A day off, at long last. This past working week has been draining to say the least and left you feeling both physically and mentally exhausted.

You've never enjoyed the environment of the office anyway, feeling that it can be uncomfortably tense at best and distressingly confrontational at worst. But this week in particular has had the backs of your eyes stinging with the threat of tears every single day as someone, or something, has made it impossibly difficult to put your head down and crack on.

To some this might not seem like such a dire issue, many hate the environment of their job after all and more so their coworkers, but you? You've been told that you're a people pleaser.

Having others find you to be disagreeable in any way is something you just can't get used to. You strive to be helpful and likable because that truly makes you feel accomplished but these people just don't seem to see how hard you're working. While you don’t necessarily care for their opinion per se, it still stings to have been disregarded so easily.

All things considered you've felt as if something has had it out for you this week. And hence your plan is to succumb to your sorrows as soon as you get home by wrapping yourself up in your favourite blanket and finally letting those pent up tears flow. And while that might seem a little dramatic, it's true enough.

When you pull into the drive of your shared home your roommate's motorcycle is missing from its usual salient spot. This isn't unusual but it does make you frown that bit more, having hoped that it would be one of those off days when he gets home before you. That way you could've talked his ear off about all the people that troubled you today.

It does, however, make it much easier for you to park up with less care than you should ideally be taking. 

As you trudge inside you don't bother with the usual niceties. Your shoes don't go neatly on the shoe rack and instead lay abandoned by the door. Your coat doesn't get hung up on its peg in the entryway and rather ends up slung over the end of the stair banister. And your keys don't go neatly in the little dish you had bought for that exact purpose and instead just get thrown onto the nearest available surface where you will no doubt forget about them.

Troubles for another day, you tell yourself, or rather for your roommate when he does eventually get home.

Normally if you find yourself at a wits end like this getting comfortable becomes something of a case of autopilot. Without thinking too much about it you traipse upstairs and change out of your work clothes, swapping them for a much more comfortable combo of pyjama pants and a stolen hoodie from a certain someone. Its material is well worn and beyond soft as a result, and there’s a hole in both of the wrist cuffs that you now use as thumb holes. All in all it looks like it's seen better days, but it's grown to be a sort of security object to you now so it stays despite the wear and tear.

You carry yourself to the bathroom to quickly wash your face in the hopes of a refresh and before long surrender yourself to the embrace of your unmade bed. You really should've made it this morning knowing that you wouldn't when you got home, but part of you is glad you didn't since you're now able to crawl under the covers without the guilt of messing it up again. 

From there you fall into a familiar state of a half asleep haze, the kind that makes you feel suspended in some description of limbo while you teeter on the edge of slumber. It's not that you’re overly tired, in fact you're too tightly wound to even imagine sleeping right now.

But something is missing.

Normally the embrace of your weighted blanket would do the trick and your stress would slowly dissipate but now it's just… stuck. 

You take a deep breath in and let a shaky one out through bitten lips. Now what? You're already beyond frustrated and if you can't even relax at the end of it all you feel like you might snap. To try to will your mind and body to calm you keep up that pattern of deep breaths but it's fruitless, and your exhaustion easily allows panic to make itself known.

But before you're even given a minute to fall into that nasty spiral the loud slam of the door up the hall startles you out of your skin. Leon.

He has a bad habit of scaring you like that, no matter how many times you tell him to quit it and turn the damn handle like everyone else. But instead he just tugs it closed which is why it slams when the latch catches, and since his room is directly next to yours you hear it every time. Though, would he even qualify as a roommate if he didn't have any annoying quirks that drive you up the wall?

You groan a vexed sigh and sit yourself back up, legs thrown over the edge of the bed with toes not quite reaching the floor thanks to the height of your bed frame. Dropping your head into your hands you listen to the signs of life from beyond the wall. The quiet mumble of the tv, the thud of a glass meeting a coaster, and the horrid creak of Leon's mattress as he sits down.

You keep telling him to replace it but when it came down to it he let you have the nice new one, the one that can be likened to sleeping on a cloud, meanwhile his is a minefield of springs waiting to explode.

You still feel a little bit bad about that, the man sleeps poorly as it is and that can't be helping but he insisted that you should take the quality mattress and that he'd be fine on the ratty one. The bags under his eyes tell you otherwise but arguing with him is always a losing game.

Though, that gives you an idea.

Oftentimes you and him will sneak back and forth between each other's rooms to hang out, rendering the downstairs lounge completely redundant. Some afternoons he will just sit on the end of your bed for a chat like the lingering presence he is, something most commonly done when he doesn't want to be alone in his own company. And sometimes you'll go and do the same with him but rather watch the tv mounted on the wall in a comfortable silence.

So it's not really hanging out, but you're together and some days you each need that more than anything.

And today is proving to be one of those days. 

With a surrendering sigh you hop to your feet, pulling your blanket off the bed with you and wrapping it around your shoulders like it were protecting your dispirited self. You peek your head out of your door that it creaks offensively as you push past it and tread onto the carpet of the hallway. It only takes three steps to reach Leon's door and you can still hear the hum of the tv as you stand outside and gather the courage to knock.

You raise a fist and knock twice, firm and resonant against the wood.

"Hold on." comes that familiar, gravelly timbre, though the sound is muted by the space in between you. You rock back and forth on your heels while you wait and listen to his footsteps approach, gradually becoming nervous for no distinguishable reason with a lump hitching in your throat when the door swings open.

"There she is." Leon grins when his eyes fall to you. He casually leans on the doorframe with his forearm resting on the topmost part and his sleeve pulled up to his elbow. Like you he is dressed comfortably, having had the same idea of sweats but instead of a hoodie he’s got a plain brown jumper that ages him a little but not unkindly. You hum a small laugh and shrug your shoulders.

That's not the type of enthusiastic, playful response he's used to from you. In fact it's strange that you didn't hurry to get a word in before he could, something witty and quick. He mimics your hum and raises his brows, puzzled concern painting his features.

"Hm? That's all?" he brings his arm down from the doorframe, making his stature less intimidating and more inviting. "What's got you all quiet, sweetheart?"

As soon as he shows any sign of worry for you you're thinking about how you can back out of this, cover your tracks and push down the despondent feeling that's been dragging behind your heels all day. But it doesn't take a genius to know that won't help and Leon is patiently waiting for your answer.

You sigh and shrug further into your blanket, a frown down turning your lips.

"I've uh… had kind of a rough day." you huff just too quietly and he has to lean down to catch the last of your words.

A small 'oh' passes his lips and he nods, scruffy hair falling into his face. "Do you want to talk about it? What can I do for ya'?" He opens his bedroom door wider as if to usher you inside and you gladly step over the threshold where the carpet changes from the hallway's tan to a dark grey. 

"Not really. I don't think I have enough energy to make sense of it right now. Can we just sit around?" you mumble as you walk into the room, with your voice turning quieter at the end. When the door closes behind you the sagey smell that lingers in here crowds your nostrils and puts your mind at ease.

Leon's room always smells like his cologne, sometimes spicy like pepper or ginger, and sometimes like sea salt and sandalwood or the aforementioned sage that it is today. You stand in the middle of the room and take a deep breath, finally feeling that it soothes your nerves. 

"Of course we can." he agrees, his voice kind and soft. Walking up behind you he hooks his chin over your shoulder, his stubbly cheek brushing against you since he neglected shaving this morning.

"Does that mean," he starts with a playful lilt to his words as he dances two fingers down your arm. "That it's a cuddle you're after?" his tone sounds teasing but you know he's just being lighthearted to try to cheer you up. And it's working.

You lean back against his broad chest and nod bashfully, trying to get a look at him out of the corner of your eye.

"Actually I'd like some cuddles, plural, if I may." you titter, heat blooming in your chest when Leon's arms snake around your waist and you eagerly rest your hands over top of his bigger ones. He tsks a gasp of faux surprise and shakes his head.

"So greedy." he grumbles as if that isn’t exactly what he wanted to hear, glad that you're already coming back to your usual jovial self. With the typical show off-ish ease he picks you up and marches you both towards his bed, the room filling with relieved laughter as he turns and falls back to the sheets. The pits of his knees hit the edge of the mattress and his sculpted back acts as a buffer between you and the bed, lying down with you on his chest. 

An even heartier laugh is pushed out of your throat when you land and you scramble to sit up, kneeling beside your roommate who tucks his hands beside his head, arms making a 'v' either side.

"Leon!" you scold him with a smile, doing an awful job at pretending to be mad. You shuck your blanket from off of your shoulders and throw it in his face, earning an offended scoff.

"Alright, alright." he says, pulling the material down and shuffling up the bed. "That's enough of that, c'mere sweetheart."

He sits himself so he's only propped up in part, the middle of his back resting on one of the pillows while his legs sprawl lazily in front of him. He opens his arms wide and beckons you towards him with a wave of his hand. And you don't hesitate to tuck yourself into the embrace.

You lay along his right side with your head resting just below his collarbone and your arm thrown over his midriff. The other sneaks behind the small of his back and you tuck your knees up so they lie on his thigh. 

The steady melody of his heartbeat beneath your ear instantly soothes you like an unorthodox lullaby and you close your eyes without even thinking. Your shoulders drop and within the minute it's like the mountains of stress that had you wound taut are being magically unravelled by his hold.

"Feeling better?" Leon asks barely a minute later. You nod, your cheek rubbing on his jumper, and hum.

"Mhm."

He reaches for your blanket and drapes it over you both, tucking it in along your back before resting his arm around you and pulling you in impossibly closer. His other hand pulls the hood of your hoodie up over your head before sneaking under the blanket to rest on your thigh.

"I know that's mine, by the way. Been lookin' for that for a while now." he utters, drawing soothing sweeps up and down your leg in a rhythm that matches your breathing. You breathe a fatigued laugh and don't humour him with a response, tired beyond any words.

Like this it's so easy to forget just how sour your mood was a mere twenty minutes ago. It's like he blinds you to all of those stresses so he can tuck them away where they won't bother you. It's an effect so extreme that you don’t even notice how uncomfortable his mattress is now that you're lying on it yourself. The tv is still on but the volume is low enough for you to zone it out and have it act only as a murmur in the familiar comfort of silence.

It's not long before your eyelids start to weigh heavy over closed eyes and Leon can feel you leaning further and further into his hold, practically melting your weight into him. Before you had been too frustrated to rest but now you can feel yourself slipping, with the scent of his cologne and the warmth of his cuddle enveloping you you're all too comfortable and fighting your sleepiness proves to be an impossibility. 

"Leon?" you manage to mumble, mouse-like and hushed. "Is it okay if we stay like this for a while?" you emphasise the last word as best you can, yawning and squinting your eyes open to gaze at him. His expression is all handsome patience and honeyed adoration, a gentle blue stare and upturned lips.

"Of course, sweetheart. I'll stay here with you for as long as you need."

leon masterlist || navigation

He hadn’t signed up for the dating woes of a woman in her late twenties when he paid you the ultimate favor by letting you move in with him for what was basically free. You were an adult and you’re sure he had expected you to act like one, not mope around about your misery as a single woman convinced she was going to die alone. That wasn’t fair to him at all. Maybe it was time for you to move out, free him from whatever it was your life had become over the last couple of years that was now his problem because he lived with you. 

You find yourself on the kitchen floor after changing, back supported by the cabinets with a glass of wine in your hand and one of the bottles you bought on the floor next to you. You couldn’t remember if Leon was just working late or had an overnight commitment, but you don’t really care that much if you had to be honest. While it would be nice to hide that you’d hit your potential breaking point from him, it was also just another inconvenience to add to the list of them that you’d created for Leon since moving in. You’d start looking at apartments in the morning, having been able to save enough money over the last few months living with Leon to be able to move out. Not that you wanted to, but he’d probably want you to. 

You don’t hear the front door open over your soundtrack of sobbing over Mitski, but you feel the rushed footsteps before Leon is kenneling in from off where you laid on the kitchen floor. You didn’t even remember laying down, don’t remember emptying the bottle of Chardonnay but definitely feel it as Leon is carefully helping you sit up. His hands are cold against your burning cheeks, thumbs carefully wiping your tears away while your eyes try to focus on him. 

“Tell me what happened,” he requests, frown deepening when you shake your head. You were already a burden on him, and now you were upsetting him — all the more reason to leave. “Did that girl you went out with hurt your feelings?”

He looks more confused as you speak, trying to decipher your sobs and babbling to understand the message you’re giving him. What you’re trying to say is that you’re tired of dating, tired of being a burden on him — tired in general — but he only looks more confused before pulling you into his lap to rest your head on his shoulder. His hand feels large against the back of your head, fingers carefully pushing into your hair to gently scratch at your scalp while his other hand rubs your back underneath the flannel you wore. 

“Just let it out, and we can talk about it when you’re feeling better,” he murmurs into your ear, and you swear you feel him kiss your head. 

It’s this closeness and affection that makes you cry harder into his neck, because you were undeserving of his kindness. Your life would be significantly easier if he wanted you like you’d grown into wanting him, but the cruel universe wanted you to be alone. His life would be easier if he wasn’t needing to pick you up from the pit of despair you threw yourself into after every bad date. 

“I-I’m so sorry,” you whisper, earning yourself being held tighter by your roommate as he sighs. 

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he reassures, carefully standing with you in his arms and stifling his amusement at your surprised yelp. “Let's get you to bed, it’ll be more comfortable than the floor.”

“Stay with me?”

He doesn’t hesitate to respond as he starts up the stairs, knowing that the last thing he would’ve wanted if he was like this was to be left alone. He gets you laid down, checks the water bottle you kept by your bed and offers it to you with the bottle of painkillers to get ahead of the misery waiting for you tomorrow, then he sits. He feels bad about being in your bed in what you called “outside clothes”, but he didn’t want to leave and risk triggering another drunken sobbing attack while he was only trying to charge so he just sits beside where you lay, letting you move your head to rest on his thigh as your sniffles continue. 

“My life would be easier if you wanted me, too.” Your confession has his breath hitching, looking down at where you lay only to see that you had your eyes closed and were paying no attention to him. It was a tragic situation, but not for any reason that you would think.

The true tragedy in the situation wasn’t your love life, or the perceived loneliness you were experiencing as a side effect of your love life. It lied in him; the hundreds of reasons why he would be a bad partner for you. Living together was fine, there was a boundary there even if you two danced along it constantly to the point where you were wearing his shirts and jackets that got mixed up in the laundry and he was safeguarding a pair of your panties in his nightstand drawer. It was his name he heard in the dead of night when he wakes from less than friendly dreams accompanied by the low hum of a vibrator that can be heard through the too-thin walls, and in turn it was your name he thinks of when he’s in the shower trying to fight off the affections for you that had started to plague him.

His life was a tragedy; filled with death, secrets, and a close group of friends battling different flavors of the same mental illnesses bonded by the unique warzone that was Raccoon City and the various bioterrorism incidents that followed in its wake. There were things he wouldn’t dream of pulling you into, situations you shouldn’t have to understand or know how to navigate because his world was a nightmare – yours didn’t have to be. And he didn’t want it to become one because of him. 

“Are you finally buying a real bed frame?” Sherry asks as you turn your chicken in the pan. There was nothing wrong with your bed frame, it might’ve been cheap but it held your mattress and that’s what mattered. 

“I was but he said he wanted to be here. Something about weird delivery drivers and wanting to help me put it together,” you explain, earning a chuckle from the other end of the line. 

“He’s such a man. I could protect you and the house,” she says, and you nod despite her not being able to see the nod. She was just as capable in her government job that you didn’t know much about, but you assumed that they all had some level of field training. “Plus all the guns that are in there. You’d be fine.”

You’re stunned silent at the new information, since Leon not once had ever said anything about guns in his house — and Sherry made it sound like there were multiple. What would he need multiple guns hidden around the house for? How dangerous was his job?

“…he didn’t tell you about the guns,” she mumbles into the phone, sighing when you hum your agreement to that statement. “Uh, forget I said anything then! He probably just didn’t want you to freak out.”

You’d argue that disclosing the locations of whatever weaponry in the house ahead of time would avoid a protective freak out down the line, but you also kinda understood the other side. A younger woman wants to rent your spare room but you have to tell her you have a lot of guns as an older male stranger? He’d seem insane to anyone in their right mind if that information was disclosed upfront, similarly to house insane you probably look to an outsider by not being more bothered. But his job had a lot of secrets, this just had to be one of them. 

“Well, at least I’m safe here,” you finally comment after a couple of moments of awkward silence, turning off the burner and checking on your noodles. Thankfully your noodles were done and the sauce properly heated, so you could plate your dinner and eat without having to wait. “He’s supposed to be back tomorrow, I think, so the house will feel normal again.”

“I’m sure. I’m getting a work call, enjoy your dinner and call if you need me alright?”

“Thanks, Sherry, chat soon.”

You’re left to your alfredo and curiosity, carefully opening one of the cabinets you’d never looked in to see if there was a hidden handgun in there. What greets you instead are collector glasses from various Hard Rock Cafes, giving you a unique glimpse into the interests of your older roommate that you’re sure not many people saw. You’d have to ask him how many of those glasses are from locations that closed, but it might’ve been a shorter list if you asked which ones were still open. He had to have other collections too, a man that well traveled had to have picked up a few trinkets here and there. 

Your phone rings as soon as you’re about to take your first bite of pasta, and you only aren’t annoyed because it’s the roommate you didn’t think you’d miss this much when he left for work. It’d be weird to tell him, but it would be nice to hear his voice after a week without it. 

“Hey,” you greet, trying to sound cool while putting your phone on speaker. 

“Hey, can you do me a favor?”

The request has you freezing with your fork barely touching your lips. He didn’t ask you to do anything for him, instead making more offers to do things for you than the other way around. 

“Uh, sure,” you mumble, finally taking that first bite that you’d been craving since you decided to cook chicken alfredo for dinner. 

“I’m gonna have a couple guys pick you up and bring you to me. I need you to drive me and my car home.”

“The Porsche!?” you nearly choke on your noodle, 

“Yeah, it’s not a big deal.”

“Are you okay?”

“It’s, uh, a bit easier to explain in person why I can’t drive. I’d ask Sherry, but she’s on the other side of town, and—“

“No I got you. Do you know when they’ll—“ you’re cut off by a knock on the front door, followed by Leon saying “Now, I guess.”

“Is there, like, a protocol for this? I’m basically in pajamas.”

“Just grab your ID. They don’t care how you look, you're just going to the garage basically.”

“I don’t know their names? Should I know them?” Maybe you watched too many movies, but Leon at least seemed amused if the way he chuckled was any indication of his mood. 

“They’ll confirm your name. Flash your ID, then get in the car with them.”

Was this when you found out Leon was basically secret service? Or a secret government representative with high security clearance and a private security detail? Was he a spy? 

They knock again, to which you yell an annoyed “hold on!” through the door that makes your roommate laugh through the receiver as you’re sliding into the only shoes you had by the door that didn’t require laces and grabbing the closest coat off the rack. Why were they so impatient?

“See you soon,” Leon says before hanging up, leaving you to open the door with your license in hand ready to flash at the man standing on your porch. He says your name and you hand him your license, earning a brief nod after it’s scrutinized for validity and handed back to you. You then get to follow this man to the supposedly inconspicuous black SUV after locking the front door behind you. As you walk to the car, you realize that the jacket you grabbed was not yours but rather one of Leon’s flannels that you were swimming in and in turn surrounded by his scent that lingered on the fabric. 

These guys do not chat in the car, which is simultaneously relieving and nervewracking at the same time. They could at least say something about where you were going, but it was likely that they assumed Leon had already told you where you were going (which he did but not in detail), and there were likely things that they couldn’t tell you given the nature of their work. But it was nice to not have to field questions you potentially didn’t have the answer to nor explain that you and Leon were simply roommates and you happened to know very little about him or his career. You didn’t even know that he owned a flannel before you’d mistakenly grabbed his, and you know that it presents a reality that wasn’t true should anyone else see you wearing Leon’s clothes – you’d have to apologize for not being more mindful but to your defense you were in a bit of a rush. 

You practically fall out of the SUV, thankful that nobody watched you do that only to feel your face burn when you regain your balance and see Leon leaning against The Porsche and watching in mild concern. But why was he in a sling? Didn’t he just consult?

“You could’ve helped the lady,” he scolds the two, and you keep your mouth shut as you make your way over to your roommate and his expensive car that he was expecting you to drive. The two call their apologies before driving off, leaving Leon to shake his head as you approach. “Can’t find good help these days.”

“Despite knocking like cops threatening to take the door down, they weren’t rude or anything,” you try to help, but only earn an eyeroll from your older roommate as he hands you the keys. “Also sorry, I just grabbed something off the rack and didn’t realize until–”

“Don’t worry about it.” He reaches out to fix the collar, your face burning hotter at how much of a mess you must’ve looked. Wearing an old band tshirt, sleep shorts, his flannel with the left collar turned up, and crocs, and you were about to be in The Porsche like that? “Thanks for coming out.”

“What happened to you?”

“It’s a long story” is all he says, opening the driver's side door for you and offering his good hand to help you into the car before shutting it gently. You weren’t going to pry, it seemed like he wasn’t going to elaborate even if you did and you liked having a cheap place to live so instead you buckle your seatbelt and turn the car on as he walks around to the passenger’s side. 

“I have to adjust your seat.”

“Just hold down the button on the side to save your settings after you do.”

Save your seat settings? Did he think you’d be driving his car often enough to require that? You didn’t even like to look at it too long out of fear it would dent under your gaze. 

“They also made a bunch of weird turns so I don’t know how to get home.” 

“I’ll navigate for you,” he assures, moving his seat back from the way you’d had it set (internally making you cringe because you’d been discreetly adjusting it every time you were in it to get it there so you didn’t look like you were getting too comfortable too fast). “You eat yet?”

“I made chicken alfredo, enough for two so I can reheat it if you want that. I had all of a bite before they showed up.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s been thirty minutes, it can be reheated.” Your reassurance earns you a hum, and you look at the dashboard in front of you. “How sensitive are the pedals?”

“Just drive it like you drive your car.”

“I drive a Honda.” You were proud of your Honda, but to suggest The Porsche handled like your Honda HR-V was laughable.

“And it’ll be fine. Let’s just get home.”

You nod, turning the dial to put The Porsche into drive and easing on the gas. If you went fifteen miles per hour you’d be fine; but once you left this government property you’d need to abide by the speed limit laws and not impede traffic, so you press down on the pedal just a bit more to go faster. 

“I saw your Hard Rock Cafe collection in the kitchen,” you comment, needing to fill the silence between you and your probably exhausted roommate. You felt bad being so awkward, but his little laugh makes you feel just a bit better. “Do you have them all?”

“I didn’t get to Australia before they closed theirs and can’t bring myself to bid over twenty bucks for one on ebay.”

“Are you only missing that one?”

“There are some from the US I don’t have but I also didn’t care enough to go to various cities just for the Hard Rock Cafe. It was more for the international ones.”

“That’s….practical.” You hope that came off as more praising than condescending, rolling down the window when you approached the guard post. Leon hands you his badge that you intentionally don’t look at except to make sure you had it to show the guard, who glances at it then at you before looking at Leon who is looking at him expectantly.

“Have a good night, Agent.”

Leon only nods, accepting his badge back and you only wave at the guard before returning your hand to the wheel and driving forward when the gate lifts.

“Agent Kennedy,” you murmur, earning a scoff from him as he adjusts his seat to lean back more. “Is that like Secret Agent or just Agent Agent?”

“If it was Secret, you wouldn’t have been brought here to pick me up. Also, Sherry told me that she accidentally told you about the guns.”

“Well, yeah– but, like, nothing detailed. Just that there were guns and I was going to wait until you weren’t tired and injured to ask a question or two. Or four if you’ll let me.”

“You are remarkably not nosy.”

“I am actually very nosy, but I can respect a boundary when it’s been placed in front of me, especially when you haven’t placed many,” you counter, looking over at him as you pull onto the main road. “Don’t go in your room, don’t fuck around by your desk, and don’t ask too many questions about your job because most of it is classified so you can’t tell me anyway.”

“But you don’t ask any.”

“Where did you travel to and why?”

“Eastern Europe but I can’t disclose the exact location or reason.”

“With answers like that, why would I waste our time playing ‘Twenty Questions, Two Answers’? It’s more annoying to have pieces of information rather than none of it.”

“Very…practical.”  

“Are the guns like a doomsday prepper thing, or is your life in danger enough that you need a weapons stash?”

“If my life was in danger I wouldn’t have dragged you into it with cheap rent.”

“I can work with doomsday prepper, then,” you assure, making the right turn as he directed. “Will you tell me where at least one of them is?”

“Do you know how to shoot?”

“I know someone who can teach me.” You both know that was him, because you didn’t really leave the house enough outside of going to work or going grocery shopping, and you only really talked to him and Sherry outside of work. “When his arm is out of the sling he got himself into because he tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and dislocated his shoulder.”

“How’d you know that’s what happened?”

Talking to him was a great distraction as you drove, following his instructions while chatting about what you were up to in his absence kept your mind off the fact that this car was worth more than you made in a year. You also felt very out of place wearing pajamas driving The Porsche while Leon looked a bit more put together, but thankfully you were just going home where you could reunite with your pasta after you microwaved it. But as Leon continued to talk with you, it was almost like you were driving your Honda and not his expensive Porsche. 

Until you get to your home and are reminded that you parked in the middle of the driveway since he wasn’t supposed to be home until tomorrow afternoon. So you choose to park on the street, trying to be close enough to the curb that there wasn’t risk of getting hit by a car driving down the street – but unfortunately you got too close to the curb. 

“I am so sorry.”

“It is just a tire.” Is all he says, putting the car in park for you before he gets out of the car. You follow his lead after shutting it off, offering to grab his duffle bag for him only for him to decline and request that you lead the way inside. 

As you’d suspected, the house feels much better with Leon back in it. Sitting at the tiny dining table with your reheated pasta that he complimented while trying to eat with his nondominant hand as if you hadn’t just been told that there was a handgun in the same cabinet where he kept the fire extinguisher.

“You’re actually hopeless,” you murmur, taking the paper towel you had and reaching out to wipe the pasta from his cheek. “All those secret agent skills and you can’t eat left-handed without making a mess?”

“Good thing I’ve got you here, huh?”

“What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t want me to leave you last night. How are you feeling?”

“I have been much better and much worse.” You’re sitting up, allowing him the ability to do the same but he’s very aware of how you’re watching him. “I’m sorry to have troubled you, Leon. You didn’t sign up for this when you let me move in, and I should be better about my drinking and—“

“One bad night doesn’t paint the picture of your whole life.” You don’t look too thrilled about being cut off like that, but he knows you well enough to know that if he let you keep going you would talk yourself into a hole and bury yourself in it. “Are you feeling up to going out today?”

“Define ‘out’.”

“Breakfast, maybe the farmer’s market and just a drive in general? We can even go to that one coffee place you like that’s insanely out of the way.”

At this point he’s close to desperate to make you smile again, something that definitely would’ve been clocked by a third party if there was one in this room. But it’s just him and you, sitting in your bed with a proximity that would’ve been uncomfortable if he hadn’t slept in your bed last night. Close enough that he could lean in and steal your worries away with a kiss while simultaneously damming you to further misery. 

“I just have to shower.”

This was a huge victory, and he smiles when you do before sliding out of your bed and leaving you with a ruffle of your already messy hair that has you letting out a disgruntled huff as he walks out. “You’re terrible!”

“Couldn’t help it. Can you be ready in an hour?”

“Yes sir!” The salute was on the side of overkill, but he appreciates that you’re trying to put on a happier face for him. The smile didn’t reach your eyes, but he’d get you there today. If he did nothing else, he’d get you to smile.

An hour and fifteen minutes has him seated across from you at a small table at your favorite breakfast place in town. You’d cleaned yourself up well; wearing a cute little sundress with a hat you’d left in the car, if he hadn’t been with you last night he’d assume you weren’t recovering from a meltdown and mild hangover. 

“The mimosa is tempting, but I fear it’d make it worse.”

“Hair of the dog?” He comments, looking at you over his menu in time to see you close the drink menu. “Coffee also helps.”

“I do like their cold brew,” you murmur, leaning back in your seat as he nods. “Do you know what you’re getting to eat?”

“Eggs Benedict with avocado, single pancake on the side.”

“Splurging today?”

“Something like that,” he agrees, closing his menu but watching you as you continue to scan yours. If he had to guess, you’d definitely be getting the side bowl of seasonal fruit to snack on and help your stomach mostly settle. He had heard you retching over the running shower, and admired you for committing to going out with him today. “You?”

“Definitely the side of fruit.” Bingo. “But I was thinking about the eggs and toast. Protein and carbs should help a bit.”

Another hour had him walking behind you at the farmer’s market. The weather was nice, a steady breeze pushing at the skirt of your dress making the floral pattern mirror the fallen flowers dancing in the breeze along the ground. You both held a coffee cup, drinks gotten from a truck at the entrance of the lot where the market was hosted. His free hand itched to take yours, the urge growing with every minute spent with you and every movement of your hand in his direction. It’d be so easy to just catch your hand in his, hold it tight and keep you close — but that wouldn’t make this any better for either of you.

“Honey?”

“Yeah?” You look back at him, then see where he’s pointing and quickly look away out of your own embarrassment. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. But yeah, I think we should get honey.

“Don’t worry about it,” he reassures, turning to the vendor who looked way too amused at the exchange. The comment about how lovely his daughter was is overlooked, as those comments usually were when they came up, and he continues the transaction as you tell him you’re going to look at a different stall. 

“Girlfriend, not daughter?”

“Roommate.” His correction warns a hum, but a knowing look on the older woman’s face that makes him uneasy as she hands him the paper bag with the honey he’d bought. 

“Theresa down at the end of the row makes jewelry and keepsakes. I think your just-roommate needs a pick me up.” She suggests, and Leon can only nod his understanding. “And if you won’t give her the kiss she’s looking for, something to compliment that pretty dress she’s wearing might help.”

“She doesn’t want me to—“

“You’re a dense man, I wouldn't expect you to understand.” 

The unfortunate reality was that he did understand. You’d told him yourself last night after drinking an entire bottle of cheap wine that he’s sure was only bought because it would get someone drunk without much effort. But he thanked the nosy old woman before checking to make sure you weren’t at Theresa’s stand at the end of the row since that would be his next stop before he took his spot half a step behind you as you browsed various stands til your heart was content. 

Theresa also knew exactly who he was shopping for, instead referring to you as his wife and recommending a necklace with pressed flower petals that matched the flowers on your dress. He doesn’t bother to correct the assumed relationship, instead agreeing while also asking if there was something blue that he could get as well. Sherry was due a gift for putting up with him for so long. 

“What took you so long?” You ask when he finally rejoins you, not looking up from the container of berries in your hand. 

“Saw something for Sherry.”

“I also got something for Sherry,” you comment, smiling over your shoulder at him in a way that made his face warm. He’d blame it on the sun if you commented, but the warmth of the sun was very easily rivaled by your smile. “She’s so lucky to have us.”

“Blessed and cursed,” he agrees, paying for your fruit before you had the chance to. Any complaint you make is easily ignored, and he takes the bag offered for you while smiling at the vendor before following behind you. “Where to next?”

“I think I’ve gotten everything I wanted, so now it’s your turn to pick where we go.”

That wasn’t how this was supposed to go. You were supposed to call the shots today, but he supposed that he hadn’t explained that clearly when proposing the idea of hanging out with you. Then again, it was still basically you calling the shots, just you requesting that he make a decision about your next leg of the journey that was your day out together. 

“What do you want for dinner?”

“It’s not even two?” You counter, watching as he carefully puts your bags in the backseat before opening the passenger's side door for you. “But since you’ve asked, I dunno. You pick.”

That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, and he tells you as much as he helps you into the car like he always did. Only this time he didn’t release your hand when you released his, and he takes that moment to look at you as you adjust yourself in the seat. 

“You look nice today,” is all he can think to say when you ask if he’s okay, because in all honesty he was not okay. There was a very strong want deep in his chest, his hands did itch to keep you close and he did want to feel your lips against his and taste the remnants of the cherry chapstick you kept in the center console of his car. But he shouldn’t; because you were much too young for him, deserved someone better than him – someone who wasn’t going to inevitably make you cry because he couldn’t be around for you like you might need. 

But any of the women in his life would tell him that worrying about the future to that extent was stupid. Because he had no way of concretely knowing that he wouldn’t be there when you needed him – no way to guarantee that he would be the worst thing that could happen to you romantically. Assuming things would be bad simply because they made him feel an ounce of fear unrelated to bioterrorism was a one way ticket to being miserable for the rest of his life.

“Let’s do dinner at home. We’ve got those steaks that I can cook.”

The drive home is spent in a comfortable quiet, with only music from your playlist daring to verbalize any feelings that might sit between himself and you, and fuck, were they spot on whenever he focused on the lyrics. 

So would you tell me if you want me, ‘cause I can’t move until you show me

You're a doll, you are flawless, but I just can't wait for love to destroy us

'Cause you'll never love me, but I believe you when you say it like that 

Is it okay? That I don't want anybody else touching you like I do

I'm constantly preoccupied by the fantasies I once denied

If your phone wasn’t sitting in the cupholder the whole drive as you looked out the window, he would’ve thought you were trying to tell him something through your music. But instead he’s sure that a divine force he was losing faith in was trying to intervene, with every song on the forty minute drive home promoting yearning for something — encouraging his yearning for you. 

It’s not until you’ve gotten home, changed out of your pretty dress and into what he’s sure are more comfortable clothes (the shirt is his), that you try to talk to him again. You’ve joined him on the couch with a book and a blanket, but he knows there’s something on your mind as you settle on the cushion beside him and drape your blanket over his lap to share. 

“I had fun today,” you comment, looking up at him with the smile that he’d fought so hard to earn today. Your eyes had that sparkle in them again, and he’d make sure anybody who took that sparkle away would meet him personally to repent for their wrongdoings. “I can cook if you want. You did a lot for me today, the least I could do is cook you dinner.”

“I’ll let you help, if that makes you feel better about it.”

That was not the answer you wanted, but you don’t argue and instead open your book as he pushes play to resume the tv show he’d put on to kill time before he needed to cook. Nothing that was truly of interest to him, just a cooking reality show that seemed to get your interest quickly. Subconsciously maybe he knew you well enough after such months of living together that he knew what would capture and keep your attention long term, but that wasn’t a thought he wanted to entertain for long — made him feel creepy to think that he was potentially manipulating situations to get your attention. 

“You could probably go on one of these cooking shows,” you comment, and he looks over to see that your book was closed and your attention was on him as he watched the screen. “You’re a great cook.”

“I think I’d be better off on one of the team cooking shows. I’d get nervous on my own.”

“I didn’t know you were capable of being nervous.” He has your full attention now, your body turned to face him with your arm propped up on the back of the couch. “You just always seem so…nonchalant.”

“I’d for sure be nervous on national television on my own. I’d need a good kitchen partner to have my back.”

“I think you and Sherry would be very entertaining on a show like that.”

“That’s because Sherry doesn’t cook,” he comments, turning to face you fully as well. “She burns. You and I have a good chance at winning, though.”

“You think so?”

“Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.” You bite your lip, a habit you’ve commented in passing about wanting to stop and he could reach out and stop you if it wouldn’t be weird. “I don’t let just anyone use my cast iron”

“It’s a high honor, chef.” 

“I’m going to get started on dinner,” he tastes, pushing himself off the couch to stop himself from leaning closer to you. “I’ll call for my sous chef when I need her.”

“If you don’t, your sous chef will get sad.”