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The apartment door creaked open just a little too quietly for your liking.

You'd had the kind of day that made you want to crawl under a blanket and forget the world existed—late buses, spilled coffee, a client who wouldn't stop yelling over the phone. All you wanted was your couch, maybe a hot shower, and the vague hope that tomorrow would be kinder.

But the moment you stepped inside, something felt off.

The deadbolt wasn't locked. You always locked it, even when you were just running to the mailbox. Then there was the lamp—the one by your entryway, usually a warm, welcoming beacon. You flipped the switch, and nothing happened, leaving you in the dim glow of streetlights filtering through your window. Not to mention the strange, lumpy shapes on your kitchen counter, casting unfamiliar shadows across your living room floor.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. Every late-night horror movie you'd ever watched with Leon came rushing back. Don't go in there. Why would you investigate the strange noise?

But this was your home. Your space.

You crept forward, your footsteps silent on the rug. Your fingers wrapped around the handle of the baseball bat you kept propped by the coatrack—Leon's idea, a gift after you'd mentioned a break-in down the street. Now, it felt like the only solid thing in a world suddenly made of shadows.

From the back of the apartment, you heard a faint rustling, then footsteps returning.

A figure emerged from the darkness of the hallway, backlit by the weak light from your bedroom. Tall, familiar build, but in this dim, unfamiliar context, he was just a silhouette—an intruder. He was tossing something small and round in one hand, a smirk playing on what you could make out of his face.

That was it. That was the trigger.

Adrenaline surged through you, hot and immediate. With a grunt that was equal parts terror and fury, you swung the bat. It cut through the air with a satisfying whoosh, aimed directly at the shadow's head.

He moved with a speed that was almost insulting. A swift lean back, the bat whistling past his nose by millimeters. A small gasp from him as whatever he'd been holding—a lightbulb, you realized—slipped from his grasp and shattered on the hardwood floor.

But he was ready. His other hand shot out, catching the aluminum barrel of your bat before you could pull it back for another swing. His grip was iron, warm through the metal. Before you could process, before he could even open his mouth to speak, your body acted on pure instinct.

Your fist, balled tight with all the frustration of the day, shot forward and connected squarely with his jaw.

The impact vibrated up your arm. He stumbled back a step, his grip on the bat loosening in shock. The kitchen light flickered on, spilling yellow light over everything, illuminating the takeout bags on the counter, the DVD case on the coffee table, and the stranger in your living room who was suddenly, horribly, not a stranger at all.

Leon stood there, one hand still wrapped around the bat, the other flying to his face. His blue eyes, usually so warm and teasing, were wide with shock and something that looked a lot like hurt. A red mark was already blooming on his jaw.

"It's me," he finally managed to say, his voice a little shaky. He let go of the bat, which clattered to the floor. "Jesus, it's just me."

And just like that, the adrenaline evaporated, leaving behind a cold, sick dread that settled deep in your stomach. You saw it all—your favorite snacks from the gas station, your favorite fast food, the case for that dumb action movie he loved, the broken lightbulb at his feet from the lamp you now knew he was trying to fix.

You realized then that the phone call this morning wasn’t just him being nice. He was listening. He must’ve heard the exhaustion in your voice, the thinly veiled frustration. He didn't just get off work early; he came here, to your space, to try and fix it.

And you had responded by hitting him with a baseball bat and punching him in the face.

"Oh my god," you breathed out, the words barely a whisper. You felt your own jaw tremble. "Leon, I-I'm so sorry. I didn't... the door was unlocked, and the light... and you were just a shadow..."

You were rambling, but he was already shaking his head, a weak, pained smile trying to form on his lips. He stepped forward carefully, as if you might still be a threat.

"Hey, no, it's my fault," he said, his voice low and gentle. "I should have called. I just... wanted to surprise you. Clearly, I'm great at it."

You knew the joke was an attempt to soothe you, but it only made the guilt worse. Without warning, and without caring about the glass shards, you jumped forward, causing him to let out a surprised "oof" as your body collided with his. You buried your face in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of him—laundry detergent, old coffee, and something that was just Leon.

His arms, slow and careful, wrapped around you. One hand settled on the back of your head, stroking your hair, while the other was a firm, steady pressure on your back. At first, you figured it was his way of comforting you, making sure you were okay. But then you remembered the glass on the floor, and you realized he was subtly shifting his body, making sure he was the one standing between you and the mess.

It was such a Leon thing to do—getting punched in the face and immediately worrying about you stepping on broken glass, regardless of whether you had shoes on.

A shaky laugh escaped you, a wet, hiccupping sound against the fabric of his jacket—his RPD jacket, the one you'd grown to love more than you thought you could love a piece of clothing. And it wasn't because you liked wearing it on occasion. Actually, you hated it when he let you wear it. Not because it didn't look good—because it did. No, it was because you liked him in it more. It smelled like him, felt like him, and that all went away when you were wearing it. All you could smell was your own perfume, and you just didn't like that. You wanted to smell him, not you.

You had a small smile for a moment, thinking about the first day you met him.

It wasn't anything special, nothing like a movie. It was simple. It was raining, and you were sitting at a bus stop in your work clothes, which were now soaked because you missed the bus and had to wait another half hour. To make matters worse, your umbrella had broken a few days before due to a windy day. You were just staring at your shoes, watching the small puddles gather around them, when a shadow suddenly loomed over you. When you looked up, there was a man, about as soaked as you, holding out that same jacket to you.

"Here," he said. His hair was dripping, and he was shivering a bit. You couldn't help but notice the way the water clung to his lashes. "It's not much, but it's better than nothing."

You'd taken it, of course, mumbling a small "thank you," before the delightful smell of him hit you. It was something you'd never smelled before, and you knew from the small, reassuring smile he gave you when you looked up again, and the respectful distance he kept, that you wanted to get to know this man.

And now here he was, in your apartment, taking a punch from you because he was trying to be a good boyfriend. A rookie, as he often called himself in both work and love, but even though he was sure he was doing a terrible job, it was moments like these that reminded you just how good he truly was.

It made situations like this all the more painful, in a weird way. You had the urge to just fall to your knees and beg for forgiveness, but you knew he wouldn't want that. Instead, you just held him tighter, trying to pour all of your apology into the simple action.

"I am so, so sorry, Le," you mumbled into his chest, the words muffled by the fabric. You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to cup his face. Your thumb gently brushed over the now-darkening bruise on his jaw. "Does it hurt?"

"Rookie cop, remember?" he said with a weak smile. "I've taken worse. Though... I gotta admit, you've got a mean right hook."

You couldn't help but laugh, a real, genuine laugh this time, and you felt some of the tension leave your body. You leaned up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the bruised spot, a silent apology. His eyes fluttered closed at the contact, and you felt him lean into your touch.

"Let me get some ice for that," you whispered, pulling away. You turned to head to the kitchen in an attempt to right your wrong, but he stopped you with a gentle tug on your wrist.

He apologized to you instead. It made you pause, your eyes searching his. You were seriously debating arguing with him because he had no reason to be apologizing, but the look in those baby blues of his was enough to make you nod him on, to let him speak.

"I should've called," he said, his voice soft. "Should have let you know I was coming. I just... You sounded so tired this morning, and I wanted to... I don't know, fix it. Make it better." He looked away for a second, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "Stupid, I know."

"It's not stupid," you said, your voice firm. "It's the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me."

He finally looked back at you, a small, shy smile on his face. You felt your heart do that little flip-flop it always did when he looked at you like that.

"How about this," you said, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "You let me get you some ice, and clean up this mess, and then we can pretend this whole 'me assaulting a police officer' thing never happened."

He chuckled, a real, full-throated chuckle this time. "Deal. But only if you let me clean up the glass. I'm the one who broke it. It's only right."

You wanted to argue, but you knew it would be pointless. He had that determined look in his eyes that you knew all too well. The same look he got when he insisted on paying for dinner, even when you offered to split it. The same look he got when he would stay up late with you, even though he had an early shift the next day, just because you couldn't sleep.

"Okay," you relented. "But ice first. And you sit down. No arguing."

He opened his mouth to protest too, but you identically shot him a look that said, "Don't even think about it," and he closed it again, holding up his hands in surrender.

"Alright, alright," he said, a playful smile on his face. "Yes, ma'am."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help smiling back. Despite all the drama of the last few minutes, the rest of the night was salvageable. More than salvageable.

You gave him the ice, gently pressing the cold pack to his jaw for a few minutes before telling him to hold it there himself while you went to get the broom and dustpan from the closet. The moment you reached for them, he started to rise from the couch—clearly intending to take them from you before you could even carry them back.

You turned, catching him halfway up, and immediately shot him back down with your words, causing him to give a sheepish half-smile, conceding—at least for a few more minutes—that you could handle fetching the tools without him jumping in to do it for you.

Then, after the few minutes were up, he took the broom from you when you weren't looking and started cleaning up the glass, and you let him this time, because he was giving you that same look from before again. The determined look. The "I am going to take care of you, even if you don't want me to, because I love you" look.

And soon you were both sitting on your couch, the living room finally looking like your living room again, the only evidence of the earlier chaos being the bruise on Leon's jaw, the empty ice pack on the coffee table, and the faint smell of fast food that still lingered in the air.

The movie was at its climax—a ridiculously over-the-top car chase that usually had Leon smiling and leaning forward, completely engrossed. Tonight, he was still smiling, still watching the screen, but a part of his attention was on you. You could feel it like a warm current, a gentle awareness that settled in the space between you.

You were curled into his side, your head resting on his shoulder, the familiar rhythm of his breathing a soothing balm against the frayed edges of your day. His arm was draped around you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm, sending little shivers of delight through you.

"You know," he murmured, his lips brushing against your hair, "I have an idea of how you can make it up to me."

You tilted your head back to look at him, a playful glint in your eye. "Oh, really? And what might that be, Officer Kennedy?"

He leaned down, his nose almost touching yours. "Well," he said, his voice a low whisper. "For starters, I know where you can get a really great deal on lightbulbs."

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. "I'm sure you do."

"And then," he continued, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "I've got another place in mind if you wanted to give me another one of your famous right hooks—if you're up for the challenge of aiming somewhere else." He winked, and you felt a familiar warmth spread through your chest.

"And where is that?" you asked, playing along. You already knew the answer, of course, but you loved this game. The back-and-forth. The easy banter that had become your love language.