#leon x reader

Three weeks later, you're sitting at your computer, a strain in your eyes as you stare at the screen, mindlessly typing your report for the mission—the bruises on your face are starting to yellow at the edges, blending with the deep purple into a sickly, painful color. The rest of your body isn't faring much better after falling nearly twenty feet through a skylight during a chase through an old Umbrella facility. Honestly, it's a miracle you didn't break a limb or two—or your neck.

"What happened to you?" The voice prompts you to crane your head toward the source, causing a wince as you see Leon standing next to your desk with a worried frown. You take a moment to observe him, noticing a few scrapes on his cheeks that weren't there the last time you'd seen him. He and his partner had been on cleanup duty for the mission—not that you'd left them much to clean up; there's a reason the DSO hired you, and it wasn't because of sloppiness.

"Fell through a skylight," you answer blankly. When his eyes widen, you let out a huff of laughter that only causes your ribs to ache. "Could've been a lot worse, trust me."

"Looks like it," he says. "Maybe avoid high places next time."

The tone in his voice sounds like it's a reprimand—a warning for something most people would see as a rookie mistake—you're not a rookie—but you notice the smirk that flickers at the edges of his mouth. "I'll make sure to put the request in," you joke as you take a sip of your coffee that has, admittedly, been sitting on your desk for way too long, grimacing when the bitter liquid hits your tongue. "God, that tastes like sludge."

"Someone should've warned you about the break room coffee," he jokes. "I'm pretty sure it could be considered a biohazard."

You purse your lips, willing the taste from your tongue, knowing it's going to linger in the back of your throat all day as you nod in agreement. "I'll file a complaint with OSHA."

The small smile that creeps onto his face at your joke makes the butterflies in your stomach go wild. He shifts slightly on his feet, looking as though he wants to say more, or maybe he's just reluctant to end the conversation. Regardless, he taps lightly on the top of your cubicle wall with his palm, signaling he's going to take his leave. "Well, I'll let you get back to your reports," he says, about to walk away before pausing, hovering for a moment before adding, "I'm glad you're alright."

The sincerity in his voice makes you soften, your shoulders dropping as you stare at him with gratitude. "Thank you, Agent Kennedy," you say, turning back to your computer, though you watch him leave from the corner of your eye until he's gone from your sight.

Later that night, you're joylessly chewing on a bland granola bar while walking back to your desk after a much-needed break among a sea of cubicles that have long since cleared out for the day. You come to a stop just a few feet from your destination when you notice a paper coffee cup deliberately placed in front of your keyboard. The logo of the fancy coffee shop down the road stares back at you—the one you always tell yourself you're going to stop in on the way to work but never wake up early enough to do so.

Your head swivels from side to side, glancing around the office to make sure you didn't just miss some other poor soul lingering after hours under the threat of looming deadlines, but the rest of the office remains resolutely dark except for the glow of your own computer and its blinding blue light—probably why you've had an impending migraine for most of the night.

Stepping closer, you see a bright pink Post-it note tucked underneath, one taken from your own stack that sits right under your monitor. You toss the half-eaten granola bar into the trash beside your desk before picking up the coffee cup and then the note, gazing down at it curiously.

'Hope this is better than the breakroom sludge.

P.S. Don't stay too late.'

There's no name or even initials signed at the bottom, but you still know who it's from. You huff through your nose as if trying to dispel the ridiculous amount of giddiness that swells in your belly at the kind gesture. You were only gone from your desk for thirty minutes, so you're surprised you didn't even see him skulking about like some wayward food delivery driver.

The coffee is still pleasantly hot when you take a sip; it's a medium-roast, smooth, and a bit sweet. You savor the taste, warming your palms against the cup. As you take a seat, you tuck the note into your top desk drawer with a fond smile.

Despite his words, you stay later than you intend to, but he doesn't need to know that.

Thus begins a little song and dance between you and Leon.

You leave a cup of coffee for him on his desk the next morning—just a black coffee with no extras, but you set a small bag filled with creamers and a variety of sugar packets you pilfered from the coffee shop next to it, along with a note that says:

'Didn't know how you like it.'

You drop it off quickly before you can talk yourself out of it, telling yourself you're just returning the favor from last night, and ignoring the fact that you specifically woke up thirty minutes early to ensure you had enough time to stop at the coffee shop this morning before work.

If you're a bit more aware of who comes in and out of the office, peeking over your cubicle wall for a familiar mop of dirty blonde hair, that's your own business… at least until your neighbor gives you an inquisitive look and asks if you're waiting for someone. You blanch, shake your head, and sink a little deeper into your seat, then redirect your gaze to your computer. The blush of being caught spreads to your cheeks as you idly pretend to check your emails.

When you finally see him, it's in passing in the hall, but he's holding a familiar cup and sends you a shy smile, mouthing 'thank you' before ducking into a conference room. It's a high you ride through the rest of the day, even if you're mildly embarrassed by how the man and his pretty blue eyes have invaded your frontal lobe.

You feel like a teenager pining after a crush.

Between him being sent out on assignment and you being medically cleared for field work again after your fall, you don't see each other for a few weeks. Luckily, when you return from this mission, you're mostly unscathed, though the same can't be said for Leon. Scrapes that are just beginning to scab over mark his face, and one arm is cradled in a sling. Overall, he looks rather pathetic—you hate how much it's working for you.

Leaning over his cubicle wall, you place a coffee cup down in front of him before giving him a sympathetic glance. "Skylight get you too?" you ask, straight-faced.

He lets out a hoarse, wheezing chuckle, wincing and putting a hand over his ribs. "Don't make me laugh," he says as he grabs the coffee. "Try an elevator shaft."

Grimacing, you take a sip of your own drink before muttering, "Bummer."

"At least I get some good coffee as a reward," he offers optimistically with a playful smile on his lips as he reclines more comfortably in his chair.

"I fear your standards may be too low, Agent Kennedy," you tell him.

"Leon," he quickly interjects.

Quirking a brow, you let out a curious hum, not understanding what he means.

"Leon," he repeats. "You can call me Leon."

A moment of silence passes between you two before the corners of your lips curl up, and you lean closer to him over the half-wall of his cubicle. "Okay, Leon," you agree, your tongue curling around his name experimentally, low and intimate in a way that's completely inappropriate for the workplace.

You notice the subtle change in his expression—how his pupils dilate, and his mouth hangs open slightly. Someone in the office coughs somewhere, and he snaps back to himself, his one good hand gripping the armrest of his chair as he looks away from you, shifting in his seat. You smirk, eyes glinting with amusement; you hadn't expected the man to be so shy.

As much as you'd like to stay and prod him a bit more, you decide to take pity on the poor man instead. "I'm glad you're alright," you say, echoing his sentiments from a few weeks ago as you turn to head back to your own desk.

He calls your name before you can get more than a foot away, and you stop, glancing over your shoulder with raised eyebrows. "Would you—" He closes his mouth, swallowing thickly as if his throat suddenly has gone dry. "—Would you like to get dinner sometime?"

Several heads peek over their cubicles, curious coworkers probably eager to hear this juicy bit of office gossip—Infamously aloof Agent Leon S. Kennedy asking out the pretty transfer from the West Coast? Yeah, that's going to make its rounds.

Leon is so absorbed in you that he doesn't even notice the nosy onlookers. There's nervous tension around him; you can see his jaw muscle twitch as he clenches his teeth, anticipating your reply—maybe even thinking you'll say no, as if you haven't been flirting with him since day one.

You step back toward him, holding a hand out expectantly, and when he gives you a confused stare, you clarify, "Your phone."

He scrambles to grab his phone from his pocket, and it's surprising how endearing it is to watch a man in his thirties eagerly offer it to you. When you swipe up on his phone and see he doesn't have a passcode, you give him an incredulous look but say nothing before typing in your information. You even send yourself a message, ensuring you have his number, knowing the chance of him chickening out isn't exactly zero percent. You feel your phone vibrate in your jacket.

In a swift motion, you lock his phone and toss it back to him, which he catches with ease, calling out, "Text me," as you walk away.

It takes him three days to text you.

Even as you continue to see each other in the office, leaving coffees on each other's desks and chatting in the break room, the only text in your message thread with Leon is the little coffee emoji you'd sent from his phone. It's Wednesday, and for the first time in weeks, you've managed to leave work at a decent time, and to celebrate, you're plopped on your couch, folding laundry and enjoying a glass of cheap wine while watching your favorite shitty reality TV show.

The muffled pings of your phone—three times in rapid succession—catch your attention, making you pause and toss the towel you'd been folding aside. When you search around for it, you realize you must've accidentally buried it under piles of clean clothes. "Fuck," you mutter as you carefully begin to peek under each stack until you find it in between pairs of underwear.

You're only mildly surprised to see three texts from Leon—or rather, 'Large Coffee, Light & Sweet,' as you've named him in your phone after learning his preferred way to take his coffee. A little surprising because you definitely pegged him for a plain black coffee kind of guy.

Hey.

It's Leon.

…Which you know already because you have my number.

You snort as you read the texts, hesitating to tap out a reply, thinking you might make him suffer for making you wait so long, but unfortunately for you—or fortunately for him—you lack that kind of impulse control.

Still, you can't help but make him sweat a bit, and only reply with a simple:

hi

The response is almost instant and makes you immediately regret the slight pettiness:

How was your day?

The question makes you want to do unspeakable things to him, you think sourly as your eyes narrow at the message on your phone. Every lackluster interaction you've had with a man in the last decade flashes before your eyes when you realize not one has ever asked you something as simple as how your day was.

Probably a talking point to bring up to your therapist.

finally got to leave the office on time :)

You send a picture of your hand holding your half-empty wine glass, backlit by your TV, being careful not to include any piles of laundry in the background—you don't want to scare him away with pictures of your delicates after he finally worked up the courage to text you.

You wait a few moments, biting the inside of your cheek as you watch your phone expectantly. When you finally set it down on your coffee table to resume folding laundry, it pings again. The speed with which you pick it up would be embarrassing if anyone else were around to witness it, but in the safety and solitude of your apartment, you permit yourself this humiliating instance of desperation.

He sends a picture back, with the top half of his face at the bottom, as the rest of the image shows the empty, dark office behind him. Unashamed, you click on the picture and zoom in to get a better look at him—his sandy hair, which usually falls into his eyes, is pushed back slightly, offering you a clearer view. The back of your neck warms as your gaze meets the still image of his that stares back at you, and you quickly click away to read the message.

Wish I was as lucky. 

And just as you're about to type a reply, another message comes through.

What are you watching?

crappy reality tv

You type back.

gonna be a late night??

Resolutely, you put your phone back down, watching intently as the little dots pop up signaling that he's typing as you absentmindedly fold the rest of your laundry, knowing if you stopped now, you'd never get it all done tonight. It stops and starts several times before you finally get another message.

I hope not, all I have is the breakroom sludge to keep me awake.

Smiling, you speed through the rest of your laundry before replying:

maybe you should spend a little less time texting women then?

Woman.

You frown, brows furrowing.

what?

I'm only talking to one woman.

An unnamed feeling swells comfortably in your chest, as if it belongs there. You stand, hooking your laundry basket onto your hip with one hand while staring down at your phone in the other. You walk the entire way to your room with your eyes fixed on your screen, setting the basket on your bed before gnawing your bottom lip raw as you type and erase a response.

After several attempts, you hit send before you can rethink it anymore.

is she cute?

He doesn't make you wait long for an answer; clearly, he doesn't intend to get his reports done tonight.

I think beautiful would be a better word.

You toss the phone away from you as if it burned you, hands on your hips as you sway your weight from one leg to the other—nervous energy flooding through you. Maybe you expected him to deflect or be coy about it; you definitely didn't expect such a sincere response.

Another message pops up in the chat.

I'm also hoping she'll agree to go to dinner with me on Friday even though I was a coward who took three days to text her.

A grin works its way onto your face as you grab your phone.

i suppose it depends on where you plan on taking her. it'll have to be somewhere prettyyyy nice if you made her wait three days for a text

He sends a link to a restaurant—it's an Italian place, and a quick glance at the menu shows it has no prices listed—pretty nice, indeed.

Is this nice enough?

If he were any other man, you might think he's being facetious, but in the few months you've known him, you've exchanged numerous sarcastic remarks with each other, never with any malice.

Another text pops up, as if he's getting nervous by your lack of reply.

I can find a different place if you don't like that one.

You smile to yourself, tapping out a response.

no that's perfect

I'll pick you up at 7

sounds good, i'm gonna head to bed, don't stay too late

I won't, I promise.

When you see Leon the next morning, he's already at his desk like he never left last night, and there are bags under his eyes. The sling he'd been wearing all week is notably missing; likely, he'd finally been cleared to stop wearing it. As you hand him his drink, you tease, "Hey, look at you, two working arms again."

"As good as new," he replies, accepting it tiredly.

"I take it you ended up staying late," you say.

He takes a gulp of it like it's the elixir of life, sighing contentedly into the cup. "Yeah, and I still didn't get the report done—might be easier now that I have two hands." His eyes finally scan over your figure, brows pinching together like he's taking notice of something. "You look nice."

The urge to poke at him a little wins out before you can even think better of it. "Do I not look nice normally?" you ask, no trace of humor on your expression.

His eyes widen, and you can see the way panic tenses through his entire body. "No," he says quickly. "That's not what I meant. You always look nice. I've just never—" His gaze flicks down to the pencil skirt you're wearing, different from the normal pantsuits you wear in the office, even more so from the tactical gear he's seen you in heading out on missions.

You come round the side of his desk, sitting against the edge of it as you lean over, voice low so none of the office busybodies hear, "Does the skirt do something for you, Agent Kennedy?" you question.

It's like he doesn't know what to do with his hands, gripping the faux leather of the armrests on his chair before lowering them to rub his sweaty palms flat against the tops of his knees. "Yes," he admits shyly at first, but he sees the teasing glint in your eye and grows bolder. "Would like to know the occasion so I might see you in it again."

You chuckle at his words, take a sip of your drink, and say, "I've got a deposition this afternoon on the Hill." You're not thrilled about it, and it's clearly written on your face. "Those idiots in Congress already like to rip into me for some shit that happened in West Africa a few years ago, like that wasn't BSAA's screw-up. I try not to give them much ammunition to use against me, which means dressing to old white conservative men's standards."

Leon seems to take affront to this answer, brows furrowing as a sneer makes its way onto his lips. "They make a habit of commenting on your clothes?" he asks.

Laughing a bit louder, you cross your arms before staring at him and realizing he's serious. "Leon, I'm a woman, of course, they comment on my clothes." That answer does nothing to diminish the perturbed expression. You soften your stance a bit, reaching out to comfortingly pat his shoulder. "Trust me, it's nothing I can't handle."

Before you can pull your hand away, he grabs it. You remember his skin being rough and callous from when you shook hands on your first day. It should be off-putting, but the way his thumb carefully caresses the top of your hand is anything but. "I know you're capable of handling a bunch of asshole politicians," he says softly. "I've seen you in action, I've read the reports—I know you're a great agent, and I wish you didn't have to bend to the whims of those people."

You fall silent for a moment, warmth spreading through your body originating from where your hands are joined. Admittedly, it's nice to hear someone acknowledge your hard work—you've spent so much of your career fighting and clawing to get to where you are. It hasn’t been easy; the constant dismissal you've faced because you’re a woman in this field—you just want to be taken seriously.

"I appreciate you saying that," you say. You squeeze his hand before reluctantly drawing away. "I gotta go meet my lawyer before we head down, but I'll see you later?" You don't mean for it to come out like a question, but there's a twinge of hope in your voice.

"Yeah, you'll have to let me know how it goes," he says with a smile.

"Bye, Leon," you breathe out as you leave.

Leon's eyes stay glued to you until you disappear into the elevator.

Several excruciating hours later, you're finally stepping out of your deposition, your ass numb from the god-awful chairs they force you to sit in, and you squint as if you've never seen sunlight before when you walk out of the building.

Pulling your phone from your purse, you see you have a text from Leon from only a few minutes ago.

Thought I might try this place.

It's accompanied by a picture of a coffee shop's storefront, different from your usual one. Cute is the first word that comes to mind as you stare at the photo—the building is bright pink with neon signs and flowers in the window.

feeling adventurous today agent kennedy?

The heels you're wearing are digging into the backs of your ankles and pinching your toes in all the wrong ways. You can't wait to shuck them off in favor of the more sensible shoes you have back at the office that you regrettably forgot to take with you to change into. Your phone pings again.

Are you finished with your deposition?

While you're walking, you snap a quick selfie—not caring that your hair is windswept or that it's probably from a bad angle. You just flash a thumbs up to the camera before sending it.

all done! mostly painless though congressman fowler is going to get my size 8 shoved up his ass if he makes another comment about how i conduct myself before the "esteemed members of congress" gagggg

As you make it to your car, your feet feeling like you're stepping on shards of glass with each step, you burst out laughing at Leon's next message.

I can call in a bomb threat to his office if you want.

is there actually going to be a bomb?

You reply as you slide into the driver's seat before typing out a second message.

actually don't tell me, i need to have plausible deniability

If I go down I'm taking you with me.

and just when i was beginning to think we were friends </3

You receive another picture: a cup holder safely placed in his passenger seat with two drinks in it.

I guess I just got these two drinks for myself then since we're not friends.

They must be from the new place he'd found, and for some reason, it amuses you to think of Leon Kennedy, dressed in all black with his furrowed brow, in a cute coffee shop ordering you coffee.

nvm all is forgiven <3 what did you get me?

Oh, how quick your tune changes when coffee is at stake.

You wonder if he's smiling like you are you type out your response.

i am a simple woman please don't take my coffee from me i had to deal with politicians today :(

I'll see you back at the office.

what does that mean leon

There's no answer.

leon what does that meaaaaaaan

When no reply comes, you figure he must be driving, so you start your car and head back to the office. As you pull into the parking garage, you spot a familiar figure leaning against a sleek black car. You pull into a nearby parking spot, not caring that your feet are aching as you saunter up to him, watching him as he watches you. "So, what did you get me?" you ask as you reiterate your previous query, reaching out toward the cup in his hand that he isn't drinking from, but he holds it up just out of your reach at the last second.

"Who says this is for you?" he questions with a smirk.

Your mouth drops open as if scandalized, as you recoil back dramatically with a hand poised at your chest. "I didn't know you could be so hurtful, Agent Kennedy."

In the privacy of the underground garage, Leon bends down closer to you, tilting his head as his gaze meets yours, eyes flicking briefly toward your lips before quickly looking back up. You feel your cheeks flush, nervousness flooding your insides from the intensity of his stare. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you glance down at the small space between you.

A fond smile forms on his face—maybe with a satisfaction at being the one to fluster you for once. "I'm just kidding," he assures softly as he gives you the coffee cup. With his now free hand, he plays with a lock of your hair that falls over your shoulder. "I'm excited for tomorrow."

You study his features, the sharp cut of his cheekbones contrasting with the gentle pout of his lips. There's an earnestness in his eyes—they burn cold, sharp like the ice that cracks beneath your feet on a frozen lake.

It is a plunge you think you'd gladly take.

A smile spreads across your lips as you take a sip of your drink, eyebrows rising at the new flavor. It's flowery—not as sweet as one might expect, but not bitter either. This is part of the little game you and Leon have been unintentionally playing over the past few weeks. While you've been able to pin down his favorite drink, he hasn't managed to find yours, so each time he gets you a coffee, it's a different one.

You've begun texting him a star rating for each one, though a 5-star rating remains elusive.

"Getting braver with your choices," you comment slyly.

He raises his eyebrows. "Do you like it?" he asks, and you see the flash of worry in his eyes. "I can go back an—"

Pressing a hand to his chest, you stop him mid-sentence, feeling how he leans into your touch. "Leon, I like it," you assure. "A solid... 3-stars." He frowns at the rating but seems at least pleased that you don't completely hate the drink he got you. "As much as I'd love to sit here and chat all day, these shoes are killing me, and I left my comfy pair at my desk."

"I can carry you," he offers quickly.

You glance up at him incredulously. "Yes, because that wouldn't make people talk, seeing you carry me into the office because of my poor choice of footwear." Your eyes quickly shift to the faint outline of his biceps through his suit jacket before a mischievous smile spreads across your face. "Besides, I don't think you'd be able to carry me that far." With that, you turn on your heel and begin walking toward the elevator.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he questions, clearly offended by your little quip.

"Nothing," you call out in a singsong voice, hearing his footsteps scramble to catch up with you.

You think he starts to say something about how much he can bench before deciding how self-absorbed that sounds, and instead he settles on a muttered, almost pouting, "I could carry you no problem."

"Mhm," you hum as you push the button to call the elevator and take a sip of your drink; for some reason, it tastes even sweeter with the simmering agent beside you.

You step in as the doors open, and he's close behind; you can feel the warmth of his body at your back. "Now who's being hurtful?" he whispers into your ear as he leans into you. The tickle of his breath against you sends a tingle all the way down to your practically numb toes.

When the doors close, you spin around and lay your hand against his chest. He seems surprised, but he doesn't resist as you push him back until he feels the cold metal of the elevator wall through his suit. "I'm just kidding, Leon," you murmur as you close the gap between you. His free hand moves to your hip, thumb tracing circles into the fabric of your skirt—resisting the temptation to dig his fingertips into your waist, to become more intimate with the curve of your body. "I know you could carry me."

"I could," he confirms quietly. His lips are so close to yours that you can almost taste the coffee on his tongue. There's something ravenous building in you, and you see it reflected in Leon—can see how he's about to surrender to the hunger as his eyes flutter shut and he slants his head to the side.

You're a hair's breadth from the edge when the elevator dings, signaling you've arrived at your floor. "I know," you whisper, then step away as the doors open. "Thanks for the coffee, Leon."

He's leaning against the elevator wall, left staring at you as you walk away, his gaze dropping to the gentle sway of your hips in the pencil skirt, committing it to memory.

That night, you're tearing through your closet, the panic of your date finally setting in. It's been far too long since you've gone on a first date—the nature of your job didn't leave much time for a social life, and even less time for relationships. Most people you've been with have been less than understanding of the weeks, sometimes months, you spend away on missions—if you even get to that point to begin with.

The perpetuity of an endless cycle of talking stages is soul-crushing.

You had almost given up on anything that wasn't a quick, one-time hookup.

As such, most of your wardrobe is dedicated to business wear for the few stretches of time when you're home long enough to be in the office, and more sensible, tactical clothing you wear when you're in the field. With the entirety of your closet now spread across your bed in various piles labeled 'no' and 'absolutely not', you're left staring at the final piece of clothing in your wardrobe.

It's a slinky black dress you bought on a whim a few years ago, probably a size too small now, if you could manage to squeeze into it, and made of a sleek silk. It's simple—maybe too simple for a first date, but your only other option is to find something tomorrow... if you even have time before the actual date.

You groan, grabbing the dress from the hanger, cursing Leon for scheduling a date so soon, and yourself for agreeing to it so easily. You hold your breath as you pull it on, and only after ensuring it actually zips do you release it, relief washing over you. Standing in front of your long mirror, you twist every way, smoothing your hands over the fabric.

You look… nice.

Really nice.

At least, you think you do.

You will yourself not to focus on where the dress hugs a little too tightly, knowing you'll only hyperfixate on things that you have no control over. Instead, you nod to yourself, muttering a soft and accepting, "Okay."

Excitement wells up in you as you take the dress off, carefully hanging it up on the back of your bedroom door. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you snap a picture of it, sending it to Leon with the message:

a little preview for tomorrow night :)

Setting your phone face down on your nightstand, you start putting everything back in your closet, trying not to give in to the impulse to just sit there staring at your phone until he responds. Even when you hear it vibrate, you resist the urge, only looking at it after you've put everything away nearly thirty minutes later.

Are you trying to kill me?

You grin.

no if i was trying to kill you, i'd show you what i was going to wear underneath

You quickly send a second message before putting down your phone.

goodnight!

You hear your phone go off once, then twice, and then a third time as you settle into bed. You take a peek at the notifications while promising yourself you won't respond.

Wait what are you wearing underneath?

Hellooo?

Sweet dreams.

Walking into the office the next day, you're smiling when you spot Leon hovering around your desk. It quickly drops from your lips when you finally see the grim expression he's wearing. As you set your stuff down in the chair, you ask, "What's wrong?" There's already anxiety tightening your chest.

"I'm being sent out on a mission," he says, a frown on his face.

You try to keep a neutral countenance as you accept the coffee cup he holds out, cradling it in your hands, appreciating the warmth it provides when the rest of your body suddenly feels cold. "When do you leave?"

Glancing down at his watch, he can hardly look you in the eye as he says, "Three hours."

"Oh," you murmur, trying not to let your disappointment show but ultimately failing. It's not like you didn't know this was a possibility—maybe you just naively thought you'd at least get through the first date without your jobs getting in the way.

Reaching out, he grabs your hand. "Can we reschedule?" he asks.

You nod, forcing a smile—this isn't Leon's fault, and you don't want him to feel worse than he already no doubt feels. "Yeah, of course."

"I'll text you, okay?" he offers—it's an olive branch, one you're glad to take.

"Okay," you say. "Make sure to check in when you can—" You freeze and grimace, realizing you might be overstepping some boundaries. You're not his girlfriend, you have no right to request him to keep in contact while he's away. "—If you're able to, or want to—"

"I will." He cuts you off before you can dig yourself deeper into a hole, a tender smile on his face as he holds your hand in his. "I'm really sorry," he murmurs.

"It's okay," you assure him, because it really is. "I get it, trust me, I get it." Your fingers play with his, thumb mapping the callouses built up along his hand from shooting—there's one right on the pad of his index finger that you find yourself delicately brushing against. "Just means I get to order the most expensive dessert on the menu when we go."

"Gonna make my wallet hurt, huh?" he teases.

You wink. "Think of it as a rescheduling fee."

He carefully extracts his hand from yours, as it pains him to do so, and checks his watch. "I have to go to the briefing, but I'll see you when I get back," he says as he pulls away, but he stops short just a foot or so away from you as if he's remembered something."You didn't answer me last night."

"Hm?" You pretend not to have a clue what he's talking about, sipping at your drink—it's a caramel macchiato, you realize.

He lowers his voice to make sure no one else can overhear. "About what's underneath."

Your eyes are wide with faux innocence. "Nothing," you answer.

His brows furrow. "What?"

"Nothing is underneath."

Understanding dawns on his face gradually, and you can see the flush that spreads up his neck to his cheeks, tinging the tips of his ears. You hide the shit-eating grin behind another sip of your coffee. "Right," he chokes out, as he forces himself to walk away before any of the follow-up questions escape his mouth.

You watch him go, eyes tracing the broad planes of his back, the tension clear in his shoulders, and you giggle to yourself.

You're not given much time to dwell on Leon's absence, as two days after, you're sent to Alaska—of all places—to follow up on a lead about a suspected BOW facility. It's cold, but a change in scenery is always welcome—especially when it helps distract you from the blue-eyed, brooding agent who's been plaguing your thoughts lately.

Speaking of—

You snap a picture of the snowy landscape—the sun has begun to set behind the snowcapped mountains. The clouds rolling across the sky are bathed in the purple of twilight, casting a soft pink glow against the white-coated crags. It's beautiful in a way that makes you feel insignificant.

You send it to Leon, not expecting an answer as you haven't heard anything from him since he left.

hope you're some place warmer than me right now

You get an answer four days later, and smile at the simple picture of a nondescript forest and the message that reads:

Why don't we ever get sent somewhere nice like Hawaii?

The lead ended up being a bust; you'd spent the better part of your time here trekking through the Alaskan wilderness with your team, though it wasn't as bad as you'd thought it'd be, even when you were trudging through snow waist-deep that left your entire body frozen to the bone. You send a selfie back, cheeks flushed red from the cold and face surrounded by the insulating fur of your heavy jacket.

idk the tundra has kind of grown on me

It's late in the day when you touchdown back in D.C., you snap a picture on the tarmac of the sun setting, sending it to Leon.

home

It's nearly 2 AM when you receive a similar message from him, though the sky is dark and the moon faintly hangs behind a cloud bank.

Home.

Even being woken up out of a dead sleep by your phone going off, you grin like an idiot against your pillow, barely able to type out a 'yay' in response through your bleary-eyed vision before you promptly pass out again, knowing the jetlag is going to be killer in the morning.

Predictably, you're dead on your feet as you walk into the office, two cups of coffee securely in your hands as you shuffle instinctively toward Leon's desk. You spot him hunched over his desk, seeming just as tired and miserable, though he lights up when he sees you coming his way. He's on his feet, meeting you halfway and guiding you toward the empty breakroom with his hands on your shoulders, where no prying eyes can watch your reunion, though you notice a few curious eyes following you both.

You let out a laugh as you hold out his coffee to him. "Good morning." He takes it before gently pulling you close. The tenderness he shows makes your heart swell. You reach up to wrap your arms around his waist, being careful not to spill your drink, inhaling his scent of smoke and gunpowder, muttering into the shoulder of his jacket. "Did you miss me or something?"

"Shut up," he murmurs into your hair, inhaling deeply. "Did you know there's no cell service in rural Poland?" He withdraws slightly to catch your eye, his hand reaching up to trace the line of your jaw with something like reverence. You take a moment to survey him, searching for any injuries—you notice some bruising around his eye, a scab just above his lip, but apart from that, he looks unscathed.

"Probably about as much service as Alaska," you answer. "Deluca almost got mauled by a bear."

Leon's brows raise high on his forehead, eyes wide at the sudden shift in conversation, though he can tell by the giddiness in your voice that you've been waiting to tell him this little bit of information. "What?" he asks.

You're already laughing as you take your phone out of your pocket. "Yeah, I got it on video. The idiot thought he was a bear whisperer," you say as you hold your phone up for him to watch.

His gaze keeps darting between you and the screen, too distracted by your own reaction as you giggle behind your hand, watching Agent Deluca run for his life from a large grizzly bear he tried to approach like a scared dog in the streets. He's so captivated by the sparkle in your eye and how a dimple forms in your left cheek from smiling so hard.

"I was thinking, maybe this Saturday we could try for our date again," he says abruptly, cutting over the faint screams of Deluca in the background of your video.

You pause the video, tucking your phone back into your pocket as your face softens and you nod. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"I have a mission in Bethesda on Thursday, but it should be a quick turnover," he assures.

"From your mouth to God's ears, Leon Kennedy," you joke as he draws you back into a hug, and you feel his lips press to the top of your head. "Don't jinx yourself."

He jinxed himself. It's the only thing that comes to mind when you hear the news that his team, along with their target, Senator Eyre, were killed by explosives rigged to their vehicles. Remarkably, Leon managed to walk away relatively uninjured, or at least, that's what the report states.

He hasn't answered any of your texts or calls.

You try not to take it personally. You understand how this career can be—it's isolating, and most days, it's tough enough just to get out of bed. When something like this happens, though, it's devastating even for the most seasoned agents.

So you keep texting—sharing little updates, sending pictures of the sunset, your morning coffee, a bird hopping around on the sidewalk, just because it reminds you of him. You figure he hasn't told you to fuck off yet or blocked you, so maybe he's seeing them, or maybe he's not.

But you still want him to know you're thinking of him.

"Hi," a voice hesitantly calls out.

It jolts you, so focused on the screen in front of you that you didn't hear anyone sidle up next to your desk—and admittedly, you're running on barely any sleep after returning from a week-long mission in Vietnam.

You glance over at the blonde woman standing at your desk—she's young, and wearing a smile. Your gaze flicks down to her name badge—Sherry Birkin. "Hi," you greet back a bit awkwardly. You know the name—you're aware of her association with Leon, although it's only from official reports.

"I'm sorry, I know we haven't met before," she says as she extends her hand. "Sherry Birkin." The warmth in her demeanor makes it easy to respond kindly, so you take her hand to shake and offer your name, although you suspect she's already aware of who you are. "We share a common acquaintance—" She pauses. "Leon Kennedy."

Coldness washes over you as your stomach fills with dread. You turn in your chair to face her, giving the woman your full attention. "Is he okay?" you ask, voice shaking slightly as if you're anticipating the worst.

"I… think so," she says, uncertain. "He hasn't spoken to me—"

"—Hasn't spoken to me either," you interject, your expression mirroring her own dejection, though you suppose there's some solace in the fact he's not just ignoring you.

She frowns. "That's what I was afraid of," she murmurs to herself. "I may have… looked into it."

You quirk a brow. "Oh?"

She nods, leaning closer and talking in a hushed voice. "After he didn't answer my calls," she explains. "I… politely inquired with HR about his whereabouts—" You give her an amused look that signifies you definitely don't believe her. "—He's in Colorado, apparently he put in for an… extended vacation."

You're not sure what it is that swirls in your stomach—disappointment or maybe hurt, but your face falls. "Ah," you breathe out.

It's easy for Sherry to pick up on the sudden shift. "I just wanted to let you know," she says. "He… talked about you—a lot."

This information surprises you. "He did?" Your voice raises a pitch.

"He was really looking forward to your date… wouldn't shut up about it. I just—" She glances down, contemplating her next words. "—I want to ask you not to give up on him."

You're quiet for a moment as you observe her, seeing the way concern pools in her eyes. You don't know their relationship, but it's clear they're close, and she cares a great deal about him—you expect the opposite to be true as well. "I don't plan on it," you assure her.

A soft smile tugs at her lips. "Thank you," she says. "He's… he's gone through a lot, and I just worry."

"I get it," you tell her. "This job—this life… it takes a lot out of you."

You've faced more than your fair share of horrors and lost plenty of people along the way—you've fought your own demons and had to scrape and claw your way out of despair. Some days, it still feels like you're drowning in it—those are the days when you think it might be easier to just give in to the feeling.

Even before you befriended Leon, you knew who he was—of course, you did. One of the survivors of Raccoon City, the USSTRATCOM Agent who saved the President's daughter from the Los Iluminados nearly a decade ago. You can only imagine what he's seen—what he's had to do.

"Yeah," she agrees softly. "It does."

"I appreciate you letting me know," you say. "If—If you hear from him, could you let me know? Just so I know he's okay?"

"Of course." There's something so sincere about Sherry Birkin, you note. "It was nice to finally meet you—we should… get drinks or something sometime."

You smile. "Yeah, that'd be nice."

An incoming call from Leon lights up on your screen a week later. You're out on assignment—stateside, luckily, or rather unluckily, given the recent events that transpired. You answer the call immediately. "Hey," you greet casually, as if you're not perched atop a building, peering through the scope of your sniper rifle, phone cradled between your ear and shoulder.

"Hey," you hear him reply. He sounds tired, and there's a tug on your heartstrings.

"How was New York?" you question, eyes scanning through the scope as you track your target through the streets below—too many people around, you realize.

The question is enough to break the tension, and he gives a huff of laughter, though he sounds no less exhausted. "Not all it's cracked up to be," he answers. "Chris Redfield says 'hi', by the way."

You let out a disgusted noise at the mention of him. "I can't stand that man," you say bitterly.

The BSAA operator has been a thorn in your side for years, even before you started working for the DSO. His impulsive and stubborn disposition was the cause of most of your headaches when you first joined the FBI after leaving the army, thinking you'd left the world of military jugheads behind you—oh, how young and naive you were.

"He only had nice things to say about you," Leon muses, and you can tell from his tone that’s most definitely not true.

"Oh, I'm sure," you snort as you adjust your grip, keenly watching as your mark breaks from the crowded streets toward a more secluded area. "How did I even come up in conversation anyway?"

You hear him cough as if he had breathed in awkwardly. "I was… telling him about you."

"Oh?" you hum. "And just what were you telling him, Agent Kennedy?"

"Told him I had a date planned before everything went to shit… that I probably fucked it all up—"

You take the shot, and the man goes down like a sack of potatoes. "Target down," you say into your comms before giving the coordinates.

"—Are you on a mission right now?"

You begin to disassemble your rifle, quick and precise, as the clean-up crew no doubt makes their way onto the scene to take care of the body. "I was," you say. "It just ended." You press the clips on your gun case back into place with a firm click. "You didn't fuck anything up, by the way."

There's silence on the other end—you almost think you lost service as you enter the stairwell of the building through the roof access door you'd kept propped open until, "You free tomorrow?" he asks.

You smile, moving swiftly down the steps. "I'm sure I could pencil you in," you reply.

"I'll pick you up at 7," he says. "Get home safe, okay?"

When you reach the fire exit door at the bottom, you push through and find yourself in a side alley. "Good night, Leon," you say before hanging up, pulling your hood up as the police sirens start flooding the streets, and then you're gone, blending into the crowds.

He's at your door at 6:59 PM, and you're busy fastening an earring when you open it. The air leaves his lungs as he takes you in—seeing you in your black silk dress, hair done up, and a bit more makeup than you normally wear to the office.

You're busy giving him a once-over, you don't see the subtle shift in his expression, the way he closes himself off. "You clean up nice," you compliment as you finally get your earring in, fluffing your hair a bit more as you look in the mirror by your entrance.

"Thanks." He's quiet. "So do you."

"You ready to go?" you ask as you grab your purse.

"Yeah," he nods, and you lock your door behind you, offering him a smile that he doesn't return.

A frown forms as he begins to walk away—part of you expecting he would have offered his arm or hand. You try to shake off the uneasy feeling settling in your stomach, thinking maybe he's just nervous—you definitely are.

It only gets worse as the night progresses.

The car ride is mostly silent except for the low rumble of the local rock radio station — you try to ask a few questions, but are met with one-word, noncommittal answers that leave you feeling defeated before you even reach the restaurant. Every time you glance over at him, his eyes stay fixed on the road ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

When you arrive at the restaurant, he maintains a respectful distance from you as you walk in, only doing the small courtesy of holding the door open for you. After you're finally seated at a small table, a candle burning low between you, hope flickers that now, face to face, he'll be more willing to talk as you both thank the hostess. "Any idea what you're going to get?" you ask.

"No," he answers, gaze focused solely on the menu in his hands.

"I was thinking—"

"Good evening," the waiter greets as he sidles up to your table, pouring water from a pitcher into the empty glasses in front of you. "Any drinks to start?"

"Just a glass of your Cabernet Sauvignon, please," you reply, and the waiter smiles at you before turning to Leon.

"Just the water is fine," he says, not even looking up at the man.

You see the waiter's brow twinge just slightly, and you give him an apologetic smile. "Thank you," you say weakly.

He inclines his head to you. "I'll be back with your wine," he assures.

Silence settles over the table. Surrounding you are other people—couples—talking and laughing together over their meals, and your heart tightens as you watch Leon from behind your menu. He hasn't even looked up at you once since you've sat down—probably has read the menu seven times by now.

"Do you know what you want?" Your voice is small—unsure and so unlike you that you can hardly believe it's your voice coming out of you, but now you're feeling like this whole situation has been a huge mistake that you've somehow pushed him into. There's a chasm forming in your chest, filling with dread.

"Yeah," he murmurs, though he doesn't set the menu down.

You gnaw at the inside of your cheek until you taste blood, mind desperately trying to find something—anything—to talk to him about that he hasn't already shut down in the car with his lackluster answers. "I met Sherry the other week," you decide on.

For the first time, his eyes briefly flick up to you. "She told me," he says.

"She's really sweet," you continue. "She… she seems really fond of you."

"I've known her since she was a kid," he answers in a way that doesn't invite any further comment.

You try to smile—try to come up with something else to say, but you're left floundering until the waiter returns with your glass of wine and takes your order. He must see the disappointment on your face because he offers you a sympathetic look as you tell him your order, while handing the menu back to him, and Leon does the same.

Without anything to focus on, he fidgets with the cloth napkin in front of him, expression impassive except for the clench in his jaw, as if he's grinding his teeth. You feel a familiar sting in your sinuses as you idly sip your wine, which is practically tasteless in your mouth, trying to stave off the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes.

With every second that passes, your heart pounds against your ears so loudly it feels like the world around you is muffled, though you're keenly aware of your own breathing. A thin sheen of sweat forms on your skin even though you feel completely freezing. The dress you were so excited to wear now feels suffocating, as you've become hyperaware of all the parts of your body that it fits too tightly on.

Abruptly, you set your glass down and say, "Excuse me, I'm going to go to the bathroom."

You don't give him a chance to say anything with how quickly you get up, though you doubt he would have anyway. Once inside the safety of the bathroom, you find yourself staring at your reflection in the mirror, taking a inhaling deeply to hold back the tears welling in your eyes. Your chest feels like it's caving in, and you're now sure that you've somehow misunderstood the situation between you and Leon.

It's making you feel crazy.

You exhale shakily, grabbing your phone to scroll through your message thread with him, searching for any sign that he wasn't as interested as you initially thought. It only makes his current behavior even more confusing. You try to recall every single interaction you've had, where he was the one to reach out to you, and you can't understand this sudden coldness.

There's a second when you consider calling Sherry to see if she might have any insight into why he's acting this way, but it feels wrong to involve her in whatever is going on, especially since she was the one who told you how excited he had been about the date. Instead, you tuck your phone back into your purse and try to breathe steadily as you turn the faucet on.

As you pump some of the fancy-smelling soap into your hands, you start to scrub your skin, your mind spinning in circles. Maybe while he was away, he realized he didn't like you as much as he thought, and this dinner was meant to let you down easy. Or maybe he met someone else and doesn't know how to tell you.

Every single reason that comes to mind only causes anger to grow inside you because there's no excuse for him to treat you so coldly. You at least believed you were good enough friends for him to be honest with you.

When you think you've rubbed your skin raw, you shut off the water and violently grab the paper towels to dry your hands. Your walk back to the table is more dignified, the tears gone from your eyes, replaced by a quiet fury.

You see that your food was brought out while you were gone, and Leon is slowly picking at his plate. As you sit down, you grab your wine glass, knowing you might need the extra bit of courage for whatever is to come, and down the rest of it in one gulp. "Food good?" you ask as you wipe at the corners of your lips.

He gives an indecisive shrug, and that's your breaking point.

"What is going on?" you question, low, but firm.

He must hear the anger in your voice because he actually looks up at you, expression feigning confusion as if he doesn't know where your unexpected question is coming from. "We're… having dinner?" he offers.

"You've barely spoken to me all night," you say, voice rising slightly as you swallow the lump in your throat, feeling the hot sting of scorned fury prickling under your skin.

"We've… talked," he tries to assert, though you can tell even he doesn't believe his own words.

You cock your head, staring at him like he's the stupid one. "Are you serious?" You twist the napkin in your lap so hard you think you might tear through the fabric. "Do you even like me, Leon?"

He seems taken aback, recoiling away from you as if you struck him, and his eyes drop to the table between you, but he stays silent, which is more than enough of an answer for you. Swiftly, you push your chair back, toss your napkin onto your untouched food, and grab your purse.

"Wait, where are you going?" he calls out, but for the first time tonight, you're the one ignoring him as you march out of the restaurant, unconcerned with the curious stares that follow you, intending to walk down the street before you realize he'd driven you here.

You huff in frustration, pulling out your phone to find a number for a taxi service, but your anger has shifted to sadness, and tears cloud your view, making it impossible to read the screen. You hear him call out your name, and you let out an exasperated noise as you begin to walk further down the street away from him.

Hurried footsteps approach you, and you feel hands gripping your shoulders, stopping you in your tracks. You finally realize how cold the night air is when you feel the warmth of his body behind you. "What are you doing?" he asks, confused.

"Calling a cab," you manage to say, though your throat constricts as you try to pull away from him to no avail. Embarrassment wraps around you as your voice breaks, despising how pathetic you sound.

"Hey," he murmurs tenderly, with more care than he's shown you all night, as he circles around to face you, hands gripping the exposed skin of your upper arms. "No, if you—if you want to go home, let me drive you."

"Why?" you spit out. "So you can ignore me some more?" It should feel childish to say that, and maybe tomorrow you'll think differently, but right now your feelings are hurt, and you just want to go home.

He shakes his head. "No, c'mon," he urges, trying to get you to look at him, but you're stubbornly refusing, settling to stare at the repeating pattern on his tie—you'd thought it was cute that he'd worn a tie on your date. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"If you didn't like me, you could have just said so from the start instead of pretend—"

"I do like you," he interrupts like he's desperate to get you to understand.

Sharply, your eyes snap up to him, and his face falls when he sees the tears that are beginning to streak down your cheeks. "You're sure not acting like it tonight," you argue. "I thought I was going crazy—that I… that I just missed some sign that you didn't feel the same about me."

"You didn't miss anything," he says. "I'm just… I'm an idiot who is terrible at this."

You give him a look of disbelief, nostrils flaring. "At what? Conversation? Yeah, I'd say so after tonight's performance."

He winces even though he knows he deserves that scathing remark. "No—I mean, well, yes, apparently. It's just… being vulnerable, and… letting myself look forward to something," he explains. "Everything just kept going wrong, and you're just… so understanding even after I fell off the face of the earth for weeks."

"You went through something traumatic, Leon," you murmur, arms crossing and gaze settling on the lampost just over his shoulder.

"See?'' he says, gesturing toward you. ''You're… you're so put together, and I'm a mess.'' Your eyes jerk back up to him, and you see the defeat in his eyes, like he thinks he doesn't deserve the kindness you've shown him. It makes the tightness in your face soften, hands falling to your sides, abandoning your defensive posturing. ''You opened the door tonight, and I realized you're something I don't ever want to ruin, and I'm so afraid I'm going to do that.''

"Do you think I'm not a mess, Leon?" you question with a humorless chuckle. "You don't get into this business without having more than a few skeletons in your closet. Some people are just better at hiding theirs than others."

His brows come together. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make it sound like you don't understand what I'm going through."

"I was worried for you," you admit, reaching out and tugging him closer by his tie to bridge the gap between you. "You can't just… disappear to Colorado to get shitfaced. It's not healthy—and I…" You pause. "I felt sad for you, but you can't just keep it bottled up. You need to talk to someone—me, Sherry, or hell, even Chris fucking Redfield."

He lets out a laugh. "Yeah," he nods, staring down at you fondly. "You're right."

"I know I'm right," you say sharper than you mean to, but you take a deep breath to calm yourself. "I'm not asking you to be perfect. I just… I really like you, Leon, and you hurt my feelings tonight."

"I know," he exhales as he reaches up to cup your jaw. "I'm sorry, I'm such an idiot."

"And you're not going to ruin me," you say. "I'm built pretty sturdy. I just need you to be willing to communicate with me."

A small smile forms on his face. "Okay," he agrees softly.

You feel lighter, most of the anger and sadness of the night washing away. "Okay," you repeat back, tender and pliant as your thumb rubs at the fabric of his tie.

"I really like you, too," he says. "Probably more than is appropriate."

At the confession, you simper, head tilting into his touch as you gaze up at him from beneath your lashes. "Is that so?" you ask.

"Mhm," he confirms, thumb brushing up against your cheek. "And now I keep thinking about what you told me about the dress."

Confusion tints your expression. "What about the dress?"

"About what's underneath." You can see his pupils blown wide as his hand slips to your waist, pulling you closer to him.

"Would you like to find out?" His fingertips dig into your hip at the question, breath hitching in his throat. "I could think of a few things that would turn this night around."

He's leaning closer, like he's caught in your orbit. "What would that be?"

You think it must be the glass of wine finally kicking in as you say, "I might be inclined to forgive you depending on how many times you can make me cum."

The muscle in his jaw flexes as he clenches his teeth. You can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows thickly. "How many times for me to repent?" he asks.

You pretend to think, gaze flicking up to the dark sky above as you hum. "Maybe I'll consider it after two."

He exhales a shuddering sigh. "C'mon," he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as he leads you toward where he parked his car. A perfect gentleman now, he opens the door for you, ensuring you're settled into the passenger seat before closing it and rounding to the driver's side.

His hand stays on your thigh throughout the drive—firm and steady. The closer he gets to your apartment, the tighter his grip on your thigh becomes—anticipation coiling inside of him. You're no better, the heat of desire scorching through your veins, though a small part of you wants to make him suffer just a little, so you diligently keep your hands to yourself.

If he pulls into the parking spot a little crooked, you don't comment on it as he cuts the engine before sending you a warning look when you go to open the door. With more patience than you probably should have at this point, you wait for him to open the door for you, grabbing his outstretched hand and letting him haul you out of the car.

He holds you to his side as you walk into your apartment building, and once you're inside the elevator, he's behind you, arms wrapped around your waist as he kisses into your neck, leaving you a giggling mess.

"This is the slowest elevator ever," he complains gruffly into the bare skin of your shoulder just as it dings, signaling your arrival on your floor.

You already have your keys in your hand, knowing that if you take too long to open your door, he might just break it down. He's quick to usher you into the apartment once you've gotten the door open, closing it behind him.

In one swift motion, your back is pressed to the door, and before he closes the distance between the two of you, he questions, "This is okay, right?"

You nod hastily, breathing out a soft 'yeah', and then there's just the warmth of his lips against yours. Your heart feels like it's about to burst out of your ribcage as he deepens the kiss, a noise of contentment resonating from his throat as he runs his hands up your sides. Your own trail up his chest coming to rest at the base of his skull, curling your fingers through his hair to draw him even closer.

His mouth is hot against yours, growing braver with each passing second as his tongue licks against your bottom lip before he nips it gently, drawing a gasp from you. He's grinning as he pulls back to look at your flushed cheeks, adoration heavy in his gaze. "Leon," you pant out, eyes half-lidded and want swelling in you.

"Turn around." He doesn't give you the chance to, as he manhandles you into position, the coolness of your door against your cheek as you brace yourself with the palms of your hands. As he rucks up your dress, you hear the sharp inhale as he pulls it over your ass. "Fuck," he practically groans, hands kneading the globes of your ass, spreading them just enough to see the glistening slick of your bare pussy from behind. "You weren't lying."

"Did you think I was?" you ask, breathless from the way the cool air hits your hot core.

"Didn't want to get my hopes up," he admits as he kicks a leg in between yours, forcing your legs apart before sliding a hand down to rub at your cunt. Moaning, you arch your back against his touch, a shiver running through you as he brushes against your clit. "God, you're so wet."

You close your eyes, focusing on the slide of his fingers against you, coating his fingers in your juices. His nose jams into the crook of your neck as he plunges a singular finger into you, lips pressing against the quickening pulse in your neck.

"All this for me?" he murmurs, as his other hand slips one of your dress straps off your shoulder, palming one of your breasts with a satisfied noise, before adding a second finger just as he tweaks your nipple, relishing in the way you gasp, arching back into him.

You're nodding your head to his answer, gasping out a 'yes' as you turn to lay your forehead against your door to cool off the fevered temperature of your skin, though it does nothing for the rest of your body, which feels like it's on fire.

"Can't wait to taste you," he murmurs lowly into your ear, sending goosebumps trailing up your spine. "Need you to cum on my fingers first though." The hand on your breast trails down your front, the pads of his fingers catching onto your clit and circling it in slow, purposeful patterns. "Can you do that for me, sweetheart?"

"Yeah," you moan, fingernails scraping against the wood, trying to find purchase on anything as the coil in your stomach tightens with every precise swipe of his fingers. You feel it in your toes, head dizzy as he whispers words of encouragement into your ear, pressing soft kisses into your jawline so sweetly like he's not knuckle deep in your pussy with your slick dripping down his wrist. "Leon, oh—"

He can feel the way you clench around his fingers as you teeter over the edge, gasping out his name in a way that makes him strain painfully against his pants. "That's it," he says, talking you through it. "Sound so pretty when you cum, know that?"

Your moans pitch higher as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you, ensuring you're thoroughly worked through your orgasm before finally withdrawing them. The steady presence of his body behind yours is the only thing keeping you upright as your legs feel like they might give out beneath you at any moment. His hands grip your waist as his lips press to your temple.

"Where's your bedroom?" he asks quietly.

You vaguely gesture over your shoulder toward the hall. "First door on the left," you manage to say as you think you're finally regaining feeling in your lower limbs, and then you're being hauled up with a surprised squeak, your hands coming up to grab Leon around his neck as if he would drop you.

"Told you I could carry you," he grins as he heads toward your bedroom.

"Mm, yes," you murmur, a renewed desire pooling in your cunt at the display—not that you would ever admit that to him aloud. "Glad those muscles aren't just for aesthetics."

He laughs as he carefully navigates through the doorway of your bedroom, then haphazardly throws you onto the bed while tugging at his tie, loosening it just enough to undo the top two buttons on his shirt before grabbing your ankles and dragging you until your backside hits the edge of the bed.

"Leon—"

"Told you I wanted to taste you," he interrupts as he kneels in front of you like you're a sacrament he's about to receive. His fingers bore into the plush flesh of your thighs as he spreads you open for him, your dress gathering up at your hips, leaving you bare before him. "Fuck, you're so pretty." His voice is practically a whimper as he fights the temptation to palm himself through his slacks, mouth watering at the way your cunt glistens in the dim light of the moon that filters through the sheer curtains on your window.

He leans down, gently kissing your inner thigh before nipping at the tender skin, taking pleasure in the sharp gasp that escapes above him. Trailing his lips up until his breath fans against your pussy, and your chest blooms with suspense, the anticipation of his hot mouth against you consumes your thoughts. His eyes flick up to meet yours as you're propped up on your elbows, staring down at him through half-lidded eyes. Your breasts spill out of your dress, heaving. "You waiting for an invitation or—"

His tongue licks a wide stripe up your center, your words getting caught in your throat as you moan. He doesn't tease; instead, he dives in as if he intends to devour you, eyes staying focused upward, watching as your head tilts back. One hand grasps desperately at the comforter beneath you, while the other instinctively finds purchase at the back of his head, fingers weaving through his hair in an unrelenting grip that sends a wave of searing thrill straight to his cock.

The noises are obscene as he eats you out, his own spit mixing with your slick, dripping down his chin. The sting of you tugging at his hair only drives him, paired with your hitched moans, and the way you gasp out 'fuck, Leon' when he sucks at your clit just right. He's savoring the taste of you, swallowing you down with every flat press of his tongue against you, moaning into your pussy as your scent envelopes him.

While one hand stays firmly on your thigh, feeling the way your muscles tense with every swipe of his tongue, he uses the other to thrust two fingers into you in a way that makes your eyes roll back in your head, your head lolling. No longer able to hold yourself up, you collapse onto your bed. He doubles his efforts, crooking his fingers to make your toes curl as your orgasm rapidly approaches.

He's steady in his administration, keenly listening to every one of your reactions to every flick of his tongue, and thrust of his hand, deciphering precisely what you like in record time.

"Leon, I'm—"

That's all the warning he gets as your thighs clench around his head, fingernails biting into his scalp as you thrust your hips up against his face, and he only groans, not caring when he finds he can't breathe, and his eyesight gets spotty, all noise muffling around him in favor of the sweet pressure of your thighs crushing him.

As the final waves of your second orgasm crash over you, your legs fall open as you pant heavily, the world sounding like you're swimming in a fishbowl, a thin layer of sweat covering your skin. Leon is no better, cheek resting against your inner thigh as he catches his breath, pressing one last kiss to your cunt before crawling up to you and gently laying a kiss on your lips. You return it with much more enthusiasm, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and mashing your mouths together, not caring that his is covered in the taste of you.

He licks into your open mouth, before pulling back just slightly, leaving a trail of spit between you. "That was two," he murmurs against your mouth. "How am I doing?"

"Exceptional," you sigh out. "I'm almost inclined to say all is forgiven."

He grins; it's far too endearing when he has your slick glossing his chin. "What else does a guy gotta do to earn your forgiveness?"

You press a hand to his chest, and he moves away willingly until he's sitting at the edge of the bed, watching with curious eyes as you stand before kneeling between his legs, which spread to accommodate you.

His breath stutters as he exhales your name. "What're you doing?"

"Sucking your cock," you say as you begin to undo his belt.

"Oh," he says rather lamely. "This is supposed to be about you—"

"Well, I want to suck your cock," you reaffirm, gazing up at him. "You gonna stop me?"

"God, no," he says as his hands scramble to join yours, undoing his pants and adjusting so he can pull them down. You're met with the pretty sight of his cock bobbing in front of your face, and you wrap your hand around him. He's painfully hard, tip reddened and leaking with precum—the weight of him in your palm makes your pussy clench around nothing, and as you give him an experimental stroke, he gasps.

You bite your lip to hold back a smile, slowly moving your hand up and down, spreading the precum along the shaft, appreciating how you can see the muscles in his lower abdomen tighten as he pulls up his shirt out of your way.

Tentatively, you lean down, licking the fat tip of his cock, and he whines out a 'fuck' as he gathers your hair up into his fist, keeping it out of your way as you open your mouth to take more of him in. Carefully, you bob your head up and down, taking more and more of him into your mouth until he hits the back of your throat. Letting your jaw hang open, you will yourself to relax while he tries to restrain the way he wants to cant his hips up to gag you on his cock.

"You're so good," he groans. "Fuck, you're so good for me."

You can feel the way you're dripping down your thighs at his words as you hollow your cheeks and suck in a way that makes his vision go white while your one hand works the rest of his shaft that you can't fit into your mouth. Drool pools out of the corners of your lips, and you moan around his cock as you shove your other hand in between your own thighs, plunging your fingers into your cunt, though after being stuffed full of Leon's, it hardly compares, and you're only left aching.

The sight of you in between his legs, fingering yourself while you're sucking his cock makes his control falter. His fingers curl around the back of your head, forcing you further down onto his cock in a way that makes you gag, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes, but it doesn't deter either of you as you try to swallow around his cock, the sensation causing his breath to catch in his throat. "Fuck, fuck," he whines, and he can feel his balls tightening, his own orgasm quickly about to settle over him.

Hastily, he yanks you off him, panting heavily as he tries to rein himself in. You wipe the corners of your mouth, blinking back the tears that had gathered from how deep in your throat he'd been. "You okay?" you ask.

"Almost came," he admits.

You give a huff of hoarse laughter. "Yeah, that's the point, Leon."

He shakes his head, grabs you, guiding you back on your feet, so you're standing between his legs. He gathers your dress, pulling it up and over your head, leaving you standing naked in front of him. "I'll cum down your throat another time," he says as he allows you to completely undo his tie, tossing it somewhere in your room before you start to unbutton his shirt the rest of the way. His fingers wander up your bare skin, indenting into the plushness of your curves. "Wanna cum in you first."

You grin as he palms your breasts, something like satisfaction in his expression at the weight of them in his hands, while you settle yourself into his lap, his cock pressed between the two of you as you bend down to kiss him. "Awfully bold of you," you murmur.

His hands reach down, grabbing the globes of your ass and pulling you further against him, grinding the shaft of his cock against your pussy. "Name your price, sweetheart," he whispers. "I'll do whatever you want, just wanna be dripping out of you by the end of it."

"How about—" You lift up, grabbing his cock with one hand as you usher him toward your entrance. "—You be a good boy and let me ride you, and once I cum again, I'll let you cum inside, okay?"

He's nodding eagerly, the words 'good boy' coming from your mouth instantly making him compliant. His eyes roll to the back of his head as his tip slips into you; the wet, tight heat of your cunt would probably make him agree to anything you request at this point. "Whatever you want," he repeats in a desperate whimper, fingertips digging into your waist—it would no doubt leave bruises in the morning—as you slide down his cock in one fluid motion that knocks the wind out of both of you.

"Leon," you moan, and his head drops forward, pressing his forehead against your shoulder as you start to rock your hips back and forth in a delicious cadence.

"God, you're so tight," he grits out, mouth biting at the delicate skin at the crook of your neck, intending to leave his mark on you. "Been thinking about this for so long."

"Yeah?" you murmur. "Spend a lot of time thinking about me bouncing up and down on your cock, Agent Kennedy?"

He groans. "You're the reason half of my reports are late."

Your hand rises, lightly pressing against the base of his throat, and when you hear his sharp inhale, you increase the pressure slightly. "Poor Agent Kennedy," you lament sarcastically. "How will you ever cope?"

He lets out a shuddered sigh as the rhythm you've set begins to build him back to the precipice. Lips press to your shoulder before his teeth dig in; his bruising grip is constant, but not unpleasant—the painful sting is just enough to make your cunt flutter around him.

Closing his eyes, he tries to stave off his release; the need to please you is far greater than his need to cum. "Hopefully buried deep in this pussy," he answers before opening them to look at you once more.

You grin, it's devastating and vicious, hips canting faster as the muscles in your thighs burn, but it only adds to the pleasure pooling in your core. You grab one of his hands that has a death grip on your hip, wrenching it from you to bring it up to your mouth, tongue flicking out against his thumb before your lips wrap around it, and he is enraptured by the sight, cock twitching inside of you as his gaze grows hazy.

"Fuck," he whines, watching you coat his thumb with your spit.

"Make me cum," you order as you guide his hand down to your pussy, and he follows your lead, thumb finding your swollen clit to begin tracing slow circles against it. He sees the way your eyes briefly close at the sensation, your hips stuttering just a bit before you continue to ride him in earnest, every sweet drag of his cock in your pussy driving you closer and closer to the end.

"C'mon," he nearly begs, trying to compel you toward completion, not knowing how much longer he himself can hold out. "Cum for me, sweetheart, c'mon," he says.

With one last swipe against your clit, you feel yourself fall over the edge as you grind down on him. "Shit, shit, shit," you moan as your thighs shake, movement coming to a shuddering halt as pins and needles start to prick all throughout your body. Leon feels the gush of your liquid release around his cock, and that's all it takes for him to have you on your back in the next instant.

He's pounding into you now with reckless abandon, the slap of your skin against his paired with the sound of his cock bullying into your sopping wet pussy is intoxicating. He gives you no time to recover from your orgasm, enjoying the way the overstimulated tears streak down your flushed face before his eyes focus on the way your breasts bounce up and down with each hard thrust.

"Gonna let me cum in you now?" he asks breathlessly as he cages you between his arms, muscles tense from the strain.

You're holding onto his shoulders, gasping with each hard thrust into you, still bleary-eyed from your last orgasm, nails biting into his skin, digging crescent divots into him, but nodding desperately. "Want your cum," you keen. "Please, Leon."

"Fuck." His hips snap into yours as he sinks his head into the crook of your neck, moaning out your name as he cums, burying his seed deep inside of you. You can feel the warmth of it, the twitching of his cock as he empties into you, and you clench around him, listening to him whimper into your ear. He continues thrusting until he's sure he's filled you.

You're both gasping for air as the aftershocks of your orgasms subside, and Leon pulls away just slightly to press a kiss to your lips, tenderly cupping your jaw.

"Was that okay?" he questions, panting heavily.

You laugh, and it makes him smile. "Five stars," you say, giving a weak thumbs up, your entire body shaking.

He chuckles against your cheek, kissing up the side of your face to your temple. "Where's your bathroom?" he asks.

"Across the hall," you answer.

He's careful as he pulls out of you, gently massaging your hips when you wince. "You okay?"

"We're going to be putting your ability to carry me to the test tomorrow," you say. "I don't think I'm going to be able to walk."

He rolls his eyes, but there's a fond grin on his face as he makes his way to the bathroom. He comes back a few minutes later with a warm, wet washcloth, and the care he takes in cleaning you up almost brings you to tears. You mutter a soft 'thank you' as he tucks you both into bed, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you into him.

The lull of sleep settles over you rather quickly, and you're barely awake, listening to the steadiness of Leon's breathing behind you as his thumb traces circles onto your hip. "You're forgiven," you murmur into your pillow, unsure if he's still awake or not.

He holds you tighter in response.

The next morning, you're both cuddled up on your couch, watching reruns of your crappy reality TV show, sharing a plate of slightly burnt pancakes, and enjoying your morning coffee… or well, tea for you.

"Why didn't you tell me you preferred tea?" Leon asked as he watched you prepare your beverage.

You only grinned sheepishly and shrugged. "I don't mind coffee, plus… I enjoyed seeing what you thought I might like."

"So, why is she mad at Gino?" he questions as he tries to follow along with the drama.

As you're busy explaining the intricate dynamic of the couple on the screen between bites of breakfast, his phone pings, and you both instinctively look down at it. That's when you notice the lockscreen—it's a picture you'd sent him a few weeks ago of a cute sidewalk mural you found, with the shadow of your figure cast over the ground, holding up a peace sign.

"Is that my photo?" you question, already knowing the answer.

"Uh," he stutters, embarrassed. "Yeah."

You blink, processing the information. "I wasn't sure you were looking at those," you admit.

"I was," he says before opening the gallery on his phone. "I saved them all."

You're unsure why tears form in your eyes upon seeing a folder in his phone; no actual name, just a small coffee cup emoji as the label, and when he opens it, you notice every single picture you've sent him safely stored inside.

When he hears you sniffle, he stares at you, startled. "Wait, why are you crying?"

"That's just so nice!" you blubber, nearly sending the plate of pancakes flying as you quickly reach up to brush away the tears.

he took what you gave and still demanded more. a groan escaped him, like it hurt him physically to pull away. but before you could even miss the warmth of his lips it was already back in full force against your neck, him leaving hot trails of kisses as he moved lower, sucking slightly on ridge of your collarbone, a breathy moan that left your mouth served as a fuel for leon as he brought his free hand to skillfully open the buttons of your silk pajamas, revealing your naked breasts in their glory. the man let out a sigh full of wonderment at your gorgeous body, worshipping every inch on your skin as though his kisses were the prayers.

”so beautiful. so perfect,” he mumbled, the timber of his voice sent shivers all the way down to the end of your spine. his wet mouth found your right nipple, sucking as his other hand twisted your left one in-between his fingers, the stimulation made your stomach jolt at the overwhelming sensation, abdomen unconsciously chasing the pleasure and meeting him halfway. leon’s heavy breath ghosted over your chest, turned on beyond belief, his eyes deep in a haze; lust glossing across his orbs.  

“l-leon,” your needy whine snapped him out of a trance, letting you go and he could say with confidence doing so was harder than him having to pull out a knife out of his arm that one time. he licked once more out of greed before planting soft kisses down to your stomach, his hand couldn’t quite get it off your tit just yet, his thumb brushed over your stiff as a rock nipple like an anchor, a reminder that you desired him just as much as he did you in that moment. 

he moved lower, lower, until his chin felt the fabric of your waistband, hooking a finger on it but he stopped himself, tilting his head as he faced you. “can i baby? ‘ve had a long day,” he asked gruffly, the gravel on his voice practically made your pussy tingled in excitement.  there was nothing explicit in his words yet your mind filled the blanks pretty fast, your brain answered first by nodding rapidly before your mouth could catch up. something in the way he pleaded had made you so eager for his touch, the man had just declared that pleasing you would help him relieve some stress, like you’re the one doing him a favor instead. what else were you supposed to say besides hell yes?

leon flashed you a smile that could make a grown man or woman weak on their knees before giving your lower stomach another kiss in gratitude; like someone who had been denied water in the middle of desert for a long time had finally found a lake to quench his thirst. a smirk that from your experience, was filled with a promise that had something to do with your ability to walk properly tomorrow.

he pulled down your shorts, you lifted your legs in response like it’s second nature, making it easier for him to take off your pants. he threw the fabric to the ground without care, his eyes loyal and unmoving like he’s stuck in a trance towards what the cloth was hiding this whole time. at his stare you attempted to close your legs but the grip of his hand on your inner thigh prevented you so, leon knelt in front of the bed as he put your legs on your shoulders, supporting your lower half; dangling if it weren’t for his sturdy body.  

there it was in its most beautiful state, your soaking cunt right in front of his face. leon used the back of his hand to wipe the corner of his mouth, he could’ve sworn he thought he was drooling. “fuck. is this all for me?” he whispered, you could hear the proud smile in his question, knowing damn well what the answer was. you stared at the ceiling hoping it will help you to form some kind of a proper counter, yet you couldn’t find it in you to think of anything aside from this subliminal want for the male to do something.

you squealed at the touch of his rough hand brushing over your fold, the movement was slow, excruciatingly careful as he took his time like he’s admiring a piece of art. for a man who looked like he was ready to destroy any obstacle to get to this point, leon was unusually patient and looked very much in control. 

or so you thought, until both of his arms sneaked themselves around your thighs locking your legs in place and you knew right there and then. there will be nothing stopping him from enjoying the feast he’s about to devour. and he made sure of that. 

your body shook in anticipation as leon leaned in, running his tongue across your lips very slowly. each sweep getting deeper, sending mental notes to his senses so they would remember this taste forever. carving it thoroughly like a man who refused to take this moment for granted. your hips bucked at the sensation, chasing it in urgencyfor more, for it to be deeper.

”m-more please,” you pleaded, heaving. having no damn idea how you could be so out of breath even though leon was the only one doing all the moving, yet with every touch of his tongue, every tease, you found it hard to keep yourself in check. 

“patience baby, i’m going to take my time with you alright? waited all damn day for this,” he replied with ease, fooling no one when his boxer looked like it was about to burst by his bulging erection. yet he stayed true to his words, because above his own pleasure what got him off the most was seeing your face in bliss, expression changing in every careful touch he did; enjoying how sensitive you became under his hand. 

leon eyed your swollen clit that’s already begging to be licked, sucked, anything. and who was he to deny you that? his mouth then moved to the delicate spot, flicking it gently with his tongue as your body jerked like it’s burned alive, finally being granted the pleasure you’ve been waiting for. even when you flailed, leon easily sucked your bud with a scary accuration as he held your lower body steady; the sounds he made as his lips kept licking and swirling were like it came straight out of porn. 

you let out a shameless moan and leon thrived under it, basking under the sexy noise you made like he’s an athlete who trained his whole life for this. and he would, if given the chance. him and your pussy everyday? give him a gun if he’d ever deny that. but that’s a wishful thought, a fake—albeit enticing situation he’d found himself daydreaming about, unlike right now, where your very real sopping wet cunt was right in front of him, all for him to please. 

“you taste so fucking good.” leon hummed contently, his tongue encircling your clit like a madman who couldn’t get enough, feeling like he was about to cum in his pants every time he felt your center pulsate, twitching because he knew it did that only for him, by his touch only. you grinded your hips on his tongue, chasing for more friction. by then leon had started to lose himself, his control, like a man who was finally at the end of his wits, he began to eat you out genuinely.

his wild movement raw with lust, borderline unhinged as he leaned in deeper to caress and suck your slit like his life depended on it. you were sent into a state of frenzy at the ambush of his tongue, the grip on your thighs preventing you from pulling away as he worked on your already swelled clit, you felt your orgasm coming, stomach coiled. your hands that were grabbing the sheets were now on his dirty blonde hair, holding the soft strands tight like it’s your lifeline, the only thing keeping you still on ground. the tug on his hair as you led him deeper was what sent leon into overdrive, clinging to it like it’s an addiction as he got rougher.

“i-i’m cumming!” you screamed loudly, you were sure the neighbor could hear it so you knew for a fact that leon heard it as well yet his mouth stayed relentless. even as you writhed, overstimulated by the overwhelming waves of thrill he didn’t stop pleasuring you, even as you came undone his tongue was merciless, he was right there with you as you rode out your climax, never stopping even for a second. there were only flashes of light in the blackness as you eyes rolled, your spine tight with heat as you finished.

insatiable, that’s what he was. your hips stuttered, unfurling as he lapped up your release until the very last drop like it’s the best tasting meal he had all week. even with your cum smeared all around his lips, his skin glistening from the lights reflection the man still looked like he wanted more. 

and more he took.

”w-wait leon, ‘m too sensitive,” you whimpered, asking for mercy he wasn’t going to give, mercy you weren’t sure you were going to accept either. after all, leon knew more than anyone that you had just as much unsatiated appetite as he was when it comes to this. you panted, your hands were still on his hair, squeezing it to prevent him from starting again, neither pushing him away. 

“i know you have one more in there baby, do it for me?” he asked gently, though his gesture was anything but. mouth already on your quivering cunt and you let him, you always do. grinding his tongue against your swollen clitoris once more without giving you a break. you gasped, closing your legs out of reflex and without his hands holding your legs back anymore as they were on your knees, your thighs were practically smothering the man yet he didn’t seem to mind it even a bit. with him continuing to move without a care as he held your legs tighter around him, the man looked like he was exactly where he wanted to be. 

when the fresh wave of intense pleasure started to hit you once more, you began to moan louder. the increased sensitivity on your clit had pushed you into taking more than you could, eager in giving the man everything he needed, since he gave you the same. intangible string of pleads escaped your lips as leon pressed on, knowing exactly how much you loved it when your limit was being tested. and even with the repetitive motion you didn’t find the man’s movement any less rigorous than before, it was actually the opposite. the thought of bringing you into the edge for the second time in just a short span of period made leon an ambitious man. no, it made him a beast.

“i-i can’t. ‘m close,” your core clenched and unclenched its muscles at the marvel of the man’s lips. who seemed like it had memorized every curve, every spot that would drive you wild. and he had full intent in doing so as his touch rapidly becoming more staggering,  every flick pushing you under a rush that eventually became too much for you to hold. something that felt like a hot chain coiled itself within your stomach, tighter and tighter, begging for the sweet release of climax.

“come on my tongue, let me taste you again.” and like some kind of a mantra, you did just that, a yell of ecstasy cut through the room as your hips faltered erratically all under the soft of his touch, making sure you knew you were safe with him to feel it all, to let go. leon groaned like he ejaculated himself, the feeling of you coming undone was something he’ll never get used to, something that he wanted to all the time if he could. 

you panted like someone had personally taken the oxygen from the room, inhaling air like you lack the source. coming down from the high you had noticed once again leon had lapped you all clean sateless man than he is. and when he showed no sign of getting up and changing his position, you started to worry. 

“um, leon?” you called carefully.

“yeah?” he replied in ease, like a man without worry. 

“aren’t you done?” 

he gazed at you, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead which somehow added more to his sex appeal. he still had half of his face buried in your pussy, like someone really had to physically pull him back to get him away from it. 

“one more, please baby? i know you have it in you.”

“i-i don’t know if i can, leon,”

“you can. please sweetheart. for me?”

and you knew you could, especially if it’s with leon. so you nodded, having no idea what you just agreed to.

he made you cum twice more after that.

Leon moves ahead of you with that familiar economy, every step deliberate, shoulders slightly rounded forward as if he's braced against a wind no one else can feel. Years ago, you would have called it tension. Now you know it's simply how he stands when he's ready to protect something.

You.

He lifts one hand without looking back. Two fingers. Hold. You stop immediately, rifle angled down but ready, covering the rear out of habit. Your breathing slows to match his. In the quiet, you can hear it, the faint rasp of fabric as he adjusts his grip, the tiny click of leather at his wrist. He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes catching red light, and the corner of his mouth tilts.

"Tell me you hear that too," he murmurs.

"Ventilation system struggling to keep up with poor life choices," you whisper back.

His mouth twitches a little more. "Comforting."

"Very."

He turns forward again, advancing with a careful sidestep around a fallen gurney. You follow close, boots landing where his did, stepping into the spaces he clears without thinking. Years of missions have worn this path between you into muscle memory. You could navigate a battlefield blind if he were moving ahead of you.

Sublevel three, quarantine wing. The official report had said that the outbreak was contained. Minimal hostiles. Data retrieval only. You and Leon had both read that and packed extra ammunition.

Something scrapes faintly above you. You both stop again. A wet sound follows, soft but unmistakable, like raw meat dragged across tile. Leon's shoulders go rigid. He tilts his head, listening, then slowly raises his pistol toward the ceiling vent ten feet ahead.

"Don't," you breathe.

Too late. The grate explodes outward in a shower of dust and rusted screws. A shape drops hard onto the floor between you, limbs hitting at angles that don't belong to anything living. The body spasms once, twice, then snaps upright with a sound like tearing cloth. Its eyes are wrong. Its mouth is wrong.

Leon fires twice. The creature barely stutters before lunging. You're already moving. Your rifle cracks, recoil thudding into your shoulder as you pivot left to avoid Leon's line of fire. The rounds chew through rotten muscle, splashing something dark across the wall. The thing keeps coming anyway, a puppet yanked forward by invisible strings.

"Persistent," you mutter.

"Understatement."

It reaches Leon first. He sidesteps, grabs a fistful of its ruined jacket, and uses the momentum to sling it into the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Before it can recover, he drives a knife up under its jaw with brutal precision. The body convulses, fingers clawing weakly at his sleeve, then goes slack. 

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing and the slow drip of something unpleasant onto the tile. Leon exhales through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. He wipes the blade on the creature's shirt before sheathing it, movements efficient, practiced, almost weary.

"You okay?" he asks without turning.

"Fine."

He turns anyway, eyes scanning you head to toe, checking for tears in fabric, blood that isn't yours, the small tells you can't hide from him even if you tried. His gaze lingers on your face a second longer than necessary.

"Your heart rate's up."

"So is yours."

"Occupational hazard."

You step closer, bump your shoulder lightly against his arm. "You jumped."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I adjusted my stance."

You snort. "Sure you did, hero."

His hand comes up automatically, settling at the small of your back as he guides you past the body. The touch is brief, grounding, gone almost before you register it. He does it all the time now, in doorways, on stairs, whenever the path narrows. Years ago he used to keep that kind of contact locked away behind professionalism. Marriage burned that barrier down to ash.

"Remind me why we didn't retire somewhere with a beach," you say quietly.

"You hate sand."

"I could learn."

"You said that last time. Then you threw a shoe at a seagull."

"It started it."

He huffs, a sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. "We're not buying a coastal property just so you can wage war on wildlife."

"Coward."

They're soft words, familiar words, the kind that live comfortably between you, even in places like this. Especially in places like this. If you stop talking, the silence fills up with too many ghosts.

Ahead, the corridor splits. One path descends into deeper shadow. The other ends at a reinforced door marked MEDICAL ISOLATION.

Leon studies it, jaw tightening slightly. "That's our best bet for antiviral storage."

"And our worst bet for everything else."

"Probably."

He reaches for the panel. It flickers, unresponsive.

You lean in, shoulder brushing his. "Stand back."

"I am standing back."

"Further."

He sighs but obeys, stepping aside as you pull a compact breaching charge from your pack and set it against the seam. Your hands move quickly, efficiently, though you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.

"Try not to blow yourself up," he says.

"Try not to worry so loudly."

"I don't worry."

You glance up. "Leon."

"...I worry a normal amount."

You smile despite yourself. "Uh huh."

You trigger the charge and pivot away, grabbing his vest to pull him with you behind the corner. The explosion is sharp, contained, dust puffing into the air like a violent exhale. When the ringing fades, the door hangs crooked on shattered hinges. Leon looks down at where your hand is still gripping his gear. His expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with combat.

"You can let go," he says gently.

You realize you're still holding on and release him, suddenly aware of how solid he feels under your fingers, how warm even through layers of tactical fabric.

"Right," you say, clearing your throat. "Professional."

"Very."

But he brushes your knuckles once before moving past you, so quick it could almost be an accident.

Inside, the medical wing is colder, air conditioning still struggling on backup power. Cabinets hang open, supplies scattered across the floor as if someone had tried to pack in a hurry and failed. A hospital bed sits abandoned in the center of the room, sheets twisted into ropes. You sweep left. Leon sweeps right. The familiar dance resumes. For a few seconds, nothing moves.

Then something thumps weakly from behind the bed. You both pivot, weapons raised. A figure drags itself into view, lab coat smeared dark, face gray with fever. Human. Barely.

"Help," he croaks.

Leon lowers his weapon first, but doesn't relax. "You're infected?"

The man nods frantically, clutching his side. "Bite... hours ago... there's... antivirals... storage fridge... code..."

His hand trembles as he points toward a small sealed unit in the corner.  Hope flickers, fragile and dangerous. You step forward. Leon catches your arm immediately.

"Careful," he murmurs.

"I know."

His grip tightens just a fraction before he lets go, thumb brushing your sleeve as if memorizing the texture.

The man coughs wetly, body shaking. "Please... I don't want to... turn..."

Leon's jaw flexes. You can see the calculation in his eyes, the grim understanding of how this story usually ends. You move past him anyway, crouching by the fridge, fingers already working the manual override. The seal pops with a soft hiss. Inside, rows of vials gleam faintly in the emergency light, liquid clear and precious as water in a desert.

"Jackpot," you whisper.

Behind you, the man makes a sound that isn't quite human.

Leon's voice snaps sharply. "Back."

You turn just in time to see the change sweep across the man's face, muscles locking, eyes clouding over like frost creeping across glass. Too fast. Leon fires once. The body collapses before it can lunge.

Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute. Your hands are still wrapped around the cold vial when Leon steps in close, one hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin. He leans his forehead briefly against your temple, a gesture so intimate it almost hurts.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Stay with me."

"I'm here."

"Good."

"Leon," you say, unable to keep the lift out of your voice. "We've got—"

The ceiling tile above the doorway caves in with a thunderous crack. Something drops through in a tangle of limbs and teeth. Leon fires before it even lands.

The room detonates into motion. Another body slams through the door behind it, then another, drawn by noise or scent or whatever twisted instinct drives them now. The first infected hits the floor crawling, jaw snapping, fingers scrabbling for purchase on slick tile.

"Back!" Leon snaps.

You're already moving, grabbing the case and pivoting away from the fridge as gunfire shatters the sterile quiet. Your rifle kicks against your shoulder, rounds punching into torsos that refuse to care. The air fills with the acrid stink of cordite and something fouler underneath.

One lunges for your legs. Leon intercepts it, boot driving into its chest hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. He doesn't even look as he fires downward, ending it with clinical precision. 

More are coming. The hallway beyond the ruined door is a writhing mass of shapes pushing over each other, hungry, relentless. The lab equipment rattles as something heavy slams against the wall.

"Too many," you shout.

"Move!"

You sidestep, firing, trying to carve space, trying not to hit Leon as he crosses your line. Your shoulder clips the edge of the bed. The case slips in your grip for half a second.

A larger infected barrels through the doorway, body swollen, movements jerky but powerful. It collides with a rolling cart, sending metal instruments clattering across the floor like thrown knives. Leon pivots to engage, emptying three rounds into its upper chest. The creature staggers backward. Straight into the open refrigerator. Glass explodes.

The sound is high and crystalline, almost delicate beneath the gunfire, like a chandelier being smashed in a ballroom no one will ever dance in again. Vials shatter against metal shelves, against tile, against each other. Clear liquid splashes across the floor, instantly indistinguishable from the spreading mess of everything else. You see it happen in horrible, slow clarity. Hope, reduced to glittering debris.

"Leon!"

He fires again, dropping the brute for good. The body collapses forward, crushing what remains of the storage rack beneath its weight. For one stunned heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then another infected claws over the fallen bulk, and survival yanks you back into motion. You fire. Leon fires. Bodies drop. The noise is deafening, claustrophobic, relentless until at last the hallway falls silent again, littered with unmoving shapes.

Your ears ring. Smoke hangs in the air like a dirty veil. Slowly, cautiously, Leon lowers his weapon. His gaze drifts past the carnage to the refrigerator, to the floor, to the glittering field of broken glass and spilled medication soaking uselessly into grout lines and fabric and things you don't want to identify. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. The man on the bed has gone very still. His eyes stare at the ceiling, clouded over, whatever fragile thread holding him to himself finally snapped in the chaos. A drop of liquid slides off the shelf edge and hits the tile with a soft, final tick.

Leon exhales, long and controlled, like he's forcing the air out through a space too small for it. "...We'll find more," he says quietly.

He steps closer to you, one hand settling on your shoulder, firm and grounding. His thumb moves once, a brief stroke through dust and sweat, as if confirming you're still solid beneath his palm.

"You hurt?" he asks.

You shake your head, throat tight. "No."

"Good."

His hand lingers a moment longer, then drops. He scans the room again, already shifting back into mission mode, but the tension in his jaw has sharpened, lines around his eyes etched deeper by the red emergency light.

"Storage areas are usually clustered," he says. "If there was one unit, there are probably others."

You nod because he needs you to nod. Because forward is the only direction that exists anymore.

Together, you step around the shattered glass and the ruined promise it once held, boots crunching softly with every movement, and head back into the corridor where the dark waits patiently for you to return.

The corridor beyond the lab is narrower, older, the walls traded from clean hospital white to poured concrete stained by decades of leaks and neglect. Emergency lights hum overhead, casting everything in a tired amber glow that feels less like an alarm and more like a dying sunset that forgot to go away. Your boots echo differently here. Hollow. The sound carries too far.

Leon slows without saying anything, adjusting his pace until you're shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. His arm brushes yours with each step, solid and reassuring in a way that feels deliberate without calling attention to itself. After a minute, you realize he's listening to your breathing.

"You know," you say quietly, "most couples go to dinner."

He huffs under his breath. "We tried that."

"You got a call."

"We both got a call."

"I didn't even get to eat my pasta."

"You ordered something with fourteen ingredients I couldn't pronounce."

"That's not a crime."

"It should be."

You bump his shoulder lightly. "You promised dessert."

"I'll buy you dessert."

"You said that last time."

"I meant it last time, too."

His hand comes up automatically, resting on your back as the corridor narrows, guiding you around a fallen chunk of concrete. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.

"When this is over," he adds quietly, "we'll go somewhere that doesn't have reception."

You glance at him. "You're serious."

"Dead serious."

A small smile pulls at your mouth. "You'd last two days."

"I'd last three."

"Two and a half."

He considers it like it's a tactical estimate. "Two and a half."

The next door is heavier than the others, industrial steel with a small wired-glass window clouded by years of grime. A faded placard reads BIO STORAGE B in letters that have peeled into something ghostlike and hard to trust.

Leon raises a hand automatically, stopping you just short of the threshold.

"Hold."

You halt with your boot inches from the seam, rifle angled down but ready. He steps past you, placing himself between you and the door without thinking about it. He always does that. As if the hinge of the world were located somewhere in his spine.

He wipes a sleeve across the glass and peers through, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the dim interior. "Don't see movement," he murmurs. "Shelving units. Containers. Could be clear."

"Could be."

He glances back at you, reading your face the way other people read weather. "You good?"

"Always."

One eyebrow lifts. Not convinced.

You roll your shoulder where your gear has started to dig in, trying to work out the stiffness before it becomes a problem. "Just cramped."

"Switch packs with me."

"I'm fine."

"That wasn't a suggestion."

"It wasn't an order either."

For a moment, you just look at each other, the quiet argument unfolding in expressions instead of voices. Married diplomacy in a war zone.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, conceding the point without admitting defeat. His hand comes up instead, settling briefly at the side of your neck, thumb brushing the muscle there in a grounding stroke.

"Tension," he says softly.

"Observation skills of a seasoned agent."

"Comes with the badge."

"You don't even carry a badge."

"Metaphorical badge."

You lean into his touch for half a second before you can stop yourself. He notices. His thumb stills, then presses lightly once more before he lets his hand fall away.

"Stay behind me on entry," he says, voice shifting, professional edges sliding back into place.

"I take left. You take right," you counter automatically.

He gives you a look. You give him one right back.

"...Fine," he mutters at last. "But if I say fall back, you fall back."

"Yes, dear."

His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't 'yes, dear' me in a mission."

"Yes, sir," you salute.

Leon grunts and shakes his head, trying not to smile. You reach past him to test the handle. Locked.

"Stand clear," you say.

He moves aside this time without commentary, covering the door while you pull a compact bypass tool from your vest. The metal is cold against your fingers, humming faintly as it interfaces with the ancient locking mechanism.

For a few seconds, the only sounds are the tool's soft electronic chirp and your breathing. Then the mechanism clicks. You don't open it immediately. Instead, you glance sideways at him. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tiny scar along his jaw, the exhaustion he carries like a shadow that never quite detaches.

"After this," you say quietly, "we're getting that dessert."

He studies you for a long beat, something unspoken passing through his expression. A deep, stubborn refusal to imagine a future where that doesn't happen.

"Yeah," he says at last, voice low and certain. "We are."

Your hand brushes his wrist as you shift your grip on the handle. He turns his palm just enough to catch your fingers, squeezing once, firm and warm. A promise disguised as reflex. Then he releases you, raises his weapon, and nods.

"On you."

You pull the door open. Cold air spills out, stale and chemical, carrying the faint scent of something spoiled long before anyone stopped coming down here. The room beyond is a maze of tall storage racks and plastic containers, shadows pooling thick between them like standing water.

Leon moves through the doorway first, silent, precise, clearing angles with ruthless efficiency. You follow a half-step behind despite earlier negotiations, covering what he can't see, trusting him to do the same.

All you hear is the hum of failing lights. The soft creak of metal settling. The distant, almost inaudible drip of water somewhere in the dark.

Leon lifts two fingers, signaling pause. You freeze. He tilts his head, listening.

"...Thought I heard something," he whispers.

You hold your breath. The room holds its breath too. Then, very softly, something shifts deep between the shelves. A scrape. Leon's posture tightens, every line of him sharpening toward the sound.

"Stay close," he murmurs.

You move in beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him grounding against the cold air of the room.

"Always do," you whisper back.

The air grows colder the farther you go, heavy with the stale tang of chemicals and something faintly organic beneath it, like fruit left too long in a sealed container. Your flashlight beam skims across plastic bins, sealed crates, labels bleached into illegibility. Dust floats in slow spirals each time you move, disturbed ghosts reluctant to settle again.

Leon advances at a measured pace, weapon steady, shoulders tight enough to telegraph that he hasn't liked this room from the moment the door opened. You mirror him, covering the angles between shelving units, eyes darting through the narrow gaps where shadows knit together into something almost solid. Another scrape, closer this time.

A container shifts on a shelf to your left with a soft plastic thud, tipping just enough to rock in place. Your rifle swings toward it automatically.

"Probably just settling," you whisper.

Leon doesn't answer. He takes one careful step forward, angling to get a better view past the rack. The beam of his light cuts across the gap, illuminating stacked boxes, a collapsed cart, nothing that looks immediately threatening.

Your shoulders start to loosen. That's when the hands shoot out of the darkness. They clamp around your calf, iron strong, nails digging through fabric as something drags itself from beneath the lowest shelf with a wet, hungry sound. You don't even have time to shout before you're yanked off balance.

"Leon—!"

He pivots instantly, dropping his aim to avoid hitting you as you hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The infected is half-crushed, lower body mangled, but its arms work just fine. Its mouth snaps inches from your boot, teeth clacking together with a sound that vibrates up your bones.

You kick, connecting with its face, but it barely registers the impact. Its grip tightens, hauling you closer, closer, jaws opening wide enough to show the slick black of its throat. 

Leon moves. He doesn't fire. Too risky. Instead, he lunges forward, grabbing the back of your vest and hauling you backward with brutal force. The infected comes with you, still latched on, dead weight and fury combined.

"Let go!" he snarls, driving his boot into its shoulder.

Bone cracks. The grip loosens just enough for him to wrench you free, dragging you behind him as he finally gets a clear shot. Two rounds. Point-blank.

The body jerks, collapses, and goes still. For a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the thunder of your pulse. Leon stays crouched in front of you, one arm braced across your chest like a barricade, gun still trained on the corpse in case it decides death is negotiable.

"Hey," he says, voice low, urgent. "Hey. Look at me."

You blink, vision swimming, lungs finally remembering how to work. "I'm... I'm good."

His eyes scan you anyway, fast and thorough, hands already moving, checking arms, shoulders, gear, the way he always does. Routine. Training. Care disguised as procedure. Then his hand stops at your leg.

The fabric of your pants is torn where the creature grabbed you. Dark spreads through the rip, wet and unmistakable even in the dim light. Leon goes very still. Slowly, carefully, he pulls his glove off with his teeth and tosses it aside. His bare hand is warm when it closes around your ankle, steady but not gentle as he angles your leg into the beam of his flashlight.

You follow his gaze. For a second, your brain refuses to interpret what you're seeing. Just shapes. Color. Shine. Then it resolves. Deep teeth marks on your ankle. Blood wells from the punctures, thick and bright, running down into your boot.

"Oh," you say softly.

Leon doesn't speak. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle jumps along his cheek. His thumb presses near the wound, not enough to hurt, just enough to assess depth, damage, and reality.

"How bad?" you ask, because someone has to.

He inhales slowly through his nose, like he's trying to pull the air all the way down to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore.

"...Through the muscle," he says at last, voice roughened at the edges. "No arterial spray."

You almost laugh. Of course, that's what he notices. Of course, he frames it in survivable terms.

"Good news," you murmur.

His eyes snap to yours, sharp, bright, furious at something that isn't you. "Don't."

The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Silence floods back in, thick as the dust hanging in the air. Carefully, he releases your leg only long enough to tear open a pouch on his vest. Gauze. Compression wrap. His hands move with practiced efficiency, but there's a tremor there now, small and stubborn, like a fault line threatening to split.

"This won't stop it," you say quietly.

"I know."

He presses the gauze down anyway, firm, unyielding, as if pressure alone could force time to behave.

"You didn't get grabbed anywhere else?" he asks without looking up.

"No."

"Scratch? Contact with fluid?"

"No, Leon."

He nods once, wrapping the bandage tight enough to hurt. You don't complain. Pain feels reassuringly human. When he finishes, he doesn't pull away. His hands remain braced on your leg, head bowed slightly, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. From this angle, you can see the faint silver threaded through his hair, the lines carved deeper by worry than age. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his jaw. He freezes.

"Hey," you say softly.

His eyes close for one heartbeat, leaning just slightly into your touch, like a man starving who just found water. Then he opens them again, focus snapping back into place with visible effort.

"We're moving," he says, voice low and absolute. "There will be another storage area. Another lab. Something."

You nod because you believe him. Because you have to. Because you don't want this to be the end. Because you don't want Leon to have to go through that. Because you want your dessert.

He rises first, then offers you his hand. When you take it, he pulls you up carefully, keeping his other hand hovering at your waist in case you falter. You put weight on the leg. It holds, though pain flares hot and sharp.

"Can you walk?" he asks.

"Yeah." A lie. A manageable one.

He doesn't call you on it. Instead, his arm slides around your back, anchoring you against his side as you take your first step. Protective. Supportive. Refusing to let distance exist.

"Stay with me," he murmurs.

Your head rests briefly against his shoulder, just for a second.

"Always," you whisper.

Adrenaline still burns hot in your veins, dulling the edges, convincing your body it can outrun consequences if it just keeps moving. Leon keeps his arm locked around you, pace adjusted to match yours without comment. Not slow enough to feel patronizing, not fast enough to make you stumble. Perfect. Infuriatingly perfect.

"You don't have to babysit," you murmur.

"Good," he says quietly. "Because I'm not."

His hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading as if to support more of your weight without making a show of it. The corridor slopes downward. Each step sends a dull shock up your leg, deeper now, heavier, like the pain has roots instead of edges. You grit your teeth and keep going. After a dozen paces, something else creeps in. A warmth. Not the healthy kind. Not exertion. This feels wrong, thick and syrupy, pooling under your skin like fever deciding where to settle. You swallow. Your throat feels dry. Too dry.

"Leon," you start, then stop, because you're not sure what you were going to say.

He glances at you immediately. "What?"

"Nothing. Thought I heard something."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he shifts you a little closer, your hip brushing his with every step now, a steady rhythm of contact that keeps you oriented.

The lights flicker overhead. For a split second, the world tilts. You blink hard, waiting for it to right itself. It does, but not completely. The edges of your vision feel soft, as if someone smeared petroleum jelly across reality.

"Hey," Leon says quietly.

You realize you've slowed. "I'm fine."

He stops anyway.

"No," he says, voice calm and immovable as bedrock. "You're not."

Before you can argue, a shape lurches from a side passage ahead. Its movements are jerky and uneven, its head twitching like a broken marionette. Leon eases you behind him with one hand, weapon already up. He takes it out, waiting a few seconds to make sure it's down. 

When he turns back to you, his focus narrows, shutting out the rest of the world. "Sit," he says.

You shake your head. "We don't have time."

"Sit."

There's no edge in it. No raised volume. Just absolute certainty that this is happening. Your legs decide for you. The moment you stop resisting, they wobble, knees threatening to fold. Leon catches you instantly, one arm wrapping around your back, the other under your uninjured leg, guiding you down against the wall with careful control.

The concrete is cold through your gear. It feels strangely good. He crouches in front of you, close enough that your boots nearly touch his knees. Up close, you can see every tiny tension line in his face, every sleepless hour etched into skin that has forgotten what "rested" means.

His bare hand comes up again, settling against your neck, fingers sliding to your pulse point. You shiver.

His brows draw together. "You're burning up."

"Shock," you say weakly.

"You know that's not true."

His thumb presses lightly, counting. You can feel the rhythm under his skin, your heart hammering like it's trying to break out of your chest.

"Too fast," he murmurs, mostly to himself.

A tremor runs through your hands. Small at first, then stronger, fingers twitching against your thigh as if they belong to someone else and forgot to tell you. You curl them into fists, but it doesn't help. Leon notices. He reaches down slowly, deliberately, and wraps his hand around yours. Not restraining. Anchoring. His grip is warm, solid, impossibly steady compared to the jitter under your skin.

"Look at me," he says softly.

You do. Blue eyes. Tired. Fierce. Terrified in a way he would deny under oath.

"We're going to fix this," he says.

"You don't know that."

"Yes," he says, so simply it almost hurts. "I do."

Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, but the edges keep fuzzing out like a badly tuned signal.

"Everything's... weird," you admit. "Like I'm underwater."

His jaw tightens. "Any nausea?"

"No."

"Dizziness?"

"...Maybe."

"Confusion?"

You hesitate.

His expression darkens. "How long?"

"Ten minutes."

He leans forward suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is gentle, deliberate, his eyes closing for a brief moment like he's drawing strength from proximity alone.

"You stay with me," he murmurs. "You hear me? No drifting."

"I'm right here."

His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there. Making sure you don't slip away. For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Somewhere far off, metal clatters. A distant echo of something collapsing. The facility settling into deeper ruin. You swallow. Your throat feels raw now, like you've been breathing dry air for hours.

"Leon."

"Yeah."

"If I start to..."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sharp. "Don't."

"You need to be ready."

"I am ready."

"That's not what I mean."

His hand tightens at the back of your neck, just enough to stop you from looking away.

"I'm not leaving you," he says quietly. "Save it."

Your chest aches, and not from the bite. You nod because you don't trust your voice. He studies you another moment, memorizing something only he can see, then exhales slowly and shifts back into motion.

"Okay," he says, tone sharpening into mission focus again. "We move in short intervals. Next sector should have auxiliary storage or research offices. More supplies. Maybe antivirals."

"Maybe," you echo.

He rises, then hesitates, looking down at you like he's recalculating physics.

Without warning, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees.

You blink. "Leon—"

"Save your strength."

"I can walk."

"I know."

And that's the end of the discussion. He lifts you with controlled ease, settling you against his chest. Your head ends up tucked under his chin, close enough to hear his heartbeat, steady and stubborn as a drum calling soldiers back to formation. You don't argue again. Your hand fumbles for his vest, gripping the fabric as another wave of heat rolls through you, deeper this time, almost nauseating in its intensity.

"Still with me?" he murmurs into your hair.

You nod weakly. "Yeah."

"Good."

He adjusts his hold, one hand splayed protectively across your back, and starts down the corridor again, footsteps measured, unhurried, as if he has decided that time itself can wait its turn. The world sways gently with each step. Your eyelids feel heavy.

Leon's voice cuts through the fog, low and insistent. "Stay awake."

"I'm trying."

"Talk to me."

"About what?"

"Anything."

You think for a long moment, chasing thoughts that scatter like startled birds.

"...Dessert," you mumble finally.

A soft breath leaves him, almost a laugh, almost something else entirely.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."

You clutch his vest a little tighter, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.

"Don't let me fall asleep," you whisper.

His arms tighten around you, careful but unyielding.

Leon adjusts his grip as you shift in his arms, not because you're heavy, never that, but because your body no longer anticipates his movement the way it usually does. You used to lean into turns before they happened, tighten your hold when he stepped over debris, and match his rhythm without thinking. Now you lag by half a second behind every motion, like your connection to gravity is buffering. He notices. He notices everything.

Your skin is too hot even through layers of fabric. Heat seeps through his sleeves, through his gloves, into his palms like you're burning from the inside out. Your breath ghosts unevenly against his throat, sometimes shallow, sometimes too deep, like your lungs can't agree on a pattern. Fever, he tells himself. Infection. Not the other thing. Not yet. Your fingers twitch where they clutch his vest, loosening, tightening, loosening again.

"Hey," he murmurs quietly. "Still with me?"

A pause. "...Yeah."

The word is slurred at the edges, dragged through molasses. His jaw tightens. He keeps moving.

The corridor stretches ahead in dim amber light, empty except for the occasional smear on the wall or abandoned equipment pushed aside by people who ran out of time. His footsteps are steady, deliberate, conserving energy, minimizing jostling. He's carried wounded before. Teammates. Civilians. Strangers. None of them felt like this. None of them felt like carrying his own heartbeat outside his body.

Your head shifts, cheek pressing against his collarbone. For a moment you go very still, so still that something cold claws down his spine.

"Talk to me," he says, softer now. "You promised."

A long silence. Then, faintly, "Cold."

He stops. A clean halt, like someone pulled a lever inside him. Cold is wrong. You're burning up. He lowers you carefully to one knee without setting you fully down, keeping one arm wrapped around your back so you don't tip sideways. His other hand comes up to your face, bare fingers brushing your cheek. Your skin is blazing. But you're shivering. Small, violent tremors run through you, teeth chattering softly against each other, lashes fluttering as if your body can't decide whether to wake or sleep.

"Hey," he says, sharper now. "Open your eyes."

You do, slowly, unfocused at first. Your pupils look blown wide in the low light, swallowing what little color remains in your irises.

"It's... dark," you mumble.

His chest tightens. The lights are still on.

"I'm right here," he says. "Look at me."

Your gaze drifts, struggles, and finally locks onto his face. Recognition flickers there, fragile but present.

"...Leon."

Relief hits him so hard it almost feels like pain.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, it's me."

Your brow furrows faintly, confusion knitting your expression into something painfully vulnerable.

"You look... tired."

He almost laughs. "Occupational hazard," he says quietly.

Your hand lifts weakly, fingers brushing his jaw as if you're mapping terrain you've walked a thousand times but suddenly don't trust your memory of.

"You should sleep," you whisper.

The tenderness in it is what breaks him a little.

"Soon, sweetheart," he says.

Your hand slips, falling back against your chest. Silence stretches. Your breathing grows uneven again.

Then you say, very softly, "Did we make it home?"

The words land like a physical blow. For a second, he can't answer. His throat closes around something sharp and unmanageable.

Home. Not the facility. Not the mission. Not the outbreak. Home. He swallows hard, forcing air back into his lungs.

"Not yet," he says, voice low and steady by sheer force of will. "Working on it."

Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, as if you're looking at something over his shoulder that isn't there.

"...Smells like coffee," you murmur. "Burned it again."

His vision blurs. He blinks hard, refocusing on the concrete wall behind you. You're not smelling coffee. There is no coffee. There hasn't been coffee in hours. Just dust and chemicals and rot. Hallucinations, a cold voice in his mind supplies. Neurological involvement. He hates that voice. 

Your lips curve faintly, a sleepy little smile that belongs in a sunlit kitchen, not here. "You always do that," you mumble. "Say you're watching it, then forget..."

Your head tips sideways, resting against his arm. Your eyelids droop. Panic slices through him, clean and immediate.

"Hey," he says sharply, fingers tightening on your shoulder. "No. Stay with me."

You stir weakly. "...'m tired."

"I know."

"So tired."

His thumb presses against your pulse again. Still fast. Too fast.

"You can sleep when we're home," he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to something rough and urgent.

Your eyes open a sliver.

"...Promise?"

The question is so small it barely exists.

He bows his head until his forehead rests against yours, eyes closing for one heartbeat, he allows himself.

"Yeah," he whispers. "I promise."

He doesn't know if he's promising sleep, survival, or something else entirely. It doesn't matter. Your breathing evens out a little, not better, just slower, drifting toward something that looks dangerously like unconsciousness. Not yet, he thinks fiercely.

He slides one arm under your knees again and lifts you back against his chest, more carefully this time, as if you might come apart if handled too roughly. Your head lolls against his shoulder, then settles in the hollow of his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin.

"Stay with me," he murmurs into your hair. "Just a little longer."

Your fingers twitch weakly against his vest, not gripping anymore, just resting there like they forgot their job.

"...Love you," you whisper, so faint he almost thinks he imagined it.

He stops breathing. The entire world narrows to the weight in his arms and the fragile thread of sound still hanging in the air. His hold tightens, protective, desperate, careful all at once.

"I know," he says quietly, voice breaking on the edges despite his best effort. "I know."

He presses his cheek briefly against your hair, eyes closing, grounding himself in the reality of you. The heat. The softness. The terrifying fragility. Then he straightens and starts moving again, steps faster now, less cautious, urgency bleeding through the discipline he's clung to since this began. Somewhere ahead, there has to be another lab. Another storage room. Another chance. There has to be. Because the alternative is unthinkable, and Leon Kennedy has built an entire life on refusing to accept those.

"Hang on," he murmurs. "I've got you."

The corridor opens into what used to be a patient ward, rows of metal-framed beds bolted to the floor, privacy curtains hanging in limp, dusty folds like flags after a lost battle. Most of the mattresses are stripped bare, plastic covers cracked with age, but the room is quiet. No movement. No shuffling breath. Just the low electrical hum that seems to haunt every corner of this place.

Leon slows, scanning automatically, mapping exits, sightlines, choke points. Good visibility. Single main entrance. Minimal clutter. Defensible. More importantly, close.

A reinforced door at the far end bears a faded hazard symbol and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled beneath it. The hinges are external. The frame is thicker than standard interior construction. Lab access. Or something close to it.

"Okay," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "This'll do."

He crosses to the nearest intact bed and lowers you with painstaking care, one arm supporting your shoulders, the other guiding your legs so the injured one doesn't twist. The mattress sighs softly under your weight, springs complaining but holding. For a second, he doesn't let go. Your head rolls slightly to one side, hair falling across your face. Your eyes are half-open, unfocused, lashes trembling like you're dreaming with your eyes still in the world.

"Hey," he says quietly, brushing the hair back with fingers that are gentler than anything else he's done today. "Stay with me."

Your gaze struggles to find him. "...Hi," you whisper.

"Hi," he echoes, voice rough.

Your hand lifts weakly, searching. He catches it immediately, folding his larger one around yours, grounding you with solid pressure.

"Where are we?" you murmur.

"Almost there," he says. Not a lie. Not quite the truth. "I need to check something."

Your fingers twitch in his grip, barely there. "...Don't go far."

His throat tightens.

"I won't," he says. "You'll be able to hear me the whole time." That seems to satisfy something in you. Your eyes drift closed, not fully unconscious, just sliding along the edge of it.

He gently lowers your hand to rest against your stomach, then hesitates. After a moment, he reaches up and unzips his jacket, shrugging it off despite the chill. He drapes it over you, tucking it around your shoulders, creating a cocoon of familiar warmth and scent. Leon rests his palm against your cheek one last time, thumb brushing your skin in a soft arc.

He forces himself to stand. Every instinct screams not to leave you. To pick you up and run until the world ends, the cure appears, or both. But the door at the end of the room waits, silent and stubborn, and something in his gut tells him that whatever hope exists is behind it.

He moves. Slow at first, reluctant steps that keep him within arm's reach, then a little farther, turning back every few seconds to make sure you're still breathing, still there, still you. Halfway across the ward, a shape shifts behind a curtain. Leon's weapon is up before the fabric finishes swaying.

A figure stumbles out, skeletal, skin pulled tight over bone, eyes reflecting dull amber in the emergency light. Its mouth opens in a soundless snarl as it lurches toward the nearest movement. Leon intercepts it before it gets anywhere. Two suppressed shots. One to the chest, one to the head. The body collapses in a boneless heap, momentum carrying it forward until it skids to a stop across the tile.

Another groan answers from somewhere deeper in the room. He pivots, firing again, dropping a second infected as it claws its way over a bedframe. Efficient. Controlled. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. Three heartbeats of silence. He listens, counting breaths. Nothing else rises. Only then does he glance back. You haven't moved. Relief floods through him so sharply his knees almost unlock.

"Still here," he murmurs under his breath, as if confirming it makes it true.

He reaches the reinforced door and tests the handle. Locked. Of course it is.

Up close, the barricade becomes obvious. Heavy shelving units have been shoved against the interior side, metal edges visible through the narrow seam where the door meets the frame. Whoever sealed this room meant to keep something out. Or in.

Leon leans closer, ear to the cold steel. Nothing. No breathing. No scratching. No shifting weight. He steps back and scans the frame. Electronic panel. Dead. Manual override slot intact. Hope stirs, cautious and unwelcome.

He glances over his shoulder again. From here, he can still see you on the bed, small beneath his jacket, chest rising and falling in shallow motions that make his own lungs ache in sympathy.

"Almost there," he says quietly, whether to you or himself, he doesn't know.

From a pouch on his belt, he pulls a compact breaching tool, the metal catching the light as he slots it into the override housing. The device hums softly, vibration traveling up his wrist.

Behind him, the ward remains still.

Then your voice drifts across the room, thin and fragile. "...Leon?"

He spins instantly. Your head has turned toward him, eyes open again, unfocused but searching, panic flickering in the small movement of your hands against his jacket.

"I'm here," he calls, already crossing back toward you. "Right here."

You stare at him as if trying to memorize his face before it disappears. "...Too many," you whisper. "They're everywhere."

"There's nothing here," he says gently. "You're safe."

Your head sinks back into the thin pillow. Consciousness slips away from you like water through open fingers. Leon stays there a second longer than he should, watching your chest rise, fall, rise again. Then he stands and turns back to the barricaded door, something steely settling over him, heavier than anger, sharper than fear.

The tool in his hand whines as it bites into the locking mechanism, sparks spitting in brief, angry bursts. Metal protests. Screws shear. The smell of hot circuitry fills the air.

"Hold on," he murmurs, not looking back this time because he won't stop if he does. "I'm getting us in."

Behind him, the bed creaks softly as you shift in fevered sleep. Ahead, the door shudders as the final bolt gives way. Leon shoves the door inward, the weight of it grinding against the barricade until the gap is wide enough for him to slip through sideways. Inside, a toppled shelving unit leans against the opposite wall, confirming what he already suspected. Whoever sealed this room did it from within and didn't plan on leaving.

The air is colder here. Cleaner. Sterile in that artificial way that smells faintly of alcohol wipes and plastic, like illness reduced to a controlled environment.

Emergency lights glow a sickly green, illuminating rows of lab benches, overturned stools, racks of glassware frozen mid-experiment. Papers lie scattered across the floor, curling at the edges. A monitor flickers weakly on one station, casting a pulsing rectangle of pale light that feels almost alive in the otherwise stagnant room.

Leon clears the space in seconds, weapon sweeping corners, checking behind doors, under desks, anywhere something could hide. Nothing lunges. Nothing breathes. Just abandonment, sudden and absolute, like the people who worked here evaporated mid-sentence.

He lowers the gun a fraction, chest rising and falling a little too fast to be purely tactical.

"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough in the quiet. "Okay."

He moves to the nearest workstation, scanning labels, cabinets, drawers. Chemical reagents. Disposable supplies. Data drives. Everything except what he needs. Another bench. Same story. He opens a refrigerated unit. Empty trays. Frost buildup. Power too low to maintain temperature.

His pulse hammers harder.

Not here. Not here. Not here.

"Come on," he mutters, rifling through containers faster now, less methodical, more desperate. Glass clinks sharply as he shoves aside vials of things that don't matter, powders with long names, syringes sealed in sterile plastic. Nothing labeled antiviral. Nothing labeled serum. Nothing labeled hope. A cold weight settles in his stomach.

He moves to the flickering computer, fingers flying across the keys, waking it from whatever half-dead state it's been trapped in. The screen brightens sluggishly, revealing a login prompt already bypassed, system hanging on by a thread.

"Don't do this to me," he whispers.

Folders populate slowly. Research logs. Incident reports. Containment protocols. He scans titles with ruthless speed, opening anything that looks remotely relevant, eyes burning as line after line of technical jargon scrolls past.

Mutation rates. Transmission vectors. Failure rates. 

Failure rates.

His jaw tightens.

A crash echoes faintly from the ward beyond the door. His head snaps toward the sound. Silence follows. He waits three seconds. Five. Ten. No approach. No impact against the door. No dragging footsteps. Still there, he tells himself. She's still there.

He turns back to the screen, forcing his focus to narrow again. A document catches his eye.

ANTIVIRAL DISPERSION PROTOCOL – EMERGENCY USE

He opens it. Paragraphs of dense instructions spill across the display. Stabilization procedures. Delivery methods. Storage warnings. STORAGE LOCATION: SECURE BIOCONTAINMENT VAULT B-2. His stomach drops. Not here.

Coordinates blink uselessly on the screen, pointing deeper into the facility, farther than he wants to think about, farther than you may be able to survive the trip.

Something inside him finally gives. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, shoulders bowing as if someone just added fifty pounds to his back.

"Damn it," he breathes.

The word fractures on the way out, barely more than air. He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping toward his clenched fists, fighting the surge of helpless fury that threatens to tear through discipline, training, every wall he's built over years of surviving the unsurvivable. Not enough time. Not enough distance. Not enough anything.

Out in the ward, you lie alone on a metal bed, burning up, slipping further away with every second he spends standing here empty-handed. His chest tightens until breathing feels optional.

For one dangerous moment, he imagines walking back out there, picking you up, and never stopping. No cure. No mission. Just distance and denial. Just the selfish hope that if he runs fast enough, the virus won't catch you.

He exhales sharply, dragging himself back from the edge. Running never saved anyone.

"Think," he mutters hoarsely. "Think."

His gaze drifts across the lab again, slower this time, less frantic, searching for patterns instead of miracles. That's when he notices it. A sealed medical kit is mounted on the wall near the exit. Standard emergency issue. Bright white casing. Untouched, pristine compared to the chaos everywhere else. Too pristine. He crosses the room and pops it open. Bandages. Burn gel. Basic trauma supplies. Nothing else.

His shoulders slump. Then his eyes catch a thin seam along the back panel, almost invisible unless you're looking directly at it. Not part of the original design. Too clean. Too deliberate. He taps it with his knuckle. Hollow. Hope flares, sharp and painful.

He wedges a knife into the seam and pries. The panel resists for a second, then snaps free with a brittle crack, revealing a narrow cavity hidden behind the kit.

Inside rests a single reinforced container, matte gray and no bigger than a paperback book, sealed with a biometric latch long since disabled. Not government-issue, but research-grade. Whoever put this here didn't have the chance to get it.

Leon's hands shake as he pulls it free. The lid pops open. Nestled in foam are two glass syringes pre-loaded with clear liquid, labels printed in blocky lab script:

ANTIVIRAL SERUM — FINALIZED STRAIN

For a second, he just stares, brain refusing to trust what his eyes are telling it. Air leaves his lungs in a sound that might be a laugh or might be something closer to a sob strangled before it can exist.

"Okay," he whispers, voice breaking anyway. "Okay. We're good. We're... we're good."

He presses his forehead briefly against the cool plastic case, eyes squeezing shut, letting the relief hit him in one violent wave before he can stop it. Shoulders shake once, twice, a tremor he doesn't bother to control because no one is here to see it. No one except the person who needs him most. He straightens abruptly, wiping a hand across his face, composure snapping back into place like a mask he's worn too long to misplace.

"Hang on," he says, already moving for the door, clutching the case like it's made of glass and prayers. "I'm coming back."

Your skin is still hot. That's the first thing he registers when his palm cups your cheek. Heat floods into his hand, fever-bright, but there's a wrongness to it now, a brittle quality, like warmth without life behind it.

"Hey," he says softly. "I'm back."

No response. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, unmoving. Your mouth is slightly open, breath slipping in shallow threads that barely stir the hair at your temple. The shivering from before has stopped. Your body lies too still beneath his jacket, as if it finally decided movement was optional.

A cold spike of terror drives straight through his chest.

"Hey." Louder this time, but still gentle, still careful, as if volume alone might break you. "Come on. Open your eyes for me."

Nothing. He slides his hand to your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point. It's there. Fast. Thready. Irregular in a way that makes his own heartbeat stumble trying to match it.

"Okay," he breathes, more to himself than to you. "We're okay."

His other hand trembles as he fumbles the case open, snapping it back with a soft plastic crack. The syringes gleam under the emergency lights, their clear liquid looking impossibly calm compared to the storm in his chest. He sets the case on the bed beside you, movements deliberate, controlled, forcing precision where panic wants chaos.

"You're gonna hate this part," he murmurs, fingers working to clear space at your collar, tugging fabric aside so he can reach skin. "But you can yell at me later. I'm counting on it."

Your head lolls slightly with the movement. No protest. No reflexive tension. He swallows hard.

"Hey," he says again, softer now, thumb brushing your jaw in a slow arc. "Stay with me, okay? You don't get to check out early. We still owe each other dessert."

His voice catches on the last word. He pushes through it.

"Remember that place downtown? The one with the ridiculous chocolate cake you said was worth the calories?" A shaky breath. "I figure we'll go there."

He presses his forehead briefly against yours, eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second.

"You hear me? We've got plans."

Your breathing hitches faintly, a tiny irregular stutter that might be a coincidence or might be something else. He latches onto it anyway, desperate for anything that looks like a connection.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Right there. Stay with me."

He lifts the syringe, checks it automatically, habit stronger than fear. No air bubbles. Fluid clear. Needle steady despite the tremor in his hand.

"Okay," he whispers. "Here we go."

He slides his arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough to support you against his chest, cradling you there so the injection won't jostle too much. Your head falls against him, cheek resting over his heart, breath warm and frighteningly faint through the fabric of his shirt.

"You're doing great," he says softly, even though you're doing nothing at all. "Almost there."

The needle presses into your skin.

He hesitates.

Not because he doubts the serum. Because once this is done, there's nothing left to do but wait, and waiting is the one thing he has never learned to survive gracefully.

"Don't be mad," he murmurs. "I'm not giving you a choice."

He depresses the plunger slowly, watching the liquid disappear into you, as if he can track hope molecule by molecule. His other arm tightens around your back, holding you upright, holding you together.

"All right," he says, voice barely above a breath. "You did good. See? Easy."

He withdraws the needle and sets it aside with mechanical care, as if any sudden movement might undo what he's just done. Then he just holds you.

Seconds crawl past, each one stretching thin as wire. Nothing happens. Your breathing remains shallow. Your pulse, when he checks again, is still fast, still erratic. His chest starts to feel tight, air coming harder, like the room has quietly stolen oxygen while he wasn't looking.

"Okay," he says hoarsely. "Sometimes these things take a minute."

He shifts you slightly, thumb stroking your arm in absent circles, the same motion he uses when you're half asleep on long flights or bad nights. Comfort muscle memory kicks in even when the situation is far beyond comfort.

"You're not allowed to do this," he whispers. "You hear me? Not now. Not like this."

Your hand slips from where it rested against his vest, sliding down between you, fingers loose and unresponsive. He grabs it instantly, folding it back into his palm, pressing it against his chest.

"Come back," he says, the words fraying at the edges.

Another long stretch of nothing. Fear blooms, cold and suffocating, filling every hollow place in him. Too late, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. Too slow. Too far gone.

He shakes his head sharply, jaw clenching.

"No," he mutters. "No, you don't get to do that."

He bows over you, pressing his forehead to your hair, eyes squeezed shut, breathing you in like oxygen.

"You promised," he says roughly. "You don't break your promises."

Your pulse stutters under his fingers. He freezes.

There it is again. A strange hitch, a pause that stretches too long, then a sudden rush, as if your heart forgot the rhythm and is trying to find it again. His own heart stops in sympathetic terror.

"Come on," he whispers. "Come on..."

Your body jerks. A sharp, involuntary spasm that arches you slightly against him before you go slack again. Leon sucks in a breath, half panic, half hope colliding in his chest.

"That's it," he says urgently. "That's something. That's good. Keep going."

Your brow creases faintly, expression tightening as if pain is finally breaking through the fog. A weak sound escapes you, barely audible, more exhale than voice. His grip on you tightens, careful but fierce.

"I know," he murmurs. "I know, sweetheart. It's okay. You're okay."

Your breathing changes, deepening suddenly, as if you're pulling in air like someone surfacing from underwater. It catches, stutters, then comes again, stronger this time, dragging oxygen into lungs that finally seem interested in using it.

"There you go," he breathes, voice shaking openly now. "That's it. Stay with me."

Your fingers twitch weakly against his chest. He presses his cheek against your hair, eyes closing, holding you like you might still vanish if he loosens his grip.

"I've got you," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you."

He keeps you cradled against his chest, one arm locked around your back, the other braced across your shoulders, hand splayed as if shielding you from something that no longer exists. His cheek rests against your hair, breath uneven, dragging in through his nose, out through parted lips like he's relearning how to do it.

Your pulse is stronger now beneath his fingers. Still fast, still fragile, but steady enough to count. Steady enough to believe in. Only then does the tension start to bleed out of him. It comes all at once.

His shoulders shudder. Not violently, just a small, contained tremor that he tries to swallow down and can't. A sound escapes him, rough and broken, something halfway between a breath and a sob he never intended to make. He tightens his hold instinctively, pressing his face into your hair as if hiding there makes it less real.

"Okay," he whispers hoarsely. "Okay... you're okay."

Warmth hits your scalp. At first, your fogged mind can't place it. Wetness. A second drop follows, sliding along your temple before disappearing into your hair.

Leon doesn't notice. Or he does and can't stop. He bows over you, forehead pressed to the crown of your head, shoulders shaking in small, uneven pulses he's trying desperately to keep silent. Years of training, years of surviving, years of holding everything inside, finally cracking under the simple fact that you are still here.

"I've got you," he murmurs, voice wrecked, words stumbling over each other. "I've got you, I've got you..."

Your fingers twitch. This time, the movement is stronger, a weak curl against his shirt, fabric bunching slightly in your grasp. The sensation filters through layers of fog, heat, exhaustion, and the lingering echo of pain. Consciousness creeps back in like dawn through heavy curtains.

Your throat burns. Your body feels impossibly heavy, as if gravity doubled while you were away. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-level fatigue that sleep alone could never fix.

Sound reaches you first. A heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Close enough to be yours, except it isn't. Breath above you, hitching, uneven. Fabric shifting faintly with each inhale.

Someone is holding you. You force your eyes open.

The world swims into view in slow, watery shapes. A blurred patch of green light. A shadow that resolves into the curve of a shoulder. Blond strands of hair brushing your cheek.

Leon.

He doesn't notice you're awake yet. His face is buried against your head, one hand cupping the back of your skull with fierce gentleness, thumb moving in tiny, repetitive strokes like he's soothing a nightmare that hasn't ended for him yet.

Your voice comes out as a rasp. "Leon...?"

He freezes. Absolute stillness, like a statue suddenly unsure whether it's allowed to move. Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are red. Not just glassy, not just tired, but openly, unmistakably wet. Tracks of tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, catching the light as he blinks hard, as if blinking might erase evidence before you can register it.

For a second, he just stares at you, something raw and disbelieving cracking across his face, like he expected this moment and still isn't sure it's real.

"You're..." His voice fails. He clears his throat roughly. "Hey."

You try to smile. It feels wobbly, incomplete. "Hi."

Relief hits him so visibly it's almost painful to watch. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him like someone cut the strings holding him upright.

"Hey," he repeats, softer this time, thumb coming up to brush your cheek in a careful sweep, as if confirming you're solid. "You're back."

"Was I... gone?"

His jaw tightens. "Not allowed."

You attempt a small laugh. It comes out as a weak breath. His hand slides to the side of your neck, fingers resting over your pulse again, counting, grounding, refusing to trust his eyes alone.

"You scared me," he says quietly.

Your gaze drops to his chest, to the wrinkled fabric where you must have been gripping him earlier. "Sorry."

His head snaps slightly. "Don't."

The word is sharp, then softens immediately.

"Don't apologize," he adds, voice rough. "Just... don't."

You nod faintly. Even that feels like work.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there in his arms, breathing the same air, sharing the same small pocket of reality after hours of separation that happened without distance. Then you notice how tightly he's still holding you.

"Leon," you murmur, "I can't breathe."

He releases you instantly, horror flashing across his face. "Sorry. Sorry."

He shifts his grip, supporting you more carefully, one arm still behind your shoulders but no longer crushing you to him. His other hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as if he can't quite stop touching you.

"You're okay?" he asks, scanning your face like he's looking for cracks. "Dizzy? Nauseous? Vision?"

"Everything hurts."

He exhales, something that might be relief ghosting through the pain in his expression. "I'll take it."

Your eyes drift past him, taking in the ward, the beds, the dim light. Memory trickles back in jagged pieces. Teeth. Heat. Falling. Darkness.

"...You found it," you whisper.

He nods once. "Yeah, told you we would.

Your mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Yeah. You did."

You study him more closely now, the red around his eyes, the dampness he hasn't fully wiped away, the way he keeps blinking as if his vision is unreliable.

"You were crying," you say softly.

Immediate denial rises to his lips. You can see it form. Then he looks at you. And whatever excuse he was about to give dissolves.

"...Yeah," he admits, voice low. "Maybe a little."

A tear slips free anyway, tracking down before he can stop it. He doesn't bother hiding it this time. Doesn't look away. Just lets it exist.

"You weren't waking up," he says, as if that explains everything. It does.

Your chest aches in a different way now. You lift your hand slowly, muscles protesting, and touch his face. Your thumb brushes the damp track on his cheek, wiping it away with clumsy tenderness.

"I'm here," you whisper.

He leans into your hand without thinking, eyes closing briefly, relief and exhaustion and something deeper collapsing together inside him.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."

He covers your hand with his, pressing it lightly to his skin as if anchoring himself. After a moment, his gaze sharpens again, mission awareness bleeding back in. 

"We need to move," he says gently. "Facility's not stable, and we don't know how long before more of them wander in."

You nod, though the idea of standing feels ambitious at best. He notices the hesitation immediately.

"Hey," he says softly. "I've got you."

He shifts, sliding one arm behind your back again, the other under your knees, lifting you with the same careful strength as before, only this time you help a little, arms coming up weakly around his neck. Your head settles against his shoulder.

"Still getting dessert?" you murmur against his collar.

A real smile breaks through at last, small but bright as sunrise after a storm.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."

He turns toward the exit, steps steady, protective hold unyielding but gentle now that he knows you're truly there.

Three days later, the world smells like coffee and clean laundry instead of antiseptic and decay.

Sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, laying soft gold across the rumpled bedspread and the tangle of blankets around your legs. The air is warm, carrying the faint hum of city life from outside, tires on pavement, a distant horn, someone laughing somewhere far below.

Leon sits beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, watching with that quiet intensity he hasn't quite learned to turn off yet. He looks cleaner than before, shaved, hair damp as if he showered quickly and came right back, but the exhaustion still clings to him in the set of his shoulders.

"You're staring," you murmur.

"Monitoring," he corrects.

"You blink?"

"Sometimes."

You huff a small laugh, the motion tugging at sore muscles that remind you exactly how recently everything went wrong. His gaze sharpens instantly, concern flaring before you even realize you winced.

"I'm okay," you assure him.

He searches your face a moment longer, then nods, not convinced but willing to accept it for now.

"You hungry?" he asks.

"Always."

He disappears into the kitchen and returns with coffee and a plate of pancakes that look slightly uneven but deeply sincere. You eat, he watches, tension slowly unwinding from him with each bite you take.

When you finish, you lean back, warm and heavy with food, eyelids drooping in content exhaustion.

"So when is our dessert date?" you ask softly.

Leon goes still. Then he stands without a word and leaves the room again.

You hear the soft thud of the door opening, the faint clink of something ceramic, the careful movements of someone handling something fragile. When he returns, he's holding a small white bakery box tied with a thin ribbon, the bow slightly crooked as if it had to survive transport in a large, impatient hand. He sets it on the bedside table with surprising delicacy.

"I didn't make this," he says gruffly. "Figured we've both suffered enough."

Suspicion and curiosity spark together. You pull the ribbon loose, lifting the lid. Inside sits a slice of decadent chocolate cake, glossy frosting catching the sunlight, layers dark, dense, and unapologetically indulgent.

Your chest tightens.

"You remembered," you whisper.

He shrugs, looking suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. "You seemed pretty sure it was worth surviving for."

You lift the cake plate slightly and notice something tucked beneath the ribbon, partially hidden against the cardboard.

An envelope. Your fingers hesitate, then slide it free. Leon doesn't look at you. He's staring out the window now, jaw set, shoulders a little too rigid, like he's bracing for impact.

Inside the envelope are two plane tickets. Beach destination. Departure in two weeks. Round trip. Vacation time from work. A hotel confirmation tucked behind them.

For a long moment, you can't speak.

"You said somewhere boring," he mutters quietly, still not turning around. "Figured that would be perfect."

"Leon..."

He finally looks back, expression carefully neutral, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something that says this mattered more than he wants to admit.

"You don't have to go," he adds quickly. "If you're not up for travel yet, we can postpone, or cancel, or—"

You set the tickets down and reach for him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer until he's standing right at the edge of the bed, close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat.

"Thank you," you say softly.

Not just for the vacation. Not just for the cake. He understands anyway. His face softens, tension draining into something warm and quiet and deeply relieved.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Anytime."

You pick up the fork, take a small bite of cake, then hold it out to him. He leans in, accepting it, eyes never leaving yours. For a second, neither of you pulls back, the space between you charged with something gentler than urgency, heavier than simple affection.

"Worth it?" he asks.

You nod. "Absolutely."

You set the plate aside, your hand finding his again, fingers threading through his with familiar ease. He squeezes back immediately, grounding, protective, like he did in the hallway, only now there's no fear behind it. You both crave this closeness after it was almost ripped away just days before. 

You tug lightly, coaxing him down to sit beside you on the bed. He goes without resistance, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically, careful of lingering soreness. Your other hand lifts, brushing his cheek where faint redness still lingers if you look closely enough.

"I love you," you whisper.

His eyes close briefly, leaning into your touch in a way he never would in public. Just here, just now, where it's safe to be human.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I love you too."

Leon leans in first. The kiss is slow, gentle, nothing desperate or urgent, just warm lips and shared breath and the simple reassurance of contact. He stills for half a heartbeat, like he's afraid you might break, then melts into it, one hand cupping the back of your head. When you pull back, his forehead follows yours, resting lightly against it, eyes still closed.

"Careful," he murmurs. "Doctor said no overexertion."

You smile. "Pretty sure that wasn't what they meant."

"Still."

His arm tightens around you, drawing you closer until your head rests against his shoulder, fitting there like it always has. His chin settles lightly against your hair, breath warm, steady.

Outside, the city moves on. Inside, time slows to match the rhythm of two people who fought hard for the right to sit in a quiet room and eat cake.

"Two weeks," you murmur.

"Yeah."

"You think you can handle boring?"

He huffs softly. "I'll manage."

You laugh, the sound light and real and alive. His chest rises under your cheek, its vibration grounding you in the best possible way. For a long moment, neither of you says anything else. You just sit there, sunlight warming your skin, fingers loosely entwined, the promise of salt air and quiet days waiting ahead like a horizon you can finally see. Sharing cake, and kisses, and being alive, and together in your home.

Dividers by @uzmacchiato <3

The monster’s clutching you too tight, you're gasping for air. Your dominant arm is free, grenade in hand, even if your other arm is squashed in against your side. The fucker’s whipping you around like a litigiously unregulated county fair ride; black edges your vision and your head pounds horribly. You manage to arm the grenade with your teeth and grip it, breathless, waiting.

You need the hydra to screech again. You need the great stinking mouth open, throwing saliva and mucus past rows of needle teeth, the perfect basket in which to throw your one and only egg.

Leon’s already caught on.

A single splattering gunshot splits the air and the monster jerks, limbs flying skyward as it screams in fury; you’re helplessly along for the ride, heaved almost directly above it – and here’s your window.

You drop the grenade. It goes right down the gullet.

The explosion ruptures the monster’s body cavity in a great geyser of green and black gore. Its limbs thrash and flail, whipping high, slamming into the ground. You brace as the arm gripping you speeds for the ground, but then it swings you around and back up, your stomach lurching violently, and –

It throws you.

Your heart and lungs hitch, suspended; time runs slow as you arc high, tumbling, too high, way too high – and start falling. You see where you’re going to land and curl yourself into a ball, protecting your head and neck.

Your body blows a hole right through the lake ice, plunging into the freezing water below.

Leon’s already running.

The hydra is nothing but a tangled, limp, caved-in pile of slop, disregarded the second Leon saw you go airborne. He’s running, stripping off his jacket, ripping open the buckles on his chest rig, tearing off his tac belt, leaving a trail of weapons and ammunition and nylon webbing strewn in his wake. He reaches the bank in his street clothes, shoes skidding to a stop just before the water, breath loud in his ears and visible in the air.

The jagged crater you left in the ice is still sloshing dark, slushy water.

You haven’t come up for air.

“Fuck.”

He looks down at the scuffed grey ice pack, gauges the distance to you, and sprints.

The ice groans and cracks under his feet; he keeps moving. He closes the gap, every pounding footfall turbulence that fractures the lake ice in great echoing snaps, the whole thick sheet weakened by the violence of your intrusion. Finally, with a leap that calves the ice beneath him, Leon dives into the freezing water after you.

The shock of the cold pulls on Leon’s lungs, he has to fight against the primal instinct to gasp. His limbs are immediately leaden, but he doesn't stop moving. The flat grey daylight barely filters through the murky ice above and the water is dark with disturbed silt. He kicks towards the lakebed in search of you, his pounding heartbeat a timer counting down.

Something that looks like a branch solidifies into your arm, limp hand floating in a slack reach skyward. Leon grabs your wrist, hauling your dead weight towards himself, hooking his arms underneath your shoulders and swimming up for the gap in the ice.

He heaves in air when your heads breach the surface.

You do not.

“Don’t you dare,” he growls through gritted teeth, and manages to slide you up onto the ice pack, pushing you clear as he kicks his legs up behind himself and drags flat onto the ice beside you. He moves you onto a thick, uncracked stretch of ice and pushes you onto your back, plugging your nose and forcing air into your mouth.

You choke, spurting dirty lake water, rolling onto your side and spitting up more, coughing and heaving. You try to prop yourself up on your elbow, your throat raw and tight, nose stinging and burning. Your eyes are blurry when you open them, your ears are waterlogged. You squeeze your eyes shut and blink them clear enough to see what keeps pulling at you.

It’s Leon, wet and pale, saying something to you, his eyes intense. You squint at his mouth, trying to read his lips because your ears might as well have been left underwater for all the good they’re doing you.

Get up

We need to move

Can you “hear me? We have to go, now!”

As if to punctuate his statement, the ice below you jerks, a crack scything underneath your body like a bolt of lightning. You recoil onto your hip and Leon pulls at your arm, pulls you up, the ice creaking and popping under your shoes.

“Run!”

It’s a bit much to ask.

You do your best, stumbling after Leon, short on breath and coughing. You’d impacted the ice with your left shoulder, the force ramming your curled arm into your ribs, hard. That side is tight and painful, and you know you’re too frozen to feel the full extent of it yet. It’s really not gonna be pretty.

Your foot catches on a rising gap in the ice and trips you; you slide and weakly scramble back to your feet. Ahead of you, Leon’s almost to the shore.

You’re almost there.

You hit the bank on your hands and knees, gasping. Your fingers, clawing into the crumbling dirt, are pale, the nail beds blue. You can barely feel the dry grit of the cold earth under your hands.

Leon grabs the collar of your jacket and yanks you to standing.

“Keep moving. Keep moving, come on.” He grabs your hand, already running, pulling you after him.

You half-register the scattered bullet clips, weaponry, and leather jacket on the bank as you run in Leon’s wake. You pass the fuckass hydra; it’s nothing but a gelatinous stinking puddle that you quickly leave behind.

The thin, brittle air razors through your lungs, freezing and metallic. The bitter wind axes at you. You can’t feel your extremities; you keep stumbling and it’s slowing you down. Leon looks back just in time to watch you actually fall, tripping in a rut, knees slamming into the ground. He runs back to you and helps you up. You’re both breathing shallow, wracked with tremors, teeth chattering and skin close to blue.

“Almost there. Come on.”

Leon’s car is half-hidden behind a broken fence and an overgrown shrub, parked haphazard on the dry, patchy grass. He hits the driver’s side door with more momentum than he meant to, pressing his thumb to the door handle; it unlocks and he yanks it open. You hear the whole car unlock, the lights flashing, and he slaps the driver’s door shut in favor of the backseat.

“Get in. Get in!”

You slip in the back passenger’s door just as he slides in on the other side, the both of you slamming the doors on the freezing wind. Leon immediately grabs the hem of his soaked shirt, peeling it over his head and dumping it over the headrests into the trunk. It lands with a wet plap.

“Wet stuff in the back,” he says, twisting over the seats to grab something out of the trunk. It’s a duffel; he grunts in frustration when his numb fingers fail at first to catch the handle but then he drags it into the backseat while you’re struggling out of your soaked jacket and shoving it over the backrests. It lands with an even wetter plorp.

You’re still wearing your chest rig; your numb, stiff fingers can’t get the fucking plastic buckles to open.

“Fuck!”

There’s a sharp snk noise; Leon shoves your hands clear and slips a folding knife under the nylon webbing of your rig. The straps pull taut and dig into your injured side, but then he’s cut clean through the belts and he’s helping untangle it from your arms. The buckles clatter against the back windshield as you throw it in the trunk. Leon uses the knife to make quick work of his shoelaces, kicking his soaked and muddy shoes into the footwell, then he leans across and holds your ankles steady, cutting your bootlaces while you peel your shirt up over your head. Your side screams at the stretch and you rasp out a cry of pain.

Your left side is already violently bruised, livid and dark against the pale blanch of your goosepimpled skin. You’re caught for a moment by the horrible picture it makes, trying to remember to breathe.

“Jesus,” Leon says in agreement. In your periphery, he’s struggling with his waterlogged skinny jeans and there’s suddenly a lot more skin above the line of his waistband; the denim sucked his boxer briefs halfway down his hips before he managed to shove the jeans to his knees and off. He throws the jeans in the back, pulls the waistband of his underwear up, and again he’s in your space undoing your useless fucking tac belt that your frozen fingers can’t open. His hands are just as cold and numb as your own, why the fuck do they work better than yours?

Wind gusts against the outside of the car, scratching the scraggly branches of the nearby shrub against the doors. You feel a draft even through the sealed door. Your teeth are clacking uncontrollably.

“Can we get the fucking heat running?” You shove your pants and boots into the trunk, smearing mud on the leather seat. Leon’s rooting through the duffel again.

“No.”

“No?”

“The keys are in my coat.”

“The fuck kind of agent are you? Hotwire the car.”

“Smart, when I can’t feel my hands,” he says, and shoves the duffel into the footwell, tearing open a passport-sized plastic package with his teeth and turning towards you on the seat. “Come here.”

He shakes out the mylar safety blanket and you realize exactly what’s going to have to happen, here. It’s a thought you’ve had triaged as a last-resort solution while stripping semi-nude in the backseat of his car; now it turns out it’s your only solution. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat and you’re going to have to get on top of him. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat in nothing but wet cotton boxer briefs and you’re going to have to get on top of him in nothing but a wet bra and panties, and then he’s going to close you both in under the mylar blanket to trap heat like you’re a fucking turkey in a roasting pan.

Fuck.

You clench your jaw against your chattering teeth and don’t let yourself hesitate. There’s no can or can’t here – you’re both freezing, this is life or death. So you climb up over him in the limited space available, helping to pull the mylar blanket around you and tuck it in under your shins, under his head and shoulders, sealing you together into a lumpy, creased foil bubble.

It’s not pitch black like you'd hoped. The mylar filters the grey daylight into a dim, intimate dusk. You can still see Leon’s face clearly, on your hands and knees above him; you could count his eyelashes if you could bear to look him in the eyes. You keep your head down and focus on the uncontrollable chatter of your teeth, the way your whole body is shivering unpleasantly, and not the way his knees are framing your hips. He’s too tall for the backseat.

Your disloyal stomach flutters when you feel his hand brush your darkened side.

“How are your ribs?” He presses his thumb carefully against the darkest patch, low on your ribcage, where your elbow impacted. You hiss and jerk away.

“Tenderized, Leon. Ow."

“How bad?”

“I don’t… think anything’s broken.”

“Deep breath in.”

You oblige, slow and careful, your ribs expanding over your lungs. It stings horribly, your skin feels too tight, but nothing stabs you. His hand rides the motion of your ribs, feeling for telltale hitches or jerks. It’s nothing but clinical.

“Alright,” he says, quiet. He eases his touch but doesn’t drop it away. You’re staring at your hand in the crumpled landscape of the mylar blanket over Leon’s shoulder, because everything else is his naked skin.

His hand moves from your side to your arm, fingers close to the bend in your elbow like he means to fold it.

“You gotta get down on me."

You want to laugh but your side only lets you make a pained huff through your chattering teeth.

"Nice one, icebrain. Lemme loop HR in real quick."

“The air pocket only works if one of us is warm,” he says, steamrolling the comment. And he’s right.

Fuck.

"I don't know where you think my knees are going."

You have to play some strange and painful backseat Twister, the foil blanket complicating shit by clinging to your damp skin and hair, but then you’ve puzzled yourselves together so you can drop onto him with a put-upon huff.

He hisses and pushes you back up by the shoulders.

“Fuck, how much water is in that thing?”

You both look down at your high-impact bra. Squeezed between the two of you, it's now weeping drops of frigid water down your stomach. It's also left an imprint across Leon's chest, wet enough to bead up and roll towards his armpits.

“You can’t be wearing that.”

“Leon–“

"No, this isn't an argument. That's over your heart."

Yes, but. It's also over your breasts. Preventing them from being all over Leon. All over Leon's naked skin.

"Do you trust me?"

You don't even hesitate, because that's the easy question.

"Yes."

It's a zip-front bra. His fingers touch the zipper.

"Okay?" His gaze is holding yours, strong, a promise to keep his eyes up.

It’s taking all your energy to appear calm and unaffected right now.

“Yeah. Fine."

It’s a relief, actually, the compression easing as he pulls the zipper down, releasing entirely when the sides come apart. It’s easier to breathe. He pushes the straps from your shoulders, brushes them down your arms until you can drop the soaked bra into the footwell, tucking the foil blanket back in place. His chest, still cold, feels warm against your freezing breasts.

He rubs the damp, freezing skin of your back, paying special attention to the deep impressions left by the bra seams like he can smooth them out, putty under his fingers.

“Do you know you're doing that.”

He stops. You shift, shoulderblades rolling under his hands.

“I didn't tell you to stop,” you say.

“Yes ma'am.”

Your head is turned away from his, because otherwise your nose would be right against his cheek. You have to maintain at least one boundary in the smoking ruin of all the others. He keeps stroking your back; the gentle flats of his palms, the firm pads of his fingers. You’re starting to feel like putty.

Your eyelids are heavy.

“Is it bad to fall asleep?”

He pinches you hard and you jolt away from it, knocking against the seatback. Your injured side flares with pain.

“Fuck! You ass,” you gasp, poking him hard between the ribs. He jerks under you, cursing, and you brace for retaliation, but he’s gone still.

And you register why.

His face is right under yours, noses almost touching. You’re sharing breath.

And something else is different.

“…Where are your hands?”

You know where they are. He moves them from your hips up to your back again.

“Good boy.”

You don’t know what fucking possessed you. It sounded like a joke in your head, but released into the narrow space between your faces it’s far more charged than that, because of course it is. You’re hearing it now, where it’s too late to take it back. You still have a brain like a frozen chicken cutlet, fucking cold and smooth, he has to understand–

He’s breathing out hot against your mouth, pushing his hands down to the small of your back, pressing your body tighter against his, and it ignites something sharp and fervid in your belly.

“Shit,” you whisper, and kiss him.

He meets it. He kisses you back like he’s just been waiting, gathering the damp hair at your nape with one hand, blunt nails scraping the skin of your neck. His other hand goes lower, the heel of his palm digging in, fingers gripping your ass. You gasp and roll your hips, body lighting up.

“Fuck,” he says into your mouth. “Careful with your side.”

“You be careful with my side.”

“Damn.”

“Shut up.” You fist his hair and pull his head back, kissing the taut line of his neck under his ear, scraping your teeth against the skin. He’s got both hands on your ass now, sliding his fingers under the sides of your panties to gather the fabric into a thong, palming the cool skin of your bared cheeks. You hum, rolling your hips again.

“You’ve got a fixation.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, unashamed. He smooths his hands down your thighs where they’re framing his sides, his fingertips digging in. You’re sitting on his pelvis, grinding on nothing but the flat of his low abdomen, his thighs closed behind your ass, his knees pressed to the car door. You kiss his mouth, open and loose, and speak against it.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you that cold?”

“Don’t be rude.”

You stop moving, pushing up to stare down at him. “Are you serious?”

“No.” He opens his legs, shifting his hips, and you gasp when you feel him against your ass. You shift back, rubbing yourself against the hardening length of his dick, the lake-wet fabric of your underwear dragging together, no longer cold and clammy where you’re touching. His breath tumbles hot from his open mouth, hips rolling to meet you.

“Fuck, Leon.” If this is him with shrinkage, how the hell has he been packing all that into skinny jeans all these years?

He’s watching you, his eyes half-lidded, hands on your naked waist. You sit up more, tipping your head back, running your hands along his forearms as you drag your wet pussy along the firm heat of his cock.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he tells you, molten. You groan, arching.

“Jesus. Keep talking like that.”

“Yeah?” He tugs you by the arms to bring you lower, kissing your neck with an open mouth, his scruff lightly scratching your skin and making you shiver. His hands find your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, and your breath hitches. “Fuck, I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”

You laugh, just a teasing exhale against his lips. “What, cold and injured?”

He’s pulling the fabric of your panties to one side, holding it there, out of the way. You moan when he rubs his fingers through your drenched folds, slow.

“Naked and wet,” he growls, teeth grazing your shoulder. You whimper and thread your fingers into his hair, gripping, gasping when he circles your clit. Your hips jerk erratically; he’s mouthing kisses up the side of your neck, nipping lightly, then speaking against your skin, his voice subterranean.

“What do you want?”

Holy shit. You don’t remember what it feels like to be cold, anymore. Your body’s on fire. You’ve maybe never been this turned on in your life, and all this after a fucking ice bath.

“Take yourself out," you tell him. "I wanna feel you.”

The first drag of your wet cunt along the satin heat of his naked cock has him groaning, his hips rocking helplessly. You glide on him like that, wetting his dick, feeling it jump and throb between your pussy lips. You prop yourself up on his shoulders, pressing him down into the seat, grinding your clit firm against the head of his cock with little gyrations of your hips. He’s gripping your waist, mouth open, just watching you.

“I’ve never seen you so speechless,” you tell him.

“I’ve – shit – never seen you riding me.”

“Mm. Lucky day.”

“I know.”

“Any last words?”

“What?”

You cant your hips back, reaching down to guide the glistening head of Leon’s cock to your entrance. His fingers tighten on your sides, breathing in sharp.

“Be careful,” he says.

“You’re sweet,” you tell him, bearing down with little adjustments, caging his dick in place with your fingers. The tip of him presses into your tight wet heat and Leon gasps, head thumping back against the seat. You stare at the display of his body below you; the taut stretch of his neck, the flush of his chest, the tight muscles of his stomach as he works to keep his hips still, letting you control this. You take him into you in increments, the burning stretch of him blurring into white-hot pleasure, the length of him making your thighs shake before you’re finally fully seated, the throbbing heat of him bottomed out inside of you, filling you deep. You drop forward, hands on his shoulders, panting.

“Are you okay?”

You manage a nod. “God, Leon.”

He moves his hips, just a small adjustment, experimental. You gasp, lifting to half-mast him, sliding back down. He’s so thick.

Your thighs are shaking too much and you don’t exactly have the room to adjust. You lean down, desperate.

“Fuck me.”

He doesn’t need telling twice. He grips your ass, pushing you down into every thrust of his hips, long and slow at first so you can feel every inch, grinding tight against you when he bottoms out. He uses your breath by his ear as a barometer, picking up the pace, the wet glide turning into a wet slap, and turns his head to catch your moans in his mouth.

“Think you can come like this?”

“Limited menu of options, garçon,” you pant. There’s no fucking space back here.

“Tip your hips down,” he says.

You do; he slams in deep, grinding, putting delicious pressure on your clit. You cry out.

“Fuck, like that Leon!”

He pulls your earlobe into his mouth, sucking lightly, resuming the faster slap of his hips.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, filthy, and jesus christ, he is going to get an orgasm out of you. Almost just did.

“Shit,” you gasp. “Are you close?”

“Do you want me to be?”

You clench around him and he groans, hips stuttering.

“Fuck. I am if you do that,” he gasps. You do it again and he buries deep to grind on you, like he’s warring you, fighting to set you off first.

“Fuck, I’m close, I’m close,” you whimper, bouncing on him, stalling for time. He’s got you right on the edge and you don’t wanna go over yet. “With me. Come with me.”

He curses, fucking into you hard and fast, thrusts starting to go erratic. You keep a litany of babble going in his ear, obscene, feeling him catching up, drawing tight; and then he’s bottoming out hard against you, groaning brokenly as he pulses deep inside of you, your walls convulsing as the final slap of his hips sends you tumbling over the edge with him.

When you come back down to earth, the foil blanket is askew, his leg sticking out in the passenger’s side footwell, your forearm dangling in the driver’s side footwell. You’re lying bonelessly on top of Leon, riding the heaving of his chest as you both catch your breath. He pulls the mylar down to the middle of your back and the cold air raises new goosebumps on your flushed skin.

"I think that did the trick,” he says.

You hum, your eyes closed, face pressed to the side of Leon’s neck. He runs his thumb lightly along the dewy column of your spine.

“How’s your side?”

“Stings.”

He’s still inside you, starting to slip free as he softens. He gently pulls out and your forehead creases, a grumpy noise escaping you.

“Hey,” he says, soft. You don’t lift your head, it feels like too much effort. He shifts under you and you grumble your displeasure, but he’s just resettling you so you’re not leaning your bruised side so heavily against the seatback. He cards his fingers through your hair, pulling it back from your sweaty temple.

“I’m going to sleep,” you murmur. “Try to pinch me again and see what happens.”

He laughs, just a short rumble low in his chest.

“Worked out fine the first time.”

You smile, eyes closed, and tuck your arm in under his body.

“Beginner’s luck.”

There’s a lot of shit to do. There’s kit to grab from the beach, samples to take from the hydra, clothes to dry, reports to fill out, bruises to heal, complex developments to talk through with your partner.

But right now, there’s just Leon’s heartbeat and steady breathing beneath you, his fingers combing lazily through your hair, and you’re pretty sure it’s all gonna work out okay.

On AO3

Guys quick tip don’t take survival advice from a gratuitous x reader they probably died lmao

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