” Leon says finally.

"Yeah? You see it? Don't let it run away again—"

“Relax.”

“I'll relax once it's on the bottom of your boot.”

Leon grabs a nearby magazine and an empty glass from the coffee table, folds it once, and with one quick movement traps the spider under a glass. You stare at him wide-eyed, expectantly.

“Better?” he asks.

Before you can reply, the spider starts crawling against the glass. You make a horrified noise and Leon stands up with the glass and magazine as he walks toward the window.

“Oh, honey,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You’re really scared of this little thing?”

“Yes! You thought I was being murdered five minutes ago— that's how scared I am!”

“Don't joke about that," he scowls, "or I'll put this in our bed."

You glare while he carries the trapped spider toward the window and releases it outside into the rain. When he turns back around, you’re still visibly tense, eyes scanning the walls suspiciously. Leon walks back over slowly, amusement softening into something warmer.

“Aw, sweetheart, come on. It's gone now.”

The second he sits beside you, you immediately move into him without hesitation, pressing against his naked chest while he wraps an arm around your shoulders automatically, rubbing soothing circles on your upper arm. You breathe him in: worn-off cologne, musk and sweat from the day, the smell of his body wash. Leon.

“For the record,” he says, “please reserve your screams for situations where I might actually need to help you.”

“You say that like that wasn’t a life-threatening situation.”

“...yeah.”