Unspoken Devotion Chapter 1: Home Again Part 2
Part 1
Leon Kennedy has always been part of your life.
Your older brother's best friend. Your family's unofficial third child. The boy who spent every summer at the lake house and somehow never stopped getting under your skin.
Now he's back. After a mission in Spain which you saw pieces about on the news & in the paper.
Three months under the same roof. One lake house. One very long summer.
And some things can only go unsaid for so long.
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â ïž WARNINGS / TAGS â ïž
18+ / MDNI
âą Older Brother's Best Friend âą Slow Burn âą Mutual Pining âą Summer Romance âą Age Gap (6 years) âą Emotional Angst âą Family Friends âą Jealous Leon Kennedy âą References to trauma âą References to past relationships âą Alcohol consumption âą Eventual mature themes âą Lots of yearning âą Everyone knows except them
âââââââââââââââ
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The screen door slams so hard behind you that the entire porch shudders, the old wood groaning in protest as the frame rattles against its hinges.
Good.
Let it shake.
Let something else feel as unsettled as you do.
You storm down the steps, each footfall heavy and deliberate, the worn boards creaking beneath your weight. The air is thick with the scent of lake water and sun-warmed pine, but it does nothing to soothe the heat simmering under your skin. Your arms are crossed tightly over your chest, fingers digging into your sides as if you can physically contain the frustration clawing its way through you.
The dock stretches out ahead, sun-bleached and familiar, and you march straight onto it without slowing.
The lake is beautiful this morning.
It always is.
The surface glitters under the bright summer sun, a thousand fractured reflections dancing across the water. Gentle waves lap rhythmically against the wooden pilings, the soft, repetitive sound usually enough to quiet your thoughts. Somewhere in the distance, a boat engine sputters to life, its low hum carrying across the open water. Birds call from the treeline, their cries sharp and clear in the stillness.
Normally, this place calms you down.
Normally, it feels like breathing.
Today, it feels like nothing.
Because all you can hearâover the water, over the wind, over everythingâis his voice.
Don't talk about things you know nothing about.
The words echo in your head, sharp and cutting, replaying over and over until they feel etched into your skull.
Like he hadnât just spent twenty minutes grilling you.
Like he hadnât walked back into your life after a year and immediately started acting like he knew better than everyone else.
Like he hadnât made you feel small.
Like he hadnât made you feel twelve years old againâawkward and defensive and desperate to prove something you shouldnât have to prove.
Your jaw tightens.
You kick at the edge of the dock.
Hard.
Your foot connects with the wood, the impact jarring up your leg as a spray of water splashes up in response, droplets catching the sunlight before falling back into the lake.
"Jerk," you mutter under your breath.
The lake offers no argument.
By the time you finally drag yourself back inside, your irritation hasnât fadedâitâs evolved, sharpened into something more restless, more persistent.
The house greets you with a strange, hollow quiet.
The kind that feels temporary.
Your parentsâ voices drift faintly from somewhere outside, muffled by distance and walls. Tylerâs laughter echoes from the garage, loud and careless, followed by the clatter of something metallic hitting concrete.
Which meansâ
Good.
No Leon.
You donât hesitate.
You take the stairs two at a time, your hand barely grazing the railing as you move quickly, like if you slow down even for a second, you might lose momentumâor worse, run into him again.
Your bedroom door slams shut behind you with a satisfying thud.
Immediately, you move.
Drawers slide open with sharp, impatient motions.
If everyone is so determined to spend the day at the lake, then fine.
Youâll spend the day at the lake.
Just not with him.
You yank open your dresser.
Fabric shifts under your handsâsoft cotton, worn denimâuntil you find what youâre looking for.
A swimsuit.
You toss it onto the bed.
Another drawer.
A cover-up.
Another.
Sunscreen.
Everything lands in a growing pile, your movements quick and forceful, fueled by something that feels suspiciously like spite.
Itâs ridiculous.
You know it is.
But itâs alsoâ
Satisfying.
You strip off your shirt, the fabric sticking slightly to your skin from the heat, and pull on a black bikini top. The elastic snaps lightly against your back as you adjust it, your fingers moving faster than necessary.
Then shorts.
Then you pause.
Frown.
Change your mind.
You tug them off again, tossing them aside before grabbing a different pair.
Then you hesitate again.
Then change again.
A frustrated sound escapes you.
Why do you care?
Why does it matter?
The answer comes immediately.
Leon.
Of course itâs Leon.
Everything today somehow circles back to him.
Everything is his fault.
At least, thatâs what youâre telling yourself.
You finally settle on a swimsuit and an oversized button-up, leaving it open as you shrug it on. The fabric hangs loosely off your shoulders, light and breezy, barely brushing your skin. You gather your hair into a messy ponytail, securing it with a quick, practiced motion.
The mirror catches your reflection.
Your cheeks are flushed, whether from the heat or your lingering anger, youâre not entirely sure.
Your eyes are sharp.
Annoyed.
Still thinking about him.
Which only makes you more annoyed.
"Fantastic," you mutter.
You grab your sunglasses, your tote bag, your phoneâeverything you need to make a quick escapeâand head for the door.
You yank it open.
And immediately collide with something solid.
You stumble backward, a startled curse slipping from your lips as your balance faltersâ
Strong hands catch your elbows instantly.
Firm.
Steady.
Grounding you before you can fall.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Leon.
Of course itâs Leon.
Because apparently the universe has a sense of humor, and you are the punchline.
For a moment, everything freezes.
His hands are still on your arms, warm and solid.
Your hands are pressed against his chest, fingers splayed against the fabric of his shirt.
Too close.
Way too close.
The hallway suddenly feels narrower than it should.
Warmer.
Charged with something you donât want to name.
His gaze drops, just for a second.
Taking in the swimsuit.
The open shirt.
The sunglasses dangling loosely from your fingers.
Then his eyes lift back to yours.
Something flickers there.
Something quick and unreadable.
Gone before you can catch it.
You step back immediately, pulling away like the contact burned.
Distance.
You need distance.
Leon lets go just as quickly, his hands falling away as if heâs just as aware of it as you are. One hand tightens slightly around the strap of the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, the other gripping a smaller bag at his side.
So heâs unpacking.
Good.
Maybe heâll unpack.
And then leave.
Forever.
"What?" he asks, his voice calm, almost too calm.
You hadnât realized you were glaring.
"I canât believe youâre still here."
The corner of his mouth twitches, like heâs trying not to smile.
"There it is."
"There what is?"
"Thought maybe you lost your ability to be mean."
You scoff, crossing your arms again.
"Thought maybe you lost your ability to be annoying."
A faint smile appears.
Small.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
"I was gone for a year and thatâs the welcome I get?"
"You were here thirty minutes before insulting me."
His jaw shifts slightly, the smile fading into something more neutral.
"I wasnât insulting you."
"Oh, please."
"You werenât exactly making it easy."
You stare at him, incredulous.
The nerve.
The absolute nerve.
"You started it."
A short laugh escapes him, genuine disbelief threading through it.
"I started it?"
"Yes."
"Y/n."
The way he says your name stops you cold.
Not teasing.
Not mocking.
Not softened into some nickname.
Just Y/n.
Low.
Steady.
And somehow heavier than anything else heâs said.
Your stomach flips in a way that is deeply, deeply unhelpful.
You hate that.
You hate him.
You especially hate that he looksâunfairlyâgood standing there, sunlight spilling through the hallway windows behind him, catching in his hair and outlining his frame.
His hair is a little longer than you remember, falling slightly into his eyes.
His shoulders are broader.
His posture more grounded.
His expression calmer.
More controlled.
Until you really look.
Then you see it.
The faint shadows under his eyes.
The tension in his jaw.
The way his shoulders hold just a little too tight, like heâs bracing against something unseen.
Like heâs holding himself together through sheer force of will.
For a brief, fleeting moment, something soft pushes against your anger.
Concern.
Sympathy.
Something you donât want to feel.
You shut it down immediately.
"So where are they sticking you this year?" you ask, your tone sharper than necessary.
"The guest room."
"Poor guest room."
His eyebrow lifts slightly.
You shrug.
"Itâs been nice knowing it."
The smile returns.
God.
You wish heâd stop doing that.
"Iâll let it know you said goodbye."
You roll your eyes.
"Maybe itâll survive."
"Maybe."
Silence settles between you.
Thick.
Lingering.
Neither of you moves.
Which is ridiculous.
All he has to do is walk past you.
All you have to do is leave.
Instead, you both stay exactly where you are.
Looking at each other.
The tension shifts.
Softens.
Becomes something quieter.
Something heavier.
The kind that makes your pulse suddenly loud in your ears.
Leon glances briefly toward the staircase, then back at you.
"Still hate me?"
The question catches you off guard.
Not because he asked.
But because of how he asked it.
Thereâs no teasing in his voice.
No edge.
Just something honest.
Curious.
Like he actually wants to know.
Your mouth opens.
Then closes again.
"Depends."
"On?"
You cross your arms, holding onto the last scraps of your irritation like a shield.
"Whether or not you plan on interrogating me again."
Something flickers across his face.
Regret.
Quick.
Real.
Gone almost as soon as it appears.
His gaze drops for a second before lifting back to yours.
"Iâm not interested in interrogating you."
The words should feel simple.
Harmless.
But they land heavier than expected.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
The hallway feels smaller.
Closer.
His eyes stay on yours.
Steady.
Intent.
Like thereâs something he wants to say.
Like he doesnât know how.
Thenâ
"Y/N!"
Tylerâs voice explodes from downstairs, loud and abrupt, shattering the moment completely.
You both blink, the tension snapping like a stretched wire.
Reality rushes back in.
Thank God.
"Saved by the idiot," you mutter under your breath.
Leonâs quiet laugh follows you as you brush past him, the sound warm and familiar in a way that unsettles you more than anything else.
And as you head down the stairs, neither of you realizes that something has shifted.
Something subtle.
Something dangerous.
Because for the first time all morning, neither of you is angry anymore.
And that might be worse.
The staircase creaks beneath your feet as you make your way downstairs.
One hand trails along the smooth wooden banister polished by decades of summers, family gatherings, and bare feet running through the house.
Your pulse has finally started to settle.
Mostly.
Unfortunately, every few steps your brain decides to replay the hallway.
The way he said your name.
The way he looked at you.
The way he laughed.
You immediately shove the thoughts away.
Absolutely not.
Not happening.
Not today.
By the time you reach the bottom step, you've almost convinced yourself the entire interaction was meaningless.
Almost.
The familiar sounds of the lake house wrap around you again.
Your mother's laughter drifting in through the open windows.
Tyler yelling about something from outside.
The screen door opening and closing.
Life continuing exactly as it always has.
Normal.
Comfortable.
Safe.
You adjust your sunglasses on top of your head and head toward the back door.
Three months.
That's all.
Three months of Leon Kennedy under the same roof.
Three months of avoiding him.
Three months of not letting him get under your skin.
Easy.
You can do easy.
Outside, the lake sparkles beneath the afternoon sun.
Behind you, somewhere upstairs, a guest room door quietly clicks shut.
And neither of you realizes that this summer has already begun changing everything.
