Thinking about how Leon’s love presents itself most intensely out of his fear. Fear of what might happen to you when the day comes that’s he’s not there should you be in danger, as obtaining connection to him puts you in consistent danger on a daily basis.
Leon’s love is in frequent trips to the shooting range, making sure you can point and shoot while consistently delivering bullets between the eyes of your targets without wavering. It’s in various weapons stashed around your home, a packed go bag with cash and specific evacuation instructions for whatever event is attacking your home. It’s in the way he holds your eye contact as he makes sure you can hold a pistol between his eyes without wavering, practicing pulling the trigger with a nerf gun that won’t end his life then but would hopefully desensitize you to the feeling of pulling the trigger when the gun is aimed at him — so you can tell yourself it’s just like the nerf gun should the time come and he’s infected beyond salvation.
His love isn’t always soft, but the reality of the world he’s drug you into isn’t soft either.
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synopsis: as the social media manager for Raccoon City’s major league baseball team you have a unique opportunity to interact with the players that have charmed the league – one of them being Leon Kennedy. Your current “dating series” ends with him, giving you the opportunity to finally get a good read on the league’s most darling – and elusive – pitcher.
word count: 3.7k
warnings: alternate universe - professional sports, 20ish year age gap, selfship coded
Getting paid to post to social media and hang out with professional athletes was a pretty sweet gig. In your experience baseball players were some of the easiest people to get along with, and the team you were working with was pretty entertaining. If you weren’t catching them off guard with baby pictures or asking them if they’d still hang out with you if you were a worm, they were all waiting for what your next scheme for online engagement would be and who would get to be in the final cut of the team’s latest official video and who made it to the bloopers.
This latest one was a little far-fetched, but most of the team and coaches accepted your shenanigans and rolled with it.
Dating the Raccoons! An extensive series where we get to go on a date with each member of the team and coaching staff. A great chance at a first hand look at how your favorite athletes rest and relax!
It had been a great opportunity for the fans to learn more about their favorite players, while giving you a great chance to get to know them better when you weren’t harassing them with your phone and camera and the latest memes. A few of the players brought their spouses, the couple with kids bright their entire family, and you enjoyed every second of getting to see this side of them.
Your last “date” was scheduled with the team’s starting pitcher, something everyone in the world thought was intentional to build up to one of the most simped for players in the league — but in all actuality the man was just annoying to try to schedule with. If it wasn’t a physical therapy session it was media appearances or some other commitment that took priority over your plans that had been made with him. You had to wonder if that inability to prioritize anything over his career was why he was still single at his age, it also seemed like he was really only friends with people who were affiliated with the team in some capacity.
“Hey,” you heard him behind you, and you look up from your laptop to see him coming down the stairs to your seat in the stands. “Been looking everywhere for you.”
“Are you rescheduling on me again?”
“Actually no,” he says with a laugh, stopping when he’s standing in front of you. “I’m here to ask for your address.”
“For what?”
“We’re going on a date, aren’t we? I always pick my date up, it’s good manners.”
That had to be a generational thing, because you had never been picked up by a date before — in fact you would prefer that the randoms you met on dating apps or in bars not know where you live. You never knew if someone was crazy, so it was a common safety practice to withhold that information until you felt safe with that person. But this was Leon Kennedy, America’s sweetheart that everyone rooted for regardless of their team alliance, so it was different for him.
“You aren’t some creepy stalker, right?”
“You’ll have to find out.”
You huff, but pull your phone from your bag to text him your address before turning your phone around to show him that you’d done it. He gives you a thumbs up, letting you know that he’d pick you up at seven before leaving you to go back to your editing.
He didn’t tell you where you were going, and only said to wear something comfortable when you texted him to ask, so you find yourself sitting on your couch at five-to-seven in some breathable pants and a cute top while hoping that it was fitting whatever events were set to occur this evening. You did know that you looked cute and that was going to carry you through the night regardless of whether or not it fit the date.
You’re surprised by a knock on the door to your little townhouse, more prepared for an ‘I’m here’ text that would save him the steps of getting out of his car and coming up to your door.
What’s more surprising is the little bouquet of flowers he has in his hand, but you’re more immediately relieved when you see he was wearing jeans and a tshirt with a light jacket so you know you’re not over or underdressed for your date.
“What are these for?”
“You’re still going out with me after I rescheduled eight different times, it’s a showing of my gratitude for your flexibility.”
Flexibility was a very generous word to use, considering this was part of a larger social media project that you were being paid to complete and he was fully aware of that, but appreciated the acknowledgement that he was making your job harder with all the rescheduling he’d requested.
The bouquet is quickly placed in a cup of water in your kitchen to be properly tended to once you got home, then you’re following Leon down the small set of stairs and down the walkway to where he’s parked in front of your house.
You hadn’t expected the sleek Porsche that you often parked beside to belong to Leon — he gave off more of a vibe that he was driving a 2002 Corolla into the ground rather than spending the money on something so new. But it fit him at the same time.
“You are welcome to adjust the seats however you’d like,” he says as he opens the door for you, offering his other hand to help you into the suv. “They’re also heated and cooling.”
“So you drive a spaceship?”
“Not moon ready just yet though.”
You wait until he closes the door to get your phone out, hoping for some charming moments that can go in the video while he drives to your destination.
“Where are we going?”
“Have you ever gone axe throwing?”
“No,” you answer honestly. “Have you?”
“Nope,” he says with a laugh, grinning over at you with the dusk light behind him casting a halo over his head. You don’t know that you’d ever had him smile so warmly at you before, and to be fair you were usually harassing him with your camera when you were in smiling proximity, so this was a fresh experience. “But it looks fun.”
“Let’s throw some axes!”
You are just the right amount of dressed for this activity, and you’re relieved that the reserved bay Leon got was at the far end of the building with some distance between you and the other patrons. It gave you space to reduce any obnoxious background noise from others for cleaner audio.
He lets you go first, the handle of the axe heavy in your hands as he takes a picture of you for your Instagram before he steps away so you can throw. It’s much harder than the videos on social media made it look, and you know your arms will be so sore that you’ll regret letting him pick the place. But your axe at least hits the target, and that’s exciting enough that you don’t care if your muscles would be going on strike after this.
Your competitive nature is delighted when his first attempt misses entirely.
“It’s not a baseball!” You chide when you notice that he’d taken a pitching stance with his second axe in hand. “You’ll hurt yourself trying to pitch it.”
“And you’re the expert?” Leon asks, looking over his shoulder only to see you pointing at where you had an axe stuck to the large wooden target.
“Just follow the little instruction paper on the table and don’t try to get fancy. If you hurt yourself for this I’ll probably get fired.”
“You wouldn’t get fired.”
“I can already see the headlines,” you start, holding your hands up for emphasis as you continue. “‘Kennedy out four months for shoulder surgery after throwing an axe wrong for tiktok’. And then the last sentence after they detail your injury will read: ‘Racoons’ social media manager has been released following this incident’ as if I hit you with my car.”
“And then you have to skip town because it’d be your fault we go a ninety-seventh season without making the series.”
“I’d have to change my name,” you laugh, watching as he sets himself up for this next attempt. “I couldn’t work in sports again.”
“I’d put in a good word for you with the football team.” His statement is punctuated with a grunt as he throws the axe, and you roll your eyes when you see that his landed closer to the bullseye than yours did. “Or you can be my personal social media manager.”
“You don’t have any socials,” you comment, deadpan as you stand so you can throw your next axe. “Which, can I ask why? You’re missing out on potential brand deals.”
“Why would I want to be subjected to the bullshit that’s on there? People are weirdly comfortable telling athletes to kill themselves because they lost a game, and I’m better off without more apps on my phone.”
Those were excellent points, and you definitely saw your fair share of disgusting commentary about the team on the posts that you made for their social media accounts. Some of the biggest crybabies in the world were American sports fans, who often excused their inhumane behavior by saying that if those athletes couldn’t handle criticism then they shouldn’t be public figures — as if being able to handle a ball well made them less of a person and more of an object to be sexualized on a good day and ridiculed to the point of pure dehumanization on a bad day.
“Besides, I’ve been on a Wheaties box for the last decade and a half. I’m doing fine with sponsorships.”
That box did haunt you on occasion, getting jump scared on the cereal aisle after selecting your oatmeal only to turn around and be face-to-face with the pitcher who often refused to play your social media games if it involved more than him answering a simple question or two. He was probably only doing this because the entire team and coaching staff had all done it too.
“You look good on the Wheaties box,” you compliment, turning back to face him only to be face-to-chest with your business date for the evening and stepping back with a start. “Don’t sneak up on me!”
“Wasn’t sneaking, just getting ready for my turn.” He defends, earning an eye roll and a huff from you as you go to step around him. He matches your step, starting the always awkward two-step that ensued when two people were trying to move around one another but unsure where to go. This persists for what you’re sure were the longest thirty seconds of your life until finally you think to stop to allow him to step around with a burning face at how stupid you must’ve looked while your camera recorded the whole interaction.
You learn a lot about Leon as you throw axes together for an hour, with a new and significantly deeper appreciation for his figure courtesy of the way his muscles moved under his tshirt as he threw his axes. Watching him pitch had been similar to watching an artist approaching a canvas, with a form that has been emulated for the last decade by little leaguers and college athletes (you once had a high school boyfriend trying to “Kennedy pitch” and dislocated his shoulder in the process), and you assumed that likely he approached everything like he did the pitcher’s mound — with a delicate analysis and deadly precision that only became more fine tuned as he understood the task better. This would be no different; by the time your reservation ended he’d only been hitting the center of the target, much to your annoyance at how quickly he became better than you at this.
The next stop on your date is an old diner. It’s quiet, the waitress knew Leon by name and tossed a flirty wink your way when taking your orders. His picture is on the wall; a younger version of the man sitting across from you in the booth, a toothy grin on his face as he stands in front of a nicer looking version of this building you’re seated in — a happiness that you hadn’t seen on the Leon that you know. You’re used to tight lipped smiles that look more like grimaces, little smirks when he successfully outted the batter on the plate, and the obviously forced smiles he gave interviewers and your camera. Happiness looked nice on him, but you’d want to know where that visible happiness went.
“This place is cozy,” you comment, getting only a nod from him so you press further. “How long have you been coming here?”
“Probably about as long as you’ve been alive,” he states, not annoyed but you fear the fun from throwing axes might have worn off. “Seemed like your vibe.”
There were a million questions you could ask regarding how he knew your vibe so well despite rarely interacting with you (purely by his design). And you want to ask them all, but instead you settle on the fact that he was sharing this place with you.
“Seems special.”
“Don’t make it weird,” is his immediate response, tipping the brim of his hat lower as he sipped at his arnold palmer. That told you that it was to be considered special to him that he would bring anybody here — to such a pace that was dear to him and had been a grounding place for him since he was a rookie. Perhaps it was because you were technically a coworker, trusted to act with discretion where needed in regard to the personal lives of the players and coaching staff. There was no way you were considered anything more than an acquaintance at this point.
Your offer to have the team pay for your dinner was declined, with a statement that a gentleman should always pay for his date — even if his date was recording the whole thing to edit for social media. You don’t tell him that he was only the fourth of the thirty or so men to directly deny the offer, the first three being less tenured outfielders. The coaching staff did deny, but that was only because they had their own cards granted to them by the organization and used them instead of her card to more easily get away with their more expensive restaurant selection. Leon seemed to have a more old fashioned mindset, and you wouldn’t put it past him to scold the entire locker room for treating you less than gentlemanly by taking advantage of your corporate card.
When he drops you off, he takes the time to get out of the expensive car and walk you to your front door. It feels truly like a real date, complete with the awkward silence at your front door as you hold your keys in your hand.
“I never noticed the keychain,” he comments, pointing to the limited edition acrylic keychain that featured Rocky Raccoon, the lovable mascot for the team, standing back-to-back with the pitcher who was standing in front of you. “That’s old.”
“Not really. Only about five years, I think.” He scoffs at your defense, but you can tell that he’s definitely tickled by the fact that you were in possession of one of them. “That’s not too old.”
“Were you old enough to drink when you got it?”
“I’m not that young!”
He laughs, the sound oddly melodic as you finally put your key into the slot for your deadbolt. You’d seen him laugh off the field, but never close enough to actually hear his laughter — but you were very familiar with the polite chuckle he’d give you and the other media personalities he would speak with before and after games. Maybe he actually enjoyed you as a person?
“I did have a good time, even if you did bully me the whole time we were together,” you say with a playful pout, leaning back against your doorframe as he shakes his head. “I know it was for work, but thank you for tonight.”
“Believe it or not I was actually looking forward to it,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest as you look up at him. “You’re not as annoying as you think you are, kid.”
“I’m not that much younger than you that you can call me kid.”
“Sure, sweetheart.” He’s proud of the way you bristle a bit, a genuine mirth in those blue eyes that were perfectly illuminated by your porch light. He was so handsome it was annoying, but he called you kid so you weren’t allowed to see him like that. That had to have been a line in the sand drawn to ensure you knew where he saw you in his life; kid, the social media girl who asked his teammates to try tiktok dances or get the latest Love Island predictions — not anyone he was interested in outside of where he had to interact with you.
But that was okay. You had a job to do just like he had games to win, and you didn’t go into this dating series with the intention of landing a relationship with any of the players.
If you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t even know that you would want to date a professional athlete after hearing what some of the partners of players had told you while hanging out with them. Fans were unnecessarily cruel sometimes, and you dealt with it in the comments on posts but they dealt with it in a completely different way. You’d argue it was harder because they loved the player being so heavily scrutinized in their comments section under a post about their anniversaries or accolades for their children — separation from the athlete and their performance did not exist.
“I know this was a work thing, but I think we should do this again sometime.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah,” he confirms, his tone faltering a bit with a new uncertainty that might’ve stemmed from your reaction. “I think you’re cute, and you’re funny. I think we get along well so I’d like to take you out again — but not for the tok-tok part of your job.”
“TikTok.”
“Whatever.” He waves a hand in the air, flippant, because the name of the app truly did not matter to him. But you’d correct him every time because that was your job. “What do you say?”
“What would the team say?”
“Does it matter?”
“A little bit!”
“Why?”
“Because we work together. I’m not on the field every day like you guys are but I would hate for there to be some weirdness because we’re doing something more friendly than professional.”
“So we don’t tell anyone unless we get serious.” It sounded like he might’ve already been serious, but that’s a comment you keep to yourself as your hand turns your doorknob for no reason other than to have something to do as you stood on your porch with him. “I’m being pushy, sorry.”
“No, it's okay,” you try to reassure, but he shakes his head slowly. “I think you’re great, and I did have fun tonight, I just would hate for either of our work to be scrutinized because of this — especially if it doesn’t work out. You throw one bad game and then it’s all the tiktok girl’s fault for breaking your heart.”
“Nobody has to know, so that scenario could literally never happen if you didn’t want it to.” He’s right, but it could also never happen if you simply didn’t date. “Give me a chance? I’d protect our individual images every step of the way.”
There are a million ways this could turn sour. Starting with the fact that you worked together, including the fact that you were about twenty years his junior, ending with the fact that he was a being equated to Christ’s second coming in baseball form. But you couldn’t say no when you had no hard evidence that it would go sour. No way of knowing it wouldn’t work out, and everything telling you that there was a huge chance it could. Leon was considerate, stable, and kind — even if he did avoid you and your camera like the plague. He said he’d protect you both, and you had no reason to believe that he couldn’t considering the man didn’t have any active social media.
“Alright,” you finally murmur, a nervous smile settling on your lips as he finds his own.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He takes your hand, pressing a delicate kiss to your knuckles that has a new heat blooming across your face. Old fashioned and romantic, you want to tease him but refrain from doing so in an effort to protect the moment that you’re sure is one to be remembered even if things didn’t work out. “When’s the real first date?”
“You wanna meet up for breakfast tomorrow before game day starts? I can cook a mean Denver omelette.”
“At your house?”
“I mean I can come over here, too, if that’s easier?”
You were a few days overdue for grocery shopping, so going to his was significantly more optimal than him coming back over here, and the other bonus was that you were sure he lived closer to the ballpark than you did. When you tell him as much he grins, with a joke about being fed by the team over the last few weeks that you wouldn’t need to grocery shop — and he wasn’t wrong. You’d been living off of those meals and the leftovers that came with them for a while, and now that the dating series was finally over you needed to fill your fridge again. You’d likely go when they traveled for this next series, heading out to Ohio for three games before they made their hopefully triumphant return.
Eight is the agreed upon time, he’s texting you his address and your phone vibrates with the notification before he’s leaving you with a hesitant kiss to your forehead and butterflies making themselves very known in your stomach as you watch him make his way down the path from your front porch to his car. It was quite the turn of events, having him reschedule this work date so many times only to end it with a real date scheduled for the following morning. And to think that you didn’t think he even liked you, only for him to actually like you in more than just a friendly way.
Leon’s house is a direct contradiction to his car.
It’s an older townhouse, nestled in a small community of houses that look similar in shape and size with only a few variants in exterior color scheme. Oddly cookie cutter for the man you knew, when you expected a large home on land that was half a mile away from the closest neighbor. You hoped he at least had a decent yard, because you knew via the grapevine that he had a dog.
When you approach his front door you’re nervous, shaking the bottle of orange juice you’d stopped at the grocery store to bring as an offering. He did not ask, but you were raised to never go into a home as a guest without some kind of offering, so orange juice would have to do and he’d have to accept it.
“Good morning,” he greets, leaning in and kissing your cheek as you smile. It doesn’t feel real yet, but you’re sure you’d get comfortable with dating baseball’s hottest pitcher to play in both the twentieth and twenty first centuries. You just hoped that day came soon because you felt like a clown right now with how nervous you were just standing on his front porch. “Come in.”
“Shoes on or off?”
“On is alright, if you want. I’m getting the floors deep cleaned tomorrow anyway so it doesn’t matter.”
He has his shoes off, so you carefully toe out of your shoes and place them on the rack by his front door before following him through the entryway to the living and kitchen area. What having floors “deep cleaned” meant and the potential cost associated with doing so regularly was way outside of your salary range, so you don’t comment on it as if you understood the thought process and continue to walk behind the pitcher — your date? boyfriend? is that who he was now? no, right? — but it would be rude to clarify so that train of thought has to get pushed to the side as well.
“It’s bigger on the inside,” you comment, taking in the simple decor as he hums. “Very you.”
“How so?”
“It’s nice but not super extravagant.” Is all you say at first, looking away from your host to the living room. “Well taken care of, I guess. No bear skin rug.”
“I’m more of a tiger guy.”
“Still mad about Detroit,” you say, an exaggerated wince leaving you as he takes the orange juice from your hand. “It’s been two weeks, bud.”
“That was a bullshit call and we all know it.”
He had a point. That ball was nowhere close to being in bounds to be allowed, which was why the Raccoons on the field didn’t bother to chase it, only for the umpire to allow the base to be taken and subsequent run to be scored on that play. They’d gotten their lick back though, coming back the next night to beat the Tigers 17-1 on their home turf. You were very busy that night posting your edits and finding your clips, but it was worth it to see how excited your boys had come back to town the next day.
“I have a little bottle of champagne, is it a mimosa morning?”
“Can it be? It’s game day.”
“It’s early enough,” he assures, setting the juice down on the counter before taking your hand. “Let me give you a quick tour, then I’ll start cooking.”
You nod, following him through the house as he points out where the bathroom and den were downstairs, then upstairs to where there was a second bathroom, a guest bedroom, and his bedroom.
“And there’s my roommate,” he points out, and you smile at the dog curled up in the middle of his large bed. “That’s Travis.”
“Travis?”
“Yeah, he’s a barker.”
“Funny,” you mutter, not wanting him to know that he was actually funny. “Will he be joining us for breakfast?”
“Probably when he smells the eggs cooking.” Then he’s leading you back down the stairs, telling you a bit more about Travis as he does. He’s a borzoi, pure bred with papers but rescued from a puppy mill so technically adopted and not shopped, and he’ll be five in October. Travis’ favorite game is fetch, he gets walked by the neighbor across the street when Leon is away for games, and he has to bring a stuffed lambchop toy to bed with him or he won’t sleep.
“Does he do tricks?” you ask as Leon beats the eggs, trying not to stare too much at the way his forearm flexed while he moved the whisk. His other arm wasn’t much help, as his bicep looked huge wrapped around the bowl he held against his chest.
“He knows the basic ones and he’s great on walks. Stops at corners and all that.”
“Smart boy.”
“His trainer was an angel. Very patient with us.”
You’d argue that anyone dealing with him would have to be. His schedule alone was difficult when it went according to plan, add in the surprise signings and meet and greets the team liked to schedule to keep the fan base alive during the offseason and the wonderful curveballs life threw in general, and you’d argue that Leon was one of the worst people to try to schedule things with. “Do you have pets?”
“Huh?
“Pets?” He asks again, drawing each letter out delicately as he adds bell pepper to the egg mixture.
“Oh! Not right now, I’m renting and no pets allowed on the lease.”
“That’s fucked.”
“Yeah, but it’s temporary I hope.”
The sound of sniffing can be heard over the eggs beginning to cook in the pan, and you peek over the bar counter to see that Travis had made his way to his father's side as predicted. Leon steps away from the stove briefly to give you the little bottle of champagne from his fridge and two glasses, and you set to your task that was preparing mimosas for yourself and your host as Travis sits at the stove in anticipation of food falling to the floor.
He doesn’t have to wait long, Leon takes a small clump of shredded cheese to be suckled into the narrow mouth of the borzoi that was better named Hoover based on how clean the floor was when he was done. How Leon told that cute little face no you couldn’t understand, but you commended his strength when he told his dog that he’d gotten more than enough cheese and didn’t fold when Travis whined. You’d give the cute little beast anything he wanted if he whined at you like that, which was why you probably would never be asked to dog sit.
“Bed, Trav.”
The dog goes to the bed in the corner of the living room, and you watch as Leon brings the two plated omelettes to the bar where you sat. It’s a beautiful omelette, and he smiles when you compliment his work as he comes around to sit in the stool beside yours.
“The drink might be on the strong side,” you warn, watching as he took an experimental drink only to feel your face warm when he immediately grimaced. “I’m sorry!”
“It’s not that bad! I’m not worried.” He takes a more confident drink for emphasis, and it’s your turn to grimace as you watch. “See? It’s good. Now it’s your turn to try the omelette.”
He watches with vested interest as you cut into the egg with the side of your fork and scoop it up, and you cover your mouth in a misplaced attempt to hide as you chew. It was actually perfect, the egg was perfectly cooked and seasoned well, you couldn’t find a complaint if you tried.
“Too much salt?”
“It’s actually perfect,” you assure, earning yourself a smug smirk from the man sitting beside you that has you resisting the urge to roll your eyes. He was allowed this moment, but only this one.
All in all, it was a nice morning spent getting to know Leon and his private life better. You supposed that you now were part of his private life, if the way he spent fifteen minutes weighing which old jersey of his he wanted to send you to the stadium wearing instead of the one that had your name on it that had been your welcome gift from the team. He’d first wanted to give you one of his old rookie jerseys, since you two were in the “rookie days” of your relationship (ignoring your coughed tease that he was corny) but the value of that jersey had you adamantly declining because you’d hate for something to happen to it while you were in the stands taking photos and videos of the crowd. One beer or accidentally thrown hot dog and it was ruined, and you couldn’t have that on your conscience. So instead he settled for last year’s all star game jersey, taking the time to help you out of your jersey and into his and smiling as he watched you adjust how it sat on your shoulders in the mirror.
“And you’re sure?”
”You look better in it than I do,” is all he says, gently pulling you in closer by the jersey before those hands settle on your hips over your tshirt. “But I am positive. I want you to wear it, it’ll give me good luck.”
”Tested theory?”
”Actually yeah. We don’t always win when you’re wearing my jersey but I always pitch one hell of a game when you do, and that’s more important.”
“Alright Captain,” you murmur, your arms draping over his shoulders as he smiles in his victory. “But I should get going. They want to test drive the new drone.”
”I’ll walk you to your car.”
But you don’t move, instead feeling rooted to the spot with his fingers hooked in your belt loops and your hands settled on his shoulders. It still feels weird, like you shouldn’t be standing here with a man like Leon being so affectionate (especially on the real first date). Did he really want to date you seriously? Or were you just a pretty younger woman who was accessible because you worked for his team? To question his intentions when he’d been so kind to you this morning felt unfair, but it was difficult not to do so when he’d done his best to avoid you for the first half of the season.
The trance is broken when Travis pushes himself between your legs, bringing both of your attention to the dog rather than each other.
“I’ve got to run him before I go, too,” Leon comments, looking back at you as you look back up at him. You’re the first to move, taking a step back that forces him to release your belt loops but his hand does catch yours to let you lead him from the bedroom.
“Thank you for breakfast,” you murmur as he walks you to your car, Travis on his other side after wiggling into his harness for his late morning run. “It was really good.”
“Good enough for breakfast tomorrow?”
“Are you trying to speedrun breakfast dates?”
“I know what I want,” is all he says at first, and you smile nervously at the implication. “I meant what I said last night, I’m serious about you sweetheart.”
You nod, biting your tongue to keep yourself from saying something that would kill the moment. There were quite a few scenarios floating through your brain, worrying about potential issues that weren’t guaranteed to happen but shouldn’t be worried about unless they actually happened. It also didn’t make sense to worry about whether or not you were worth his time when he clearly thought you were.
“Maybe we can do something tonight if you’re not too tired after the game,” you offer, unlocking your car and watching as he opens the driver’s side door for you. There was another game tomorrow, early afternoon which meant everyone was getting to the ballpark in the morning, and you would prefer to not be at Leon’s house at six in the morning for breakfast.
“Let’s grab a drink after. I’ll text you the name of a good bar.”
“It’s a date.” The way he smiles when you say that makes your heart flutter as you get into the car, and your face warms when he leans in to kiss your cheek. “Enjoy your run, I’ll see you later.”
“Drive safe.”
After a win barely clutched out, you find yourself walking into a bar after being dropped off by an uber. Your car was left at the ballpark since Leon wanted to drive you home and also spend the morning with you despite the earlier call time for tomorrow’s game. He’d be at least twenty minutes behind you, needing to shower quickly before dodging media and coaches to get to his car and get to you, so you order yourself a drink and settle yourself at the table in the corner. It gives you a good time to think about just what the hell you’re doing with Leon, and why you were so uncomfortable with being publicly attached to him.
Your primary concern, you supposed, was the fact that he was Leon Kennedy and you were the team’s social media manager. He was the captain, the multi-time all star and MVP, two time Olympian and the most attractive man in baseball — and you were you. Nothing special, just the TikTok girl which meant you had to work with him and his teammates every day, and you didn’t want to risk losing your very cool job because you got involved with the team captain and it didn’t work out.
Another concern was your age. You were around twenty years his junior if you were doing the math right and, while you weren’t freshly eighteen making him look weird, you also don’t want to risk any negative attention coming either of your way because of the large age gap. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to chase after younger women to get their attention and make him feel younger, but what if he was?
The last big concern was truly why you? He’d dodged you and your camera whenever he could for the entirety of this current season and the half of last season that you were with the team, so this was a relatively new-to-you experience where he actually had a real interest. All of the bad romance drama movies pointed at him being put up to it by his teammates or a meddling public relations manager, to either prove that he could pull you or prove that he wasn’t a robot programmed to be good at baseball and only baseball. You should give him more credit than to think a man as evidently thoughtful as him would do such a thing, but right now everything was potentially true until you sat and debunked it all with him.
“I absorbed your tab,” Leon states, setting your credit card down in front of you as he takes the seat at your booth, and you withhold the question about why the bartender would just give him your card to return to you because you already knew the answer. This was a place he came to a lot, probably for about as long as you had been alive, and with that came a strong trust. “You haven’t been here too long, I hope.”
“Just a few minutes,” you assure, smiling up at him while trying to force yourself to relax while putting your card back into your wallet. “How’d your theory pan out?”
“I’ll need to test it some more to make sure it’s the jersey and not me needing to show off for the pretty girl wearing the jersey.”
“Sure,” you murmur, taking another drink of your beer. “It was a good game.”
“I thought so too. Sloppy start but we recovered.”
“You looked kinda irritated in the first inning.” Your comment has him sighing, raising his own bottle to his lips as you watch him with interest. That wasn’t a reaction that would indicate that you were wrong, and your nosiness wins out as you press. “Did something happen?”
“I think I’m getting too old for this,” is all he says at first, earning an interested hum from you as you take another drink. “We’re voting tomorrow on if we’re officially adding ‘six-seven’ as a banned term in the locker room and on the field. But my contract ends this season, so I could retire and just let them do what they want until I’m gone.”
“You want to?”
“I want a Series win, but if we don’t do it this year I don’t know that I have another season in me.”
“Is that why you’re courting me now?”
“Not at all.” He’s quick to reply, making you feel better about where this conversation could go. You weren’t just convenient, and that was important for you to sit with. “I always thought you were beautiful, but I didn’t want to creep you out since so I kept my distance. But I can’t live my life afraid, and I don’t want to live with any regrets and I would have regretted not asking you out.”
“Why would I be creeped out by the most handsome man in baseball?”
“That’s old enough to be your father.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Would we be here if it did?” His counter makes you sigh, because you supposed you wouldn’t be here if it did bother you — but you were here and…curious. “It’s not a fetish thing either, I’ve only dated women my age or older until us.”
Us. That had a ring to it, settling your nerves in a way such a small word shouldn’t be able to but had achieved so quickly. Maybe it was the way he carefully takes your hand on the table, his thumb dragging along your knuckles slowly, bringing a visual of what us meant to the man across from you.
“And you don’t care that this would be a wage gap relationship also?”
“Wage gap?” he asks, confused, before taking another drink. “That’s a new one. If that means how much money we make separately, I don’t care. You have your own career and I have mine, you can take care of yourself but I want to take care of you as much as you’re comfortable with.”
“Because taking care of me is taking care of us,” you murmur, earning a gentle squeeze to your hand in confirmation as he nods. “But you can’t just pay for everything. I don’t want that.”
“If you want to pay for something you can, but if I’m inviting you out the only card you should need is your license.”
“Okay, then if I invite you out the same rules should apply.”
“I can respect that.” You can tell that he’s struggling to respect it, but he’d proven that he was a more old fashioned kind of guy so you expect him to have a slight issue with letting you pay for things. But this was dating in the twenty-first century, he was going to have to get used to it. “When are we getting married?”
“Calm down, Casanova,” your teasing pulls a pout onto his pretty pink lips, only for it to be replaced with a scowl when you add: “Six or seven years.”
synopsis: brief time apart while caring for his dog gives you the opportunity to think about Leon. His return gives you the opportunity to think harder about him.
word count: 2.5k
warnings: alternate universe - professional sports, 20ish year age gap, selfship coded, talk of vasectomy (Leon had one)
He thrived on quality time, so much so that you already had a bag in his house with spare clothes for overnights. He was very difficult to say no to when he was already wrapped around you, making you feel very warm and fuzzy as he buried his face in your neck. Those blue eyes were very dangerous when he was looking at you with a little pout, and you liked the way he smiled at you when you emerged in the morning wearing one of his shirts with Travis trotting behind you. You had unintentionally stolen his dog in addition to apparently stealing his heart with the efficiency that he stole bases in games, but you didn’t think he was complaining about it in the slightest.
This week would be different, because you would be watching Travis while Leon was out of town for three days in Chicago. The neighbor kid that usually kept an eye on him was visiting his grandparents, so Leon asked if you’d stay at his house and look after his dog while he was away.
“You can sleep in my bed while you’re here,” he’d told you, rubbing your back as you laid on him on the couch. You usually didn’t sleep in his bed, instead sleeping in the guest bedroom for the sake of your nerves when you’d spent the night and making up for the distance by letting him be clingy the next morning until you had to get going about your days. You’d told him that you would, since it apparently meant a lot to him, but now you felt out of place sitting in his bedroom without him. Your work for the day was done, having just posted your edit announcing the team’s well earned win, so all you really needed to do was get ready for bed and wait up for the call you knew would be coming as soon as he had a free moment where he could call.
You have to steel your nerves after you’re in your pajamas, face freshly washed and your preferred pillow that you swiped from the guest bedroom tucked into your arms. Travis trots behind you, taking his stairs up to Leon’s large bed and making himself comfortable in what you knew was his spot on the left side of the bed, leaving you the choice of laying in Leon’s usual spot towards the middle or making your own spot on the right side of the bed. Did it matter? Probably not, since Leon would be back in a couple days and you’d most likely be on his right side while Travis kept the left. But in this moment it matters significantly, and you make your decision with the understanding and acceptance that you weren’t staking a permanent claim in his bed. It was two nights, maybe three if their flight was later than usual, and you needed to stop being so dramatic about it.
When Leon calls it’s just as you’d made yourself comfortable in the center of the bed, the pillow you’d taken from the guest bedroom properly angled for you to lay on and Travis scooting himself over to be closer to you. The conversation is light, some words of congratulations for his victory and him recapping the day and giving you the itinerary for tomorrow before you gave him your itinerary for tomorrow and an update on his dog’s behavior with you.
“He has a little attitude if I don’t nearly dislocate my shoulder to throw the ball for him,” you comment with a laugh, idly scratching the dog behind his ears as Leon lets out his own tired chuckle. “You better warm up for when you get home, he’s definitely missed your throws.”
“I’m going to invest in a portable ball launcher for him so we can take him to the field and he can entertain himself.”
“And what would we be doing?”
“Entertaining each other,” he says it so easily, and you’re proud that this is the first time you accept it easily. “You finding everything okay in the house?”
“You ask that like I haven’t spent more time here than at my own place the last couple weeks. I noticed that a couple coffee mugs were placed on a lower shelf before I got here.”
“Trying to be considerate.”
“It’s appreciated,” you say around a yawn, quickly covering your mouth. “Your bed is very comfortable.”
“I think I know what would make it more comfortable.”
“You?”
“If you’ll have me.”
“It’s your bed.”
“Yeah but your comfort is more important. I’d sleep outside if you wanted me to.”
“You definitely don’t need to do all that,” you assure, idly twirling a strand of Travis’ fur. “But also when did you start sticking your tongue out when you pitch?”
“I’ve never done that.”
“I have pictures to send you then, because you definitely were today.”
The next two nights went as easily as the first, Leon’s bed was very comfortable and you stayed on the phone with him until you started to doze off. The third night you found yourself struggling to sleep, because you knew the team was flying home tonight and you were eager to see your boyfriend. Why you missed him so much this time you weren’t sure, but you were giddy when you got the text that they were boarding the plane and he should be home in a few hours. You’d responded with a picture of you and Travis, the borzoi laid on his back against your chest, but the pitcher zeroed in on the shirt you were wearing.
Shopped in my closet?
Stole this from you last week. You respond, relaxing more into the pillow. He doesn’t respond, you assume it was due to standard takeoff protocols, and instead go back to looking at the comments on the last post on the team’s Instagram to see what the fans were fighting about now.
“Oh Travis, they’re idiots,” you mumble, gently scratching the dog as you scroll through a back and forth about Leon’s value as the team’s captain because they lost one game. As if they knew anything about the work he’d put into his career and the “value” he brought to the team — as if the mentorship he’d given to most of the younger players meant nothing. “He’s definitely my boyfriend if I’m this defensive on reflex.”
The dog snorts, as if to agree with you, and you smile before locking your phone and setting it down to charge. Leon would be home soon enough, and you wanted to be well rested to enjoy the morning with him before you both had to get ready for the next game of their series against the Cubs. It was currently tilted in favor of the enemy, and you needed Leon to clean things up tomorrow and the following day.
You wake up to the bed shifting behind you, a gentle hand pushing your hair from your face with accompanying body heat at your back. You try to turn, only to be hushed by a familiar voice and kiss to your temple.
“Didn’t mean to wake you, honey, just wanted to say hi before bed.” That was Leon, and you reach back to get a hold of his shirt to keep him close.
“Hi Leon,” you whisper, a sleepy smile on your face as your eyes try to find him in the dark room. “Come to bed.”
“You sure?”
You nod, giving his shirt a gentle tug to reaffirm your request. He must’ve already gotten ready for bed, because he doesn’t hesitate to get under the duvet behind you and pull you back against his chest. It feels good to be surrounded by his scent again, aftershave and a minty body wash enveloping you in addition to his warmth. You were wrong, though, your spot in this bed would be the middle between Leon and his furry son Travis, and at this point there wasn’t anywhere else you’d rather be.
When you wake up in the morning Leon is still there, his own soft snores filling the room in tandem with the snores of the borzoi on your other side. The sun is starting to peek through the crack in the curtains, sending a sliver of light across your bodies and letting you know that an alarm was likely to be going off soon as today was yet another game day. You’d need your phone to confirm your schedule for the day, but you’re stopped from moving by his hand squeezing your breast and the realization that his hand had moved from where it had rested on your hip. You weren’t assuming anything less than well intentioned, and if you had to be honest you’d say that you liked how his hand felt on your chest and you wished it could’ve been under your shirt. You’d been trying so hard to pace your relationship but not out of a need for your own comfort, instead out of a need to protect your image from people you didn’t much care about. What did it matter if you slept in his bed, or if you guys were already having sex — “already” being a silly word to use because it simply didn’t matter when you were having sex as long as you both wanted it.
His hands were large, warm and slightly calloused, and you did want to feel them travel every inch of your body. You trusted that he’d be so gentle with you until you didn’t want him to be. It was probably time to be as forward with him as he’d been with you. Everything about him was so much bigger than you were, you’d felt his erection through his pants a couple times as you’d sat on his lap and you would be lying if you hadn’t thought about how it would feel inside you.
Maybe if they won tonight you’d offer to celebrate. He’d probably like that.
The alarm on your phone starts to go off, causing the man behind you to stir and you take that opportunity to try and sit up only to be pulled back into his chest.
“Five more minutes, baby? Maybe ten?”
“I was going to make us some breakfast,” you murmur, managing to turn in his arms so you could face him properly. “Plus I don’t know exactly when I’m supposed to be at the park.”
“Ten minutes won’t make us late, and I’ll make breakfast,” he states, his eyes barely open as you sigh but let yourself cuddle into his chest.
“You’re lucky I missed you,” you mumble, draping one of your legs over his hip in an effort to get closer. His hands help you get closer, arms wrapping tight around your body to get you as close as possible to him. One of the hands on your back slips under your shirt, fingers splayed wide against the expanse of your skin and accentuating once more how big he was compared to you. “Can I ask you a potentially silly question?”
“You can ask me anything.”
“Were you really going to sleep across the hall last night?”
“I didn’t want to potentially freak you out since we’ve been sleeping separately.” You pull back to look at him properly, your heart melting at his sleepy smile before he’s leaning in to kiss the tip of your nose. “I gotta keep you comfortable first.”
“You’re very good to me, Leon.”
“Tryin’ to be,” he whispers back, his lips catching yours in a kiss. His lips are dry and you sure yours weren’t much better, but his fingertips press into your back as your hand cups his cheek, pulling each other in closer as he kisses you senseless. You’re sure he could ask you for anything after kissing you like this and you’d say yes without hesitation. But all good things came to an end, and your end came with your phone alarm going off once more.
“Been wantin’ to kiss you like that since I left,” he says, smiling as you kiss him again as his hand searches for your phone on the nightstand. It’s handed over to you as you sit up, quickly unlocking it and going to your calendar to make sure you were right about when you needed to be at work. Your free hand rests on his chest, covered by his own hand that keeps it there as his heart beats beneath. “When do you have to get there?”
“Nine-thirty, and it’s seven thirty now,” you murmur, taking a quick picture of him before locking your phone and setting it to the side. “Can I ask you another potentially silly question?”
“Of course.”
“Do you want to have sex tonight?”
Something in his face changes at your question. He’s still smiling, but there was a subtle shift in his expression that you probably only caught because you were looking at him so intently. Concerning nonetheless, and you feel yourself getting nervous again as he hesitates to respond.
“We totally don’t have to, I was just thinking that—“
“I want to, honey, don’t doubt that,” he cuts you off, guiding you to sit a bit lower so he could sit up properly. You settle easily in his lap, your legs around his waist as his hands cup your cheeks with thumbs carefully dragging against your skin as he steals a kiss. “I’ve just been putting off telling you something, and now I know I need to.”
“Do you have a lifetime disease?“
“No, no diseases or ailments.” This time you kiss him, letting your fingers get buried in his hair as you do. “I had a vasectomy.”
That was it?
“So?”
“So I said I was serious about you forever, but if you want kids I can’t really give you them. I froze some sperm but it’s not a guarantee that it would work.”
“If we get to a point where we decide we want kids, we can cross that bridge. Right now I think that’s the best news you could’ve told me.”
“You sure? You’re still so young and—“
“And right now I don’t want them. If that changes we’ll talk about it and figure it all out.” There’s a finality to your tone, one that has your boyfriend nodding his understanding with a soft smile. You can tell that he’s not comfortable, potentially fearing a truly negative reaction from you down the line, but you were grateful that he told you at all. Plenty of stories floating around online about trying for a baby only to learn their partner had a vasectomy, and you were glad that you wouldn’t be contributing to that and that Leon was always putting you first. “Thank you for telling me that you don’t need a condom.”
“Thank you in advance for letting me…hit raw?” You groan, shaking your head as he chuckles at your expense. The downside was that he wasn’t using it incorrectly, but you never wanted to hear him say it like that again. “Okay yeah, that was bad. But the sentiment is there.”
“On that note I’m going to take a shower while you make breakfast.”
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"You think me wearing your jersey works, I don't know that you can challenge positive affirmations."
"I just think you look good with my name on your back. Wearing it like it's yours, and I should make it yours soon."
"Win the series first, loverboy."
I've been giggling all morning about this YCH comm from BAK on vgen! This pose actually could fit a couple moments of the baseball au, but lexleon huddle before game seven starts for some positive affirmations (and smooching) is most applicable. I think they captured my gentle annoyance and heart eyes for that old man so perfectly :)
"Would you still love me if I didn't win the Series?"
"I thought we weren't asking questions that were stupid?"
"You asking if I'd love you if you were a worm is stupid."
"Just as stupid as you thinking that the Raccoons going another year without a Series would make me not love you."
the baseball au has been brought to life by zer0queen on vgen and I couldn't be happier. I've been very obsessed with this since it came to mind and I have been obsessed with this art since it was completed! please do not save.
word count: 1.9k
warnings: leon has bad luck, self indulgent selfship lore,
This wasn’t how you’d expected the week to go when you’d gone to bed on Sunday night. Your life with Leon was as routine as it could be, with your work schedule and his being mostly similar, the only thing truly special about this week were the dinner plans you’d made for that Friday.
And you were still going out on Friday, only now it was to celebrate your marriage rather than a “just because” night out.
You’d woken up Monday, tucked into his chest securely like every other morning. You got to spend a few minutes chatting with Leon about how you both had slept and exchanging sleepy kisses before your alarm actually went off, and then you both went about your morning routines before you went to work and he went to run some errands since he was taking the day off.
The day ran off course when the bank he was at was robbed while he was there, and you got a call that he was in the back of an ambulance getting checked out after getting into a fist fight with one of the robbers. Your workday ended promptly after, preferring to be wherever it was Leon was going to be after something like that happened — even if that was just at home on the couch.
On that same couch is where you’re laying on his chest, his fingers playing with the loose strands of your hair that escaped the messy bun you’d thrown your hair up into after getting home and trading your business casual for girlfriend casual. You’re more focused on his heartbeat beneath your ear and his steady breaths beneath you than you are the episode of Cutthroat Kitchen that had to be a decade old, but your mind travels to the events of his morning and how remarkably unbothered he was despite the blooming bruise on his jaw.
“Was it scary?” you ask as he yawns, and you have to stop yourself from calling him old for yawning before the sun has even truly set.
“It was a little, I guess. People can be unpredictable, moreso when they’re desperate. I was more worried about you though.”
“Me?” That has you carefully sitting up, one of your legs wedging itself between his hip and the back of the couch while the other rests more easily on the edge. His hand that was on your back holds your hip, the one that had been in your hair being caught by one of yours in your movement for you to hold onto as you met his gaze for the first time in about an hour. “I wasn’t in a bank robbery.”
“No, but you worry a lot about me. And what if something had happened to me? How can I take care of you if I’m hurt, or worse?”
The or worse wasn’t charming to hear, not that anything he’d said was intended to bring you any comfort — but you also knew that Leon was just telling it how it was. He’d never sugarcoat things for you, especially after you’d started seriously dating, which you appreciated but sometimes you didn’t want to think about the realities of dating a man twenty years your senior with a scary job.
“I can take care of myself, you know.”
“I’ve gotten really good at doing it for you, and this morning made me think about how you would be taken care of.”
“Is this where you tell me you’re revising your will?”
“Did that months ago when I realized you’re my forever. You get the house and my car, beneficiary to my life insurance too. Sherry and Claire already laid claim to a couple things, but the rest is yours.”
“At this rate we might as well just get married.”
You’d meant it as a joke, and the way he huffed out a chuckle suggested that he took it as a joke. It's something you’d said a few times before, meant to tease him for being so serious and make yourself feel better about whatever serious conversation you were having. Never a real suggestion, because you both had said that you were okay with not getting married and simply being together for the rest of your lives.
On Tuesday evening you learn that he had taken your usual joke as a serious suggestion.
“We should get married.” He says it so casually as you’re drinking your water, the surprised gasp resulting in you choking on your water while he watches in concern. “Mouth to mouth?”
“Wouldn’t c-complain,” you cough out, taking a tentative drink off your water to hopefully ease the discomfort in your throat. “You’re serious?”
“My pension and other work benefits don’t go to my beautiful roommate, and I want to make sure you get everything you can in the worst case.”
“Didn’t we agree like a month ago that we didn’t want the spectacle of a wedding and all that?”
“Who said we need the spectacle for you to be Mrs. Kennedy?” he asks, pulling you from where you sat beside him to sit on his lap. “We can go to the courthouse tomorrow and call it done.”
That was a fair point, you could definitely have the marriage without the wedding, and you were basically his wife already. He didn’t correct people in the rare event where it was assumed you were married, only pulling you in closer with a proud smile when they did (but you would assume that part of that was just happiness that they didn’t think you were his daughter).
“We don’t work Friday, so that would be preferable to tomorrow. Can I pick out my engagement ring?”
“We can go tomorrow after work and then treat ourselves to a nice engagement dinner.” His suggestion has you smiling, resting your head on his shoulder and letting him take your left hand in his. “Do you want the cruise in August to become our honeymoon, or do you want something separate?”
“Two birds, one stone.” You smile, earning yourself a kiss from your fiance. “How big is your pension as the most popular employee of the least popular government org, anyway?”
“Considering I’ve had this job almost as long as you’ve been alive, I’m grandfathered in on a plan that was made when the economy wasn’t in shambles.”
“Yeah you’re a grandfather alright,” you tease, yelping when his fingers dig into your side to tickle you. “This isn’t how you propose, asshole!”
“You can’t take back your ‘yes’.”
You spent Tuesday night looking at the websites of local jewelry stores, focused on your engagement ring while he shopped wedding bands on his phone. Wednesday morning you find the one you wanted, and with a sheepish smile send Leon the link with the additional information that the jewelry store was a half hour drive before going back to your work while waiting for him to review it and let you know how feasible it was for your plans.
It takes half an hour for you to get a response that it had been ordered in your size, and that he’d called the jeweler to learn that they just happened to have exactly what you wanted without needing to make any adjustments. It feels like you’re making the right decisions, regardless of how rushed these decisions were, and you’re content to continue through your workday with the knowledge that when Leon picked you up he’d have your engagement ring. And you would be wearing it as you ate sushi at a stupidly high end place he was able to get a table at.
When Friday morning comes you both wake up with your alarm, but neither of you are in a rush to get out of bed. He’s rubbing your back as you bask in the tender attention of his lips on your neck, the acceptance that this Friday in July was about to change for the rest of your lives in a way that you hadn’t expected when the week started.
You have his full attention as you both get ready for the day; a shared shower made longer by his desire to appreciate every inch of you, his hands helping you into the dress you’d picked out for this occasion before he’d even put his own pants on. But you get to return the favor, carefully combing through his hair as he buttons his white dress shirt and kissing behind his ear once you’d finished.
“I didn’t notice this bruise,” you murmur, gently poking the small patch of discolored skin as he hums in confusion. “Did you hit your neck on Monday too?”
“I guess so, but we can worry about that later,” he says, looking over his shoulder and smiling when you lean in to kiss him. “Let's get married first, and then we can count my bruises after you give me a few new ones tonight.”
You were getting married today, it still didn’t feel real to you and you doubted that it would ever feel like a real event. You’d only had two days to get used to the weight of your chosen engagement ring on your finger, catching yourself staring at it every so often or playing with it on your finger. Even he was playing with it when he held your hand, and you know for a fact it’ll be so much worse when your wedding rings arrived.
The courthouse was a large building that you worked very close to, so you would walk by it on your lunchtime walk, but you hadn’t ever thought to go inside. The inside was just as daunting, but because there was nobody in the first floor lobby but you and your soon-to-be-husband. The sound of your heels against the tile flooring echo through the lobby as he leads you to the sign by the elevator while pushing the button to call it down to your level.
“What are you nervous for?”
“Who said I was nervous?”
“Your death grip on my hand.” He holds yours tighter when you try to let go, leaning in to kiss your forehead as you smile up at him. “I’m a little nervous too.”
“For what?”
“I’ve never gotten married before. What if I’m bad at being a husband?”
The elevator doors opening cut off your response, the chattering of the people leaving the elevator distracting you momentarily before Leon is guiding you into the elevator and pushing the button for the fourth floor.
“I don’t think that’s something to worry about,” you finally murmur, looking up at him as he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “You love me too much to be a bad husband.”
“As long as you trust me.”
An hour later you’re officially married, marriage certificate in hand as you’re getting back into the elevator. You don’t feel much different, so you’re not sure why you were so nervous to get on the elevator. It was the first day of the rest of your life with Leon, starting on what was a randomly selected Friday in July. His concerns about being a bad husband were mirrored by your concerns of being a bad wife, but realistically you two weren’t bad at being each other’s partners so the new titles shouldn’t add any additional weight to your relationship.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks, his hand rubbing your side as the elevator doors close and leave you alone with your husband for a few moments.
“You wanna consummate the marriage in the porsche, Mr. Kennedy?” you ask as you lean against his chest as the elevator starts its descent to the first floor. His chuckle is low in your ear, a kiss to your temple that has you grinning before tilting your head back to get a proper kiss from your husband.
