#wallflowerwrites

Leon wakes at 3:17 AM to the sound of teeth grinding. It’s not loud; he’s sure a normal person wouldn’t catch it, it’s just the faint, rhythmic click of molars pressing together in slow, measured agony. He blinks once, twice, then turns his head on the pillow.

You’re curled into a tight ball beside him, one fist shoved against your stomach, the other gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles glow white in the dim light from the streetlamp outside. Your breath comes in shallow bursts through your nose, lips pressed together like you’re holding back a whimper.

“Hey, baby,” Leon slurs, voice rough with sleep. He reaches for you without thinking, fingers brushing your shoulder. You flinch.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” you mutter, voice strained.

Leon sits up fully now, rubbing his face. The sheets rustle as he shifts closer, one hand sliding down to your clenched fist. He pries your fingers loose gently, replacing them with his own palm pressed flat against your lower stomach. You hiss.

“How long?” he asks.

You don’t answer right away, just squeeze your eyes shut and exhale through your nose. Leon waits. He knows better than to push. If he pushes, you’ll panic.

“Couple hours,” you finally admit, voice small.

Leon doesn’t swear, doesn’t sigh, doesn’t do anything except swing his legs over the side of the bed. The mattress dips as he stands, padding barefoot across the cold floorboards toward the bathroom. You hear the click of the cabinet, the rattle of pills in a bottle, the rush of water from the tap.

When he comes back, he’s holding two white tablets and a glass of water. “Sit up f’ me,” he prompts, voice low but firm.

You do, wincing as you peel yourself off the mattress. Leon watches your face, the way your brows pinch together, the sweat-slick curls sticking to your forehead. He hands you the pills, the water, and waits silently as you swallow.

“Heating pad?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Don’t wanna get up.”

Leon nods once, then turns on his heel and disappears into the hallway. You hear him rummaging in the linen closet, the hum of the microwave a minute later. When he returns, he’s carrying the worn red heating pad, the one with the burnt spot on the cord from that time you left it on too long. 

He plugs it in beside the bed, waits for it to warm, then drapes it over your stomach with careful hands. The weight of it makes you exhale, just a little.

Leon climbs back into bed, sliding an arm beneath your shoulders to tug you against his chest. His other hand replaces the heating pad, pressing warm and steady over the worst of the ache.

“Should’ve woken me up,” he murmurs into your hair.

You don’t answer. Just press your face into his collarbone and breathe the best you can.

Leon’s fingers trace slow circles on your lower back, the callouses on his fingertips catching ever so slightly on the fabric of your sleep shirt, well, his shirt. You can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat against your cheek, solid, unshakable, alive. The warmth from his palm seeps deeper than the heating pad ever could, like he’s willing the pain out of you through sheer stubbornness alone.

“You’re shaking still,” he murmurs, voice still gravel-rough with sleep. You hadn’t even noticed.

His arm tightens around you, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s no space left between you, just the heat of his skin and the faint scent of his cheap shampoo clinging to the pillowcase. You try to shift, to give him room, but Leon makes a low noise in his throat, you think it’s something between a sigh and a warning, and pins you gently with his thigh over yours.

“Stop squirming, sweetheart.” His breath ghosts over the shell of your ear, warm and familiar. “Just let me take care of you.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. It’s too much, the way he says it, like it’s that simple, like you’re something precious instead of a sweaty, bloated mess grinding your teeth in his bed at three in the morning. You press your forehead harder against his chest like you can burrow into him, hide inside his ribs where the ache can’t reach you.

Leon’s hand slides up your spine, fingers threading through the tangled curls at the nape of your neck. He scratches lightly, the way he knows you like, and you melt a little despite yourself.

“Talk to me,” he coos.

You shake your head, nose brushing against his collarbone. 

“C’mon.” His thumb swipes over your cheekbone, catching the dampness there you hadn’t realized had escaped. “Tell me what you need.”

“This,” you mumble into his skin. “Just… this. This is good.”

Leon hums, low and satisfied, and shifts just enough to press a kiss to your forehead. His lips linger, dry and chapped against your feverish skin, and something in your chest cracks open.

“You’re so good to me,” you whisper, voice breaking.

Leon goes very still. Then, deliberately, he hooks a finger under your chin and tilts your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. The streetlight catches the gold in them, turns them liquid in the dark.

“Look at me,” he says, quiet but unwavering. “You don’t gotta earn me, okay? 

Your breath hitches. Leon watches you for a long moment, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. Then, with a gentleness that shouldn’t surprise you anymore but still does, he tugs you back down against him, tucking your head under his chin like he’s shielding you from something.

“Close your eyes, baby,” he murmurs, one hand sliding down to rest over yours where it’s still curled against your stomach. “M’ here.”

The pain hasn’t vanished. It won’t, not for hours, yet, wrapped in Leon’s arms, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, you can feel the tension leaching slowly from your muscles. His fingers card through your hair, over and over, until your eyelids grow heavy.

Somewhere in the hazy space between waking and sleep, you feel Leon’s lips brush the crown of your head, the words he breathes into your curls too soft to catch. But you don’t need to hear them. You already know.

__

Leon wakes before you do, sunlight filtering through the blinds in thin stripes across the rumpled sheets. Your head is still tucked under his chin, your curls a wild mess against his chest. He doesn’t move, doesn’t dare, even when his arm starts to prickle with numbness beneath your weight. The heating pad lies cold and forgotten at the foot of the bed, but his hand remains pressed to your stomach, warm and steady even in sleep.

Your breathing is deep now, even, the way it wasn’t hours ago. Leon counts each exhale against his skin, memorizes the way your lashes flutter against your cheeks, the slight part of your lips. He knows you’ll wake up embarrassed, always do, after nights like this, but for now, he lets himself savor the quiet. The way you fit against him like this, like you were made to slot into the spaces between his ribs.

When you finally stir, it’s with a soft groan, your nose scrunching as you press your face deeper into his chest like you can hide from the morning. Leon chuckles, the sound vibrating through you, and you whine.

“No,” you slur, voice thick with sleep. “Too early.”

Leon brushes a curl off your forehead and tucks it behind your ear. “Sun’s been up for hours, sweetheart.”

You crack one eye open to glare at him, and Leon grins, unrepentant. The sight of you, sleep-soft and disheveled, the indent of the pillowcase creased into your cheek, makes something warm and possessive curl in his chest. He leans down to kiss the tip of your nose, just to watch you scrunch it again.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks, quieter now.

You pause, taking inventory. The ache is duller today, manageable, but the fatigue lingers, heavy in your limbs. You flex your toes beneath the sheets, testing, and Leon’s hand tightens instinctively around your waist, like he’s afraid you’ll try to get up too soon.

“Better,” you admit, and it’s mostly true.

Leon studies your face for a moment, eyes tracing the shadows beneath yours, the way you’re still curled slightly inward, like you’re guarding yourself. He nods once, decisive, then shifts, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him until you’re sprawled half on top of him, your head pillowed on his chest.

“Stay put,” he says, fingers trailing idle patterns up your spine. “I’ll get breakfast.”

You huff a laugh into his skin. “You’re not my waiter, Leon.”

“No,” he agrees easily. “I’m the guy who loves you.” He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “So let me feed you.”

You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat. Leon doesn’t wait for an answer, just slides out from under you, pressing a kiss to your forehead before he stands. You watch him pad toward the kitchen, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his sleep-rumpled shirt, and something in your chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with cramps.

The clatter of pans drifts down the hallway, followed by the rich, buttery scent of toast. Leon reappears minutes later with a tray, two plates stacked with eggs and toast, a mug of tea steaming beside a glass of water, and a single ibuprofen resting on the edge like an afterthought. He sets it carefully on the bed beside you, then climbs back under the covers, pulling you into his side.

“Try to eat,” he murmurs, pressing the mug into your hands.

The tea is perfect, just enough honey, just enough lemon. You sip it slowly, letting the warmth spread through you, and Leon watches with quiet satisfaction, his thumb rubbing circles against your hip. When you set the mug down, he nudges the plate toward you, spearing a bite of egg with his fork and holding it out.

You roll your eyes but let him feed you anyway, chewing slowly as Leon studies your face like you’re the only thing worth looking at. The morning stretches lazy and golden around you, the pain a distant memory beneath the weight of Leon’s attention, the steady certainty of his hands.

“Love you,” you murmur against his shoulder, half-embarrassed, but Leon just kisses the top of your head, his lips lingering.

It's especially handy when you two have to leave the ship for whatever reason. There's always an extra set of eyes on the child this way and an extra set of hands if someone needs to carry him 

If you're good in a fight, it means there's someone else willing to protect the child from the Empire as well. That's something he is eternally grateful for

Over time, Din starts to see the two of you as Grogu's parents, even when he knows he shouldn't, like when the Armourer told him he must bring Grogu back to his own kind

It makes it even harder to not get attached to the little one when the whole situation feels so domestic at times 

Like when he's watching you give Grogu a bath or rocking the little one to sleep after a long day

There's also someone to share his anguish when he has to give Grogu to Luke. You have each other to lean on, even if he isn't the best at showing his emotions

The joy you both feel when Grogu returns is indescribable. It's like you're a family once again

This time Din would want to make it more formal, more official. He'd want you all to be a clan of three

He would be nervous about making his feelings for you known, but so happy when they are reciprocated. The three of you would be a happy little family, with much fewer threats once Mandalore is taken back and Moff Gideon is killed

If you meet Din after he acquired Grogu:

Naturally Din is much less trusting of you

They've come across too many enemies in their travels and the child has been hunted across the galaxy 

He probably meets you through Peli Moto when he needs his ship fixed by her and needs someone to watch Grogu

It doesn't matter how nice you are or how much Grogu seems to like you from the moment he meets you, you're still a stranger to him 

Still, you prove yourself as someone willing to do anything for the child when you defend him against someone who tries to take him. Din arrives just in time to shoot the guy dead

He has needed someone to mind Grogu for quite a while now and he starts to think you're the perfect option 

He offers the job and you take it, even though you don't know him well. You can't say no to taking care of the little one, not when he looks up at you with those big eyes

It takes a while for Din to adjust to you living with him on the ship. It's harder than when Grogu joined him because you take up much more space 

Still, he remains polite at all times and slowly warms up to you, enjoying your company after being on his own for so long 

It isn't until you get injured protecting Grogu that he realises just how much he cares about you. Seeing you hurt nearly makes his heart stop 

After that, he's much more protective of you and always has his hand on your back when you're out in public together. He feels he can protect you better when he's touching you somehow 

It isn't long after this that Din realises he can't keep his feeling secret any longer and confesses them to you nervously

Of course, you feel the same way and the two of you naturally grow much closer, with him now seeing you as another parent to Grogu

The fish aren’t biting today and you're two minutes away from crashing the actual fuck out. You sigh, tugging your borrowed flannel tighter around your shoulders as the wind kicks up, sending ripples across the quarry’s murky water.

Behind you, Carol hums something tuneless while scrubbing a shirt against the washboard, the rhythm steady as a heartbeat. "You’d think after all this time," she says, not looking up, "You'd be better at tellin’ when the fish are just plain stubborn. S’ not your fault, sweetheart."

You smile at her kindness, but it’s half-hearted. Your fingers fiddle with the frayed hem of Daryl’s shirt, the one he’d shrugged off onto shoulders this morning before heading into the woods, muttering about rabbit tracks he'd seen the day before. It still smells like him: sweat, gunpowder, and something stubbornly alive beneath it all.

Andrea tosses a pebble into the water, watching it sink. "How’s it you can stand him, anyway?" The question’s casual, but her eyes flick to you with real curiosity. "Man’s got a temper like a hornet’s nest."

Your cheeks flush pink, fingers tightening around the damp fabric in your hands. "Who, Daryl? Well… He’s not- " you start, then stop, unsure how to explain the Daryl that only you get to see, the one who tucks wildflowers behind your ear when he thinks no one’s looking, the one who builds little makeshift shelves in your tent out of scavenged wood and duct tape for the seashells you keep finding at the quarry.

They'll never understand him. 

Carol’s lips quirk as she wrings out a pair of pants. "Oh, I know that look," she says, softer now. "Same one Ed used to give me when we were just kids, ‘fore he decided bein’ mean was easier than lovin’." The words hang heavy between you, the ghost of her bruises left unmentioned. Your heart breaks into pieces for her. 

Andrea scoffs, tossing another pebble. "Still don’t get it. Guy snaps at Shane for breathing too loud, but you?" She gestures at the way you’re practically swimming in Daryl’s shirt, the sleeves rolled up almost six times. "He lets you steal his clothes like you're some kinda…"

"Pet," Carol supplies, grinning when you duck your head to try and hide the pink flush crawling up to your pierced ears. 

"M’ not his pet," you grumble, but your ears burn hotter when Carol laughs, soft, knowing. The laundry flutters between your fingers, wet and shapeless, and you focus on folding it just to have something to do with your anxious, shaking hands.

"He brings me coffee," you say suddenly as if it's an epiphany, voice small against the quarry’s echo. "Every morning. Even when we’re low. He- uh- he remembers how I like it." Three sugars, no cream, because before the world ended, the corner diner always got it wrong and Daryl would watch you grimace through each bitter sip like a stubborn mule until he'd reach for the sugar packets and fix it himself. 

Andrea’s pebble-throwing pauses. "Huh."

Carol’s hands still in the soapy water. "The man ever tell you why?"

You shake your head, pressing the folded shirt to your chest like a temporary shield. "Don’t gotta say it." The words come out quiet, barely louder than the water lapping at the rocks. "He shows me every damn day."

Carol’s eyes soften, but Andrea leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Yeah? How’s that?"

You bite your lip, tracing the stitching on Daryl’s sleeve where it’s come loose. "Last week," you start, voice gaining strength, "he came back from a hunt with his jacket torn up. Blood all over the sleeve." Andrea raises an eyebrow, but you rush on. "Not his. Walkers’. But he- " A laugh bubbles up, unexpected. "He still took it off before comin’ into the tent ‘cause he knows I don’t like the smell. Hung it on a tree branch like some kinda..."

"Gentleman," Carol finishes, grinning when you nod.

The conversation drifts away after that, dissolving into the quiet rhythm of washing and folding, but the warmth of Daryl’s secret kindness lingers under your ribs like a second heartbeat. By the time the sun dips low, casting long shadows across the quarry, you’ve retreated to your tent, the one tucked farther from the group, half-hidden by a thicket of pine. Inside, it’s a nest of mismatched blankets, scavenged trinkets, and the faint, stubborn scent of Daryl’s musk clinging to the fabric walls. You sit cross-legged on your shared rumpled sleeping bag, idly tracing the stitching of his shirt where it’s come loose at the shoulder, when the tent flap rustles, evening light filtering in briefly. 

Daryl ducks inside, his silhouette backlit by the dying sun. He’s got a rabbit slung over one shoulder, its fur matted with dried blood, and a paper-wrapped bundle tucked under his arm. “Ain’t much,” he grunts, tossing the bundle into your lap. It’s warm, cornbread, probably scavenged from some abandoned pantry, and still faintly soft. “Figured you’d forget to eat.”

You unfold the paper carefully, revealing a hunk of cornbread, slightly crumbled at the edges. “You remembered,” you whisper in awe, because it’s Tuesday, and before the world ended, Tuesdays were cornbread nights at the diner down the road from your apartment. Daryl just shrugs, but his ears go pink as he busies himself with skinning the rabbit, his knife flashing in the dim light.

He works in silence, the only sound the steady rasp of blade against hide, until he pauses, glancing at you sideways. “Ain’t like you to hide out here, doll,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “Lori’s got that stew goin’ you like. Carol’s been askin’ after you.”

You pick at the cornbread crumbs in your lap, avoiding his gaze. “Wasn’t in the mood for company,” you murmur, but the lie tastes bitter on your tongue. Daryl’s knife stills mid-stroke, his brow furrowing as he studies you, really studies you, the way he does when he’s tracking something through the underbrush.

“Bullshit,” he says bluntly, wiping his hands on his jeans before scooting closer. The rabbit carcass lies forgotten as he nudges your knee with his own. “Spit it out.”

Your throat tightens. “They were talkin’ about you today,” you admit, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. “Andrea said she didn’t get how I could stand your temper. Carol called me your pet.”

Daryl’s nostrils flare, but it’s not anger that flashes across his face, it’s something raw and vulnerable, like a wounded animal caught in a trap. “They ain’t exactly wrong,” he mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck where the sun’s burned it pink. “Know I ain’t easy.”

"You're easy with me," you say softly, reaching out to trace the sunburned curve of his neck before you can stop yourself. Daryl goes still under your touch, his breath hitching like you've pressed against a bruise. "That's all that matters to me.”

His jaw works silently for a moment before he exhales through his nose, rough and ragged. "Still." The word comes out ground between his teeth. "Don't like 'em talkin' 'bout you like that. Like you're less than me, like I control you." The knife in his hand twitches, blade catching the fading light.

You catch his wrist before he can start skinning again, your thumb brushing the pulse point beneath his leather wristband. "They don't know, honey," you croon. "How you bring me coffee. How you built those little fucked up shelves for my shells." Your voice drops to a whisper, the tent walls suddenly too thin. "How you kiss me like I'm something precious even after all this time together."

Daryl's pupils blow wide, the knife slipping from his fingers to thud against the sleeping bag. "Christ, woman,” he breathes, and then his large hands are framing your face, calloused thumbs sweeping over your cheekbones like he's trying to memorize the shape of you. "Ain't never had nothin' half as good as you, you know that," he says, voice cracking on the last word.

His forehead presses against yours, the heat of his skin seeping into you like sunlight through leaves. You can smell the sweat and pine sap clinging to him, the metallic tang of walker blood still lingering under his nails. But when his lips brush yours, hesitant, almost reverent, it’s all you can focus on.

"You’re doin’ it again," you murmur against his mouth, fingers curling into the frayed edges of his vest.

"Doin’ what?" he grumbles, but his hands are already sliding down to grip your hips, tugging you flush against him.

"Talkin’ like you don’t deserve me. You know I hate when you do that." You nip at his bottom lip, grinning when he growls and kisses you harder, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a desperation that makes your toes curl.

Daryl pulls back just enough to glare at you, his breath hot against your lips. "Ain't talkin' like that…" he mutters, but his hands betray him, sliding up under the stolen flannel to trace the dip of your waist. "Just statin' the facts, sugar."

You arch into his touch, biting back a whimper when his calloused thumbs brush the underside of your breasts. "Your facts are stupid," you whine, and he snorts, dragging his mouth down your neck just to hear you gasp. The stubble on his chin rasps against your skin, the sensation sending sparks down your spine.

The cornbread lies forgotten as Daryl maneuvers you onto your back, his body a solid weight between your thighs. He braces himself on one elbow, the other hand still roaming under your shirt like he’s mapping new territory. "Always so damn soft, it drives me crazy," he practically coos against your collarbone, his voice rough with something that isn’t quite disbelief but close enough to make your chest ache.

You hitch a plush leg over his hip, grinding against the hard line of his cock straining against his jeans. Daryl groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. "Quit that," he grits out, but his hips jerk forward anyway, betraying him, seeking friction.

Daryl’s breath hitches when you rock against him again, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises. “Told you- fuckin’ hell woman- quit it,” he growls, but his body betrays him, pressing you deeper into the nest of blankets as his cock twitches against your thigh. You whine, arching up to chase the heat of him, but he pins you down with a rough hand splayed across your stomach.

“Ain’t got no condoms, y'know that,” he grumbles, voice thick with frustration. His nose brushes yours tenderly, close enough you can taste the stale coffee on his breath. “Can’t risk it. Not now. Not when things are like this.”

You squirm under his grip, fingers clawing at his vest. “Don’t need ‘em for what I want,” you pant, tipping your head back when his teeth graze your pulse point. “S’ called outercourse- just- just rub against me, c’mon- ”

Daryl freezes, brow furrowed. The confusion on his face is almost comical, like you’ve just suggested they start selling ice cream in hell. “The fuck’s outercourse?”

You giggle at the bewildered look on his face, cheeks flushing as you reach between your bodies to unbutton his jeans with trembling fingers. "Like this," you murmur, guiding his hand down to the damp heat between your thighs. His breath hitches when your fingers wrap around his cock, hot and heavy in your palm, as you drag him through the slickness gathering there. "Just- just move against me, okay? Can't get pregnant like this."

Daryl makes a strangled noise low in his throat, hips jerking forward instinctively. "Fuck, sugar," he rasps, forehead dropping to yours as you guide him between your thighs, the head of his cock catching against your clit with each shallow thrust. "This- shit- this legal?"

You snort, dragging your nails down his sweat-damp back. "Pretty sure the law ain't exactly a priority anymore, babe."

Daryl groans, hips stuttering as he grinds against you, the rough fabric of his jeans rasping against your inner thighs. "Fuckin' little smartass," he grits out, but there's no heat in it, just that rough, desperate edge that makes your stomach flip. His calloused fingers dig into the swell of your hips as he finds a rhythm, each thrust dragging his cock against your puffy clit in a way that has you biting your lip to keep from crying out and embarrassing both of you in front of the whole camp.

"Quiet, gotta be quiet, baby," he breathes against your ear, nipping at the lobe. "Whole damn camp's gonna hear you."

You whimper, arching into him as his teeth sink into the soft skin of your shoulder, just hard enough to sting. "Daryl- "

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, fingers twisting in Daryl's vest as he moves against you with rough, desperate strokes. Every drag of his cock against your clit sends sparks up your spine, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly. "Daryl," you whimper again, louder this time, and he clamps a hand gently over your mouth with a muttered curse, his hips never slowing.

"Told you- quiet," he growls, but his voice cracks halfway through, his pupils blown wide with want. His other hand slips between your bodies, calloused fingers finding your swollen, slick clit with unerring accuracy. The dual stimulation makes your thighs shake, a broken moan muffled against his palm.

Daryl watches you unravel beneath him with something like reverence, his breath hot against your cheek. "That's it," he croons, thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless circles. "Gonna make you come so damn pretty for me."

You writhe under him, the pressure building unbearably fast, almost overwhelmingly fast. The tent walls feel paper-thin at this point, every rustle of fabric deafening as Daryl's thrusts grow more erratic, his rhythm faltering. His forehead drops to yours, sweat dripping from his temple onto your flushed skin. "Close," he grits out, his voice raw. "Fuck- so close- "

You clench around nothing miserably as Daryl’s fingers work you closer to the edge, your thighs trembling where they bracket his hips. "Please, Daryl- baby-" you whine against his palm, the words muffled but ridiculously needy. His answering groan is ragged, his hips stuttering as he grinds against you with renewed urgency. The head of his cock catches your clit on every thrust, the friction just shy of too much, until it isn't, until pleasure crests like a wave and crashes over you in a shuddering rush.

Daryl’s hand tightens over your mouth as your back arches off the sleeping bag, your cry swallowed by his calloused palm. He watches you with dark, hooded eyes, his breath coming in sharp pants against your temple. "Fuck," he rasps, his hips jerking erratically. "Just- just like that, sugar- " His voice cracks as his own release hits him, his body going rigid above you before he collapses with a muffled grunt, his forehead pressing into the curve of your shoulder.

For a long moment, the only sound is your mingled breathing, harsh and uneven in the quiet of the tent. Daryl’s hand slides from your mouth to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had escaped. "Ain’t never seen nothin’ prettier," he rasps, voice rough with something that makes your chest ache.

You huff a giggle, still boneless beneath him, and nudge his shoulder with your nose. "Even with your hand smotherin’ me?"

Daryl snorts, rolling off you with a grunt, his body still thrumming with leftover heat. He reaches for the discarded flannel beside the sleeping bag, wiping hastily at the mess between your thighs before tossing it into the corner. "Woulda been louder without it," he teases, but there's no bite to it, just that gruff tenderness that still makes your stomach flutter.

You stretch lazily, the muscles in your legs pleasantly sore, and catch him staring at the chubby curve of your hip where his shirt has ridden up. His gaze flickers away when you notice, but not fast enough to hide the way his throat bobs. "What?" you tease, poking his ribs.

"Nothin'." He catches your wrist, pressing your palm flat against his hairy chest where his heartbeat thrums rabbit-quick beneath warm skin. His fingers twine with yours, callouses rough against your knuckles. "Just... you."

The simplicity of it punches the air from your lungs. You squeeze his hand, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. "Daryl Dixon, what a poet you are," you giggle, half-joking to mask the way your voice wavers.

Daryl scowls at your teasing, but his fingers tighten around yours,.anchoring, possessive. “Ain’t poetic,” he grumbles, rolling onto his side to face you. The fading light catches the scar above his eyebrow and you trace it without thinking, and he stills under your touch, his breath hitching like it’s the first time you’ve ever touched him.

“You are, though,” you murmur, and his brow furrows deeper. “In your own way.” You press a kiss to the scar, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. “Like when you patched my Chuck Taylors with duct tape ‘cause you knew they were my favorite.”

Daryl’s ears go pink. He swats halfheartedly at your shoulder. “Shut up, Christ almighty.” But his voice lacks its usual bite, softened by the way his thumb strokes circles into your palm. The silence stretches, comfortable, until his stomach growls loudly enough to startle a laugh out of you.

“Forgot about the cornbread,” you admit sheepishly, reaching for the crumpled paper packet. It’s cold now, the edges brittle, but Daryl snatches it from your hands before you can take a bite.

Daryl scowls at the stale cornbread like it's personally offended him, then shoves half into his mouth in one bite. Crumbs stick to his stubble as he chews, glaring at the tent wall like it’s hiding answers. You giggle, reaching up to brush them away, but he catches your wrist, turning your palm to press a kiss to the center. The gesture’s so sudden, so un-Daryl-like, your breath catches.

"Still tastes like shit," he laughs against your skin, but his lips curve just enough to betray him.

You wiggle your fingers free to poke his ribs again. "Hmmm, maybe. But I know you scavenged it from that gas station pantry just ‘cause you remembered it’s Tuesday.

Though he doesn't deny it outright. 

His scowl deepens, but his hands betray him again, tugging you closer until you’re sprawled half on top of him. The rabbit carcass lies forgotten by the tent flap, its blood seeping into the dirt. Daryl’s fingers trace idle patterns down your spine, rough enough to raise goosebumps. "Ain’t like I got a damn calendar, jus’ knew you needed dinner," he grumbles, pink flushing his face.

His fingers pause mid-stroke when he feels the tremor run through you, not from cold, but from the way his blunt honesty still surprises you sometimes. The way he remembers things no one else would. Your nose presses into the hollow of his throat, breathing in sweat and gunpowder and something stubbornly Daryl. "You're fulla shit, babe," you murmur, but your lips curve against his skin when his chest rumbles with a sound too soft to be a laugh.

The cornbread crumbs itch where they’ve scattered between your bare thighs, sticking to the sweat still drying on your skin. Daryl’s fingers pause their lazy tracing of your spine to pluck one away, flicking it into the dark corner of the tent with a grunt. “Messy girl,” he mutters, but there’s no real insult behind it. He'd never and you know it. 

You nuzzle deeper into the crook of his neck, smiling when his stubble scratches your forehead. “Your fault,” you murmur, dragging a fingertip through the trail of crumbs on his chest. “Shoulda let me eat it proper.”

Daryl huffs, catching your wandering hand in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, calluses catching on the delicate skin there. “Ain’t my fault you got distracted,” he says, but his voice dips low, roughened at the edges in a way that sends warmth pooling low in your belly again.

Outside, the campfire crackles, voices drifting on the wind, Shane’s booming laugh, Carol’s quiet murmur. The sounds feel distant, muffled by the thick canvas of your tent and the steady thump of Daryl’s heartbeat beneath your ear. You press closer, inhaling the scent of him, pine resin and gun oil, the metallic tang of the rabbit’s blood still clinging to his vest where it’s discarded beside the sleeping bag.

Daryl’s fingers tighten around yours as the campfire voices grow louder, Shane’s boisterous storytelling punctuated by Glenn’s nervous laughter. You feel the tension coil in Daryl’s shoulders beneath your cheek, his breath hitching like he’s bracing for impact. “Ignore ‘em, it's just me and you here,” you coo, pressing a kiss to the jut of his collarbone. His grunt is noncommittal, but his thumb strokes your wrist in silent thanks for the knowing comfort.

The tent flap rustles suddenly, not from wind, but from the deliberate shuffle of feet outside. “Y’all decent?” Carol’s voice is amused, muffled through the canvas. Daryl stiffens, his grip on you tightening possessively. You bite back a laugh at the way his ears flush crimson.

“No,” he barks, but you’re already wriggling free, scrambling for his discarded angel vest to cover yourself. Daryl snatches it back with a growl, shoving it into your chest again. “Wear it proper,” he practically commands, pointedly avoiding your eyes as he yanks his jeans up over his pale hips.

You button the vest with fumbling fingers just as Carol’s head pokes through the flap. Her eyes dart between Daryl’s disheveled hair and your swollen pink lips, her smirk widening. “Dinner’s ready,” she says, too innocently. “Brought y’all bowls since you were... occupied.”

Daryl's arm snakes around your waist like a steel band, yanking you back against his chest with a growl that vibrates through your shoulder blades. "We're good, thanks," he barks at Carol, his free hand snatching the offered bowls with more force than necessary. The stew sloshes dangerously close to the rim.

Carol's smirk doesn't falter. She lingers just a heartbeat too long, eyes flicking to the scattered cornbread crumbs and the way Daryl's vest hangs open on you, barely covering your thighs. "Mmhm," she hums, dragging the sound out like taffy before ducking back out. The tent flap falls shut with a whisper of canvas, but not before you catch her muttering, "Lovebirds."

You bury your face in Daryl's shoulder to muffle the giggle threatening to escape. His grip tightens. "Ain't funny," he grumbles, but his lips brush your temple in contradiction, lingering just long enough to make your toes curl.

The stew smells rich, rabbit, judging by the gamey scent, but Daryl sets both bowls aside without tasting them. Instead, his fingers find the loose threads at the shoulder of his vest where you've been worrying at them all week. "Gotta fix this," he mutters, more to himself than you, his calloused thumb rubbing circles over the frayed fabric.

Daryl's fingers still on the loose threads, his brow furrowing in that way it does when he's turning something over in his head. You watch the familiar crease form between his eyebrows, the one you've traced with your fingertips more times than you can count. Without thinking, you reach up to smooth it away, and his gaze snaps to yours, startled, like he'd forgotten you were there.

"Quit fussin' on me, woman," he groans, but he leans into your touch anyway, his stubble rasping against your palm. His hand drops to your knee, thumb brushing the sensitive skin just above where his vest ends. The contrast makes you shiver, rough hands touching you so softly it aches.

Outside, Shane's voice rises above the others, followed by a burst of laughter that sounds horrifically forced. Daryl's fingers twitch against your thigh, his jaw tightening. "What a fuckin’ asshole," he mutters under his breath, but there's no real heat behind it, just exhaustion, the kind that settles deep in his bones after too many days with too little sleep.

You catch his hand, pressing a kiss to his scarred knuckles. "Eat," you prompt gently, nodding toward the forgotten stew. "Before it gets cold."

Daryl scowls at the bowls like they've personally insulted him, but his stomach growls loud enough to make you snort. He mutters something about "damn traitorous guts" before snatching up the nearest bowl, shoving a spoonful into his mouth with all the grace of a starving wolf. Steam curls around his lips as he chews, his brow furrowing deeper with each bite.

"Carol put rosemary in it," he grumbles around a mouthful, nose wrinkling. "Tastes like a hotel's fuckin' potpourri."

You giggle, stealing his spoon for a taste. The herbs are overwhelming, definitely Carol's doing, her attempt at "civilizing" camp meals, but beneath it, you can still taste the careful balance of salt Daryl always insists on when he cooks game. "You seasoned it," you accuse, licking the spoon clean.

Daryl's ears flush pink. He swipes the utensil back with more force than necessary. "Ain't my fault she ruins good meat, was tryin’ to fix it," he grumbles, but his shoulders relax incrementally as he eats, the tension bleeding out of him with each spoonful.

The pink ribbon snaps in the wind. Again. Fucking hell.

It’s the third one this month, and you’re running out. You crouch to pick it up, fingers brushing damp concrete, when a boot crunches gravel too close behind you. You've been cutting smaller strips from one large ribbon hoping for the best.

The prison yard is quieter than usual today, most of the group is out on a run, leaving just a handful of people behind. You’d been counting on that. Fewer eyes means fewer chances for someone to notice how you flinch when voices rise, or how you always take the long way around to avoid walking past the men sharpening knives by the fence. But now, someone’s standing right there.

"You always do that?" The voice is low, rough, and unmistakable. Daryl Dixon. The man who hasn't left your mind since he found you in the woods, heartbroken by the death of your family and lost from the group you'd been traveling with. You'd never seen a horde before that day. You don’t turn around. Your ribs press tight against your lungs.

The kids will be waiting soon. You’ve got the old alphabet books laid out in the cellblock, you've turned into a makeshift classroom, the pages smoothed flat after being crumpled in your bag for weeks. They like the one with the dog. You like that they still care about dogs despite all the things they've seen.

Your ribbon slips from your fingers again, caught by a gust that carries it toward Daryl’s boots. He bends before you can, picking it up with calloused hands that look out of place holding something so delicate. His thumb brushes the frayed edge where you’d cut it too close last time.

“Ain’t gonna last if you keep tearin’ ‘em,” he says, not necessarily unkindly but definitely not tenderly. He holds it out, and you take it without meeting his eyes. Your fingers barely graze his, but the contact sends a jolt up your arm anyway. You tuck the ribbon into your pocket like a secret.

“Kids’re askin’ for you, ain't class about to start?” he adds when you don’t speak. His voice is quieter now, like he’s trying not to startle you. It works. You risk a glance up and find him squinting against the sun, his crossbow slung over his shoulder like always. There’s a fresh scrape on his jaw that he must’ve picked up from the last supply run.

You nod, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing. The heat from his body radiates in the space between you, and you catch the scent of leather and pine resin clinging to his vest. It’s not unpleasant.

Inside, the kids are already clustered around the makeshift desks when you slip in, their chatter dying down as soon as they see you. Little Amy grins, her front teeth missing. “You’re late,” she accuses, but there’s no malice in it.

“Sorry, kiddo” you murmur, smoothing the ribbon between your fingers before tying it loosely around a chunk of your curls to beat the heat. The prison has been humid and genuinely disgusting the past few weeks because of the summer heat. The kids don’t laugh like the others do when your hands fumble twice trying to tie it. They just watch, curious, as you open the dog book.

Daryl lingers in the doorway longer than he needs to. You feel his eyes on the back of your neck, steady and warm. Not judging.

Later, when the kids have scattered and you’re stacking the books, he appears again, you hadn't even realized he'd left- the skilled bastard. This time, he’s holding something small.

“Found this near the fence,” he mutters, shoving a scrawny gray kitten into your hands before you can protest. It’s all bones and big eyes, its fur matted with dirt. A piece of its ear is missing. It mews weakly, claws catching on your sleeve.

You cradle it against your chest instinctively, your heart doing something complicated in your ribs. Daryl’s already turning away like he didn’t just hand you a piece of the world.

“She’ll keep the rats out,” he says over his shoulder.

You press your face into the kitten’s fur to hide your smile.

The kitten begins sleeping with you, curled against your collarbone that night, its tiny body rising and falling with each breath. You’ve named her Thistle, for the way she clings, for the soft prick of her claws when she kneads your skin through your shirt. The ribbon you ripped today is forgotten. Mostly. The disappointment of losing one of the only things that helps you feel like an actual girl- no, an actual woman, still nags at you. Keeping in touch with your femininity and grace when you're covered in dirt and despair is harder than anyone ever expects.

Daryl doesn’t mention it again, but three days later, a length of pink satin appears on your cot. It’s wider than the ones you’ve been rationing, untouched by scissors. You run your fingers over it, pulse jumping at the implication, he must’ve been looking. The thought knots your stomach in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

Thistle bats at the ribbon when you lift it, her ears twitching. You’re tying it around a loose curl when footsteps pause outside your cell. It’s him. You know by the way the air changes, something in the rhythm of his breath, the weight of his silence.

“Got somethin’ for the kids,” Daryl says, voice gruff. He doesn’t come in. Doesn’t even look at you directly. Just holds out a plastic bag filled with crayon stubs and half-used coloring books salvaged from God knows where. You take it, your fingers brushing his. His hands are warm. Rough. You wonder if he feels how yours shake.

“They’ll love these,” you say, barely above a whisper.

Daryl grunts, but his eyes dart to the ribbon in your hair. A muscle in his jaw flexes. “Hope that one ain’t gonna fray,” he mutters before walking away, leaving you clutching the bag like it’s something precious.

The next summer storm rolls in after midnight. Thunder shakes the prison walls, rattling the bars of your cell. Thistle bolts under the cot, her tail puffed out. You crouch to coax her out when water splashes cold against your neck, the ceiling’s leaking again, a steady drip that soaks through your blanket.

You’re gathering Thistle in your arms when a shadow fills the doorway.

“My cell’s dry.” Daryl’s voice is low, barely audible over the rain. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just turns and walks down the hall. You follow, Thistle tucked against your chest, her claws pricking your skin through your shirt.

His cell smells like leather and gun oil. There’s a lantern flickering on the floor, casting long shadows over the walls. His cot is narrow, but he’s already shoved a folded blanket against the wall to make space. You sit gingerly with Thistle attempting to squirm free to investigate her newfound land.

Daryl leans against the far wall, arms crossed. “Roof’s been shit since day one, ain't a surprise” he says, like an apology.

Lightning flashes, illuminating the sharp lines of his face. Thunder follows, shaking the floor. You flinch, hands curling into fists. Daryl doesn’t say anything, but when the next roll of thunder comes, he sits beside you. Close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

“M’ not gonna hurt you,” he murmurs, like he's approaching a scared animal. Maybe you are a scared animal. That's what humans are now, right?

Thistle climbs into your lap, purring. You stroke her fur, focusing on the vibration under your fingers instead of the storm.

“Merle used to say thunder was just God playing bowling.” Daryl’s voice is quiet, almost lost under the rain. “Dumbass.”

You huff a laugh before you can stop yourself. Daryl glances at you, something unreadable in his eyes.

The storm rages on, but the space between you grows warmer.

The lantern flickers again, and Thistle’s ears twitch at the sudden shift in light. You watch her pupils expand, black swallowing gold, as another crack of thunder shakes the prison. This time, you don’t flinch as hard, you couldn't, not with Daryl’s shoulder solid against yours, not with the way his fingers twitch like he’s considering reaching for you but thinks better of it.

"You ever had a cat before?" he asks suddenly, voice rough-edged but softer than you’ve ever heard it.

You shake your head, fingers still buried in Thistle’s fur. "No. Always wanted one, though." The admission feels too big for the space between you, but Daryl just nods like he understands.

"Had a dog once," he says after a beat. "Got hit by a car when I was nine. Merle said it was my fault for lettin’ him off the leash." His jaw works like he’s chewing on something bitter. You don’t know what to say, so you press your knee against his instead. He doesn’t pull away.

The storm eases by dawn, leaving the prison damp and smelling of wet concrete. You’re stiff from sitting so still, but Thistle stretches in your lap, her tiny claws kneading your thigh through the fabric of your pants. Daryl’s already on his feet, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off the weight of the night.

"You stayin’?" he asks, not looking at you as he picks up his crossbow from where it leans against the wall. His voice is casual, but his fingers tighten around the weapon’s grip.

You hesitate, Thistle’s purr vibrating against your legs. The leak in your cell won’t have fixed itself, and the thought of returning to the damp cot makes your skin crawl. But staying feels like too much, like stepping into a space you weren’t invited to occupy.

Daryl reads your silence like it’s a language he speaks fluently. "I've got extra blankets n’ the space" he mutters, nudging a frayed gray bundle with his boot. "Ain’t usin’ all of it anyway."

That’s how you find yourself moving your things into his cell the next day, one armful at a time. The kids watch with wide eyes as you carry your stack of books past the common area, little Amy trailing after you like a duckling.

"Are you and Daryl married now?" she asks, serious as a heart attack.

Your face burns. "No. Just- just, sharing space."

Amy frowns. "My mom said people only share rooms when they’re married or when there’s no more rooms."

Daryl chooses that moment to appear, a dead rabbit dangling from one hand. He freezes when he sees you, his eyes darting from your flushed face to Amy’s expectant stare.

"We run outta rooms?" Amy demands, hands on her hips.

Daryl’s ears turn red. "Mind your business, kid," he grumbles, shoving the rabbit into her arms instead of answering. "Take this to Carol. Tell her to stew it."

Amy giggles but obeys, leaving you standing there with your arms full of blankets and the weight of Daryl’s gaze on you.

"Kids ask too many damn questions," he mutters, stepping closer to take half your load. His fingers brush yours, lingering a second longer than necessary.

You resist the urge to curl in on yourself from the blatant affection.

That night, you lie on your side of the cot, Thistle curled between you like a living barrier. Daryl’s back is to you, his breathing slow and even. The prison is quiet save for the occasional drip of water from the ceiling down the hall.

"You awake?" you whisper.

Daryl hums in affirmation.

"Thank you. For- " You gesture vaguely at the cell, at Thistle, at him.

Daryl shifts onto his back, the cot creaking under his weight. Moonlight filters through the barred window, painting silver stripes across his chest. "Ain't nothin' much, just bein’ decent." he mutters, but his hand finds Thistle's tiny body between you, fingers brushing yours in the dark.

“Ya know,” he continues, cautiously. “I don't get the whole frilly thing ya do, feels like some damn riddle, but if it makes ya happy.”

You fall asleep next to him feeling, oddly, accepted.

The next morning, you wake to an empty cot and the smell of coffee. Daryl's vest is gone, but his crossbow leans against the wall, a silent promise he'll be back. Thistle bats at your hair ribbon until you sit up, her purr loud in the quiet cell.

You're reading to the kids when the gate clangs open. The group's back from the run, voices overlapping in exhaustion and relief. Little Amy tugs your sleeve. "Daryl's got blood on him," she whispers, eyes wide.

Your heart stutters. You force yourself to keep turning the page, but your fingers tremble. The kids don't notice, they're too busy craning their necks toward the commotion outside.

Boots scrape concrete behind you. Daryl leans against the doorframe, his shirt sleeve torn and a fresh cut above his eyebrow. He's holding something behind his back. The kids swarm him before you can speak.

"Didja kill walkers?"

"Did Glenn cry again?"

Daryl scowls but doesn't shove them away. His eyes find yours over their heads. "Got somethin' for your teacher," he grunts.

The kids gasp as he produces a mason jar filled with wildflowers, pink ones, their petals frayed at the edges but vibrant against the glass. They ooh and aah, tugging at your arms until you take it. The jar is warm from his hands.

"Found 'em near the creek," Daryl mumbles as blush creeps up his neck and ears, already turning to leave. Little Amy sticks out her tongue at his retreating back.

"He like-likes you," she sing-songs.

The flowers sit on your makeshift desk for three days before they wilt. You catch Daryl looking at them sometimes when he thinks you're not watching, his expression unreadable.

On the fourth day, he comes back from patrol with a dented can of pink paint. "For the kids' room, it'll make it look a lil’ more like a real classroom" he says, shoving it at you. The metal is cool under your fingers, the label half-peeled away.

Its everything to you.

You spend the afternoon painting one wall while the kids nap, your hair tied up with the ribbon Daryl gave you. He appears in the doorway, arms crossed, watching as you stretch to reach the top corner.

"Need a hand?"

You nod, handing him the brush. His fingers are careful around yours, calloused but gentle. He paints the highest parts while you do the lower, your shoulders bumping occasionally. Neither of you speak, but the silence isn't heavy, just warm, like sunlight through glass.

That night, Daryl comes back late smelling of gunpowder and sweat. He pauses in the doorway, taking in the pink wall visible even in the dim lantern light.

"Kids'll like it," he mutters, sitting heavily on the cot.

You're already under the blanket, Thistle curled against your stomach. "I like it too," you admit softly.

Daryl's hands still where he's unlacing his boots. He doesn't look at you, but his shoulders relax slightly. "Ain't too bright of a pink?"

You shake your head. "Reminds me of sunsets. Before."

The word hangs between you. Daryl nods like he understands, like he's been waiting for you to say it. He strips down to his undershirt and lies beside you, careful to leave space. Thistle migrates to the foot of the bed, her tail flicking.

Rain starts around midnight, gentle at first, then pounding. You wake to Daryl's hand on your wrist as lightning flashes, illuminating his face inches from yours.

"Just a storm," he murmurs. His thumb strokes your pulse point.

You don't pull away despite the urge to sprint away from everything. The storm. Him. The outbreak.

The storm passes, but Daryl’s hand doesn’t. His fingers stay curled around your wrist, his thumb moving in slow, absent circles against your skin. You count his breaths, steady, even while Thistle’s tail flicks against your ankles. The rain drums against the roof, a sound that should make you tense, but Daryl’s grip grounds you like an anchor.

Morning comes gray and damp. Daryl’s gone before you open your eyes, the cot cold where he’d been. Thistle mews from the foot of the bed, stretching her tiny paws toward your face. You scoop her up, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before swinging your legs over the side. The pink ribbon sits on the crate beside the cot, frayed at the edges but still holding its color. You tie it into your hair without thinking.

The kids are already waiting when you reach the common area, their noses pressed to the newly painted wall. Little Amy spins when she hears your footsteps, her grin wide. "It’s pretty," she declares, dragging you by the hand to admire their handprints in the corner. You crouch, letting her press your palm into the wet paint beside hers.

Daryl watches from the doorway, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes flick from the pink wall to your ribbon, then away. He doesn’t speak, but when you catch his gaze, he doesn’t look ashamed of being caught either.

Days blur. You teach the kids to spell their names in the dust on the floor; Daryl brings back a dog-eared dictionary with half its pages missing. You find him reading it sometimes, his brow furrowed like he’s memorizing the words. Thistle grows bolder, stalking the halls like she owns them, but she always returns to curl against your ribs at night.

One evening, you’re braiding Amy’s hair when Daryl appears in the doorway, his vest streaked with mud. "Got somethin’ you should see," he grunts, jerking his chin toward the yard. The kids scramble after him, but he waits for you, his boots scuffing the concrete.

Outside, the sun dips low, painting the prison in gold. Daryl leads you to the fence, where a doe stands frozen in the clearing beyond. Her ears twitch, her dark eyes wide and wary. The kids gasp, pressing their faces to the chain links.

"Pretty," Amy whispers.

Daryl’s shoulder brushes yours. "Reminds me of you," he mutters, so low only you can hear. Your breath catches. The doe watches you for a heartbeat longer before bolting into the trees, her white tail flashing.

Daryl doesn’t raise his crossbow.

That night, you lie awake listening to his breathing. Thistle purrs between you, her tiny body a warm weight against your side. The lantern flickers, casting shadows across Daryl’s face. His eyelashes flutter, he’s not asleep either.

"You didn’t shoot her, why?" you whisper.

Daryl opens one eye. "Wasn't hungry, ain't need to kill it for no reason" he lies.

You smile into the dark. His hand finds yours under the blanket, his fingers rough but careful. You lace yours through them, and he doesn’t pull away.

Rain comes again, harder this time. The leak in your old cell has spread, the ceiling groaning under the weight of the water. Daryl rolls onto his side to face you, his free hand brushing a damp curl from your forehead. "Stay, please?" he asks, like it’s that simple.

Maybe it is.

Thunder rattles the bars, but you don’t flinch. Daryl’s thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone, his callouses catching on your skin. You lean into his touch, and his breath hitches.

The storm rages on, but here, in this narrow cot with Thistle between you and Daryl’s hand cupping your face, the world feels quiet. Safe.

His lips brush yours, once, twice, testing. You kiss him back, and he makes a sound low in his throat, his fingers tangling in your frizzy curls. Your ribbon comes loose, slipping to the cell floor unnoticed.

Outside, the rain slows to a drizzle. Daryl’s mouth is warm, his hands gentler than you ever imagined. He murmurs your name like it’s something sacred, and for the first time since the world ended, you don’t feel like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Thistle yawns, stretching between you. Daryl laughs against your lips, the sound rough but happy. You tuck your face into his neck, breathing him in, leather, gunpowder, home, Daryl.

The kids will ask questions tomorrow. You’ll stutter through answers, your face burning. Daryl will grunt and change the subject. But tonight, his hands learn the shape of you, the hip dips gracing your waist, the chubbiness of your thighs, the way your breath hitches when his calloused fingers trace the scars on your knees from childhood tumbles. He kisses like he talks, sparingly, with purpose and his teeth graze your bottom lip in a way that makes your stomach clench.

Morning comes sticky with summer heat. You wake tangled in Daryl, his arm heavy across your ribs, his face buried in your hair. Thistle’s gone, probably hunting roaches in the cafeteria. The ribbon lies forgotten by the cot leg, trampled in last night’s haste. You should move. The kids will be waiting. But Daryl’s breath is warm on your neck, his fingers twitching against your hip like even asleep, he’s making sure you’re still there.

He startles awake when you shift, his grip tightening reflexively before he blinks the sleep from his eyes. “Mornin’,” he rasps, voice wrecked. His stubble scrapes your shoulder when he nuzzles closer, inhaling deep like he’s memorizing your scent. You’ve never seen him like this, so soft-edged, unguarded.

The gate clangs open, Glenn’s group returning early. Daryl tenses, but doesn’t pull away. “Stay put, take the extra rest” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing the freckle behind your ear. You should argue. Someone will see. But his hand slides up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face toward his for a kiss that’s slow and thorough enough to make your toes curl.

Footsteps approach. Daryl breaks away just as Glenn’s shadow darkens the cell doorway. “Uh.” Glenn’s voice pitches high. “Carol says- breakfast. If you’re- yeah.” He retreats before either of you can speak, his footsteps hurried.

Daryl huffs a laugh, rolling to sit up. The cot creaks in protest. “Guess they know.” His thumb swipes over your knuckles, a quiet apology.

The cafeteria buzzes when you enter. Conversations stutter. Eyes dart. Daryl shoulders through the crowd, piling two plates with squirrel meat and wilted greens before steering you to an empty table. His knee presses against yours under the tabletop.

Amy bounces over, her braids fraying. “You kissed Daryl!” she announces, loud enough to silence the room.

Your fork clatters. Daryl scowls, but his ears are red. “Ain’t your business, kid.”

Amy grins, undeterred. She plops into your lap, whispering loudly, “He blushes real red.”

Daryl chokes on his coffee.

Days blur into nights. Daryl starts leaving little things where you’ll find them, first, a packet of strawberry gum tucked in your pocket, then a dented harmonica for the kids, and a pink-handled knife that fits perfectly in your grip. You press the wildflowers he brings you between dictionary pages.

One afternoon, you catch him showing Amy how to hold a crossbow. His hands are patient around hers, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Ain’t a toy, remember that” he warns, but lets her aim at a tin can. She misses by a mile. Daryl doesn’t laugh. Just adjusts her stance and says, “Try again.”

You love him. The realization punches through you like a bullet.

The words sit heavy in your chest, too big to say aloud. Daryl glances up from adjusting Amy’s grip, catching your stare. His eyes narrow slightly, he knows that look, the one where you’re thinking too hard, but Amy tugs his sleeve, demanding his attention back. You turn away before he can read you any further.

That night, thunder rolls in like an afterthought, distant but insistent. Thistle abandons her usual spot between you to sulk under the cot, she’s grown finicky with age, less tolerant of Daryl’s shifting. He’s restless tonight, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh. You pretend not to notice until his pinky brushes yours on the blanket, deliberate.

“Spit it out,” you coo, tracing the scar on his knuckle.

Daryl’s fingers still. He exhales through his nose, sharp, like he’s steeling himself. The lantern flickers, throwing shadows across the sharp planes of his face. “You know m'not good with words, not like you are” he mutters, finally. His thumb presses into the hollow of your palm.

You turn your hand over, lacing your fingers through his. “Try.”

He scowls at the ceiling, jaw working. The storm rumbles again, closer now. Thistle hisses under the cot.

“Kids asked where you were at dinner,” he says abruptly. His voice is gruff, but his fingers tighten around yours. “Told ‘em you were my girl by accident.”

Your breath catches. The words hang between you, raw and unpolished.

Thunder cracks, shaking the walls. You flinch.

“Yeah?” you whisper, giddy.

Daryl’s free hand lifts, hesitates, then brushes a curl from your forehead. His touch is careful, like you’re something fragile. “Don't want to take it back,” he grunts.

You swallow. The words press against your ribs, too big, too soon. But Daryl’s looking at you like he already knows, like he’s been waiting. So you lean forward, pressing your forehead to his. His breath hitches.

“Say something, please” he murmurs, rough. Not a demand. A plea.

The storm breaks overhead. Rain lashes the barred window.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Daryl goes still. Then his hands cradle your face, calloused thumbs sweeping your cheeks. He kisses you slow, deep, like he’s mapping the shape of the words against your lips. When he pulls back, his breathing’s uneven.

“Knew that already, silly woman” he mutters, but his voice cracks.

Daryl's hands don't leave your face, his thumbs still tracing the damp tracks under your eyes you didn't realize were there. The rain drums harder against the roof, but the sound is muffled now like the storm exists only outside this cell, outside this moment where Daryl's looking at you like you've handed him something precious. Thistle yowls from under the cot, her tail thumping against the metal frame in protest. Neither of you move.

"Say it again," Daryl rasps, his voice raw in a way that makes your stomach flip.

You swallow. "I love you."

His fingers tighten slightly in your hair not painful, just present. The lantern flickers, casting shadows across the scar that bisects his eyebrow. He opens his mouth, closes it. Tries again. "Ain't never..." He trails off, jaw working like the words are stuck. You press your palm flat against his chest, feeling the rabbit-quick beat under his ribs.

"You don't have to say it, you've shown me it."

"Love you, too." The words burst out of him like a gunshot, harsh and sudden. He freezes, eyes widening like he didn't mean to say it like that. But then his shoulders slump, and he's leaning forward to press his forehead to yours again, his breath warm against your lips. "Damn it, woman. Love you so much it hurts."

The confession sits between you, trembling and alive. You kiss him because you don't know what else to do with the weight of it, slow at first, then deeper when his hands slide down to grip your waist, pulling you into his lap. The cot creaks ominously. Neither of you care.

The lantern gutters low, painting the cell in flickering amber. Daryl’s mouth is hot on your neck, his teeth scraping just enough to make you squirm. His hand slips under your shirt, rough fingers skimming your ribs, slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the way your breath hitches. You bite your lip to stifle a whimper, and Daryl pauses, lifting his head to glare at you.

“Don’t do that,” he growls, thumb brushing your bottom lip to pry it free.

“Someone’ll hear,” you whisper, even as your hips cant against his thigh.

Daryl’s nostrils flare. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Ain’t need to be quiet, sweetheart.” His hand slides down, palming you through your pants, and you choke back a moan. Daryl huffs, annoyed. “If we weren't in this damn prison,” he mutters, nipping your earlobe, “I’d make you scream till your voice gave out.”

The dirty threat sends a shudder through you. His fingers make quick work of your button, slipping inside your underwear to circle your puffy swollen clit with frustrating precision. You bury your face in his shoulder, muffling a gasp as he adds pressure, his rhythm relentless.

“That’s it,” Daryl rasps, lips dragging along your jaw. “Let go, c'mon.”

You bite into the meat of his shoulder to keep quiet when you cum, your thighs clamping around his wrist. Daryl watches you unravel with dark, hungry eyes, not stopping until you’re pushing his hand away, oversensitive and trembling.

It's the fastest you've ever cum.

Before you can catch your breath, he’s flipping you onto your back, his knees nudging yours apart. He strips your pants down your thighs with impatient hands, his gaze locking onto yours as he ducks between your legs. His tongue is flat and hot, licking a slow stripe that has your back arching off the cot.

“Daryl- please,”.

He doesn’t answer, just hooks your thighs over his shoulders and digs in. You fist the blanket, toes curling, as he flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, then suckles gently. The wet sounds are obscenely loud in the tiny cell as he moves his head side to side. You slap a hand over your mouth, but Daryl pins your wrist above your head, lacing your fingers together.

You read the message loud and clear.

The cot groans under Daryl’s weight as he crawls up your body, his lips slick with you. He kisses you hard enough to taste yourself on his tongue, his hips grinding down against yours so you can feel how hard he is through his jeans. His fingers fumble with his belt, ungraceful, hurried, but you bat his hands away and do it yourself, your fingers steadier than you feel. The buckle clinks loud in the quiet cell.

Daryl hisses when you wrap your hand around him, his forehead dropping to yours. “Christ,” he breathes, hips jerking into your grip. His cock is hot and heavy in your palm, the tip leaking when you thumb over it. He kisses you again, messy and off-center, his teeth catching your bottom lip.

“Wait,” you gasp, pushing at his chest. Daryl freezes instantly, his whole body going rigid above you. You nod toward the crate beside the cot where the jar of salve sits, the one Carol makes for blisters. Daryl’s eyes darken with understanding. He grabs it, flipping the lid off with his thumb and coating his fingers hastily.

Daryl’s fingers circle your entrance, slick with salve, his touch light enough to make you squirm. “Easy, gotta stretch ya” he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot as his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that have your hips jerking off the cot. You whine, high and desperate, and Daryl’s fingers press inside without warning, two at once, stretching you in a way that burns just shy of pain. His teeth scrape your collarbone as he scissors them, his free hand pinning your thigh open wider. “That’s it,” he growls when you clench around him, his voice rough as gravel. “Taking it so well.”

You gasp when he curls his fingers, hitting a spot that makes your vision white out for a second. Daryl watches your face intently, his pupils blown black in the lantern light, his lower lip caught between his teeth. His fingers twist, dragging against your walls in a way that has you arching, your nails digging into his biceps. “Daryl- please- want it,” you slur needily against his lips.

He pulls his fingers out with a wet sound, wiping them hastily on his jeans before gripping his cock to line himself up. The first press burns, just for a second, before he’s sliding home, his hips flush against yours in one smooth thrust. Daryl exhales sharply through his nose, his forehead dropping to yours as he stills, letting you adjust. His entire body trembles with the effort of holding back.

You shift experimentally, and Daryl groans, low and wrecked, his hands tightening on your hips. “Fuck,” he grits out, his eyelashes fluttering. “Gimme a minute.” His voice is strained, his breath hot against your lips. You tilt your hips, testing, and he curses again, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

When he finally moves, it’s slow at first, his thrusts are shallow as he watches your face. But then you hook your ankles behind his back, pulling him deeper, and Daryl's patience snaps. His rhythm turns rough, his hips pistoning against yours with a desperation that knocks the breath from your lungs. The cot creaks violently beneath you, the metal frame protesting with every snap of his hips.

Daryl’s hand slips between you, his thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles that have you gasping. “Cum for me,” he growls, his voice frayed at the edges. “Wanna feel it, c'mon, know you can, sweet thing” His fingers press harder, his thrusts losing their rhythm as he chases his own release. You bite into his shoulder to muffle your cry when you cum, your body clamping down around him like a vice.

Daryl’s hips stutter when you gasp against his shoulder, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Wait- you can’t,” Your voice cracks, breathless. His rhythm falters, but he doesn’t stop, his breath hot and ragged against your throat. You dig your nails into his biceps. “Daryl, listen- we don’t have anything for after.”

He groans, low and frustrated, his forehead dropping to yours. His hips jerk once, twice, as if he's testing his own restraint before he grits his teeth and pulls out abruptly. The sudden emptiness makes you whine, but Daryl’s already gripping himself tightly at the base, his jaw clenched. “Fuck,” he hisses, his thighs trembling. His thumb brushes your hipbone, an absent apology, as he strokes himself roughly over your stomach.

You watch, transfixed, as his muscles tense, the corded line of his neck, the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows hard. His release spills hot over your skin, his breath coming in sharp bursts against your collarbone. For a moment, he just breathes there, his fingers still tangled in your hair, his body bowed over yours like a question.

Then he huffs, annoyed, and reaches for the rag draped over the crate beside the cot. “Ain’t how I wanted to, ya know...” he mutters, wiping the mess from your belly with more care than his tone suggests. His ears are pink, his brows knitted together like he’s personally offended by the inconvenience. You bite back a smile, trailing your fingers down the tense line of his spine.

“Next time,” you murmur, and Daryl’s gaze snaps to yours, sharp and hungry. The rag drops forgotten to the floor as he leans in, kissing you slow and deep, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips like he’s memorizing the taste.

Thistle chooses that moment to yowl from under the cot, her tail flicking indignantly against Daryl’s boot. He breaks the kiss with a grunt, glaring at the space beneath the bed. “Damn cat,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it, not when you can feel his grin on your cheek.

You laugh, soft and breathless, and Daryl’s expression softens. He brushes a damp curl from your forehead, his thumb lingering at your temple. “Weren't laughin’ when I was buried in you proper,” he teases, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

Outside, the storm has faded to a drizzle, the prison settling into its usual nighttime rhythm, murmured conversations, the distant clang of the watch shift changing over. Daryl stretches out beside you, his arm heavy across your waist, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip.

“Gonna find somethin’,” he says abruptly, his voice rough with exhaustion. “For after. Next time.”

God, yes, you want that. You want this.

You turn your head to look at him. His eyes are already closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks, but his thumb keeps moving in small, absent circles against your skin. Like even half-asleep, he’s making promises.

You press closer, tucking your face into the hollow of his throat. His heartbeat thrums steady under your lips. “I love you,” you whisper.

Daryl’s arm tightens around you, his breath evening out. Thistle finally emerges, leaping onto the cot with a disgruntled chirp before settling at your feet. The lantern gutters low, casting the cell in flickering light.

The morning after, you wake to Daryl already gone- but his vest still hangs on the chair, his crossbow propped against the wall. A message: “Out on a run.” Thistle kneads at your thigh, her claws pricking through the thin blanket. You stretch, wincing at the tender ache between your legs, and spot the pink ribbon from last night now tied haphazardly around your curls. Clearly, a feeble attempt by Daryl at keeping your hair from tangling overnight.

The smell of burnt coffee hits you halfway down the cellblock. Carol’s at the stove, her shoulders stiff and she doesn’t turn when you hover in the doorway. The silence stretches too long before she finally speaks, her voice flat. “Daryl took Glenn and Michonne out early.” She jerks her chin toward the counter where a chipped mug steams. “Left that for you.”

The coffee’s lukewarm but sweetened with condensed milk, the way you like it. You cradle the mug too tight, the ceramic biting into your palms. Across the room, Amy giggles into her hands when you catch her staring, her braids bouncing as she whispers to another kid. Your face burns.

Daryl’s crossbow is missing from its usual spot by the gate. You try not to count the hours.

By midday, the kids cluster around the painted wall, tracing their names in the dust. You’re helping Amy sound out “cat” when the gate screeches open. Daryl strides in first, his vest streaked with mud, a burlap sack slung over one shoulder. His eyes find yours immediately before flicking away just as fast. Glenn trails behind him, lugging a dented toolbox, while Michonne peels off toward the armory without a word.

The kids swarm Daryl before he can escape, tiny hands plucking at his sleeves. “What’d’ya bring us this time Mr. Dixon?” Amy demands, her grin gap-toothed.

Daryl chuckles, swinging the burlap sack down with more care than his rough hands suggest. The kids crowd closer as he digs inside and brings out crinkled comic books, half-melted crayons, a dented harmonica that makes Amy squeal. But when his fingers close around something small and pink, his eyes dart to yours.

He tosses the ribbon your way without ceremony. It flutters into your lap, silk, not frayed polyester like the ones you’ve scavenged. The color matches the wall exactly. Your throat tightens.

“Found it in some rich woman's closet,” Daryl mutters, already turning to leave, but Amy grabs his sleeve.

“What about my present?” she whines.

Daryl scowls, reaching back into the sack. He pulls out a fist-sized teddy bear missing an eye and shoves it at her. “Happy?”

Amy hugs it like a treasure, but her nose wrinkles. “It smells like dead people.”

“Everything does,” Glenn sighs, passing by with an armful of salvaged pipes.

The reminder breaks your heart.

Daryl’s already halfway across the yard when you catch up, the ribbon clutched in your fist. He slows just enough for you to fall into step beside him, his shoulder brushing yours. Sweat darkens the back of his shirt, the scent of gun oil and pine clinging to him.

“Silk this time.” you say quietly, holding up the ribbon.

Daryl’s ears redden. He kicks a pebble, watching it skitter. “Ain’t gonna unravel in the wash, s’ more practical."

The implication that he plans for you to keep wearing it, that there will be washes and days and mornings lodges under your ribs. You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his before he can overthink it. Daryl stiffens, his head swiveling toward the watchtower where Rick’s silhouette paces. But he doesn’t pull away.

Thistle weaves between your ankles as you near the cellblock, her tail flicking against Daryl’s boot. He toes the door open with a grunt, revealing his neatly made cot, first, with your patched quilt smoothed over the thin mattress.

“Thought you hated chores,” you tease.

Daryl shuts the door with his heel, crowding you against the wall. His nose brushes yours, his breath warm. “Knew we'd be tired, thought it would be nice,” His thumb traces your lower lip where it’s still tender from last night. “Got somethin’ else for ya, well, us.”

From his pocket, he produces a single foil packet, crumpled but intact. You blink at it, heat rushing to your cheeks.

“Found a whole box in some trucker’s rig,” he mumbles, shoving it into your hand like it might burn him. “Ain’t expired.”

The plastic wrapper crackles in your grip. Daryl’s watching your face with an intensity that makes your knees weak, his pupils swallowing the blue of his eyes.

The wrapper slips from your fingers, landing soundlessly on the floor as Daryl crowds closer, his hands bracketing your hips. His calloused thumbs press into the dip of your waistband, a silent question. You nod before he can ask, and his mouth crashes into yours hot, and insistent, teeth scraping your bottom lip. The foil packet crinkles underfoot as he backs you toward the cot, his fingers already working the button of your jeans.

“Wait,” you gasp when his palm skims your bare stomach. Daryl freezes instantly, muscles coiled tight, his breath ragged against your throat. You fumble for the packet, hands shaking as you tear it open. Daryl watches, nostrils flaring, as you roll the condom over him with deliberate slowness. His hips jerk when your thumb brushes the head, a strangled noise escaping his clenched teeth.

The cot groans under your combined weight as Daryl lays you back, his body a solid line of heat above you. He kisses you like he’s starving, deep, messy, his stubble scraping your chin before pulling back to drag your shirt over your head. The cool prison air pebbles your skin, but Daryl’s mouth is searing as it traces the curve of your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple until you arch off the mattress.

“Daryl- ” His name fractures in your throat when his fingers dip between your thighs, finding you already wet. He hums approvingly, the vibration traveling straight to your core as he pumps two fingers inside, curling them just right. Your hips buck, but he pins you down with his free hand splayed across your belly, his grip just shy of rough. It enhances the feeling of fullness tenfold.

“Like that, don’tcha sweetheart?” he rasps, dragging his teeth along your collarbone. His fingers twist, scissoring you open until you’re gasping, your nails scoring his shoulders. Daryl’s breathing is uneven when he finally lines up, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance. “Look at me,” he orders, voice wrecked.

You do. His eyes are black with want, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he presses in slow, so slow it burns. You clutch at his biceps, your thighs trembling around his hips, and Daryl stills when he’s fully seated, his forehead dropping to yours. His chest heaves against you, sweat-slick and shaking.

“Okay?” he grits out, the word ragged.

You nod, tilting your hips experimentally, and Daryl groans, low and guttural. His first thrust punches the air from your lungs, his second has you seeing stars. He sets a brutal pace from the start, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks. Every snap of his hips brushes that perfect spot inside you, the friction building until your toes curl into the thin mattress.

“Touch yourself,” Daryl rasps, his voice rough as gravel. “Wanna watch, please.”

Your fingers falter at first, oversensitive and clumsy, but Daryl captures your wrist, guiding your hand down with surprising gentleness. His thumb presses against yours, showing you the rhythm he wants for you, firm, insistent circles that have you gasping within seconds. Your cheeks heat up when you hear the lewd squelches coming from between your legs. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you feel your slick dripping onto your thighs and his balls. Daryl watches with hooded eyes, his thrusts turning uneven as you writhe under him.

“That’s it,” he breathes, his hips stuttering. “Gonna cum for me, baby?”

Baby. That's new. You decide now that you love it.

The pet name, paired with the relentless drag of his cock, sends you over the edge. Your back bows off the cot as you clench around him, a silent scream caught in your throat. Daryl follows with a choked-off groan, his hips jerking erratically as he spills into the condom. His forehead presses to your shoulder, his breathing ragged against your damp skin.

For a long moment, neither of you move. Then Daryl carefully pulls out, disposing of the condom with a grimace before collapsing beside you. His arm slings over your waist, tugging you against his side like he can’t stand the space between you. Outside, footsteps echo down the cellblock, Glenn whistling off-key, the kids’ laughter bouncing off concrete walls.

The footsteps pause outside your cell. A hesitant knock. "Uh- Daryl? Rick wants you on watch in ten." Glenn's voice cracks on the last word.

Daryl doesn't move from where he's sprawled half atop you, his nose buried in your hair. "Tell 'im I'm busy," he snarks, the vibration rumbling through your ribcage.

Glenn makes a strangled noise. "He said now."

You press your smile into Daryl's collarbone when he curses colorfully, his arms tightening around you like a petulant child refusing to let go of a favorite toy. His fingers trace idle patterns down your spine, a silent apology for breaking your afterglow, before he finally rolls off the cot with a grunt.

"Five minutes, Glenn" he mutters, snatching his vest from the floor.

You watch as he dresses with hurried efficiency, the muscles in his back flexing as he shrugs into the worn fabric. The pink ribbon still dangles from your fingers, silken and incongruously delicate against the prison's grim backdrop. Daryl notices when he turns, his gaze dropping to your hand.

"Keep it on," he says gruffly, buckling his knife sheath. His eyes flick to your bare shoulders, then away just as fast. "Looks pretty on ya."

You're still laughing softly when he leans down to kiss you, quick and bruising, before stomping out, the cell door clanging shut behind him.

Thistle emerges from her hiding spot under the cot, tail twitching indignantly. She butts her head against your ankle, demanding attention now that the interloper has left. You scoop her up, pressing a kiss between her ears, and she purrs like a rusty engine.

The ribbon slips easily into your curls, its silk cool against your scalp. You finger-comb the worst of the tangles, wincing when your muscles protest the movement. Every ache is a brand, a reminder of Daryl's hands and mouth and the way he'd whispered mine against your skin like a vow.

Outside, the prison hums with midday activity, shouts from the garden, the rhythmic clang of someone repairing the fence. You pull on your least-damaged shirt, still smelling faintly of Daryl, and step into the sunlight just as Amy comes barreling around the corner.

She skids to a stop, her braids swinging wildly. "Didja do it?" she stage-whispers, eyes comically wide.

Oh my god.

Your face flames. "Do what?"

You hope to god this child has no idea what she's talking about.

Amy rolls her eyes, bouncing on her toes. "The thing! The kissing thing!" She mimes an exaggerated smooching noise that has you choking on air.

Phew.

Before you can formulate a response, Carol appears like a specter, her arms laden with laundry. "Amy," she says mildly, "go help Lizzie with the radishes."

Amy pouts but obeys, shooting you a conspiratorial grin over her shoulder as she skips away.

Carol's gaze lingers on the ribbon in your hair. Her expression is unreadable. "Heard you two made quite the ruckus last night," she says finally.

You freeze.

A ghost of a smile flickers across her face. "Relax. Concrete walls are thicker than they look." She adjusts the bundle in her arms. "Just...be careful, with the kids about, yeah?"

The warning hangs between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. You nod, throat tight, and Carol moves on without another word.

You find Daryl on the watchtower, his crossbow balanced lazily across his knees. Rick stands beside him, their conversation low and serious. Daryl spots you first, his shoulders stiffening almost imperceptibly before he schools his expression back to neutral.

Rick follows his gaze, his mouth quirking. "Take five," he tells Daryl, clapping him on the shoulder with deliberate amusement before descending the ladder.

Daryl waits until Rick's out of earshot before scowling down at you. "The hell you doin' here, woman? Sun's brutal."

You shrug, enjoying the way his eyes track the movement of the ribbon in your hair. "Missed you."

Daryl's scowl deepens, but his fingers flex around his crossbow. "Ain't been gone an hour."

"Too long."

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like damn fool, but when you reach for the ladder, he's already leaning down to haul you up, his grip unshakable. The tower sways slightly under your combined weight, and you clutch at Daryl's vest for balance.

His hands linger at your waist even after you're steady. "Shouldn't be up here, ya gonna get heat sick," he grumbles, but makes no move to let go.

You rise onto your toes, pressing a kiss to the hinge of Daryl’s jaw where stubble scratches your lips. "Wanted to see if you'd blush in broad daylight," you tease. His grip tightens, fingers digging into your hips as he jerks his head toward the yard below where Glenn nearly trips over his own feet pretending not to stare.

"Quit it, girl" Daryl hisses, but his pulse jumps under your mouth.

The wind catches the ribbon, fluttering it against your cheek like a caress. Daryl tracks the movement, his calloused thumb brushing the silk where it’s tied. "Pretty," he mutters, so low you almost miss it. The word punches through you, not pretty girl, not sweetheart, just pretty, raw and unguarded.

Below, Rick’s voice carries as he barks orders. Daryl tenses, his body shifting instinctively between you and the ladder. "Gotta get back, I'll be done soon" he grumbles, but his hands slide up to cradle your face, his thumbs sweeping your cheekbones. The kiss he gives you is quick, stolen, his lips warm and chapped, tasting of coffee and gunmetal.

You’re still smiling when your feet hit the dirt. Amy materializes like a specter, her grin wicked. "He blushes," she announces, again, triumphant.

Carol’s washing basin clatters nearby. "Amy Josephine, leave them be."

But the damage is done, Daryl’s crossbow bolt thunks into a target with unnecessary force from the tower.

Night falls with a tension you can’t name. The prison feels too small suddenly, every glance from the others weighted. Daryl’s absence at dinner is conspicuous; Glenn keeps clearing his throat like he wants to say something until Maggie kicks him under the table.

You find Daryl in the armory, methodically cleaning bolts. His shoulders stiffen when you step inside, but he doesn’t stop you from sliding onto the stool beside him. The silence stretches, broken only by the rhythmic scrape of steel on wood.

"You’re hiding from them" you say finally.

Daryl’s jaw works. "Nah."

The bolt in his hand gleams under the lantern light. You reach out, tracing the fletching. "They know, its okay,"

"Damn right they know," he snaps, then exhales sharply through his nose. His fingers flex around the bolt. "Just ain’t used to- " He cuts himself off, scowling.

You wait.

"People lookin’," he mutters finally. His knuckles whiten. "Like I’m some… goddamn sideshow."

The vulnerability in his voice cracks something in your chest. You press your palm flat against his back, feeling the tension coiled beneath his shirt. "They’re looking because they’re happy for you."

Daryl snorts, derisive.

"For us," you amend softly.

His shoulders drop incrementally. When he turns, his eyes are dark, searching. "This… what you want? Me bein’ difficult?" He gestures vaguely, like the words are physically painful. "Like this? Out in the open?"

The question hangs between you, fragile as spun glass. You take his hand, pressing his calloused palm to your sternum where your heartbeat thrums. "I want you," you say simply.

And whatever comes with you.

Daryl’s breath catches before he drags you forward by the grip on your shirt, his mouth crashing into yours with enough force to knock the stool over. The clatter echoes in the cramped space, but neither of you care. His teeth graze your bottom lip, possessive and rough, and when he pulls back, his pupils are blown so wide they swallow the blue.

The bolt rolls across the floorboards, forgotten, as Daryl crowds you against the workbench, his hips pinning yours. His breathing is ragged against your neck, too fast, too uneven for the simple act of kissing. You feel the tremor in his hands where they grip your waist, the way his pulse jumps under your lips when you press them to the hollow of his throat.

"People'll hear," you chastise, even as your fingers tangle in the straps of his vest.

Daryl growls low in his chest, the sound vibrating through you. "Let 'em." His mouth finds yours again, insistent, all teeth and desperation. When he pulls back, his lips are reddened, his pupils swallowing the pale blue of his irises. "You're right m’ tired of hidin'."

The confession hangs between you, raw and unexpected. You trace the scar on his eyebrow and Daryl leans into the touch, his eyes slipping shut for a brief, vulnerable moment. Outside, footsteps approach, then pause at the door. Daryl tenses, his body shielding yours instinctively.

The footsteps hesitate, a shuffle, then retreating. Daryl exhales against your temple, his grip loosening. "Goddamn nosy bastards," he mutters, but there's no real bite to it. His thumb traces the hem of your shirt where it's ridden up, his touch unexpectedly tender considering the way he'd just kissed you like he wanted to devour you whole.

A giggle drifts through the thin metal door, Amy, no doubt, followed by Glenn's hushed scolding. Daryl's jaw clenches. "Shoulda nailed that brat's feet to the floor weeks ago," he grumbles, but you catch the way his lips twitch when you laugh.

You smooth your hands up his chest, feeling the frantic rabbit-quick beat beneath his ribs. "You're really okay with this?" you whisper. "With them knowing?"

Daryl stares at a point over your shoulder like the answer's written on the wall in invisible ink. His fingers flex against your hips once, twice, then he shrugs, gruff and awkward. "Ain't like they don't already." The corner of his mouth quirks. "Hell, bet Carol's got a damn betting pool goin'."

The image startles a laugh out of you, bright and unexpected in the dim armory. Daryl watches the way your face changes when you laugh, something hungry and awed in his gaze. He ducks his head suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours with enough force it almost hurts. "'Sides," he mutters, so low you feel the words more than hear them, " It's worth it."

Your breath catches. Daryl Dixon doesn't do sweet talk, not really, but those two syllables land like a punch to the chest. You curl your fingers into his vest, anchoring yourself as the world tilts.

A sharp rap at the door makes you both jump. "Dinner's getting cold," Carol calls, her voice dry as dust. "Unless you two aren't hungry."

The mess hall buzzes with conversation when you enter, Daryl’s hand hovering at the small of your back like he can’t decide whether to push you forward or pull you back into the shadows. Every head turns, Glenn chokes on his beans, Maggie elbows him hard, but it’s Amy’s triumphant squeal that makes Daryl groan. “Toldja!” she crows, bouncing in her seat. “Toldja they were kissing!”

Carol slides two plates across the table without looking up. “Eat,” she orders, though her mouth twitches when Daryl scowls at the extra helping of peaches on his tray, your favorite.

Daryl eats fast, shoulders hunched, his knee jostling yours under the table whenever someone stares too long. You press back, steady, until his leg stops bouncing. His fingers brush yours when he passes the salt, deliberately, and your stomach flips.

Leon's hands are shaking like a fucking leaf. That's the first thing you notice when he walks through the door two weeks late, duffel bag slung over his shoulder like he's just returning from basic training instead of whatever classified hellhole they'd sent him to this time. His grip is steady when he pulls you into a hug so tight your ribs protest, his palms dry and warm against the back of your neck. But his eyes, those damn blue eyes, keep flickering to every shadow in your apartment's hallway like something might lunge at him from behind the coat rack.

"Missed you, sweetie," he croons, exhausted, into your hair, and you can feel the way his chest hitches just once before he locks it down. He smells like airplane seats and gun oil, the familiar scent undercut by something acrid you can't place. Sweat, maybe, but not the kind from a gym. The kind that comes from running like your life depends on it.

You make him shower while you order his favorite takeout, extra spicy, the kind that makes his nose go pink and scrunch up like a little bunny, and when he emerges in sweatpants with his hair damp, you pretend not to notice how he checks the locks on the windows twice. The apartment feels smaller with him in it, like the walls are holding their breath.

Dinner is quiet in a way that makes your fork clink too loudly against your plate. Leon eats methodically, nodding when you tell him about your coworker's new puppy, humming when you mention the leaky faucet you finally fixed. But his knee jitters under the table, and when a car backfires outside, his chopsticks freeze halfway to his mouth for three whole seconds before he forces a smile and asks if you've been watering his little succulent on the bedroom’s windowsill. You’d gotten it for him as a gag gift last year for Valentine’s day. 

___

The nightmares start on the third night. You wake to the sound of thrashing sheets and Leon's choked-off gasp, his body coiled tight as a spring in the dark. When you reach for him, his hand snaps out faster than you can blink, your wrist caught in a grip that'll leave bruises tomorrow. For one terrible second, his eyes are wild and unseeing, his other hand already halfway to where his sidearm should be on the nightstand (if you hadn't quietly moved it to the hall closet two days ago). Then he blinks, and his entire body recoils like he's been burned. "Jesus- fuck- " He releases you so fast you hear his shoulder pop. You’re sure his neck has whiplash.

You don't say anything when he spends the rest of the night on the couch. Don't mention the muffled clink of glass against glass at 3 am, or how his coffee smells suspiciously like whiskey the next morning. Instead, you slide the aspirin across the breakfast counter along with his favorite mug, the stupid one with "World's Okayest Husband" in peeling letters, and let your fingers linger against his just a second too long. His knuckles are split. You don't ask.

By the time week two of the bed divorce rolls around, the circles under his eyes could pass for fucking bruises. You catch him staring at your shared bed like it's wired with explosives, his hands flexing at his sides. When you finally snap during a particularly infuriating argument about whether he's "just tired" or "coming down with something," your voice cracks in a way that makes him flinch. "Leon S. Kennedy," you say, gripping his face between your palms, thumbs pressing into those ridiculous cheekbones, "you wrecked our coffee table last night trying to strangle a pillow. This isn't just a fucking cold, you can’t just shake this off."

His breath hitches, a wet, ugly sound, and suddenly he's folding into you like a marionette with its strings cut, forehead pressed to your collarbone. "I keep seeing it," he rasps, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to hurt. "Not just Spain. All of it. Every goddamn…" He cuts himself off with a shudder, and you realize with dawning horror that he's not just talking about missions. The way his shoulders tense tells you he's back there, in Raccoon City, where he was barely more than a kid with a handgun and a dead partner trying to save the world.

You maneuver him onto the couch, his body stiff and uncooperative until you straddle his lap, deliberately pressing your softness against him. "Look at me," you croon, carding your fingers through his hair, the way he likes, just shy of too rough, until his gaze focuses blearily on your face. "What color are my eyes, honey?"

"_____" Leon rasps, his voice scraped raw from too many nights of stifled screams. His fingers twitch against your hips, like he's afraid to hold on but terrified to let go. “What color is the couch?” you ask him. “Uh- it’s- blue, blue like the ocean,” Leon rasps out. “Perfect. What things can you smell right now?” you croon gently, urging him to ground himself. 

 You don't move when his hands finally slide around your waist after going through all the grounding techniques your therapist taught you so long ago, his thumbs pressing into the softness there with a reverence that makes your throat tight. "Leon," you start, but he shakes his head against you, his nose dragging along the curve of your neck.

"Don't," he mutters, and you can feel the heat of his blush against your skin. "I know what you're gonna say. That I shouldn't- that you're too much," His grip tightens almost imperceptibly. "Fuck, sweetheart, you gotta know I love this. Love you. All of you." His voice cracks on the last word, and you realize with a jolt that he's not just talking about your body, he's talking about you, about the way you're still here despite the bruises and the broken furniture and the bourbon-breath mornings.

The next morning, you wake to the unfamiliar weight of Leon's arm slung over your waist, his face buried in the mess of your curls. For one disorienting second, you think you're dreaming, then his fingers flex against your stomach, and you feel the dampness where his eyelashes have stuck to the back of your neck. "You cried?" you ask, without thinking, and immediately want to kick yourself.

Leon doesn't tense like you expect. Instead, his exhale ghosts warm across your shoulder blade, his fingers splaying wider against your stomach like he's mapping the terrain. "Yeah," he admits, voice thick with something that isn't shame. "Dreamt you were gone. Woke up and found you all curled up right here, all...warm." His palm slides up to rest over your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your sleepshirt. "Felt like a fuckin’ idiot."

You twist carefully in his hold until you're facing him, his arm still hooked low around your back. His eyes are puffy, the blue almost gray in the morning light filtering through your terrible curtains. There's stubble smudged along his jaw, darker than his sleep-mussed hair. Beautiful, even like this, especially like this, when he's too exhausted to hide. "You're not an idiot, you’re my husband," you say, brushing your knuckles along his cheekbone. He leans into the touch like a cat, eyelids fluttering.

The fridge hums in the kitchen. A car honks three stories down. Leon's breathing evens out against your palm.

You wait until he's halfway through his third cup of coffee, properly caffeinated, not the whiskey-laced sludge from last week, before broaching the subject. "So," you start, tracing the rim of your own mug, "Dr. Chen called in my refill yesterday." Leon makes a noncommittal noise around his toast, but his shoulders stiffen just enough that you notice. You press on before you lose your nerve. "She, uh. Asked if you'd thought about maybe...talking to someone. Or trying something."

Leon's chewing slows. He sets the toast down with exaggerated care, like it's made of glass. "Something," he repeats flatly, and you can see the exact moment his brain catches up. his nostrils flare, his fingers twitching toward his coffee like he needs the burn. "You mean pills."

"Not just pills," you say quickly, reaching across the table to curl your fingers around his wrist. His pulse thrums wild under your fingertips. "Therapy. Sleep aids. Whatever helps." You squeeze gently, thumb brushing the jagged scar along his inner arm, a souvenir from Spain he still won't explain. "It helped me, remember?”

"Yeah." He cuts you off with a jerky nod, jaw working. You can practically see the memories flickering behind his eyes, your own bad nights, the panic attacks that used to leave you gasping on the bathroom floor. His thumb strokes your knuckles absently, like he's reassuring himself you're still here. "Just...not yet, okay?" His voice drops to something raw and private, his free hand rubbing at his sternum like it aches. "Need to…I gotta get my head straight first."

You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper. The Leon Kennedy Special: later, not now, I'll handle it. But the way his shoulders hunch tells you this isn't macho bullshit, he's genuinely afraid. Of what, you're not sure. Losing control, maybe. Or worse: admitting he needs control in the first place.

So you pivot. "Okay," you murmur, tracing the veins on the back of his hand. "But will you at least let me hold you while you sleep tonight? Properly? No couch, no- " You gesture vaguely toward the hall closet where his gun lives now. His cheeks flush pink.

Leon exhales through his nose, long and slow. His fingers twist to lace through yours, squeezing tight. "Yeah," he mutters, ducking his head so his bangs shadow his face. "Might- might elbow you or some shit, though."

You grin, squeezing back. "I'll survive. Used to sharing a bed with a human tornado." You don't mention the three times you've woken up wedged against the wall because he starfishes in his sleep. Or the morning he had practically smothered you with his biceps curled around you. You wouldn’t trade Leon cuddles for the world.

"You know I'm not just your wife, right?" The words slip out while you're scraping congealed takeout into the trash, Leon's silhouette hunched over the sink as he scrubs at a pan with military precision. His shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly, the way they do when he's caught off guard by tenderness. You bump your hip against his, sending soap suds sloshing over his wrists. "I'm also the idiot who watched you eat an entire jalapeño on a dare and then held your hair back while you puked in a Denny's parking lot. Best friends remember these things, baby."

Leon's snort is muffled by the running water, but you catch the way his knuckles whiten around the sponge. "That was one time," he grumbles, embarrassed, but there's a warmth under the grumble that wasn't there yesterday. You press your advantage, sidling closer until your arm brushes his, your hip nudging his thigh.

"And who else would've put up with your 'experimental phase' where you tried to grow a mustache?" You flick a soap bubble at his nose, grinning when he wrinkles it instinctively. "Face it, babe. You're stuck with me. Elbows, nightmares, questionable facial hair choices, the whole package."

The pan clatters into the drying rack. Leon turns abruptly, water dripping from his wrists onto your socks as he cages you against the counter. His eyes dart over your face like he's searching for something, doubt, maybe, or pity. What he finds makes his breath stutter. "Even when I'm like this?" he asks, voice scraped raw. His thumb brushes the fading bruise on your wrist, feather-light.

You catch his thumb between your fingers before he can pull away, pressing his palm flat against your sternum where your heartbeat thrums wild and steady. "Especially when you're like this," you say, and watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard. "Remember sophomore year? When I'd make you check my dorm door lock fourteen times before I could sleep?" Leon's mouth twitches at the memory, how you'd curl into his side like a spooked animal, whispering “one more time, please” until he'd sigh dramatically and rattle the handle again just to watch you relax.

His forehead drops to yours with a quiet thunk. "You weren't crazy," he mumbles, breath warm against your lips. "Just scared, sweetie. I knew that."

"And you're not crazy either," you whisper back, digging your nails lightly into his wrist when he tries to turn away. "You're just scared too, Leon. There's a difference." His pulse jumps under your fingertips, rabbit-quick and fragile, and for a dizzying second, you're both twenty again, tangled in twin dorm beds with the lights on because the dark felt like dying.

Leon makes a wounded noise low in his throat, his free hand fisting in the back of your sleepshirt. "Not the same," he grits out, but he's trembling now, his knees bumping yours like he's subconsciously trying to steady himself. "You didn't- " He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, his nose brushing yours.

You kiss him on the nose, just a quick press of your lips to the bridge where his freckles hide, and cradle his face before he can finish that sentence. His stubble rasps against your palms, the warmth of his flush bleeding into your skin. "It is the same," you say, firm enough to make his eyelashes flicker. "Different monsters under the bed, same scared kids trying to outrun them." Leon's breath hitches, his throat working under your thumbs. You can see the protest forming behind his teeth, but I should be stronger, but I was trained for this, so you dig your fingers into his hair and tilt his head back until the kitchen light washes out the shadows under his eyes. "Listen to me, you beautiful disaster. Fear doesn't care about rank or training. It just is."

Leon's grip on your shirt tightens, his knuckles pressing into the small of your back. For a heart-stopping second, you think he's going to shake you off, then his shoulders slump, his forehead thudding against yours again with a wet exhale. "Fuck," he mutters, voice cracking around the edges. "When did you get so smart?" His attempt at levity falls flat when his breath hitches on the last word, his nose bumping yours in a way that's more nuzzle than accident.

You hum, tracing the shell of his ear with your pinky. "Since I married an idiot who thinks PTSD has a fucking badge requirement." The jab lands softer than you intended, your thumb swiping away the dampness at his temple before he can flinch from it. Leon huffs a laugh that's mostly air, his fingers flexing against your spine like he's counting vertebrae to steady himself.

The refrigerator clicks on with a buzz, flooding the kitchen with its arrhythmic hum. Leon's breath evens out by degrees, his chest rising and falling against yours in something almost like sync. You don't mention the way his pulse still rabbits under your fingertips, or how his left knee keeps twitching against yours, tiny tremors he can't control. Instead, you slide your hands down to his shoulders, squeezing the knotted muscle there until he groans. "C'mon, baby," you murmur, nudging him toward the hallway. "Let's get you horizontal before you pass out on my nice, clean floor."

Leon lets you steer him toward the bedroom with the pliant exhaustion of a man who's forgotten how to rest. His gait is all wrong, that trained, precise stride gone loose and uneven, like his knees might buckle if he thinks too hard about walking. You pretend not to notice when he pauses at the threshold, his fingers brushing the doorframe like he's checking for tripwires.

The sheets are cool when you guide him down, smelling faintly of lavender from the detergent you switched to last month, something soft and uncomplicated, nothing like the antiseptic sting of government-issue soap. You’d hoped it would give Leon some sort of comfort. Leon inhales sharply when his back hits the mattress, his spine rigid for three heartbeats before he sinks into the pillows. "S'nice," he mumbles into the fabric, already slurring. You press a palm between his shoulder blades, feeling the knots there unravel under your touch.

"Still with me, Lee?" you coo, working your thumbs along the ridge of his trapezius. Leon grunts something unintelligible, his face half-buried in your oversized duvet. His hair fans out against the pillowcase, golden under the afternoon light filtering through the blinds. You count the freckles along his hairline, one, two, three, faint as pencil marks, until his breathing deepens.

It happens slowly: the tension bleeding from his shoulders, his fingers uncurling from their fists. You watch the moment sleep takes him, his eyelashes fluttering once, twice, before settling against his cheeks. The shadows under his eyes look softer like this, less like bruises and more like smudged charcoal. Beautiful, even in exhaustion.

___

Leon's scream wakes you at 3:17 AM, not the usual choked gasp, but a full-bodied scream that sends your heart jackhammering against your ribs. You're moving before you're fully awake, your body remembering these nocturnal emergencies better than your brain. His thrashing limbs catch you in the sternum as you reach for him, knocking the air from your lungs in a wheeze. "Leon- baby- "

His forearm catches you across the throat as he bucks upright, instinctive, panicked, and for one dizzying second, the room tilts sideways. You claw at his wrist, gasping around the pressure, and the sound snaps him back like a rubber band. Leon recoils so fast he nearly tumbles off the mattress, his back hitting the headboard with a dull thud. "Jesus- fuck- " His hands flutter around your face, trembling now, fingertips ghosting over the tender skin of your neck without touching. "Did I?"

You catch his wrists before he can spiral, pressing his palms flat against your collarbones where he can feel your pulse hammering. "I'm okay," you rasp, swallowing around the ache. His breath hitches wetly, eyes darting between your throat and his own hands like they might morph into weapons. "See? Still breathing." You force a grin, nudging his knee with yours. "Though if you wanted me to stop snoring, there are nicer ways to ask."

Leon makes a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. His whole body shakes, not the controlled tremors from earlier, but full-body quakes that rattle his teeth. "Dreamt you were- " He cuts himself off with a violent shudder, fingers flexing against your skin. "They had you on a fucking table, and I was too late- "

You hitch forward onto your knees, bracketing his thighs with yours, and press your lips to the crown of his head. His hair smells like sweat and lavender, the scent gone sharp with panic. "I'm right here," you coo against his scalp, carding your fingers through the damp strands at his nape. "Not a scratch on me. Well." You tilt his chin up with your thumb, guiding his gaze to the faint red mark blooming across your throat. "Maybe one scratch."

Leon's fingers hover over the mark on your throat, barely touching, just the ghost of his calloused fingertips tracing the edges like he's afraid you'll dissolve under his hands. His breath comes in short, jagged bursts, and you can see the exact moment his brain catches up with his body: pupils dilating, throat working as he swallows hard enough to hurt. "Fuck," he rasps, voice shredded. "Fuck, I’m so sorry- I didn’t-”.

You catch his hand before he can pull away, pressing his palm flat against the side of your neck where your pulse thrums steady and alive. "Count with me, yeah? Like before but a little different," you murmur, matching your breathing to the slow rise and fall of his chest. "One, two- that's it, sweetheart- three..." His fingers twitch against your skin, but he follows your lead, inhaling sharply through his nose on four. By seven, his shoulders start to loosen; by ten, his forehead drops to yours with a shuddering exhale.

The clock on the nightstand ticks loudly in the quiet. Somewhere outside, a dog barks. Leon's knee jostles against yours, unintentional, just another tremor he can't control, but he doesn't flinch away this time. "They used to make us do this in training," he mutters against your lips, breath warm and damp. "Box breathing. For- for panic. Didn't think it actually worked." His thumb brushes your jaw, tentative. "Guess I was wrong."

"You're wrong a lot," you tease lightly, bumping his nose with yours. The joke lands softly, and Leon huffs something that might be a laugh if it weren't so wrecked. His fingers trail down to your collarbone, tracing the dip there like he's memorizing it.

His fingers linger at the hollow of your throat, pressing just enough to feel your pulse jump. "Still alive," you whisper, and Leon makes a noise like he's been gutted, his forehead pressing harder against yours. You can taste the salt of his sweat, feel the uneven stutter of his breathing as it syncs with yours. The room smells like laundry soap and fear, the sheets tangled around your ankles where he'd kicked them off in his thrashing.

Outside, a car alarm starts wailing three floors down. Leon's shoulders tense automatically, his head snapping toward the window before he catches himself. You see the exact moment he forces his muscles to unlock, the way his jaw works, the deliberate exhale through his nose. His fingers flex against your collarbone, grounding himself in your warmth. "Sorry," he mutters, thumb brushing the spot where his forearm had caught your throat. "Didn't mean to- "

"You didn't," you interrupt, catching his wrist before he can retreat. His skin is clammy under your fingers, the scars along his knuckles stark in the dim light from the streetlamp outside. You press his palm back to your chest, over your heart. "See? Still beating. Still all yours."

Leon's breath hitches. His fingers curl slightly, not quite gripping, just resting there like he's afraid you'll vanish if he holds on too tight. The dog outside barks again, and this time he doesn't flinch. Progress.

The morning light paints Leon's bruises in shades of honey when you wake, his eyelashes casting shadows down his cheeks, his split knuckles glowing pink where they rest against your hip. He's curled around you like a question mark, his knees tucked behind yours, his breath warm and even against the nape of your neck. You count the freckles on his forearm where it's slung over your waist, each one a tiny victory.

The first thing you notice is the light, real morning light, not the pale predawn gray that usually accompanies Leon's gasping wake-ups. It slants across the rumpled sheets in warm stripes, catching the dust motes drifting lazily above Leon's sleeping form. His face is slack for once, the perpetual tension between his brows smoothed away. You count his breaths, slow, even, against your collarbone where his nose is tucked.

Six hours and twenty-three minutes. The digital clock on the nightstand blinks the proof at you in smug red numbers.

Leon stirs when you shift to face him, his nose wrinkling adorably as he gropes blindly for your waist. "Mmph, baby?" His voice is thick with sleep, the arm slung over your hips tightening possessively. "S'early."

"It's nine-thirty," you whisper, barely containing your grin. His lashes flutter against his cheeks, no dark circles today, and you can't help yourself. You press your lips to the delicate skin beneath his left eye, then the right, then the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow. Leon makes a noise halfway between a groan and a purr, his hand flexing against the softness of your hip.

"Sweetheart," he grumbles, but there's no heat in it, just sleepy bewilderment as you kiss the bridge of his nose, the apple of each cheek, the stubborn set of his jaw. His stubble rasps against your lips, warm with sleep and sunlight. "What're you- "

"Six hours," you interrupt, cupping his face between your palms. His eyes blink open, clearer than you've seen them in weeks, the blue almost vibrant against the white sheets. "You slept for six whole hours, Leon. No nightmares. No waking up screaming." Your thumbs brush the hollows beneath his eyes, marveling at the lack of shadows. "I'm so fucking proud of you."

Leon's breath catches. His fingers dig into your waist, flexing like he's checking you're real. "That's- " His voice cracks. He clears his throat, but when he speaks again, it's still rough. "That's not...it's just sleep."

You kiss his forehead, lingering there until you feel some of the tension leave his shoulders. "It's everything," you murmur against his skin. His pulse jumps under your lips. "You're healing, baby. Let me be proud of you."

His hands slide up your back, pressing you closer until there's no space left between you. The morning light catches in his hair, turning the strands gold where they fan across the pillow. You kiss each eyelid, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth. Leon exhales shakily when you reach his scarred knuckles, pressing your lips to each ridge of damaged skin.

"Stop," he mutters, but his fingers curl around yours instead of pushing you away. His cheeks are pink. "It's not- I didn't do anything."

"You survived," you say simply, resting your forehead against his. His breath fans across your lips, warm and familiar. "That's always worth celebrating."

Leon's fingers trace idle patterns on your bare shoulder, following the curve of your collarbone like he's mapping new territory. The morning light turns his eyelashes to gold filaments when he blinks, his expression unreadable. "Been thinking," he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep. His thumb brushes the dip above your clavicle. "About Dr. Chen, about what you said."

Your breath catches mid-exhale. Not because it's unexpected, but because Leon said it first, without prompting, without that defensive set to his jaw. You school your face carefully neutral, resisting the urge to squeeze him in triumph. "Yeah?" you prompt softly, threading your fingers through the hair at his nape. His pulse jumps under your fingertips.

Leon's exhale ghosts across your lips. "Not- not right this second," he clarifies, brows knitting together. His fingers flex against your skin, warm and slightly damp. "But maybe. Eventually." The admission comes out halting, each word measured like he's testing their weight. "If you think it'd help, like it helped you."

You press your forehead to his, swallowing the lump in your throat. His lashes flutter against your cheeks, his breath uneven. "I think you're already helping yourself, but when you’re ready, maybe some meds will help you too," you murmur. The truth of it blooms in your chest, the way he let you hold him last night without tensing, how he counted breaths with you instead of locking himself in the shower.

Leon's fingers twitch against your waistband, his thumb tracing the stretch marks there with a reverence that still makes your stomach flip. "You’re the best wife, y’know that, right?" he croons into the space between your shoulder blades, the words slurred with sleep but weighted with something deeper. You feel his lips press against the knob of your spine, lingering like he's trying to imprint the shape of you into his skin. The morning light catches on the silvered scar along his bicep as he tightens his hold, pulling you flush against him with a quiet sigh.

You turn in his arms, slow, giving him time to adjust, and find his eyes already fixed on you. There's a rawness there you haven't seen since college, when he'd show up at your dorm at 3 am still smelling of cordite and sweat, shaking too hard to light his own cigarette. His throat works as he swallows, his gaze darting between your eyes and mouth like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he blinks. "Hey," you whisper, brushing his bangs back where they've stuck to his forehead. His hair is damp at the temples, the scent of lavender and salt clinging to him.

Leon exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing against the small of your back. "Hey yourself," he rasps, voice scraped raw from disuse. His thumb finds the dimple above your hip, rubbing circles there like he's soothing himself as much as you. The sunlight catches the stubble along his jaw, turning the blond strands amber where they press into your palm. You watch his Adam's apple bob as he struggles with the next words, his pulse jumping under your fingertips.

"Remember our vows?" you murmur when the silence stretches too long. Leon blinks, his eyelashes casting spidery shadows across his cheekbones. You trace the shell of his ear with your pinky, feeling him shiver. "The 'for better or worse' part? This is exactly what that meant, Leon."

His breath stutters against your collarbone. "Thought that was about- I dunno. Dirty dishes. Mortgage payments. Watering plants." His attempt at humor falls flat when his voice cracks on the last word. His fingers tighten convulsively around your waistband, knuckles pressing into soft flesh like he's reassuring himself you're solid.

You press your palm over his racing heart. "Nope. This right here? The midnight wake-up calls, the bad days when you can't look at yourself in the mirror- " Leon flinches, but you barrel on, digging your nails lightly into his chest-  "That's the 'worse' we signed up for, sweetheart. And I'd do it again. Every damn time."

Leon makes a wounded noise low in his throat, his forehead dropping to your sternum. His hair tickles your chin, smelling faintly of sweat and the cheap shampoo he insists is "just as good" as your fancy stuff. You feel his lips move against your skin before the sound comes: "You deserve better."

"Bullshit," you say, and the word cracks through the quiet bedroom like a gunshot. Leon flinches, actually flinches, but you grab his face before he can pull away, forcing him to look at you. His eyelashes are damp, clumped together in spikes that make your chest ache. "There is no better, Leon. There's just you, the same idiot who proposed to me in a diner bathroom because he couldn't wait one more second." His breath hitches when you swipe your thumbs under his eyes, catching the moisture there. "The same man who practically cried when I first told you I loved you, sweetheart.'"

Leon makes a wounded noise, his fingers flexing against your waist. "That's- that's different," he mutters, but there's no conviction in it. His pulse jumps under your fingertips, rapid and fragile.

You press your forehead to his, close enough that your bangs tangle together. "It's not," you insist, voice dropping to a whisper. "That's the whole point, baby. You don't get to cherry-pick which parts of you I love. It's all you, the nightmares and the dumb diner proposals, the panic attacks and the way you sing off-key in the shower."

His laugh is wet and broken, puffing against your lips. "Fuckin' hypocrite," he rasps. "You hate when I sing."

Leon's laugh dissolves into something ragged against your collarbone, his fingers tightening in the fabric of your sleep shirt. You feel the exact moment his breathing hitches, not from panic this time, but something quieter, more vulnerable. His nose presses into the hollow of your throat, damp and warm. "You're a terrible liar though," he murmurs, voice thick. "I know deep down you love my singing."

You snort, threading your fingers through his sleep-mussed hair. The morning light catches the silver strands at his temples, the ones he pretends not to notice. "I love you, Leon," you correct, squeezing the nape of his neck. "There's a difference."

His breath ghosts across your skin in a shaky exhale. For a long moment, he doesn't speak, just holds onto you like you're the only solid thing in a world that's spent years trying to shake him apart. When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are red-rimmed but clear, the blue nearly translucent in the sunlight. "Six hours," he repeats, like he's testing the shape of the words. His thumb brushes the curve of your hip, tentative. "That's... something, right?"

"You still take your coffee black, right?" You slide the steaming cup across the counter without looking up, already reaching for the next order ticket. The Griffin Café’s morning rush is in full swing, and all you can really hear is the overstimulating hum of the espresso grinder.

"Actually," a familiar voice says, low and amused, "I switched to oat milk lattes in Spain."

Your head snaps up so fast you feel the wind whistle near your ears. Leon leans against the counter, grinning like he’s won a fucking prize by surprising you. His hair’s a little longer, his shoulders broader under that stupidly cozy-looking sweater, but it’s him. Really him. Back from six months abroad and standing in front of you like he never left.

"You’re lying," you accuse, wiping your hands on your apron. "You’d never betray black coffee like that."

Leon laughs, the sound warm and rich like the espresso you’re currently tamping too hard to try and offset the excited shake of your hands. "Caught me," he admits, stealing a sugar packet from the counter and flicking it between his fingers. "But you should’ve seen your face." He leans in, just close enough for you to catch the faintest hint of his cologne; he’s switched to something woodsy, unfamiliar. Spain’s clearly still clinging to him in small, devastating ways.

You ignore how much that digs into your heart like a thorn.

The next customer clears their throat pointedly behind Leon, and you jerk back to reality, cheeks burning as you scramble to finish their mocha. Leon doesn’t move. He just watches you work, his elbow propped on the counter like he’s got all the time in the world. "You’re blocking the syrup station," you whine, nudging his arm with your hip. He shifts lazily, but his shit-eating grin doesn’t falter. God, how you want to throttle his little skinny ass sometimes.

By the time the lunch rush dies down, the sky outside the café’s wide windows has turned a sickly gray. Fat snowflakes start to stick to the pavement, and Mrs. Henderson from the bakery next door pops her head in to warn you about the storm warnings on the radio. Leon, who’s somehow talked his way into wiping down tables despite not being on the schedule, whistles low. "Looks like we might be stuck here a while," he says, nodding toward the blizzard brewing outside.

You roll your eyes, stacking ceramic mugs with more force than necessary. "Don’t sound so thrilled about it." The truth is, your stomach’s been doing something suspiciously close to somersaults since he walked in. Six months of carefully constructed indifference are crumbling in a single shift.

Leon flicks the damp rag he’s been using to wipe down tables over his shoulder and saunters back to the counter, his hips swaying just enough to make you bite the inside of your cheek to avoid grinning like a perverted idiot. "What, not happy to be trapped with me?" He leans across the marble, invading your space like he doesn’t understand the concept of a personal bubble. "Missed you too, y'know." The way he says it is what breaks you. He says it so softly, almost hesitantly, and it makes your fingers fumble with the espresso portafilter you’re cleaning with cafiza powder.

"Shut up," you mutter, but there’s no heat in it. The café’s empty now, the last customer having fled the mounting storm. Outside, snow piles against the windowpanes in thick, silent drifts. The overhead lights flicker once, ominously, almost warning of the inevitable blackout coming. Leon’s eyes dart to the ceiling, then back to you nervously. "Think the power’s gonna hold?"

Before you can answer, the front door rattles violently, not from wind, but from someone yanking at the locked handle. A bundled-up figure gestures frantically. Leon unlocks it, and an employee from the grocery store next door stumbles in, Sophie is her name- you think, her cheeks red from the cold. "Go home while you can," she gasps, shaking snow from her coat. "Roads are getting really fuckin’ bad.”

“Please be careful,” she says anxiously, and then she’s gone, swallowed by the whiteout beyond the glass. The door slams shut behind her, leaving you and Leon in sudden, weighted silence. The espresso machine gurgles weakly, as if exhausted by the day’s antics.

Leon exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate like he’s letting go of all the frustration he has in his very soul, before turning to you with that infuriating half-smirk back on his face. “So.” He digs into his backpack, pulling out a deck of cards wrapped in a rubber band. “Blackjack?”

“You carry playing cards in your bag?” you deadpan, but you’re already sliding onto a stool, elbows propped on the counter.

“What, like it’s weird?” He shuffles the deck, the cards snapping together with practiced ease. “Spain ruined me for solitude. Got used to filling the silence.” He deals without asking, flicking the cards across the marble with a precision that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. You pick up your cards, a seven and a queen, and try not to notice how his fingers linger when he brushes yours with the next card.

“Hit?” he asks, but his eyes aren’t on your cards. They’re on your mouth, your fingers, the way your curls escape from behind your ear when you lean forward. 

You swallow hard and toss a sugar packet onto the pile between you. “Hit me.”The card slides across the marble, a four. Fuck. You groan, tossing your hands up in aggravated defeat. “Busted, dammit.”

Leon’s grin is wicked as he sweeps the sugar packets toward himself. “That’s three for me,” he singsongs, stacking them neatly. The storm outside rattles the windows, the wind howling like it’s jealous of the warmth inside. The lights flicker again, and this time they don’t come back on fully, leaving the café bathed in the dim glow of the emergency lights.

You shiver, more from the way Leon’s watching you than the cold. “Cheater,” you mutter, just to have something to say. God, he looks good even in the worst lighting. 

Leon’s grin widens as he leans forward, elbows on the counter, the emergency lights casting long shadows across his face. “Me? Cheat?” He presses a hand to his chest like he’s scandalized, but his eyes, dark and amused, tell a different story. “You just suck at cards, sweetheart.” The pet name rolls off his tongue like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just sent your pulse skittering into arrhythmia like you’re having a fucking heart attack.

You huff and reach for the deck, your fingers brushing his as you shuffle. “Deal again.” The cards are slick with laminate in your hands, but Leon’s gaze is steadier, lingering on the way you bite your lip when you concentrate. The storm outside howls, the windows rattling in their frames, but the café feels unnaturally still, like the world has narrowed to this counter, this game, the space between his knee and yours beneath it.

He deals you a king and a six this time. You tap the marble twice, stay, and Leon’s smirk softens into something quieter when he flips his cards: a bust. “Looks like the cheater’s losing his touch,” you tease, but your voice comes out breathier than intended. Leon doesn’t miss it. His fingers drift across the counter, slow, deliberate, until his pinky hooks around yours.

The contact is electric. You freeze, your breath catching, and Leon’s thumb strokes the side of your hand like he’s testing the waters. “Missed this,” he murmurs, so low you almost don’t hear it over the wind. “Missed you.” The admission hangs between you, fragile and heavy all at once. Your chest tightens. Six months of carefully constructed distance, and here he is, unraveling you with a touch. One simple touch.

The deck slips from your fingers, cards scattering across the counter in a messy fan. Leon doesn’t move to pick them up. His hand tightens around yours, anchoring you in place as the storm outside batters the windows like it’s trying to get in. "Leon," you start, but his name comes out shaky, half-formed. His thumb strokes your knuckles, so tender you want to scream into the void, and the words die in your throat.

"You gonna make me say it first?" he practically coos, leaning in until the emergency lights catch the gold flecks in his eyes. His breath ghosts over your lips, warm and sweet with stolen sugar packets. "After six months of you dodging my texts, my calls-"

"You were in Spain, on another fucking continent," you protest weakly, but your fingers curl into his, betraying you. The counter digs into your ribs as you lean closer, drawn in by the gravity of him. Like he’s the sun and you’re just one of the fortunate planets orbiting him. 

Leon’s other hand lifts, hovering near your flushed cheek like he’s afraid you’ll bolt. "Yeah," he admits, voice rough. "And every fucking cathedral, every tapas bar, every- " He breaks off with a frustrated noise, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. "Everywhere I went, all I could think was she’d love this."

His thumb lingers on your lower lip, pressing just hard enough to make you gasp. Leon’s eyes darken at the sound, his grip tightening on your hand. “Say it,” he breathes, so close now you can count the faint freckles across his nose. “Tell me I’m not the only one who- ”

The power cuts out completely with a loud clunk, plunging the café into darkness save for the faint orange glow of the emergency exit sign. You yelp in fear, but Leon doesn’t flinch. His free hand slides up your arm, over your shoulder, until his fingers tangle in the curls at the nape of your neck. “Scared of the dark, cutie?” he teases, but his voice is uneven. 

“No, definitely not,” you lie, your pulse rabbiting under his touch.

Leon hums, low and knowing, his thumb tracing your jaw. “Liar.” Then his mouth crashes into yours, hot and insistent, and the world tilts. His lips are rough, demanding, like he’s been starving for this, and you melt into it, your fingers clutching his sweater as he drags you forward until your knees bump the counter.

The kiss is messy, desperate, all teeth and clumsy hands and the sharp intake of breath when Leon nips at your lower lip. His fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back just enough to deepen the angle, and you whimper against his mouth. He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your lips, before he pulls back just far enough to pluck them off your face and set them carefully on the counter. "Better," he murmurs, and then he’s kissing you again, slower this time, savoring the way you arch into him like a damn cat in sunlight.

His hands slide down your sides, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise before lifting you effortlessly onto the counter. The marble is cold through your jeans, but Leon’s body is a furnace as he steps between your thighs, his sweater scratching against your forearms where you cling to him. "Tell me," he whines between kisses, his voice rough. "Tell me you missed me too."

"You know I did," you gasp when his mouth finds the sensitive spot beneath your ear, his teeth scraping lightly. Leon hums, satisfied, but his hands are already moving, one sliding up your thigh, the other cupping your jaw to keep you from looking away as his fingers inch higher.

"You’re shaking so much," he observes, his thumb pressing against the seam of your jeans. You squirm, but he pins you with his hips, the hard line of him unmistakable even through layers of fabric. "God, you’re fucking adorable."

His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, skating over the dip of your waist, and you shudder, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Leon,” you gasp, but he swallows the sound with another kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your toes curl. The counter is cold beneath you, but his hands are everywhere, tugging at your belt, slipping under the wire of your bra, teasing the sensitive skin just above your waistband until you’re squirming.

“Say it properly,” he teases against your lips, his breath hot. “Say you want me.” His fingers pause, waiting, and the ache between your thighs is almost unbearable. You whine, arching into his touch, but Leon just raises an eyebrow, his smirk infuriatingly patient. “Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you choke out, your voice cracking. “God, yes, I want you, Leon.”

His hand slides down, cupping your cunt through your jeans, and the pressure is so sudden, so perfect, that you cry out, your hips jerking against his palm. “Good girl,” he praises, nipping at your jaw as his fingers work the button of your jeans open. The zipper follows, agonizingly slow, and you’re about to beg when he finally slides his hand beneath your panties, his fingers slick and sure as they stroke you.

His fingers curl just right against that spot that makes your vision whiten, and you gasp, your thighs clamping around his wrist as he laughs low in your ear. “Easy,” he soothes, but his own breathing is ragged, his hips grinding against yours in a way that tells you he’s just as far gone. The storm outside is a distant roar compared to the sound of your own heartbeat, the wet slide of his fingers as he pushes a second one inside, stretching you with a precision that shouldn’t be possible when he’s kissing you like this.

You arch off the counter, your fingers scrabbling at his shoulders as he crooks his fingers, hitting that spot that makes your back bow. “Leon- hah- God-” His name spills from your lips like a prayer, broken and breathless, and he swallows it with another kiss, his teeth catching your lower lip when you whimper. His thumb circles your puffy clit, almost mean, and the coil in your gut tightens until you’re shaking, your thighs trembling around his hand. “I- I’m gonna-”

Leon nips at your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. “Yeah?” His fingers slow, just enough to tease, and you nearly sob from the denial. “Let me hear you,” he coaxes, his voice rough with want. “Come on, sweetheart. Let go, wanna see you make a mess on this damn counter.”

The command shatters you. You cum hard, small spurts of liquid squirting out around Leon’s thick fingers, your hips jerking against his hand as you sob, your fingers clutching his sweater like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored. Leon groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he works you through it, his fingers gentling only when you squirm from oversensitivity.

Leon’s fingers slow to a stop, but he doesn’t pull away, just presses a kiss to your trembling shoulder, his lips lingering against your damp skin. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re a little super soaker, aren’t you, baby?” His free hand smoothes up your thigh, pushing your jeans down just enough to expose the mess you’ve made of his fingers, the counter beneath you. The sight sends a fresh wave of heat through you, and you bury your face in his shoulder with a whine. “Embarrassed?” he teases, nipping at your jaw. “After all that mess you just made?”

You groan in embarrassment, but Leon just laughs fondly before lifting you off the counter entirely. Your legs wobble, but his arm snakes around your waist, holding you steady as he grabs a handful of napkins from the dispenser. “Here,” he murmurs, wiping his fingers clean before turning his attention to you, his touch absurdly gentle for someone who just had you coming apart on his hand. The contrast makes your stomach flip.

Outside, the storm rages on, the wind howling against the windows, but inside, the café feels like a world apart, warm and hazy in the dim emergency light. Leon’s hands drift to the hem of your shirt, hesitating. “This okay?” he asks, and the way he checks in, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, makes your chest ache. You nod, and he tugs the fabric over your head, his breath catching when he sees you properly. “My god,” he breathes, fingertips tracing the lace rim of your bra like it’s something precious.

You reach for his sweater, but he catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Let me, ‘kay?” he murmurs, and then he’s stripping his own clothes off with an efficiency that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. His sweater hits the floor, followed by his shirt, and then he’s back in your space, skin warm against yours as he crowds you against the counter again. His jeans are still half-buttoned, the outline of him straining against the fabric, and you lick your lips without thinking. Leon groans, his fingers tightening on your hips. “Don’t look at me like that unless you mean it,” he warns, but his voice is wrecked. 

Leon’s hands slide up your ribs, thumbs brushing the underwire of your bra before he unhooks it with practiced ease. The cold air hits your skin, but his mouth follows, hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing down your collarbone, teeth grazing your nipple until you gasp and arch into him. “Tease,” you accuse dramatically, fingers tangling in his hair as he chuckles against your skin.

“You love it,” he chuckles, nipping at the soft swell of your breast before his hands skate down to your waistband, tugging your jeans and panties down in one rough motion. The counter is cold against your bare ass, but Leon’s hands are warm as they spread your thighs wider, his grip firm. “Fuck, look at you,” he rasps, eyes dark with want. “All worked up and still blushing.” His thumb strokes your inner thigh, the touch featherlight compared to the way his gaze pins you.

You squirm, but he holds you still, his other hand unbuckling his belt with a sharp click. The sound makes your pulse spike. Leon’s jeans drop, and then he’s pressing against you, the thick heat of him sliding through the wet mess you made in a way that drags a whine from your throat. “Tell me,” he demands, voice rough as he grips himself, rubbing the head of his cock against your raw clit in slow, maddening circles. “Tell me how bad you want it. Wanna’ hear it- no, need to hear it.”

“Please,” you choke out, hips canting up, but Leon tuts, withdrawing just enough to make you whimper. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you down as he lines himself up, the tip pressing against your entrance. “Leon- please- don’t tease.”

His name breaks into a gasp as he pushes in, his grip on your hips ironclad as he lets you feel every inch. The stretch burns in the best way, his breath hot against your neck as he pauses, shuddering. “Holy shit,” he grits out, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re tight.” His hips jerk involuntarily, and you whine, nails scraping down his back. “Easy, sweetheart,” he soothes, but his voice is wrecked, his muscles trembling with restraint.

Leon pulls out just as slowly, dragging a moan from you, before snapping his hips forward hard enough to make your back arch off the counter. “There- that spot- hah-” you cry out, and he practically whimpers, his fingers digging into your thighs as he sets a punishing rhythm, deep, relentless strokes that have you seeing stars. The counter rattles beneath you, glasses clinking in the nearby sink, but Leon doesn’t slow, his mouth finding yours in a messy kiss that’s more teeth than tongue.

One hand slides between you, thumb circling your clit in time with his thrusts, and you cry out, your legs hooking around his waist to pull him deeper. “That’s it, look at you, doing so well, pretty girl,” he praises, nipping at your jaw. “Take it, sweetheart. Take me.” His pace stutters when you clench around him, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your neck. “Gonna cum,” he warns, but his fingers don’t stop, rubbing tight circles until you’re shaking, your thighs clamping around him as pleasure crests again.

You cum with a cry, your body bowing off the counter as he fucks you through it, his rhythm turning erratic. Leon’s hips stutter once, then twice, and then he buries himself deep with a choked off whimper, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he spills inside you, hot and sinfully perfect. His hips jerk lazily, drawing out the last of it, before he stills, breath hot against your skin. Little masochist.

Leon’s breathing slows first, his chest rising and falling against yours in a steady rhythm that makes your own heartbeat start to settle. He presses a kiss to your shoulder softly, almost apologetic, before carefully pulling out, his hands lingering on your hips as if he’s reluctant to let go. You shiver at the loss, the cold air hitting your damp skin, but Leon’s already reaching for his discarded sweater, draping it over your shoulders with a tenderness that makes your throat tighten. “Cold?” he almost whispers, tucking the fabric around you, his thumbs brushing your collarbone soothingly.

You nod, but you’re not sure it’s the temperature making you tremble. Leon’s eyes flicker over your face, reading you too easily, and he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “Hey,” he whispers, his voice rough but warm. “Okay?” You nod again, and his lips curve into a smile, slow and satisfied. “Good.” He kisses you then, chaste but so sweet, before straightening and offering you his hand. “C’mon. Let’s get off this damn counter before you freeze.”

Your legs wobble when your feet hit the floor, but Leon’s arm snakes around your waist, holding you steady. He chuckles when you glare at him, his grin unrepentant. “Don’t look at me like that,” he teases, nudging your nose with his. “You’re the one who just came twice.” You swat at his chest, but he catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm before tugging you toward the café’s lounge area. The plush couches are bathed in the dim glow of the emergency lights, and Leon kicks aside a stray chair, clearing space near the fireplace. “Stay here,” he orders, squeezing your hand before disappearing into the back.

He returns with an armful of spare staff-only blankets and pillows, draping them over the largest couch with the precision of someone who’s made a habit of building forts. You make a mental note to ask later.

Leon’s hands work fast, arranging the blankets into a makeshift nest near the crackling fireplace, still lit from earlier, casting flickering shadows across his bare shoulders. You watch, legs still unsteady, as he fluffs a pillow with unnecessary force before tossing it onto the pile. “There,” he mutters, wiping his hands on his jeans before turning to you. His smirk falters when he sees you still standing there, his sweater swallowing you whole. “Jesus, you’re shivering.”

He crosses the space in two strides, hands sliding under the sweater to grip your waist, thumbs brushing your hipbones. “Should’ve warmed you up first,” he says, almost like he’s scolding himself, lips grazing your forehead before he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you to the couch like you weigh nothing. The blankets are soft against your bare skin, still warm from where they’d been tucked near the heater. Leon tucks you in with a precision that borders on obsessive, adjusting the pillows behind your head until you’re cocooned in warmth.

“Comfy?” he asks, kneeling beside the couch. His hair is mussed, lips swollen from kissing, and you nod, reaching out to trace the faint scar above his eyebrow, a relic from his childhood he’d never explained properly. Leon catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before letting go to rummage through his bag. He pulls out a hair tie, your hair tie, the one you’d lost months ago, and holds it up with a smirk. “Kept it.”

You blink. “You- what? Why?”

Leon shrugs, the gesture too casual for the way his fingers tighten around the hair tie. "Found it in my pocket the day I left for Spain." He shifts closer, knees bumping the edge of the couch as his free hand brushes your curls back from your forehead. "Couldn’t bring myself to throw it out." His thumb traces your cheekbone, lingering at the corner of your mouth where he’d bitten you earlier. "Turn around."

You hesitate, but the look in his eyes has you rolling onto your stomach before you can overthink it. Leon’s fingers sink into your curls immediately, gathering them with a gentleness that belies the roughness of his touch minutes ago. "Your hair’s a mess," he sighs in fake disdain, but there’s no real annoyance in it, just something warm and fond that makes your chest ache painfully. 

The hair tie snaps into place with a soft snap, securing your curls into a loose bun at the nape of your neck. Leon’s palm skates down your spine, pausing at the dip of your lower back where the blankets have slipped. "Better?" he murmurs, lips brushing your shoulder blade.

You nod, but the motion is interrupted by a sudden yawn that cracks your jaw. Leon chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin as he tugs the blankets higher. "Exhausted, huh?" His voice is smug, but his hands are tender as they smooth over your ribs, tucking the edges of the sweater beneath you where it’s ridden up.

Leon’s hands pause at your waist, fingertips tracing idle circles through the fabric of his sweater. “Stay awake for me,” he insists, but his own voice is thick with exhaustion, the adrenaline of earlier fading into the quiet hum of the storm outside. The fireplace crackles, casting flickering light across his face when he leans over you, close enough that his breath ghosts over your cheekbone. “Gotta take your meds first.”

"You- " Your breath hitches when Leon’s fingers brush your temple, tucking a stray curl behind your ear with a tenderness that shouldn’t surprise you anymore. "How do you even know about my meds?"

Leon’s hand stills. For a heartbeat, the only sound is the fire popping and the wind clawing at the windows. Then he exhales, slow and deliberate, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear like he’s memorizing the shape. "You really think I wouldn’t notice?" His voice is softer now, stripped of its usual teasing edge. "You take them every shift at 9:15 PM. Always with that shitty chamomile tea you pretend to like because the cafe’s out of peppermint, since all the customers like that fake fucking medicinal tea thing from TikTok."

The specificity punches the air from your lungs. Leon’s gaze doesn’t waver, steady as his fingers find yours beneath the blankets, lacing them together. "You- " You swallow. "You kept track?"

"Christ." He chuckles in disbelief and drags a hand down his face. "You’re killing me with your obliviousness." The firelight catches the gold in his eyes when he leans in, close enough that his next words vibrate against your lips. "I memorized your schedule before I left. Knew you’d forget to eat if no one reminded you. Knew you’d skip breaks if the lunch rush ran late." His thumb presses into your pulse point, right where it’s rabbiting. "Knew you’d pretend you weren’t shaking after your three p.m.  espresso. You never take care of yourself first. It worries me.”

Your breath hitches. Leon’s expression does something complicated. Fondness and frustration warring in the set of his jaw, before he reaches for your oversized tote bag beside the couch. He unzips the front pocket without hesitation, fingers closing around the orange prescription bottle you keep tucked behind your banged-up wallet. "Here." He shakes two pills into his palm like it’s routine, like he’s done this a hundred times in his head. "Water’s in my bag. Let me- "

"You’re infuriating," you blurt, but your voice cracks halfway through. Leon freezes, the pills cupped in his palm like an offering. The fire casts long shadows across his bare shoulders, highlighting the tension in his frame. "You fucking you memorized my medication schedule but couldn’t just say something before you left?"

Leon’s jaw clenches. For a second, you think he’ll deflect, crack a joke maybe, try to change the subject. But then his shoulders slump, and he presses the pills into your hand with a sigh. "I tried." His voice is raw. "That last shift before my flight? I waited forty fucking minutes by the dumpster out back because I heard you tell Claire you were taking the trash out." His fingers flex against your knee. "You never showed."

The memory slots into place with dizzying clarity, Claire grabbing your wrist at the last minute, insisting you help restock the syrup shelf instead. Your stomach lurches. "Oh."

Leon exhales sharply through his nose, fingers tightening around your knee before he forces them to relax. "Yeah. Oh." His voice is rough, but his thumb brushes your kneecap absently, like he can't help touching you even when he's frustrated. "Fucking syrup." The word comes out mangled, halfway between a laugh and a groan.

You swallow the pills dry, throat clicking, and Leon immediately scowls, snatching his water bottle from the floor. "Don’t do that, drink now," he practically growls in frustration, unscrewing the cap with too much force. The water sloshes when he shoves it into your hands, his gaze heavy on your throat as you swallow. "Infuriating," he echoes, but his voice has gone soft again, like he can’t stay mad at you for only so long, his fingers skimming your ankle where it's slipped free of the blankets.

The fire pops, sending embers skittering across the hearth. Leon watches them instead of you, jaw working. "Wrote you a letter," he admits suddenly, the words quiet in the space between you. "Left it in your locker with my spare key. Thought…" He breaks off, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Thought you'd find it when you got off shift."

Your stomach drops. "Leon."

Leon shakes his head before you can finish, his fingers curling around your ankle like he's afraid you'll vanish. "Don't," he cuts you off, thumb tracing the delicate bone. "Claire told me you never checked your locker that day. Too busy crying in the walk-in over spoiled milk." His lips twitch despite himself. "Dramatic as hell."

You kick him half-heartedly, but he catches your foot, pressing a kiss to your instep that makes your toes curl. "You were gone six months," you whisper. The firelight catches the silver chain around his neck. You’ve never seen it before today, and your breath hitches when you recognize that it’s a tiny espresso cup charm dangling from it. He must’ve gotten it to remind him of home. Of you. Oh god.

Leon follows your gaze, his expression softening. "Kept it on the whole time," he admits, rubbing the charm between his fingers. "Airport security fucking hated me. Probably thought, why does this grown man have a charm necklace on?" His laugh is rough, but his fingers are gentle when they brush your cheek, wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized escaped. "No sad tears," he soothes lovingly, repeating his earlier warning, but his voice cracks on the last word. Cheater.

You surge forward, knocking the water bottle over in your haste to kiss him. Leon makes a startled noise against your mouth but doesn’t pull away, just settles into the couch and grips your hips, hauling you into his lap as the blankets slide to the floor. His skin is warm against yours, the chain pressing cool between your collarbones as you clutch at his shoulders.

Leon’s hands tighten on your hips as the kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, aching rhythm that makes your pulse spike. The water bottle rolls forgotten across the floor, but neither of you moves to grab it, too caught up in the way his fingers dig into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. When you finally pull back, breathless, his forehead drops to yours with a quiet thud. "Missed you," he murmurs, voice raw. The admission hangs between you, simple and devastating.

The fire pops, casting flickering light across his face, and you trace the scar above his eyebrow again, your thumb brushing the corner of his eye where his lashes flutter shut. "You have it?" you whisper. "The letter?"

Leon exhales sharply, his grip shifting to your waist as he leans back just enough to reach into his discarded messenger bag. The paper is crumpled, edges softened from months in his bag, but the creases are deliberate, folded and refolded like he’s read it a hundred times, ruminating on what he wrote. He hesitates before pressing it into your palm, his fingers lingering. "Don’t laugh," he begs, avoiding your gaze.

Like you’d ever laugh at this.

The paper smells faintly of his cologne and something else, Spain, maybe- no, that’s stupid, or maybe it’s the ghost of airport security scanners. You unfold it carefully, heart hammering, and Leon’s breath hitches when your fingers brush the ink. His handwriting is messier than you remember, lines scratched out and rewritten like he couldn’t get the words right.

The letter trembles in your hands, the words blurring as your eyes skim the first line: If you’re reading this, I chickened out again. Leon shifts beside you, his knee bouncing restlessly against the couch, but his fingers stay tangled in the hem of his sweater where it drapes over your thighs, anchoring you both.

"You wrote this the day you left?" you whisper, tracing the smudged ink where the pen had dug too deep.

Leon’s throat bobs. "Rewrote it three times," he admits, voice rough. "First draft was... a lot." His thumb brushes your kneecap absently, his gaze fixed on the fire like he can’t bear to watch you read it. "Figured ‘I’m in love with you, please wait for me’ was too strong for a goodbye note."

The paper crackles as your grip tightens. His words sink in slowly, each syllable punching the air from your lungs. I think about you when I’m supposed to be studying. I save the croissants you like from the pastry case even though they’re always stale by mid-afternoon. I keep your hair tie around my wrist like some pathetic Victorian heroine hoping when I come home you’ll still be there. The ink bleeds where the pen had hesitated: I don’t know how to do this without you.

The firelight flickers across the page, illuminating the last line: Come find me if you miss me too. Your throat tightens, fingers trembling against the worn paper. Leon exhales sharply beside you, his knee still bouncing against the couch like he’s bracing for impact. "Well?" he rasps, voice scraped raw. "Gonna say something?"

You swallow hard, the words lodging in your chest like shrapnel. The letter crumples slightly in your grip as you turn to him, tracing the tension in his jaw with your gaze. "You- " Your voice cracks. "You left this in my locker?"

Leon’s fingers twitch against your thigh, his thumb digging into the fabric of his sweater where it drapes over your skin. "Yeah," he mutters, eyes darting to the fire. "And then you fucking cried over milk for half of your closing shift instead of checking your goddamn locker, like I had planned."

A laugh punches out of you, wet, and disbelieving, and Leon’s gaze snaps back to you, his brow furrowing. "You’re impossible," you whisper, pressing the letter to your chest like it might steady your heartbeat. "Six months. You could’ve just- "

Leon cuts you off with a sharp, desperate kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair as he drags you closer. "Couldn't," he breathes against your lips, voice ragged. "Not over fucking text." His thumb digs into your hipbone, pressing hard enough to bruise, but you don't pull away. You just clutch the crumpled letter tighter. "Wanted to see your face when you read it."

The fire pops, sending sparks skittering across the hearth, and Leon exhales sharply through his nose, his forehead dropping to yours. "Every time I tried to call," he murmurs, thumb tracing your jaw, "I pictured you reading that goddamn letter in the break room, and- " His voice cracks. "Couldn't do it."

You press the worn paper between your palms, the edges digging into your skin. "I would've answered," you whisper, and Leon's breath hitches, his grip tightening on your waist like he's afraid you'll vanish. "Even if you'd just... sent a picture of this."

Leon groans, the sound rough against your throat as he kisses you again, harder this time, teeth catching your bottom lip. "Fuck," he mutters, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide in the firelight. "You really would've, huh?"

You nod, fingers tightening around the letter until the edges bite into your palm. Leon exhales sharply, his grip on your hips shifting like he doesn’t know whether to shake you or pull you closer. “Christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Six fucking months of torture because you couldn’t take out the damn trash like you were supposed to, or check your damn locker. Your lack of time management skills tortures me sometimes, sweetheart.” His voice cracks on the last word, equal parts exasperation and longing, and something in your chest splinters.

Leon’s fingers trace the curve of your hip beneath his sweater, his touch featherlight despite the tension in his jaw. “You kept it, though,” you whisper, thumb brushing the crumpled edge of the letter. “All this time.”

“Obviously,” he scoffs, but there’s no heat in it, just a raw, aching honesty that makes your breath catch. His thumb presses into the dip of your waist, right where his belt had bitten into your skin earlier. “Couldn’t throw it away. Not when…” He breaks off, jaw working, and you watch the firelight flicker across his face as he struggles with the words. “Not when it was the closest thing I had to you half the world away.”

The admission hangs between you, heavy and fragile, and Leon’s gaze drops to your mouth like he’s memorizing the shape of your lips. Outside, the wind howls against the windows, but the fire pops, startling you both into quiet, relieved giggles. Leon’s fingers tighten on your hips, his thumbs brushing the bruises he’d left earlier with a reverence that makes your stomach flip.

Leon’s fingers trace the hem of his sweater where it clings to your thighs, his touch unbearably soft compared to the roughness of his voice when he finally speaks. “Read it,” he prompts, nudging the letter still pressed between your palms. “Out loud.” The request is quiet, almost hesitant, and you blink up at him, the firelight catching the gold flecks in his eyes.

Your throat tightens as you unfold the paper again, fingers trembling against the worn edges. Leon’s breath hitches when you start reading, his grip on your hips tightening imperceptibly. “‘If you’re reading this,’” you start again, voice cracking, “‘I chickened out again.’”

Leon exhales sharply through his nose, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as you continue. His lips brush your skin with every ragged breath, warm and damp, as you read his confession aloud, every word he’d scribbled, every desperate line he’d folded and refolded like a prayer. When you reach the end, his arms slide around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

“Say it back,” he begs, voice raw against your neck. His fingers dig into your ribs, not quite painful, but enough to make you gasp. “Please.”

Your breath catches in your throat, the letter trembling against Leon’s chest where he’s pulled you tight. His heartbeat thunders under your palm, rapid and unsteady, and you press closer, curling your fingers into the warm skin of his back. “Leon,” you whisper, but his name fractures on your lips, barely audible over the storm outside.

He doesn’t rush you. Just holds you there, his breath hot against your temple, his hands sliding up your spine beneath his sweater with agonizing patience. When you finally tilt your head back to meet his gaze, his eyes are dark, and his pupils are blown wide, not with lust this time, but something raw and vulnerable. “I missed you,” you try, thumb brushing the hinge of his jaw. “Every damn day.”

Leon’s breath stutters, his grip tightening imperceptibly before he exhales, slow and deliberate. “That’s not what I asked,” he teases, but there’s no bite to it. His thumb traces your bottom lip, dragging it down slightly before releasing it with a soft pop. “Say it properly.”

The firelight flickers across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the way his lashes flutter when your fingers slide into his hair. “I love you,” you try again, and Leon’s entire body goes rigid, his breath hitching audibly. The words hang between you, fragile and weightless, and for a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Leon's grip on your hips goes slack for a fraction of a second, just long enough for you to register the way his pupils dilate further. Then he's surging forward, his mouth crashing into yours with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs. The letter flutters to the floor, forgotten, as his hands fist in his own sweater still draped over your shoulders, dragging you impossibly closer. You’re sure if he could drag you beneath his skin, he’d try at this point.

"You- " He bites the word into your lower lip, teeth dragging just shy of painful before he soothes it with his tongue. "Fucking- " His hands slide up to cradle your face, thumbs pressing into the hinges of your jaw as he kisses you again, deeper this time, like he's trying to carve the confession from your lungs. "Say it again," he demands against your mouth, voice wrecked.

"I- love- you- " you gasp between his onslaught of kisses, and Leon makes a noise halfway between a whimper and a happy sob, his forehead dropping to yours with a thud. His fingers tremble where they tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to make you arch into him.

"Six months," he groans, the words ragged. His lips skate down your throat, pausing to suck a bruise into the pulse point there. "Six fucking months of pretending I didn't want this," He breaks off with a sharp exhale, his teeth scraping your collarbone. "Christ. Should've thrown you over my shoulder and dragged you to Spain with me."

Leon’s laughter is rough against your skin as he kisses his way back up your throat, his fingers tightening in your hair when you squirm. “Okay?” he checks in, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. The firelight catches the flush high on his cheeks, the way his lashes flutter when your fingers trace the curve of his ear. You nod, but the motion is sluggish, exhaustion and the lingering haze of pleasure making your limbs heavy. Leon’s smirk softens at the edges, his thumb brushing the swell of your bottom lip. “Good girl. Stay awake long enough for me to get you under the blankets properly. Can’t have you die from hyperthemia right after confessing your undying devotion to me, right?”

He shifts, lifting you effortlessly despite your halfhearted protest, and the sudden movement makes you yelp, fingers scrambling for purchase against his shoulders. Leon chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest as he adjusts his grip, one arm hooked beneath your knees while the other supports your back. “Relax,” he chuckles, lips brushing your temple. “I’ve got you, promise.”

The nest of blankets is warm when he lowers you onto it properly this time, the fire casting flickering shadows across his torso as he kneels beside you. His movements are methodical, tucking the edges around your shoulders, adjusting the pillow beneath your head, but his fingers linger at the hollow of your throat, tracing the bruise he’d left earlier with something akin to reverence. “Leon,” you reach for him sleepily, catching his wrist before he can pull away. His pulse jumps beneath your fingertips, rapid and uneven.

He exhales sharply through his nose, his free hand coming up to card through your curls. “Yeah?”

His thumb traces the shell of your ear as he waits for you to speak. The fire pops behind him, casting gold across the sharp angles of his face, and you swallow hard, suddenly hyperaware of the way his gaze dips to your throat when your pulse flutters. "Stay," you slur, fingers tightening around his wrist. The word hangs between you, fragile as the snow piling against the windows.

Leon stills. For a heartbeat, the only sound is the wind howling through the cafe's eaves and the quiet hitch of his breath when your thumb brushes his racing pulse. Then his shoulders slump, a ragged exhale escaping him as he leans down to press his forehead to yours. "Not leaving,” he soothes, voice sleepy. "Like I could leave now. Snow’s got us trapped anyway." His fingers skim your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. The firelight catches the gold in his eyes, warm and impossibly fond, as he drags the pad of his thumb across your lower lip. "Move over, cutie."

You shift obediently, the blankets rustling as Leon slides in beside you, his body a solid line of heat against your back. His arm hooks around your waist, tugging you flush against his chest with a quiet grunt. "Better?" he asks, lips brushing the nape of your neck where your hair has begun to escape its bun in tendrils. You nod, pressing into him with a contented sigh, and Leon hums approvingly, his hand splaying across your stomach beneath his borrowed sweater.

Outside, the storm rages, wind rattling the windows, snow piling in drifts against the door, but here, cocooned in soft blankets with Leon's breath warm against your shoulder, the world feels impossibly small. Safe. His fingers trace idle patterns through the fabric, skating higher until his palm settles over your ribs, right where your heartbeat thrums beneath his touch. "Still awake?" he asks, his eyes still shut and his voice thick with exhaustion.

Leon’s fingers twitch against your ribs when you don’t answer right away. You can feel the exact moment he realizes you’ve drifted off; his breath hitches, then evens out deliberately slow against the back of your neck. “Yeah, that’s good,” he praises to the empty air, lips brushing your shoulder blade. “Get some rest, baby.”

His arm tightens around your waist as he shifts, careful not to jostle you as he reaches over to tug the blankets higher. The sweater he’d draped over you earlier, his sweater, still smelling faintly of his cologne and the airport, rides up when you curl into him, and Leon exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers skating along the exposed strip of skin above your hipbone. “Too cute,” he thinks out loud.

____________

The fire pops later in the night, startling you both awake, and Leon’s hand splays across your stomach instinctively, holding you steady. “Shh, you’re okay, you’re safe, m’here,” he soothes when you tense, thumb brushing over the dip of your navel through the fabric. “Just the fire, kay?” His voice is rough with exhaustion, but his fingers are gentle as they trace the hem of the sweater where it’s ridden up your thighs. “Go back to sleep.”

__________

Leon’s fingers twitch against your ribs when you stir hours later, his grip tightening reflexively before softening again as you blink awake. The fire has burned low, casting the cafe in amber shadows, and for a disorienting moment, you can’t remember where the fuck you are. Then Leon shifts behind you, his exhale warm against the nape of your neck, and the events of the night come crashing back. His arm tightens around your waist when you try to turn, a quiet grunt escaping him. “Stay put,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep. His lips brush your shoulder blade, lingering over the bruise he’d sucked into your skin earlier. “Too early. Don’ wanna.”

You crane your neck to peer at the windows, where dawn struggles to penetrate the relentless snowfall. The storm has eased slightly, but fat flakes still swirl beyond the glass, piling in drifts against the door. Leon’s hand slides up your stomach beneath the sweater, his palm settling over your sternum where your heartbeat stutters at his touch. “Told you,” he chuckles sleepily, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. “Nowhere to go, cutie.” His voice is smug, but his fingers tremble faintly against your skin.

You twist in his arms despite his muttered protests, rolling onto your back to face him properly. Leon’s hair is mussed from sleep, his bangs flopping into his eyes, and the sight sends a pang of affection straight to your chest. His gaze drops to your mouth immediately, lashes fluttering when you reach up to brush his hair back. “Hi,” you giggle, and Leon exhales sharply through his nose, his grip on your hipbone tightening.

Leon's fingers twitch against your hipbone, not pulling you closer, not pushing you away, just touching like he still can't believe you're here. His throat works when you trace the curve of his ear, your thumb brushing the shell of it with deliberate slowness. "Morning," he rasps, voice wrecked from sleep. His lips stretch into a lazy grin when your fingers drift lower, skating along his jawline.

The storm outside has softened to a quiet hush, snowflakes drifting past the windows in lazy spirals. Leon's gaze flicks toward them briefly before settling back on your face, his lashes casting shadows across his cheeks in the low light. His fingers flex against your skin, warm and rough, and you press closer instinctively, arching into his touch with a sigh.

Leon makes a noise low in his throat in amusement and rolls onto his back, dragging you with him until you're sprawled across his chest. "Christ," he groans, his hands sliding up your spine beneath the sweater. "You're gonna kill me. You’re all soft and warm- fuck me," His voice is rough, but his fingers are so gentle as they trace the notches of your vertebrae, pausing at the nape of your neck to toy with the loose strands of your hair escaping the confines of the bun Leon made the night before. 

You prop yourself up on his chest, elbows digging into his ribs just enough to make him grunt, and Leon's lips twitch, halfway between a smirk and a grimace, when you tilt your head at him. "What?" he teases, fingers brushing through your curls. The gold in his eyes is brighter in the dawn light, pupils still blown wide with sleep and something softer you can't name.

"What was Spain like? You haven't told me anything yet."

Leon’s fingers pause mid-twirl in your curls when you ask about his first week in Spain. He huffs a laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest beneath your cheek. “Got lost three times trying to find my dorm,” he admits, thumb brushing the shell of your ear. “Kept turning the wrong way down alleys because- fuck- the sidewalks were narrower than I thought.” His fingers resume their idle twisting, separating a stubborn tangle with careful precision. “Found this tiny bakery by accident, though. Owner kept giving me free churros because I, ‘looked like a sad puppy.’”

You snort, and Leon pinches your hip in retaliation, but his grip loosens immediately when you squirm. “They were right,” you tease into his collarbone, and Leon’s groan is undercut by the way his arms tighten around you. His palm slides up your spine beneath the sweater, warm and grounding, as he describes the cobblestone streets at dawn, how the smell of frying dough and bitter coffee would seep through his window. His voice dips lower when he mentions writing letters he never sent, fingers stilling in your hair.

The confession hangs between you, fragile as the icicles forming outside. You twist carefully, draping yourself over his chest to watch the snow drift past the windows. Leon’s hands settle on your waist, thumbs tracing your hipbones through the fabric as you tell him about the lavender honey tarts you perfected during his absence, how Mrs. Henderson from the flower shop would bring in fresh sprigs every Thursday in exchange for a few danishes.

“Missed your baking,” Leon muses into your hair. His nose brushes your temple when you mention the failed attempts at chocolate-orange croissants, lips quirking against your skin. “Would’ve traded every fucking churro in Madrid for one of your cinnamon rolls. Nothing beats your treats.”

The admission is so soft you almost miss it, but Leon doesn’t let you dwell; his fingers resume their lazy path through your curls, separating a stubborn knot near your nape with exaggerated patience. “Tell me about the- what was it? The thing with cardamom you mentioned before I left,” he prompts, nudging your knee with his own. His touch lingers, roughened fingertips skating along your inner thigh beneath the sweater’s hem.

You swallow hard, recounting the disastrous first batch where you’d confused teaspoons for tablespoons. Leon’s laughter rumbles beneath you, his grip shifting to cradle you closer as you describe the smoke alarm incident. His thumb finds the hollow behind your ear, pressing gently when your voice wavers, some unspoken reassurance that he’s listening, that he cares about these mundane details that filled his absence.

Outside, the wind shifts, no longer hurling snow against the glass with the same violence. Leon notices before you do, his gaze flicking toward the windows where the light has softened to a dull silver. “Looks like we might make it out before dinner,” he observes, but his arms don’t loosen around you. His palm slides up to cradle the back of your skull, fingers tightening in your hair when you try to sit up. “Not yet,” he adds, quieter now. His lips brush your forehead before settling against your hairline. “Give it another hour.”

_____________

The snow has dwindled to sparse flurries by the time you finish righting the café, chairs straightened, espresso machines wiped down, the makeshift bed by the fireplace dismantled with fake confidence under Leon’s hands. He catches you staring at the counter where he’d pinned you hours earlier, his smirk sharpening when your cheeks burn. “Later, little demon,” he teases, hooking his pinky with yours as he passes you the spare keys to lock up.

Outside, the parking lot glitters under a thin crust of ice, the morning sun fracturing across its surface. You’re halfway to your beat-up Honda when the sound of boots skidding on ice makes you turn. Only to see Leon sprinting back toward you with the reckless abandon of a man who’s spent six months dreaming of this. He crashes into you, palms cradling your face as he kisses you breathless against your car door, his mouth warm and insistent. “Come over,” he demands between kisses, teeth catching your lower lip. “Tonight. For dinner. For- fuck- for anything. God, for everything. Please.”

You laugh happily into his mouth, hands fisting in his jacket as he nips at your jaw. “You’re ridiculous,” you giggle, but Leon just groans, clearly embarrassed, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Say yes,” he mutters into your collar, fingers digging into your hips. “Or I’ll follow you home like a stray. Don’t test me, sweetheart.”

The threat shouldn’t send heat pooling low in your stomach, but Leon’s always had a way of turning even his most absurd declarations into something devastatingly earnest. You card your fingers through his wind-tangled hair, relishing the way he shivers at your touch. “What are you cooking?” you tease, and Leon stiffens, before lifting his head with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Takeout?” he tries sheepishly. “But I’ll plate it fancy.” His thumbs brush your cheekbones, his gaze dropping to your mouth again. “Say yes.”

You do, of course, you fucking do, and the way Leon’s entire body sags with relief would be comical if it didn’t make your chest ache. He kisses you again, slower this time, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you’re dizzy with it. “Good,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Now go home and sleep some more. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Leon doesn’t let you leave without one last kiss, well, three last kisses, his hands roaming your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you, and by the time you’re finally in your car, your lips are swollen and your hair is a frizzy mess. You watch him through the windshield as he jogs backward toward his Jeep, his grin sharp even from a distance. He doesn’t look away until you’ve pulled out of the lot, his silhouette growing smaller in your rearview mirror until the snow swallows him whole.

______________

Your apartment feels ridiculously empty after the intimacy of the café, the quiet pressing against your eardrums like cotton. You peel off his sweater, still warm from his body, and fold it carefully on your pillow before collapsing face-first into the mattress. Sleep comes in fits and starts, interrupted by phantom touches, Leon’s hands on your hips, his teeth at your throat, until your alarm jolts you awake at six.

The shower does little to clear the haze of exhaustion, steam curling around your shoulders as you scrub at the lingering marks Leon left on your collarbones. You’re halfway through detangling your curls with conditioner when your phone buzzes- three rapid-fire vibrations that send your pulse skittering.

Leon: downstairs. brought coffee. 

Leon: also ur favorite almond croissant from that place u like 

Leon: hurry up i’m freezing my ass off out here babe

The sight of him leaning against his Jeep steals your breath, black jeans clinging to his thighs, sleeves rolled up to expose the corded muscle of his forearms. Snowflakes cling to his lashes as he lifts his head, his grin widening when he spots you in the doorway. “There you are,” he grins, pushing off the hood to meet you halfway. His hands cradle the coffee cup against your cheek, the heat seeping into your skin as he leans down to kiss you. “Missed you,” he admits against your lips, voice rough.

“You saw me literally 5 hours ago, Leon,” you deadpan, running your hands through his snow-kissed hair.

“And? That’s not what I said. I said I missed you.” Leon responds, his teasing smirk so large you almost want to smack it off his face. 

Leon's fingers are icy when he presses the coffee into your hands. The almond croissant dangles from his other hand, its paper wrapper already damp with melted snowflakes. “Eat this in the car,” he orders, pinching your thigh when you protest that you’re about to eat dinner anyway. “I didn’t wait forty fucking minutes in line for it to get cold. Eat it, baby.”

The Jeep’s heater roars to life as Leon cranks it up, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel in a restless rhythm that makes your pulse stutter. He catches you staring, of course, he does, and his smirk is all teeth when he reaches over to tug your seatbelt tighter over your breasts. “Eyes on the road, sweetheart,” he teases, but his thumb lingers on the strap where it crosses over your chest, pressing just hard enough to make you gasp. Bastard.

Snow crunches under the tires as he pulls out of your apartment complex, the streets still slick with ice despite the plows’ best efforts. Leon drives with the same reckless precision he does everything else, one hand on the wheel, the other tracing idle patterns on your knee beneath the hem of your sweater over your leg warmers. “So,” he muses after a too-long silence, his voice carefully casual. “You gonna tell me why you’re vibrating out of your skin, or do I have to guess?”

You choke on your coffee. Leon’s fingers tighten on your knee, not enough to hurt, just enough to ground you as you cough. “I’m not- ” you start, embarrassed, but Leon cuts you off with a snort, his thumb brushing the inside of your thigh.

“Bullshit.” The word is soft, almost fond. His gaze flicks from the road to your face, lingering on the way your teeth worry your lower lip. “You’ve been wound up since I picked you up. What’s going on in that head of yours? It’s me, you don’t gotta be nervous.”

Leon’s thumb presses harder against your thigh when you hesitate, not demanding, just insistent. The Jeep idles at a red light, snowflakes dissolving against the windshield as you fumble for the right words. “I just...” Your voice cracks, and Leon’s grip shifts instantly, his palm flattening over your knee in silent reassurance. “What if this changes things?” you blurt, staring at the coffee cup trembling in your hands. “At work. With us.”

The light turns green. Leon doesn’t move. His exhale is sharp, fogging the windshield for a heartbeat before he twists in his seat to face you fully. “Hey.” His fingers curl under your chin, tilting your face toward his. Snowlight catches the gold in his eyes, turning them molten. “You think I’d risk fucking this up now?” His thumb brushes your lower lip, smearing a stray drop of coffee. “I waited six months to hear you say you love me. You’re stuck with me.”

The car behind them honks. Leon flips them off without looking, but his smirk softens when you laugh. He eases the car forward, one hand returning to your thigh like he can’t bear not touching you. “Besides,” he adds, voice dropping to a rasp, “Mrs. Henderson has been placing bets on us since your first shift at the Griffin. Owe her fifty bucks if we don’t kiss in the stockroom by Wednesday. She knew I was getting the almond croissant for you earlier, too.”

You sputter, and Leon’s laughter fills the Jeep, rich and warm. His fingers lace through yours, squeezing gently as he navigates the icy streets. “Relax,” he soothes, lifting your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles. “Nothing’s changing unless you want it to.” His lips linger, breath hot against your skin. “Except maybe how often I get to do this.”

_______________

Leon’s apartment smells like cedar and the lingering musk of his new cologne, familiar now, after the hours spent tangled together in the café. He toes off his boots by the door, catching your wrist when you try to do the same. “Wait,” he stops you, pressing you against the wall with a quiet thump. His lips find yours in the dim hallway, tasting of coffee and snow, his hands framing your face like you’re something sacred. “Had to do that,” he murmurs against your mouth, breath uneven. “Been thinking about kissing you in my doorway since Spain.”

The takeout lies forgotten on the counter, steam curling from the containers as Leon leads you to his bedroom, not pushing, just guiding, his fingers laced through yours. His room is sparse but lived-in: a rumpled duvet, textbooks stacked haphazardly on the desk, a single framed photo of the café staff on the nightstand. You reach for it, but Leon catches your hand, pulling you back against his chest. “Later,” he promises, nuzzling the nape of your neck. “Right now, I just want you here.”

He tugs you onto the bed with a quiet grunt, his arms banding around your waist as he rolls onto his back, dragging you with him until you’re sprawled across his chest. The remote clatters to the floor as he fumbles for it, but Leon doesn’t seem to care. His fingers are already tracing the hem of your sweater, skating along your thigh where your wool leg warmers are tugged to the high heavens, with practiced ease. “The Office? You always say it’s your wind-down show.” Leon asks, though he’s already pulling up the episode. You nod sheepishly, and Leon’s smirk softens, his thumb brushing the inside of your knee. “Knew it.”

Leon’s fingers trace lazy circles on your thigh as the opening credits roll, his touch warm through your layers of clothing. You can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your cheek where it’s pressed against his chest, a little too fast, betraying the calm act. When you tilt your head to glance up at him, he’s already looking down, his free hand paused mid-air with a forkful of lo mein. “What?” he asks around the bite, chopsticks clattering against the takeout container balanced on his stomach.

The noodles slip from Leon’s fork when you blurt it out, the question that’s been buzzing under your skin since the café, since the counter, since his hands first learned the shape of you. “What happens now?” you whisper, staring at the lo mein stain spreading across his shirt like it holds the answers. Leon goes perfectly still, the chopsticks dangling from his fingers. The Office plays forgotten on the screen, Michael Scott’s voice muffled beneath the sudden roar of blood in your ears.

Leon exhales through his nose, slowly, before setting the takeout container aside with deliberate care. His hands find your waist, dragging you up his body until your knees bracket his hips, his palms skimming your thighs. “Now,” he muses, tilting his face up to yours, “I get to do this whenever I fucking want.” His lips brush yours tenderly as soft as snowfall. “Starting with living like this every goddamn day.” His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently. “If you’ll have me.”

You blink down at him. “As…?”

Leon’s groan vibrates through your chest where you’re pressed against him. “Christ, you’re gonna make me say it? Fine.” His hands slide up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing the apples of your cheeks. “Be my girlfriend.” The words are rough, like they’ve been waiting in his throat for months. “Officially. Stupidly. The whole fucking nine yards.”

“Are you- ” you start, but Leon cuts you off with a bruising kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair.

“Yes,” he growls against your mouth. “Six months in Spain and all I thought about was your fucking cinnamon rolls and the way you bite your lip when you’re concentrating.” His teeth graze your jaw, nipping at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “You really didn’t notice? The extra shifts I picked up just to work with you? The ‘lost’ pens I kept ‘borrowing’ so I’d have an excuse to lean over you? I know you secretly like it.” His laugh is half-strangled as he palms your hips almost possessively. “I left you a goddamn love letter in your locker, sweetheart. C’mon.”

The Office plays forgotten on the screen, Jim’s smirk mid-frame as Leon rolls you onto your back, his weight settling between your thighs. His nose brushes yours, his breath warm with the lingering spice of lo mein. “I’ve been down catastrophically bad for you since you scolded me for putting the espresso cups in the wrong cabinet,” he admits, voice dropping to a rasp. “Called my mom crying about it. She still has the screenshots of the texts.”

You squirm beneath him, heat crawling up your neck. “You- what?”

Leon’s grin is all teeth as he pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other tracing the hem of your skirt. “Oh, we’re revisiting all my embarrassing moments tonight?” His thumb dips beneath the fabric, skating along your inner thigh. “Should I tell you about the time I practiced confessing in the walk-in fridge and Jill walked in on me holding a zucchini like a microphone?”

A surprised laugh bursts from your lips, and Leon kisses it from your mouth, his tongue sliding against yours with a groan. “That’s my girl,” he chuckles against your lips. “Was wondering when you’d stop overthinking.” His grip on your wrists loosens, his fingers lacing through yours as he presses your joined hands into the mattress. “It’s simple, sweetheart. You’re mine now. I’m yours. We’ll figure out the rest as we go, yeah? Like couples do.”

Snow taps gently against the bedroom window, the storm’s last gasp as Leon noses along your collarbone, his stubble scraping your skin. “For the record,” he adds between kisses, “I did notice the lavender honey tarts were only on the menu Thursdays when Mrs. Henderson came in.” His teeth drag over your pulse point. “Same way I noticed you always wore that stupid bow hair clip on my closing shifts.”

You gasp when his knee nudges your thighs wider, the denim rough against your bare skin. “Leon- ”

“Tell me you want this,” he interrupts, voice rough. His thumbs brush the delicate skin of your inner wrists where they’re pinned above your head. “Not just the sex. All of it. The messy mornings. The shared shifts. Me, breathing down your neck while you try to glaze danishes.” His smirk is all teeth when you squirm. “Say it. I need to hear it, baby.”

The Office plays forgotten on the TV, the laughter muffled beneath the rush of blood in your ears. Leon watches you with pupils blown wide, his chest rising and falling against yours with each breath. “I want it, so badly you don’t even know, Leon,” you admit shakily, and Leon’s entire body shudders against you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder with a shaky exhale.

“Good.” His lips find yours again, softer this time, his hands releasing your wrists to cradle your face instead. “Because I already told Mrs. Henderson we’re splitting the fifty bucks and she should have it in cash when she stops by next Thursday with the lavender. ”

You snort, and Leon nips at your chin in retaliation before rolling off you with a groan. The sudden loss of his warmth makes you whine, but he just drags you back against his chest, your spine slotting perfectly against his front. His arm snakes around your waist, palm splaying across your stomach as he nudges the takeout containers aside with his foot. “Eat,” he orders, pressing a lo mein noodle to your lips. “Before it gets cold. You don’t eat enough.”

You take the bite obediently, but Leon doesn’t pull his hand away, his thumb traces your lower lip instead, catching a stray drop of sauce. “You’re really sure?” you ask, anxiously, around the mouthful, watching his face carefully. “About…everything?”

Leon’s laughter rumbles through you, his breath warm against your neck. “Christ, you’re killing me.” His fingers tighten on your hipbone, tugging you flush against him until you can feel every inch of his certainty. “Yes, I’m one hundred percent sure. I was sure when I spent three hours trying to fold origami swans for your birthday last year.” His teeth graze your earlobe. “I was sure when I memorized your coffee order just to ‘accidentally’ bring you the wrong one so you’d scold me.” His palm slides up your ribcage, fingers spreading beneath your sweater. “I was sure when I cried to my fucking barber in Madrid because I saw you post a picture out with your friends and I was worried you’d forget about me.”

Your breath hitches, and Leon presses closer, his lips finding the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “You think I’d risk fucking this up now?” His voice drops to a rasp, rougher than the whiskey he sneaks into his coffee on slow shifts. “I waited six months to hear you say you love me.”

The remote digs into your thigh when Leon reaches for it, his fingers brushing yours as he adjusts the volume. The Office plays softly in the background, Jim’s smirk flickering across the screen as Leon tugs you back against his chest. His heartbeat thrums steady beneath your palm where you’ve pressed it to his sternum, a little too fast, betraying the calm act. He’s nervous too. Oh god.

Leon exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, before turning his face into your hair. “For the record,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, “That stupid bow hair clip you always wore? Drove me fucking insane.” His fingers trace the curve of your ear, down to the hinge of your jaw. “Especially when you’d chew on the end of it while counting the register.” His thumb presses into the hollow beneath your chin, tilting your face toward his. “Almost kissed you right there in the stockroom once.”

You blink up at him. “Seriously?”

Leon’s grin is all teeth as he rolls you beneath him, his knees bracketing your hips. “June seventeenth,” he says, like it’s a date burned into his skin. “You were wearing that stupid apron with the coffee stains, and I- God- ” His breath stutters when your fingers curl into his shirt. “I almost ruined everything because you licked frosting off your thumb and moaned about the buttercream.”

Heat floods your cheeks, and Leon laughs before ducking his head to nip at your collarbone. “Yeah, that sound,” he chuckles against your skin. “Haunted me in every fucking hostel bathroom from Barcelona to Seville.”

You mumble something incoherent even to your own ears, your lashes fluttering when Leon’s fingers card through your curls, gentler now, slower, like he’s trying to lull you back to sleep. The screen’s blue glow paints his collarbones in fractured light as you turn your face into his throat, breathing in the cedar-and-salt scent of him. His pulse thrums steady beneath your lips, a metronome counting down to unconsciousness.

Leon’s chuckle is a rumble against your temple when you jerk awake for the third time, your nose smushed into the hollow of his throat. "Stubborn little thing, aren’t you, honey?" he chuckles fondly, his thumb catching your chin to tilt your face up. The TV casts his features in flickering shadows. "C’mon, just close your eyes. I’ll be here when you wake up."

You dig your fingers into his ribs in retaliation, relishing the way his breath hitches. "Not tired," you lie, your voice slurred with sleep. The sweater’s collar slips off one shoulder when you shift, exposing the love bite he’d left earlier, a plum-dark smudge against your skin that makes his gaze darken deliciously.

"Liar." Leon’s palm slides up your spine, pressing you flush against him until there’s no space left to argue. His heartbeat thrums beneath your cheek. "Sleep," he soothes. "I’ll rewind whatever you miss."

"Leon, you have to see this, an Eevee just jumped out of the bushes!" you blurt out, nearly dropping your Switch as you flop deeper into the nest of blankets. The glow from the screen paints your face in pastel hues, casting flickering shadows across the ridiculous amount of pillows. You're curled up in bed, still wearing the oversized hoodie you stole from Leon’s closet last week, sleeves swallowing your hands whole.

The front door clicks shut, followed by the familiar jingle of keys hitting the dish by the entryway. "Yeah? That’s great, sweetheart," Leon calls back, his voice warm but tired. His boots thud against the hardwood as he toes them off, the sound muffled by the distance. "Did you eat yet, or did the Pokémon kidnap you again?"

You hum, distracted, tapping furiously at the screen. "Mmm, I ate some toast," you lie, stretching your legs out under the covers. The bed dips suddenly as Leon leans over you, still in his uniform, smelling like cold air and the faintest trace of coffee. His stubble brushes your temple as he presses a kiss there, sighing when he catches sight of the neglected plate of half-eaten toast on the nightstand.

"You’re a menace," he croons, but there’s no real bite to it. His fingers card through your curls, gently tugging just to hear you whine. "C’mon, hand it over, let me see this Eevee before you starve to death on my watch."

Leon’s warmth presses against your side as he settles onto the bed, his uniform still crisp with the chill of the evening. You tilt the Switch toward him, grinning as he squints at the screen. "See? I told you making a new patch of flowers during the day would work," you say excitedly, nudging his thigh with your knee.

He makes a low, skeptical noise in his throat, but his arm snakes around your waist anyway, pulling you closer until you’re half-sprawled across his chest. "Yeah, yeah, you’re my little Pokémon connoisseur," he teases, but his thumb strokes absent circles against your pudgy tummy through the fabric of the hoodie. "Now show me the rest of this disaster island you’ve been neglecting me for."

You gasp, feigning offense. "Disaster? Leon, I pride myself on my island aesthetics." You flip to the map, zooming in on the haphazard cluster of fruit trees and mismatched fences. His silence is deafening.

A beat. Then: "Jesus, is that one path leading directly into a pond?"

Leon’s fingers tap impatiently against your thigh as he stares at the screen, his brow furrowing deeper with every passing second. “Okay, hold on, why is your campsite next to the dump?” He snatches the Switch from your hands before you can protest, his grip firm but careful. “No, no, this is criminal. You can’t just plop a picnic blanket next to a pile of tires and call it vibes.”

You pout, curling into his side as he starts rearranging your entire island layout without so much as a courtesy warning. “It’s eclectic,” you argue, but he’s already bulldozing your carefully placed (okay, maybe haphazardly placed) flower beds. His cop instincts kick in hard and suddenly, he’s investigating your inventory, muttering about “clutter” and “fire hazards” like you’re running a municipal code violation instead of a cozy digital getaway.

“Leon,” you whine, tugging at his sleeve. “You’re ruining my creative vision.”

He doesn’t even glance up. “Your vision looks like a raccoon’s fever dream.” His thumb flicks across the joystick with alarming precision, relocating your pokemons’ dens into actual neighborhoods instead of the scattered chaos you’d embraced. “There. Now they won’t get lost on their way to the damn center.”

You watch, utterly betrayed, as Leon mercilessly reorganizes your entire island’s infrastructure with the efficiency of a man who alphabetizes his spice rack. “You’re suffocating my artistic expression,” you grumble, but the effect is ruined when you nuzzle deeper into his chest, your cheek pressed against the stiff fabric of his uniform. He smells like winter air and the faint, familiar musk of his cologne, something warm and woody that makes your eyelids heavy.

Leon huffs, but his free hand drifts up to card through your curls again, fingers gentle despite the way he’s judging your landscaping skills. “Artistic expression?” he echoes, dry as hell. “Babe, your expression was giving me secondhand anxiety.” His thumb swipes across the joycon, dragging your haphazardly placed picnic table to a logical spot near the Pokemon center. You gasp dramatically, clutching at his shirt like he’s committed a war crime.

“You monster,” you whine, but he just rolls his eyes and kisses the top of your head, his lips lingering just long enough to make your protests die in your throat. The rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the Switch's buttons lulls you into a drowsy stupor, your limbs growing heavier against him. You blink slowly, watching through half-lidded eyes as he meticulously arranges your virtual flower beds into neat rows, muttering something about “symmetry” under his breath like it’s a sacred text.

“Mm. Bedtime,” Leon announces abruptly, tilting the Switch away just as you reach for it. You make a noise of protest, but he’s already closing the game without saving and setting the console on the nightstand.

“Nope. You’ve been glued to this thing all day,” he says, his voice firm but fond. His hands slide under your arms, hauling you up until you’re sprawled halfway across his lap, your face smushed against his shoulder.

You groan, wriggling halfheartedly as he adjusts the blankets around you both, his movements practiced and effortless. “Leon, please, I was so close to finishing my Oran berry orchard-”

“Your orchard looked like a tornado hit it, honey” he deadpans, but his arms tighten around you anyway, pulling you flush against his chest. One hand finds the small of your back, pressing gently until you stop squirming. “C’mon, sweetheart. Eyes closed.” His breath is warm against your forehead, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

You grumble something unintelligible into his collar, but Leon just chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your cheek. His fingers trace idle patterns along your spine, the rough pads of his fingertips catching ever so slightly on the fabric of your hoodie. "You're exhausting," he murmurs, but the way he says it makes it sound like a compliment.

Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windowpane just enough to remind you how damn cozy it is here, tangled up in him. Leon shifts slightly, reaching behind himself to tug the comforter higher over your shoulders without dislodging you. "There. Now stop pouting." His lips brush your temple, lingering just long enough to make your toes curl. "You can fix your chaos island tomorrow."

You huff, but you’re already melting into him, your earlier protestations fading as sleep tugs at the edges of your consciousness. Leon’s heartbeat is a slow, steady drum beneath your ear, his breathing even and deep. His uniform shirt is still slightly crisp from the cold, but the warmth of him beneath it is undeniable, seeping into your bones like sunlight.

“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.” The groan slips out before you can stop it, fingers tightening around the strap of your tote bag as Claire grins at you from across the coffee shop table, stirring her iced latte with way too much enthusiasm.

“Oh, come on,” she says, kicking your shin lightly under the table. “It’s just tutoring. You already help Sherry with her homework all the time, this isn’t any different.”

You stab your straw into your drink, avoiding her gaze. “Sherry is nine and doesn’t stare at me like I’m some kind of alien specimen to experiment on.”

Claire rolls her eyes. “Leon doesn’t stare, he… admires. I think.”

"He leans on everything like he owns it," you mutter, remembering the last party at Chris's apartment where Leon had propped himself against the kitchen doorway for a solid twenty minutes, watching you explain fractions to Sherry with a smirk that made your neck prickle. Claire snorts into her drink, nearly choking. "Oh my God, you notice him leaning? That’s like, weirdly specific."

Your face heats. "That’s not- I just- " You flounder, gesturing vaguely at the air between you as if that explains anything. Claire’s grin turns predatory. "Uh-huh. Well, lucky for you, he actually needs your help. Sociology midterm’s in two weeks, and Chris says Leon’s about to flunk out if he doesn’t pull his grade up." She leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "And between us? He’s terrible at asking for help."

You flick a sugar packet at her in disdain. "This feels like a setup."

"It's a study hall, not the FBI," Claire counters, sliding her phone across the table. Leon’s contact info glows on the screen, a screenshot of his last text to Chris visible above it: ”tell ur sister's friend ill buy her coffee or whatever just fix this”. You groan again.

The first tutoring session is, predictably, a disaster. You show up fifteen minutes early to the library, your sociology textbook already open to the chapter on symbolic interactionism, highlighters lined up like soldiers. Leon arrives late, smelling faintly of gym sweat and cheap body spray, sliding into the chair opposite you with a grin that makes your fingers twitch around your pen. "So," he says, stretching his arms behind his head, "you’re my lifeline, huh?"

"You’re failing, anyone could be your lifeline if they're doing better than that," you deadpan, flipping a page with more force than necessary. "This isn’t a lifeline. This is academic CPR."

Leon laughs, loud enough that the librarian glares from her desk, and you kick him under the table. "Ow- okay, okay," he says, rubbing his shin, but he’s still smiling. "Just didn’t peg you for the strict teacher type. Always thought you'd be the type to give kids your lunch."

You are. He doesn't need to know that.

Leon's grin doesn't fade as he leans forward, elbows propped on the table, chin resting on his palms. "So, Professor," he says, voice dripping with amusement, "how do you plan on fixing me?"

You resist the urge to snap the textbook shut on his fingers. Instead, you flip to the chapter summary with deliberate slowness, dragging your highlighter across a bullet point about social norms. "By starting with the basics," you say, tapping the page. "Which, judging by your complete lack of notes, you haven't even glanced at."

Leon makes a show of sighing dramatically, but he actually pulls out a crumpled syllabus and smooths it against the table. "Alright, hit me. What’s the first rule of Sociology Club?"

"Don’t talk about Sociology Club, there isn't one," you deadpan before you can stop yourself, and Leon barks out another laugh, louder than necessary, his shoulders shaking. You bite your lip to hide your own smile, pretending to scribble a note in the margin.

Leon leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs with an ease that makes you briefly consider kicking it out from under him. "You know," he says, tilting his head, "for someone who hates me, you're pretty good at making me laugh."

You blink. "I don't hate you, Leon." The words come out too fast, and Leon's grin widens, like he's caught you in a trap. You clear your throat, tapping your pen against the textbook. "I just think it's weird that you're failing a class you never show up to, and now suddenly you're invested."

"People change," Leon says, shrugging, but there's something in the way his eyes flick away for a half-second that makes your stomach twist. Before you can press, he flips open the syllabus and stabs a finger at the first unit. "Okay, serious face. What's this about? Durk-something."

You sigh. "Durkheim. And if you'd been to one lecture, you'd know."

Leon's grin doesn't waver as he leans closer, his forearm brushing against yours as he peers at the textbook. "Lecture schmecture," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "Who needs a professor when I've got you?" The words are light, teasing, but there's an undercurrent of something earnest that makes your pulse stutter. You roll your eyes and shove his shoulder, gently, to put some distance between you. His skin is warm under your fingertips, and you quickly pull your hand back, pretending to adjust your glasses.

"Focus," you mutter, tapping the page again. "Durkheim's whole thing is about how society functions like an organism. If one part fails, the whole thing suffers." Leon hums, nodding like he's actually listening, but when you glance up, he's staring at you with an intensity that makes your cheeks heat. "What?" you ask, defensive.

"Nothing," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Just thinking you'd make a scary-good teacher. You've got that whole authority thing going on. I like it." He waggles his eyebrows, and you resist the urge to smack him with the textbook. Instead, you flip to the next chapter, ignoring the way your stomach flips at the compliment.

The next hour passes in a blur of half-hearted note-taking and Leon's terrible jokes, most of which are so bad you can't help but laugh, even as you scold him for derailing the study session. At one point, he steals your highlighter and starts underlining random words in the textbook, claiming they're "the important bits," and you have to wrestle it back from him, your fingers brushing against his in the process. You both freeze for a second, and Leon's smile softens into something quieter, more genuine, before he clears his throat and hands the highlighter over. "Sorry," he says, uncharacteristically sheepish. "Got carried away."

By the time you pack up your notes, the library lights have dimmed to evening glow, and Leon stretches his arms above his head with a satisfied groan. "So," he says, grinning as he shoves his crumpled syllabus, now covered in your neat margin notes, into his messenger bag, "same time next week?"

You hesitate, tapping your pen against the table. Part of you wants to say no, to bail on this weird, charged study session that feels more like a game than actual tutoring. But the other part, the traitorous part, notices how the fading sunlight catches the gold in Leon's stubble, and how his fingers linger when he hands you your dropped hair tie. "I guess," you mutter, stuffing the textbook into your bag. "But only if you actually read the next chapter."

Leon presses a hand to his chest, faux-offended. "You doubt me?"

"Profoundly," you deadpan, but there's no bite to it.

Leon walks you to the bus stop after the library closes, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the evening chill. You pull your cardigan tighter around yourself, acutely aware of how close he is, close enough that his elbow brushes yours every few steps, sending little jolts up your arm. "So," he says, kicking a pebble across the sidewalk, "you ever think about teaching high school? Or is it strictly elementary for you?"

You blink, caught off guard. "Uh…middle school, actually. Kids are still sort of… moldable at that age. Not quite tiny terrors, not quite hormonal nightmares." You pause, chewing your lip. "Why?"

Leon shrugs, but there’s something deliberate in the way he avoids your gaze. "Just curious. You’re good with Sherry. Patient. Even when she’s asking you to explain division for the fifth time in a row."

The compliment settles warm in your chest. You duck your head, pretending to adjust your backpack strap. "She’s a good kid. Makes it easy."

Leon hums, kicking another pebble with more force than necessary, sending it skittering into the gutter. “Still. Takes a special kind of person to deal with kids all day.” He glances at you sideways, his usual smirk softened into something more thoughtful. “Especially when they’re not even yours.”

You shrug, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze. “It’s not that big a deal. Sherry’s just- ”

“...the most hyper nine-year-old on the planet,” Leon finishes, grinning when you laugh. “Seriously, that kid’s got more energy than Chris after three Red Bulls.”

The bus stop comes into view, its flickering fluorescent light casting long shadows across the sidewalk. You slow your steps, suddenly reluctant to reach it. Leon doesn’t speed up either, his hands still buried in his pockets, his shoulder bumping yours every few steps like an unspoken question.

The bus stop is uncomfortably quiet when you reach it, just the distant hum of traffic and the occasional flicker of the overhead light filling the space between you. Leon leans against the bench, bus stop sign, his posture relaxed but his fingers tapping an absent rhythm against his thigh. You fiddle with the strap of your tote bag, acutely aware of the way his sleeve brushes your shoulder whenever he shifts his weight.

The bus is late, of fucking course it is, and the silence stretches between you like taffy, sticky and thick. Leon clears his throat and nudges your shoulder with his. "So," he says, drawing the word out, "what's the verdict? Am I hopeless?"

You roll your eyes, but there's no heat in it. "You're not hopeless. Just… distractingly lazy."

Leon clutches his chest like he's been shot. "Yeowch." But he's grinning, and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners makes something flutter in your ribcage.

A gust of wind sends your curls flying into your face, and you huff, trying to tuck them back behind your ears. Leon reaches out before you can stop him, his fingers brushing your temple as he carefully hooks a stray strand behind your ear. His touch is light, almost hesitant, and you freeze, your breath catching. He pulls back just as quickly, shoving his hands back into his pockets like he's been burned. "Sorry," he mumbles, suddenly fascinated by a crack in the sidewalk. "Habit. Sherry's hair does that too."

The bus's headlights finally appear down the street, cutting through the awkward silence like a lifeline. You straighten up, gripping your tote bag strap tighter, your keychains jingling, suddenly hyper-aware of how close Leon still is, close enough that you can smell the faint remnants of his body spray mixed with the crisp evening air. It's not unpleasant, which annoys you more than it should.

"You good?" Leon asks, nudging your shoulder again. His voice is softer now, less teasing. "You kinda spaced out there."

"I'm fine," you say, too quickly, and his eyebrows lift in a way that tells you he doesn't believe you. The bus screeches to a halt in front of you, its doors sliding open with a hiss. You take a step forward, but Leon's hand brushes your elbow, just barely, just enough to make you pause.

"Hey," he says, and there's something in his tone that makes you turn back. He's got that look again, the one from the library, like he's trying to solve a puzzle. "You're not... freaked out or anything, right? About the tutoring?"

You blink at him, momentarily thrown by the unexpected sincerity in his voice. "No," you say, adjusting the strap of your backpack again just to have something to do with your hands. "Just... wondering why you're suddenly so invested in passing this class."

Leon exhales through his nose, a half-laugh that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Would you believe me if I said I had an epiphany about the importance of higher education?"

"Not for a second," you deadpan, but the corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself.

The bus driver clears his throat pointedly, and you jerk your head toward the doors. "I should…"

Leon’s hand tightens slightly on your elbow before he lets go. “Yeah, yeah, go on,” he says, stepping back with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Wouldn’t want you to miss your chariot.” The bus driver sighs loudly, and you scramble up the steps, fumbling for your transit card. As you swipe it, you glance back, Leon’s still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher. The doors hiss shut between you, and the bus lurches forward before you can decide whether to wave.

You slump into the first empty seat, pressing your forehead against the cool glass of the window. The streetlights blur past, casting intermittent streaks of gold across your reflection. Your phone buzzes in your pocket before you can shove your earbuds in, Claire, of course. So??? How was it??? You groan softly, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Fine, you type, then delete. Weird, you try instead, but that feels too revealing. You settle on: He’s not as dumb as he acts. Claire’s reply is almost instantaneous: Told you. Next session Thursday? You don’t answer.

The bus ride home is too short. By the time you’re climbing the steps to your apartment, your thoughts are a tangled mess of Leon’s smirk and the way his fingers had brushed your hair back. You fumble with your keys, nearly dropping them twice before finally shoving the door open. Your roommate, Ada, glances up from her laptop at the kitchen table, one eyebrow arched. “You look like you’ve been through a war.”

“Worse,” you mutter, dumping your backpack on the couch. “Tutoring.”

Ada doesn’t look up from her laptop, but you can see the smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “That bad?”

You groan, flopping onto the couch face-first. The cushions smell like cheap takeout and fabric softener. “He highlighted the word ‘sociology’ every time it appeared in the chapter and called it ‘efficient studying.’”

Ada snorts. “Sounds like a winner.”

You roll onto your back, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that vaguely resembles a duck. “He also asked if Durkheim was ‘that French guy who invented the croissant.’”

—

The next morning, you wake up to three consecutive texts from Claire, each one progressively more aggressive, and a single, ominous message from an unknown number with just a winking emoji. You bury your face in your pillow and groan. Ada, already dressed and sipping coffee by the window, doesn’t even glance your way. “If you’re going to have a crisis, at least do it after you drink some caffeine.”

You drag yourself to the kitchen, pouring coffee with the precision of a sleep-deprived surgeon. Your phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Sherry: Leon said ur teaching him about ducks??? You choke on your coffee. Ada raises an eyebrow. “Dare I ask?”

“No,” you mutter, typing back: Durkheim. Not ducks. Sherry’s reply is immediate: oh. boring.

The unknown number texts again, this time with a photo of Leon holding up your lost hair tie with a shit-eating grin, Sherry photobombing in the background with her fingers hooked into devil horns behind his head. Missing something? the caption reads. You stare at it for a full ten seconds before realizing: he’d stolen it when you weren’t looking. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, torn between indignation and something dangerously close to amusement.

You type out: thief and hit send before you can second-guess it. The reply comes instantly, another photo, this time with Leon dramatically clutching the hair tie to his chest, Sherry in the background mid-laugh with her hands over her mouth. Evidence suggests you abandoned it, the text reads. Finders keepers. You roll your eyes but can’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips. Ada clears her throat pointedly from across the kitchen. “You’re blushing,” she says, stirring her coffee with infuriating calm.

“Am not,” you mutter, shoving your phone into your pocket. It buzzes again. You ignore it. Ada doesn’t even bother hiding her smirk.

By the time you’re dressed and out the door, your phone has accumulated seven more messages, three from Claire demanding details, one from Sherry asking if Leon’s really as dumb as he looks (yes, you text back), and three from Leon himself, each progressively more ridiculous. The last one is a blurry selfie of him pretending to cry into your hair tie with the caption it misses you. You snort, tucking your phone away as you push through the campus library doors.

Leon’s already there, early, for once, leaning against the study table with his arms crossed, your hair tie looped around his wrist like a trophy. He grins when he sees you. “Took you long enough.”

You freeze halfway to the table, fingers tightening around your backpack strap. Leon's grin widens, lazy and infuriating, as he twirls your hair tie around his index finger like it's some kind of victory flag. "Miss me?" he drawls, leaning back in his chair with all the grace of a cat who's just knocked over a vase.

"You stole my hair tie," you say flatly, dumping your bag onto the table with more force than necessary. The sociology textbook thuds against the wood, and Leon doesn't even flinch.

"Rescued, it was abandoned by its mother in the wild," he corrects, holding it up between two fingers. The late morning sunlight catches the strands of dark hair still tangled in it, your hair, you realize with a jolt. "Found it abandoned and neglected on the library floor. Tragic, really."

You snatch it back, your fingers brushing his for a split second too long. "You're ridiculous," you mutter, shoving it into your pocket. Leon watches the motion with undisguised amusement, propping his chin on his hand.

The second tutoring session starts with Leon dramatically sliding a coffee across the table toward you, extra caramel, exactly how you like it. You eye it suspiciously like it's poisoned. "Is this a bribe?"

Leon presses a hand to his chest like you've wounded him. "It's an apology." He nods to the coffee. "For the hair tie heist. Also, I actually did the reading." He flips open his notebook to reveal a page of shockingly neat notes, practically neater than yours, which is mildly irritating.

You sip the coffee to hide your surprise. It’s perfect. "Did Chris help you with these?" you ask, tapping the notebook.

Leon gasps, clutching his chest again. "You wound me. I have hidden skills, you know."

You flip through Leon’s notebook, eyebrows climbing higher with each page. The notes aren’t just neat, they’re detailed, with color-coded highlights and margin doodles of what might be Durkheim’s face (if Durkheim had comically large eyebrows and a tiny hat). “Okay,” you admit grudgingly, “this is… shockingly competent.”

Leon beams, stretching his arms behind his head with a satisfied smirk. “Told you I’ve got layers.” He leans forward suddenly, close enough that you catch the faint scent of his shampoo, something citrusy and sharp. “Like an onion.”

You roll your eyes, nudging his shoulder with yours to push him back to a safer distance. "Or like a parfait. Everybody likes parfaits." The reference slips out before you can stop it, and Leon's grin turns downright predatory.

Oh fucking hell.

"Princess Fiona," he sing-songs, leaning in again like he's savoring your embarrassed groan. "Didn't peg you for a Shrek fan."

You shove his notebook into his chest and try to hide your grin. "Focus. Durkheim. Suicide rates. Social integration. Pretend you care for Christ's sake, Leon."

Leon laughs but actually flips to the right chapter, his fingers tracing the highlighted sections with surprising focus. For the next twenty minutes, he asks questions, the kind that make you pause and rethink your own notes. At one point, he points to a passage about anomie and says, "So it's like... when you're at a party where you don't know anyone, and suddenly you're too aware of how loud you're chewing?"

You blink at him, momentarily stunned by how close he’s landed to the actual concept. “That’s… weirdly accurate,” you admit, tapping the page. Leon’s grin is all teeth, like he’s won something. Before you can stop yourself, you add, “You ever feel like that? At parties?”

Leon’s smirk falters for half a second, just long enough for you to notice, before he shrugs, doodling a tiny stick figure with a speech bubble that says help me in the margin. “Nah. I’m the life of the party, remember?” He says it lightly, but there’s something hollow in the way he scratches out the doodle a second later. You pretend not to notice.

The session rolls on, Leon flipping between moments of startling insight and deliberately terrible jokes just to make you laugh. At one point, he steals your highlighter again this time to underline his own notes with a flourish, like he’s signing a masterpiece. “There,” he says, capping the pen with a click. “Now it’s art.”

You snatch it back, but you’re biting your lip to keep from smiling. “You’re insufferable.”

Leon’s grin doesn’t waver. “Insufferable’s a big word for someone who just choked on their own coffee yesterday because Sherry texted you about ducks.” He taps his temple. “Photographic memory, remember?”

Oh fuck him.

You groan, flipping your textbook shut with more force than necessary. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, leaning back in his chair until it creaks ominously, “here you are, still tolerating me.” The way he says it, like it’s a minor miracle, makes something in your chest twinge. Before you can respond, he nudges your foot under the table. “Hey. Seriously. Thanks for this. I know I’m not your favorite person.”

The sudden shift in tone throws you. Leon’s watching you with an expression you’ve never seen before, something open, almost vulnerable. It’s disarming. You fiddle with the corner of your notebook. “You’re not not my favorite person,” you mumble, then immediately want to kick yourself.

Leon blinks at you, his smirk softening into something genuine, something almost warm, before he ducks his head with a quiet laugh. “Damn,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” His voice is light, but there’s a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes when he glances up again.

You clear your throat, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he’s leaning. “Don’t let it go to your head,” you mutter, shoving his notebook back toward him. “We’ve still got two more chapters to cover before- ”

“Before I flunk out of college*,” Leon interrupts solemnly, pressing a dramatic hand to his forehead. “The tragedy. The humanity.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch despite yourself. “You’re such a- ”

The library door slams open mid-sentence, and Sherry comes barreling in like a tiny hurricane, her backpack bouncing wildly behind her. "Leon! You promised!" she shrieks, skidding to a halt beside your table with all the grace of a baby deer on roller skates.

Leon doesn't even blink. "Promised what, squirt?" he asks, casually flipping a page in the textbook like Sherry hasn't materialized out of thin air. 

Sherry plants her hands on her hips, her braids swinging. "You said you'd help me beat Chris at Mario Kart today!" Her voice cracks on the last word, and you bite back a smile at how seriously she's taking this. Leon sighs dramatically, but there's no hiding the way his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"Sherry, I'm busy," he says, gesturing grandly at the textbook. "Can't you see I'm having a life-changing academic experience here?"

Sherry narrows her eyes, unimpressed. "You're lying," she declares, pointing an accusatory finger at Leon's pristine notes. "Chris said you hate studying. He said you only do this 'cause you- " Leon lunges across the table, clamping a hand over her mouth with a hissed "Shhh!" that earns a glare from the librarian. You freeze mid-reach for your highlighter, eyes darting between them. Sherry bites Leon's palm. He yelps.

"Okay, okay!" Leon whisper-shouts, shaking out his hand. "Jesus, kid, rabies shots aren't covered under my insurance." He shoots you a sideways glance, his usual smirk replaced by something suspiciously close to panic. "She's, uh. She's joking. Obviously."

Sherry wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "Am not. Chris said- "

"Pizza," Leon interrupts desperately, digging into his jacket pocket and producing a crumpled coupon. "I'll get you that stuffed crust you like. Extra cheese. Please shut up."

Sherry eyes the coupon like a seasoned negotiator, her tiny fingers twitching toward it before she crosses her arms. "And garlic knots," she demands, her voice hushed but firm. Leon exhales through his nose, digging into his pocket again with the air of a man who knows he's been outmaneuvered. "Fine. Garlic knots." He shoves the coupons at her like he's paying a ransom. Sherry beams, stuffing them into her overalls pocket with a triumphant grin.

You watch this entire exchange with your highlighter frozen mid-air, eyebrows climbing higher with each second. Leon clears his throat, straightening his notes with exaggerated care. "So. Durkheim. Social facts. Very important. Definitely not avoiding anything." His voice pitches slightly higher than usual. You tap your pen against the textbook, slow and deliberate. "Chris said you what, exactly?"

Leon's fingers twitch around his pen. "Nothing," he says, too quickly, and Sherry, bless her chaotic little goblin heart, grins like she's just spotted a weakness on a video game boss.

"Ohhh," she drawls, swinging her legs onto the chair next to you. "He didn't tell you?"

You arch an eyebrow at Leon, who's suddenly very interested in reorganizing his already-neat notes. "Tell me what?"

Sherry opens her mouth, Leon lunges for her again, but she dodges with the agility of a kid who's spent her entire life evading bedtime. "Chris said Leon's only failing one class on purpose!" she whisper-yells, clinging to the back of your chair like a tiny, vengeful shadow.

Leon’s pen clatters to the table. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again like a fish gasping for air. Sherry, sensing blood in the water, grins wider. “And,” she adds gleefully, “he said Leon likes y- ”

“Sherry,” Leon hisses, snatching her off the chair by the back of her overalls. She dangles from his grip, giggling wildly. His ears are bright red. “We had a deal.”

You stare at them both, the highlighter slipping from your fingers. The words failing on purpose echo in your skull like a bad punchline. Leon finally sets Sherry down, avoiding your gaze with the intensity of a man calculating escape routes.

Sherry, blissfully oblivious to the nuclear tension, pats your arm. “It’s okay,” she says, solemn as only a nine-year-old can be. “Chris says Leon’s stupid when he likes people. Once he sent a girl three pizzas by accident.”

Leon makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, his fingers twitching toward Sherry like he’s considering stuffing her into a locker. “Sherry,” he says, voice strained, “remember how I also promised to teach you how to pick a lock?”

Sherry’s eyes widen with delight. “Really?”

“If you leave right now,” Leon hisses through gritted teeth.

Sherry bolts upright, her braids bouncing with the sudden movement. “Deal!” she yells, loud enough that the librarian shushes them from across the room, before scrambling off the chair and sprinting for the door. She pauses halfway, spinning on her heel to point at Leon. “But no takebacks!” Then she’s gone, the library doors swinging shut behind her with a muffled thud.

Silence settles over the study table like a weighted blanket. Leon’s pen rolls off the edge and hits the floor with a soft click. Neither of you move to pick it up.

You stare at him. He stares at the textbook. The words failing on purpose hang between you like a neon sign.

Leon clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with a nervous laugh that sounds more like a choked cough. “Kids, right? Always making up wild- ”

You slam your textbook shut hard enough that the sound echoes through the quiet library. Leon flinches. "You're what?" Your voice comes out sharper than you mean it to, and a few students at nearby tables glance over.

Leon opens from one foot to the other, his usual confidence evaporating. "Okay, look- "

"You're failing on purpose?" You hiss it this time, leaning across the table. Your hands are shaking, but you're not sure if it's from anger or something else entirely. "For weeks? All those study sessions, all that bullshit about epiphanies!"

Leon's hand darts out, catching your wrist before you can storm off. His grip is warm, firm, but not tight, like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go. "Wait," he says, and there's no trace of his usual teasing now. Just raw, unsettling honesty. "Just… hear me out for five seconds."

Leon’s grip on your wrist is warmer than it should be, his fingers pressing just enough to keep you rooted in place. His thumb brushes over your pulse point—once, twice—as if he can feel the way your heartbeat stutters. “It’s not what you think,” he starts, then grimaces. “Okay, it’s exactly what you think. But- ”

“You lied,” you say flatly, yanking your arm back. His hand falls away like you’ve burned him. “For weeks. You let me think- ” You cut yourself off, scrubbing a hand over your face. The worst part isn’t the lie. It’s the way your stomach twists at the realization that he’d wanted this, wanted you, enough to orchestrate it.

Leon exhales sharply through his nose, his shoulders dropping. “Yeah,” he admits, running a hand through his hair. It sticks up in disarray, and you hate how endearing it looks. “But…”

“But what?” You shove your notebook into your bag with more force than necessary, the pages crumpling under your fingers. “Was this some kind of joke to you? Because- ”

Leon’s fingers curl around the edge of the table, knuckles white. “No,” he says, and the rawness in his voice makes you pause mid-reach for your highlighter. “It was never a joke.” His throat works as he swallows, gaze flickering to yours before darting away. “I just- you always looked at me like I was something you scraped off your shoe. And I thought if I could just talk to you- “

The confession hangs between you, fragile and exposed. You tighten your grip on your tote bag strap, suddenly aware of how quiet the library has become, how close he’s leaning, the way his knee brushes yours under the table. “So you lied,” you repeat, but the heat’s gone out of your voice.

Leon’s mouth twitches into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Yeah,” he admits softly. “Pretty stupid, huh?” He scratches at a nonexistent stain on the textbook cover, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Chris said I should’ve just asked you out like a normal person.”

You blink. “Chris knew?”

Leon’s laugh is strangled, half-embarrassed as he scrubs a hand down his face. “Uh. Yeah. Pretty much everyone knew.” He peeks at you through his fingers, gauging your reaction. “Except you, apparently.”

You stare at him, your fingers tightening around your backpack strap. “Everyone?” Your voice cracks on the word.

“Well…” Leon hesitates, then winces. “Claire. Chris. Sherry, obviously. Ada, probably?”

“Ada? My fucking roommate?” Your voice pitches higher than intended, and the librarian shoots you a glare. You lower it to a furious whisper. “You told my roommate?”

Leon leans back in his chair like a man bracing for impact, his fingers drumming against the table. "Not told," he corrects, wincing. "She, uh. Kinda guessed when I showed up at your apartment with that extra-large pizza last week."

Your jaw drops. "That was you? Ada said it was…" You cut yourself off as the memory clicks into place: Ada smirking over a slice of pepperoni, saying some lovesick idiot paid the delivery guy to say it was from Claire.

Leon rubs the back of his neck, his ears turning pink. "In my defense, I did tip the guy twenty bucks to keep his mouth shut."

A laugh bubbles up in your throat before you can stop it, half exasperation, half disbelief. Leon's eyes flick to yours, tentative hope dawning in his expression.

The laugh escapes before you can swallow it down, sharp and startled, like something unexpected shaken loose. Leon's shoulders relax a fraction, his fingers uncurling from the textbook edge. "So," he says carefully, watching your face like it's a map he's trying to read. "Are you gonna storm out dramatically, or can I at least buy you a coffee first?"

You press your lips together, but the corner of your mouth betrays you by twitching upward. "You already bought me coffee," you mutter almost defeatedly, nodding to the half-finished caramel monstrosity on the table.

Leon leans forward, his fingers drumming against the table in a rhythm that matches your erratic heartbeat. "Coffee's cheap, you deserve better," he says like it's nothing, like he's not flipping your world upside down, voice dropping low enough that the librarian doesn't glare this time. His thumb brushes the condensation on your cup, leaving a smeared trail. "Let me buy you dinner instead."

You press your cold palms against the textbook to stop their trembling. "Only if you swear to be brutally honest from now on about everything. Literally everything." The words come out sharper than intended, but Leon doesn't flinch.

His mouth quirks at the corner as he extends his pinky across the table. "Scout's honor."

You stare at his outstretched finger, the calloused knuckle, the faint scar along the side, and a laugh escapes you. "Sherry teach you that?"

Leon's grin is all teeth. "She said it's legally binding." His pinky wiggles impatiently. "C'mon, teach. Time to put your money where your mouth is."

Your pinky hovers in the air for a heartbeat too long before you finally hook yours around his, the contact sending an absurd jolt up your arm. Leon’s grin widens, and he gives your finger a firm shake, just like Sherry does when she’s sealing a pact about extra dessert. “There,” he says, low and satisfied. “Now you’re legally obligated to let me take you out.”

You snatch your hand back, tucking it under the table like he might steal that too. “I didn’t agree to let you do anything, it was a mutual agreement to meet,” you mutter, but there’s no bite to it. Leon’s smile doesn’t waver; if anything, it grows more infuriatingly smug.

The library’s fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and you suddenly realize how quiet it’s become, how close he’s leaning, the way his knee hasn’t moved from where it’s pressed against yours. You clear your throat and straighten your notes with exaggerated precision. “So. Durkheim. Since you’re actually passing this class.”

Leon’s laugh is soft, almost private, as he flips open his notebook again. “Yeah, yeah. Social facts.” He taps his pen against the page, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “But just so we’re clear, dinner’s still happening. Even if I have to fake failing another class to make it happen.”

Leon’s pen hovers over his notebook for a beat too long before he scribbles something in the margin, not notes, but a tiny doodle of a stick figure holding a pizza, complete with exaggerated steam lines. He nudges the notebook toward you with his elbow, his face carefully blank. You glance down. The stick figure has your curly hair, and next to it, another stick figure, taller, with absurdly spiky hair, holds out a heart-shaped pizza box.

You snap the notebook shut with more force than necessary, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. "Focus," you mutter, shoving the book back at him. Leon’s grin is unbearable, all white teeth and dimples.

The next hour passes in a strange, charged truce, Leon actually studies, asking questions with a startling depth that makes you pause, while you pointedly ignore the way his knee stays pressed against yours under the table. At one point, he steals your highlighter again, this time to underline a passage about social cohesion, and when you snatch it back, his fingers linger just long enough to send a jolt up your arm.

When the library’s overhead lights flicker, the universal signal for closing time, you both startle like you’ve been caught doing something illicit. Leon recovers first, stretching his arms above his head with a lazy grin. plastered on his face. “Guess we’re getting kicked out,” he says, but his voice is softer than usual, like he’s savoring the quiet between you. You nod stiffly, shoving your notebook into your bag with more force than necessary. The metal wired spine cracks in protest.

Leon watches you with an odd intensity as he slings his backpack over one shoulder, his fingers drumming against the strap. “So,” he says, dragging the word out like he’s testing its weight. “Dinner. Tomorrow.” It isn’t a question. You huff, adjusting your bag strap just to avoid looking at him. “You’re presumptuous that we're still going,” you mutter, but there’s no venom in it. Leon’s smirk widens as he holds the library door open for you, the gesture so casually chivalrous it makes your teeth ache.

“Presumptuous is a big word for someone who just blushed at a stick figure doodle,” he murmurs, leaning in just close enough that his breath ghosts over your ear. You elbow him in the ribs, gently, and he laughs, the sound warm and low in the empty hallway.

Outside, the campus is bathed in the golden haze of late afternoon, the kind of light that makes everything feel suspended in amber. Leon falls into step beside you, his shoulder brushing yours every few steps like he can’t help it. “You’re walking me to the bus stop,” you observe, side-eyeing him. Leon shrugs, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Maybe I’m just going the same way,” he deflects, but the way his fingers twitch against his thighs gives him away. You don’t call him on it. You'll give him that mercy.

The bus stop is deserted save for a lone freshman dozing against the bench, their earbuds leaking tinny metal music. Leon leans against the pole beside you, his posture deliberately casual, but you catch the way his eyes dart to your face every few seconds. The silence stretches, thick with something unspoken, until he clears his throat. “So. Tomorrow. Seven.” His voice is steady, but his fingers are tapping an erratic rhythm against his thigh. “I’ll pick you up?”

The bus arrives with a groan of brakes, its doors sliding open like an afterthought. You step forward on autopilot, until Leon’s fingers catch the sleeve of your oversized sweater, tugging gently. “Hey,” he says, and there’s that uncharacteristic hesitance again, his thumb rubbing absent circles against the fabric. “This isn’t... you’re not just gonna ghost me, right?”

The words catch in your throat, half-formed excuses, sharp retorts, something about how he deserves to be ghosted after weeks of lying, but then you see the way his fingers tighten imperceptibly on your sleeve, the way his usual smirk falters into something painfully earnest. Something in your chest cracks open like an overripe fruit.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you surge onto your tiptoes, just high enough, and press your lips to his in a clumsy, fleeting kiss. It lasts barely a second, just the barest brush of warmth, the faint taste of coffee and something minty, but Leon makes a noise halfway between a gasp and a choked laugh against your mouth, his free hand coming up to hover uncertainly at your waist.

You’re already pulling back before he can react, your face burning as you practically throw yourself onto the bus. The doors wheeze shut behind you with finality, cutting off Leon’s stunned expression, his lips parted, his fingers still curled in the air where your sweater had been. You fumble for your bus pass with shaking hands, pointedly not looking out the window as the engine grumbles to life.

Too late. Through the smudged glass, you see Leon slowly lower his hand to his mouth, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. The bus lurches forward and then he’s running alongside it, keeping pace with your window, his laughter muffled but unmistakable. He taps the glass twice, grinning when you reluctantly meet his eyes. His lips form two deliberate words: SEVEN O’CLOCK.

You sink lower in your seat, your face flaming, as the bus finally pulls ahead. The last thing you see is Leon standing in the middle of the sidewalk, grinning like he’s just won the lottery, both hands shoved into his hair like he can’t believe what just happened.

—

The bus ride home is a blur of adrenaline and mortification. You press your forehead against the cool window, replaying the moment on loop as music plays through your earbuds. You hyperfixate on the startled hitch in Leon’s breath, the way his fingers had twitched against your sleeve like he wanted to pull you closer. Your phone buzzes in your pocket. And buzzes again. And again.

You drag it out reluctantly.

**[Unknown Number]:** so. that happened.  

**[Unknown Number]:** (this is leon btw. claire gave me your number. she’s laughing at me rn)  

**[Unknown Number]:** also i’m keeping the hair tie you left at the library today, again. collateral.

Your phone buzzes a fourth time before you can muster the courage to look.

**[Unknown Number]:** also i lied again. i don’t have another of your hair ties. i just wanted an excuse to text you. sue me.

You press your lips together to stifle the laugh threatening to escape, but your fingers type back before you can stop them: You’re insufferable.

The reply is immediate: **Leon:** only for you, teach.

The walk from the bus stop to your apartment feels longer than usual, your heartbeat still thrumming in your throat. You fumble with your keys twice before the lock clicks open, only to find Ada lounging on the couch like a lazy cat, her smirk already in place. “Well,” she drawls, setting her book aside with deliberate slowness. “Someone’s flustered.”

You kick the door shut harder than necessary, dumping your bag onto the kitchen counter with a thud. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Ada’s grin widens. “Oh, but you will.” She stretches, catlike, before padding over to pluck your phone from your back pocket, swiping it open before you can protest. “Ah,” she hums, scrolling through Leon’s messages with infuriating calm. “So he finally wore you down.”

You snatch the phone back, but the damage is done. Ada’s laughter follows you to the fridge, where you yank it open just to hide your burning face in the cool air. “You knew,” you accuse, voice muffled by the shelves. “This whole time.”

Ada leans against the fridge door, trapping you between her and the chill. “Of course I knew,” she says, flicking your forehead with a manicured nail. “The man sent you a heart-shaped pizza, darling. Subtlety is not his strong suit.”

Your phone buzzes again before you can formulate a response to Ada’s teasing. She arches an eyebrow, plucking it from your grip with infuriating ease. “Ohhh,” she coos, tilting the screen toward you. “He wants to know if you prefer Italian or Thai for tomorrow.” Her grin turns wicked. “Someone’s got a date.”

You groan, snatching the phone back and immediately regretting it when you see the follow-up text: **[Leon]:** (also pls confirm you’re not currently hiding in a bush to avoid me. sherry’s idea, not mine.) 

You type back: Thai, then add: And I’m not hiding in a bush, before you can overthink it. The reply is instantaneous: **[Leon]:** liar. you’re totally the bush-hiding type.

Ada watches this exchange with the air of someone enjoying a particularly juicy soap opera. “You both are adorable,” she declares, stealing a yogurt from the fridge. “You're like a rom-com protagonist. If rom-com protagonists had a chronic inability to admit they like someone.”

You wake up the next morning with your face half-buried in your pillow, your phone clutched in your hand, Leon’s last message still glowing on the screen: Don’t overthink it. It's just dinner. You groan, rolling onto your back and throwing an arm over your eyes. Just dinner. Right. Like the way last night was just a kiss, fleeting and reckless and enough to send your pulse skittering every time you remember the way his lips had felt against yours.

Ada’s already in the kitchen when you shuffle in, her smirk practically painted on as she slides a mug of coffee toward you. “Sleep well?” she purrs, stirring her own drink with deliberate slowness. You take the mug without dignifying her with a response, but the heat of the ceramic does nothing to soothe the way your fingers tremble. Ada’s smirk widens. “You’re nervous.”

You scoff into your coffee. “I’m not.”

Ada leans her hip against the counter, stirring her coffee with infuriating calm. “Uh-huh. Which is why you’ve been staring at your closet for twenty minutes like it’s a Final Exam.”

Your phone buzzes on the counter, Leon’s name flashing across the screen, and you nearly knock over your coffee reaching for it. Ada’s laugh is downright evil as you fumble to unlock it.

**[Leon]:** morning. hope you’re not regretting last night.  

**[Leon]:** (i’m regretting not kissing you back, just so we’re clear.)

You choke on your coffee, hastily typing: I don’t regret anything, before deleting it and settling for a safer: Morning. Ada peers over your shoulder with unabashed curiosity. “God, you’re terrible at this, gimme that damn thing,” she sighs, plucking the phone from your hands. Before you can protest, she’s typing rapidly.

Your phone chimes with Ada’s sent message before you can lunge for it. She holds it just out of reach, her smirk victorious. "There," she says, tossing it back. "Now you have no choice but to actually talk to him."

You stare at the screen in horror: **[You]:** Regret? No. But if you mention the bush thing again, I’m canceling.

Leon’s reply is instantaneous: **[Leon]:** noted. no bushes, no canceling, no take-backs. also hi Ada I know this is you.

—-

The Thai restaurant Leon picks is small and dimly lit, tucked between a laundromat and a used bookstore, the kind of place you’d walk past without noticing unless someone pointed it out. You hover outside the entrance, fiddling with the hem of your emerald green sweater, when the door swings open and Leon steps out, his hair slightly damp like he’s just showered. He’s wearing a dark red button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and the sight of his forearms, corded with muscle, the faint scars you’ve only ever glimpsed at tutoring sessions now fully visible, makes your mouth go dry.

“You came,” he says, grinning like he’d half-expected you to bolt.

You lift your chin. “I said I would.”

Leon’s grin softens into something warmer as he holds the door open for you. “Yeah, but you can't blame a man for having a little anxiety.

The restaurant smells like lemongrass and chili, warm and inviting, with strings of fairy lights casting soft gold over the mismatched tables. Leon guides you to a corner booth with an ease that suggests he’s been here before, his hand hovering just above the small of your back without quite touching. “They do this peanut curry that’ll change your life,” he says, sliding into the seat across from you. His knee bumps yours under the table, and he doesn’t pull away.

You fiddle with the menu, acutely aware of how his eyes keep flicking up to your face. “So,” you start, then pause when the waiter arrives with two glasses of water. Leon orders for both of you, something spicy for him, something milder for you, with extra spring rolls because “she’ll pretend she doesn’t want them but she’ll eat half of mine.” You kick his shin under the table, but he just grins, unrepentant.

When the waiter leaves, Leon leans forward, elbows on the table. “You’re staring,” he says, tapping his fork against his glass. “Trying to figure out if I’m secretly an axe murderer outside tutoring?”

“Trying to figure out how you knew I’d eat your spring rolls,” you mutter, but your cheeks heat anyway.

Leon chuckles, swirling his water glass in lazy circles. “Claire mentioned you have a thing for fried food. Also, you stole my fries last week when we were studying.” He leans in conspiratorially. “Thought I didn’t notice?”

The arrival of the spring rolls saves you from formulating a reply. Leon immediately nudges the plate toward you with his knuckles, his smirk softer now, less teasing, more pleased. “Go on,” he practically coos. “Before I change my mind.”

You break one in half with deliberate precision, but the second you bite into it, the crispy shell shatters, sending crumbs down your sweater. Leon’s laugh is warm as he brushes a stray sesame seed off your collar, his fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long. “Graceful,” he teases, but his thumb catches a smudge of sweet chili sauce at the corner of your mouth before you can wipe it away.

The contact sends a jolt through you, too brief, too casual, yet somehow more intimate than last night’s kiss. Leon seems to realize it too; he pulls back abruptly, clearing his throat as he reaches for his own spring roll. “So,” he says, deliberately shifting the topic. “How long were you planning to pretend you hated me?”

You freeze mid-bite, the spring roll suddenly tasteless in your mouth. Leon watches you with an unreadable expression, part amusement, part something else that makes your pulse stutter. "I didn't hate you," you finally mutter, focusing intently on rearranging the crumbs on your plate. "I just thought you were... annoying."

Leon's grin is slow, deliberate. "Still do, though." His foot nudges yours under the table, the contact sending a warm shock up your ankle. The waiter arrives with steaming bowls of curry, breaking the moment, Leon thanks them with that effortless charm that used to irritate you, now inexplicably making your stomach flip.

You focus on stirring your curry, watching the creamy coconut milk swirl with flecks of chili. "You are annoying, yeah," you say at last, pointing your spoon at him. "Failing a class just to, what, get my attention? That's deranged."

Leon leans back in the booth, stretching his arms along the backrest. The motion pulls his shirt taut across his shoulders, and you resolutely ignore the way the fabric strains. "Worked, didn't it?" His voice drops, rougher. "Besides, you were impossible to talk to at parties. Always hiding behind Claire or grading papers like some kind of... tiny, furious TA machine."

The spring roll halfway to your mouth pauses. "Tiny?"

Leon's grin is all teeth as he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. "You're five-four max," he says, tilting his head like he's measuring you from across the booth. "Sherry's gonna pass you in two years."

You kick his shin under the table, harder this time, but he just laughs, catching your ankle between his boots and holding it there. The warmth of his leg against yours is distracting, and you focus extra hard on spearing a piece of chicken with your fork to ignore the heat spreading through your body. "I'm average height," you mutter disdainly.

"Mm-hmm… sure, cutie." Leon steals a bite of your curry before you can stop him, licking the spoon with exaggerated relish. "Average-height people don't need help reaching the top shelf at the library."

Your face burns at the memory, Leon appearing out of nowhere last week when you'd been straining for a sociology text, his chest pressing against your back as he'd plucked the book down with infuriating ease. "You were lurking," you accuse dramatically, stabbing another piece of chicken aggressively. 

Leon’s fingers drum against his water glass, the condensation making little wet circles on the tablecloth. “Lurking implies malicious intent,” he counters, stealing another bite of your curry like he owns it. “I prefer strategically positioned,” His foot hooks around your ankle further under the table, reminding you that he's anchoring you there when you try to pull away. The contact sends heat creeping up your calf again.

The waiter arrives with a second round of spring rolls, because Leon had apparently ordered more when you weren’t looking, and you glare at him over the steaming plate. “Stop stealing my food,” you whine, swatting his hand away from your bowl. Leon grins, unrepentant, and nudges the new plate toward you. “Trade you,” he says, pushing your half-finished curry aside and replacing it with his own untouched bowl. “Mine’s spicier. You’ll like it better.”

You freeze with your spoon halfway to your mouth. It’s such a small thing, swapping dishes like it’s nothing, like he’s already memorized your preferences, but it makes your throat tighten. Leon doesn’t seem to notice, too busy drizzling extra chili oil over his stolen curry. “Eat, cutie,” he says, nodding to the bowl he’s given you. “Before I change my mind and take it back, yeah?”

The first bite burns your tongue in the best way, rich and complex, and you can’t suppress the small noise of pleasure that escapes you. Leon’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth, his eyes darkening as he watches your lips. “Told you,” he drawls, voice rough and satisfied. You duck your head, suddenly self-conscious, and Leon exhales sharply through his nose before deliberately shoveling a too-large bite into his own mouth, like he’s punishing himself for staring.

The silence stretches, thick with something unspoken, until Leon clears his throat. “So.” He taps his fork against his plate. “You gonna tell Ada about this, or do I get to savor her texting me in all caps tomorrow?” His tone is light, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that betrays how much your answer matters.

You swirl your spoon in the curry, watching the steam rise. “Ada already knows,” you admit. “She, uh. Hijacked my phone last night.” Leon chokes on his water, coughing into his napkin. “Yeah, I know. I could tell it wasn't you.” he says like it's common knowledge, wiping his mouth. “She sent me a winking emoji at 3 AM after that.” The thought of Ada texting him about you while you slept sends heat crawling up your neck.

Leon leans forward suddenly, his knee pressing more firmly against yours under the table. “Hey.” His voice drops, low and intent. “Look at me.” When you reluctantly meet his gaze, he holds it, unblinking. “This isn’t... I’m not messing around, okay?” His thumb brushes a stray grain of rice off the tablecloth, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you. “The failing thing was stupid, but the part where I want you? That isn’t.”

Your spoon clatters against the bowl, the sound impossibly loud in the sudden quiet between you. Leon’s gaze doesn’t waver, steady and blue and terrifyingly sincere, and you realize with a jolt that this is the first time he’s ever looked at you without a trace of teasing. The fairy lights overhead cast gold streaks across his cheekbones, and you count the faint freckles on his nose just to avoid answering.

Leon exhales sharply through his nose when the silence stretches too long, his fingers flexing against the tablecloth. “That’s... fair,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Should’ve led with the pizza.”

The tension snaps like a rubber band. You laugh despite yourself, pressing your knuckles to your mouth, and Leon’s shoulders slump in visible relief. His knee nudges yours again, gentler this time, an unspoken thank you for not bolting, before he steals another spring roll with exaggerated nonchalance. “So,” he says around a mouthful, deliberately casual. “Sherry wants to know if you’ll still tutor her. Apparently I’m ‘not fun’ anymore now that I’m not on a fake failing mission.”

You snort, tracing the rim of your water glass. “She just likes stealing my pastel highlighters.”

Leon’s grin softens at the mention of Sherry, his fingers drumming against the condensation-slick glass. “She’s got a whole stolen collection under her bed. Yellow’s her favorite, says it smells like ‘sunshine and smiles’” He mimics Sherry’s lisp with startling accuracy, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles up, sharp and unexpected. Leon’s eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased with himself, but then his expression sobers. “Seriously, though. She misses you.” His thumb brushes a drop of water from the tablecloth, avoiding your gaze. “I miss you. When I hang out with the kid it isn't the same without you.”

The admission hangs between you, fragile as the steam curling from your abandoned curry. You swallow hard, suddenly aware of how close his hand is to yours, close enough that you could lace your fingers through his if you were brave enough. The restaurant noise fades to a dull hum, replaced by the hammering of your pulse in your ears.

Your fingers twitch toward Leon’s hand where it rests beside his water glass, then freeze halfway, curling into an aborted fist against the tablecloth. You’re still debating whether to pull back when his hand suddenly engulfs yours, warm and calloused and certain, his other hand coming up to cradle your knuckles like you’re something precious. The contact sends a jolt up your arm, your breath catching audibly. Leon’s thumbs brush over your pulse point, his grip firm but not tight, like he’s giving you room to pull away if you want to. You don’t and you don't want to.

“There you go,” he praises, his voice rough around the edges. His fingers trace the ridge of your knuckles, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of them. The fairy lights overhead cast his eyelashes in gold, his gaze fixed on your joined hands with an intensity that makes your throat dry. “Been wanting to do that forever,” he admits almost with relief, so quiet you almost miss it. Like the contact between you to has scratched an itch.

The restaurant noise fades into static. You stare at his thumb rubbing circles into your palm, the way his fingertips press just a little too hard whenever you shift, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t anchor you here. His palms are slightly damp, and the realization that he’s nervous too sends a reckless thrill through you. You turn your hand over beneath his, threading your fingers through his with deliberate slowness. Leon’s breath hitches audibly.

“Christ,” he mutters, squeezing your hand tighter. His thumb strokes your wrist now, right over the fluttering pulse point. “You’re killing me here.”

The waiter chooses that moment to materialize with the check, clearing his throat pointedly. Leon doesn’t let go of your hand to reach for his wallet, just fishes it out one-handed with his free hand, his grin smug when the waiter raises an eyebrow. You kick his shin under the table, but he only laces his fingers tighter through yours, his thumb tracing idle patterns on your knuckles while he signs the receipt.

Outside, the night air is cool against your flushed face. Leon keeps hold of your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, swinging your joined hands between you as you walk. His shoulder bumps yours every few steps, his grin widening whenever you don’t pull away.

Leon stops abruptly under a streetlamp, its orange glow casting long shadows across his face. He turns to face you fully, his free hand coming up to tuck a stray curl behind your ear, a habit he’s stopped blaming on Sherry. "So," he says, his voice lower than usual, rougher. "Where to now, pretty girl?" His thumb brushes your earlobe, lingering just a second too long to be casual. You swallow hard, acutely aware of how his pulse jumps under your fingertips where your hands are still intertwined.

"Home, probably," you mutter, but it comes out half-hearted, your fingers tightening around his without conscious thought. Leon exhales sharply through his nose, his other hand rising to cradle your jaw, hesitant, like he's waiting for permission. When you don't pull away, his thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone with agonizing slowness. "Or," he drawls, leaning in just close enough that his breath ghosts over your lips, "we could take the scenic route."

The bus stop ahead is empty, the last bus long gone. You know you should call a cab and you just know Ada will have something scathing to say about your flushed cheeks when you stumble in to your apartment, but Leon’s fingers are tracing nonsense patterns against your palm, and suddenly home feels impossibly far away. "Scenic route," you echo, your voice barely above a whisper. Leon’s grin is blinding as he steps back just enough to tug you forward, his grip firm and sure. "Knew you'd say that," he lies effortlessly, his voice warm with amusement.

The sidewalk is uneven underfoot, cracked in places where tree roots have pushed through, but Leon steadies you with a hand at the small of your back whenever you stumble. His touch lingers longer each time, until eventually his arm is slung around your waist entirely, pulling you flush against his side. "Cold?" he asks, though it's barely autumn and the night is mild. You nod anyway, using the excuse to press closer, and Leon makes a soft noise of contentment in his throat before shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over your shoulders. It's warm from his body heat, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips, smelling faintly of his shampoo and something spicy from the restaurant.

Leon’s jacket is heavy on your shoulders, the weight of it somehow more grounding than the arm still wrapped around your waist. He’s talking, something about the time Chris tried to microwave a whole pizza and nearly burned down their dorm, but you’re only half-listening, too focused on the way his fingers keep flexing against your hip like he’s resisting the urge to pull you closer. The streetlights paint gold streaks across his profile, catching on the faded scar above his eyebrow, and you realize with a jolt that you’ve stopped walking.

Leon notices immediately, his arm tightening instinctively before he catches himself. “You okay?” His voice is softer now, the teasing edge replaced by something warmer, more vulnerable. You nod, but your fingers twist in the fabric of his jacket sleeves, knuckles brushing the bare skin of his wrist where his sleeves are rolled up. Leon’s breath stutters.

“This is stupid,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him, but Leon hears it anyway. His eyebrows shoot up, the streetlight catching the faint panic in his expression before you clarify: “We’ve been circling this block for twenty minutes.”

The tension bleeds out of Leon’s shoulders so fast it’s almost comical. He huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Yeah, well.” His thumb traces idle circles on your hipbone through your sweater. “M’ not exactly eager to drop you off yet.”

Leon’s thumb stills against your hip, his expression flickering between amusement and something dangerously close to hope. “Got somewhere to be?” he asks, his voice pitched low enough that you have to lean in to hear him. The streetlight overhead casts his eyelashes in long shadows across his cheekbones, and you catch yourself counting the faint freckles on his nose again, a habit you've developed you’ll never admit to.

You shrug, the motion making his jacket slip off one shoulder. Leon catches it gently before it falls, his fingers brushing the curve of your neck as he tugs the collar back into place. The contact lingers, his palm cupping your jawline for a heartbeat too long. “Ada’s at her girlfriend's place tonight,” you admit sheepishly, and Leon’s grin is instantaneous, like he just knows what you're insinuating.

“Convenient,” he teases, stepping closer until the toes of your shoes bump his. His hands find yours, threading your fingers together with deliberate slowness. “So. Scenic route it is.”

He doesn’t wait for confirmation, just tugs you forward, his grip unyielding as he leads you down a side street lined with overgrown hedges. The neighborhood is quiet, the occasional glow of a TV screen flickering behind drawn curtains. Leon’s thumb strokes the inside of your wrist absently, his pace unhurried. “Used to cut through here after late shifts,” he admits when you glance at him. “Quieter than the main road. I always got so overstimulated.”

The hedges rustle with the movement of unseen creatures as you walk, the sound mingling with the distant hum of traffic. Leon’s thumb hasn’t stopped tracing circles against your wrist, his touch feather-light but insistent, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t anchor you. “You’re quiet,” he fusses, glancing down at you sidelong. The streetlights catch the curve of his lower lip, still slightly swollen from where you’d bitten yours earlier. “Regretting the scenic route already?”

You shake your head, but the words stick in your throat. The truth is, you’re too aware of the way his jacket smells, like cedar and the faint warmth of stale coffee and how his shoulder keeps bumping yours whenever the sidewalk narrows. Leon slows as you round a corner, his fingers tightening around yours. “Here it is,” he says, nodding toward a small park bench tucked beneath an overgrown willow tree. “Best view of the stars without leaving campus.”

The bench is weathered but sturdy, the wood smooth under your palms as you sit. Leon doesn’t let go of your hand, his knee pressing against yours as he leans back with a sigh. Above you, the willow’s branches sway gently, filtering the moonlight into fractured silver across his face. “Used to come here when the dorms got too loud,” he admits, tilting his head back to study the sky. “Chris snored like a chainsaw and I just couldn't relax.”

You snort, tracing the grain of the wood with your free hand. “And you don’t, too?”

Leon clutches his chest dramatically, the bench creaking under his sudden movement. “Excuse you,” he gasps, his free hand splaying over his heart. “I’ll have you know I’m a delicate sleeper. Like a…” He pauses, eyebrows knitting together as he visibly struggles for a comparison. “A... very quiet mouse. Yeah, a mousie.”

You bark out a laugh before you can stop yourself, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet park. Leon’s grin is triumphant, his fingers squeezing yours where they’re still intertwined on the bench. “There it is,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your knuckles. “Knew I’d get a real laugh out of you eventually.”

The willow branches rustle overhead, casting shifting shadows across his face. You count the flecks of gold in his irises just to avoid acknowledging how close he’s leaned in, close enough that you can see the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the one he got playing backyard baseball with Chris at sixteen (you know this because Sherry told you during a particularly chatty tutoring session). Leon’s knee presses more firmly against yours, warm even through the fabric of your jeans. “What?” he asks, voice dropping to a husky whisper.

“Nothing.” You duck your head, but not before catching the way his gaze flicks to your mouth. The air between you thickens, the previous ease dissolving into something heavier. Leon exhales sharply through his nose, his thumb still tracing nonsense patterns on your wrist.

Leon’s thumb stills against your wrist, his exhale warm against your temple. “You’re staring so it isn't nothing,” he prods, but there’s no tease in it, just a rough edge that makes your pulse jump. The willow leaves flutter above you, casting dappled shadows that dance across the sharp line of his jaw.

“Am not,” you lie, but your fingers tighten around his reflexively. Leon huffs a quiet laugh, his free hand coming up to tuck that same stubborn curl behind your ear again. His fingertips linger, tracing the shell of your pierced ear with deliberate slowness before drifting down to cradle your soft jaw.

“Liar,” he whispers, and then his mouth is on yours, warm and insistent, tasting faintly of chili and the mint gum he’d popped after dinner. The kiss is nothing like last night’s fleeting brush of lips; this one is slow, deliberate, his thumb stroking your cheekbone as he tilts your head just so. The bench creaks when you surge forward, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer. Leon makes a startled noise in the back of his throat before kissing you harder, his arm wrapping around your waist to haul you halfway into his lap.

You break apart gasping, foreheads pressed together. Leon’s breathing is ragged, his grip almost painful where he’s clutching your hip. “Fuck,” he mutters, his lips brushing yours with each word. “Wasn’t- I wasn’t planning that.”

Leon’s confession hangs between you, the words trembling in the scant space where your lips had just been. His hands are shaking where they grip your waist, something you’ve never seen before, not even when Sherry dumped glitter in his coffee during a tutoring session. His shirt is rumpled from your fists, his breathing uneven. “Not that I’m complaining,” he adds hastily, his voice rough. His thumb swipes your lower lip, catching the dampness there. “Just... wasn’t part of the scenic route itinerary.”

You’re hyper-aware of the way his knee is wedged between yours, the heat of his palm branding through your sweater. The willow branches sway above you, casting shifting shadows across his face, illuminating the flush creeping up his neck, the way his pupils have swallowed nearly all the blue of his irises. “Do you actually have an itinerary?” you giggle, and Leon’s laugh is half a groan as he presses his forehead to your shoulder.

“Had one,” he corrects, his breath warm through the fabric of his jacket still draped over you. “Step three was supposed to be walking you home like a gentleman, not…” His hands flex on your hips, pulling you impossibly closer until you’re practically straddling him on the bench. “...this.”

"You're such an idiot," you breathe against his mouth, your fingers tightening in his shirt. The willow branches sway above you, catching moonlight in their leaves, Leon's face is dappled with silver, his lips swollen from kissing you, his pupils blown wide. Something reckless unspools in your chest. "Come home with me."

Leon freezes beneath you, his hands stilling on your waist. For a terrible second, you think you've misread everything—but then his exhale shudders out, warm against your cheek. "You- " His throat works as he swallows. "Are you sure?" His voice is rougher than you've ever heard it, stripped of all its usual confidence. "Because if this is just- "

"I'm sure." You press your forehead to his, your pulse rabbiting in your throat. The admission hangs between you, heavier than the jacket still draped over your shoulders. "I want you. Like... that." The words come out clumsier than you intended, but Leon's grip tightens instantly, his fingers digging into your hips.

He exhales sharply through his nose, his lashes fluttering shut for a brief moment. When he opens them again, his gaze is darkened with intent. "Okay," he murmurs, nodding like he's convincing himself. "Okay." His thumbs stroke your hipbones through your sweater, hesitant. "Your place or mine?"

The question hangs between you, charged and sudden, the kind of decision that should feel weighty but instead settles in your chest like something inevitable. You bite your lip, acutely aware of Leon’s hands still gripping your waist, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the fabric of your sweater. "Mine," you say at last, voice steadier than you feel. "Ada’s at her girlfriend’s tonight, remember?"

Leon's exhale is uneven against your temple, his fingers flexing against your hips like he's fighting the urge to haul you closer right there on the park bench. "Yeah," he rasps, voice thick with something that sends heat pooling low in your stomach. "Yeah, okay." His hands slide up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones with unbearable gentleness, a stark contrast to the way his breathing stutters when you shift in his lap. "Gimme a sec," he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. "Need to, christ, need to remember how to fuckin’ walk first."

You snort, but your own legs feel unsteady when you slide off his lap, the night air suddenly cooler where his body heat had been pressed against you. Leon stands in one fluid motion, raking a hand through his already-mussed hair before shrugging off his jacket completely and draping it over your shoulders again. The sleeves swallow your hands whole, the fabric warm from his skin. "So," he says, voice deliberately light as his fingers find yours, threading together with casual confidence that belies the way his pulse jumps under your fingertips. "Which way to home, cutie?"

The walk to your apartment is a blur of sidewalk cracks and Leon's thumb tracing idle circles against your palm. He keeps up a steady stream of chatter to prevent you from getting anxious, something about Sherry's latest obsession with dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, but his grip tightens imperceptibly every time your shoulders brush. When you pause at the crosswalk, he uses the momentary stillness to tug you closer, his arm sliding around your waist with practiced ease. "Okay?" he murmurs, though he should know by now it is. You nod anyway, pressing into his side, and Leon hums, low and satisfied, as the light changes.

Your building looms sooner than expected, its familiar brick facade suddenly intimidating under the weight of what comes next. Leon hesitates at the stoop, fingers tightening around yours. "Last chance to bail," he says with a crooked grin that doesn't reach his eyes. You roll your eyes and drag him up the stairs by his belt loop, his startled laugh echoing in the stairwell.

The key shakes in your fingers when you try to unlock the door, third attempt, and Leon’s warm breath ghosts over your shoulder as he leans in, his chest pressing against your back. “Need a hand?” he coos, lips brushing your ear. You elbow him halfheartedly, but when the key still won’t turn, his hand closes over yours, steadying. The lock clicks open under his sure twist, and suddenly you’re both stumbling into the dark apartment, the door slamming shut behind you with finality.

The apartment door clicks shut behind you, plunging the entryway into darkness save for the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the blinds. Leon’s breath is warm against the nape of your neck, his hands still framing yours where they’re braced against the door. For a heartbeat, neither of you move, then his chuckle rumbles through you, low and uneven. "So," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, "you gonna show me around, or are we just gonna stand here like idiots?"

You elbow him, but there’s no heat in it, not when his arms slide around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. His nose nudges the curve of your jaw, scenting the shampoo behind your ear with a quiet inhale that makes your knees weak. "Living room’s- " Your voice cracks. You clear your throat, gesturing vaguely toward the dim outline of your couch. "That way."

Leon hums, his hands sliding up to grip your hips as he steers you forward blindly. The coffee table bumps your shin, and you hiss, Leon’s apology is muffled against your shoulder as he hoists you over it effortlessly, his laugh vibrating through you when you yelp. "Sorry, sweetheart," he laughs, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all. His palms skate up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your sweater. "Got a little… distracted."

You turn in his arms, hands fisting in his shirt to steady yourself. Moonlight stripes across his face through your shitty apartment blinds, illuminating the way his gaze drops to your mouth, the way his throat works when you press closer. "Yeah?" you breathe, tilting your chin up. "By what?"

Leon exhales sharply through his nose, his hands tightening on your hips as his gaze flicks between your eyes and your mouth. "You," he says simply, voice rough. "Always you." His thumbs press into the softness of your waist, not tentative, not apologetic, just resting there, like he's wanted to do this for months. The not-admission hangs between you, raw and unguarded, and suddenly the air in your living room feels too thick to breathe.

His nose brushes yours when he leans in, hesitant, giving you space to pull away should you want to, but you surge forward instead, catching his lower lip between yours. Leon makes a noise halfway between a whimper and a sigh, his fingers digging into your hips as he walks you backward until your calves hit the couch. "Careful," he croons against your mouth, but you're already tugging him down with you, the cushions dipping under his weight as he braces himself above you. His knee slots between yours automatically, the denim rough against your inner thigh.

"You're- " Leon's breath hitches when you arch up into him, your hands sliding under his shirt to map the taut planes of his abdomen. "Fuck, you're gonna kill me." His hips roll against yours in an unconscious rhythm, the friction drawing a whimper from your throat that he swallows with another kiss. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging just enough to make your toes curl, and you can feel his smirk against your mouth when you gasp.

The hem of your oversized sweater rides up when Leon's hands slide beneath it, his palms warm against your skin as they trace the curve of your waist. His touch stutters when he reaches the band of your jeans, fingers hooking hesitantly into the fabric. "This okay, sweetie?" he asks, pulling back just far enough to search your face. His pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen from kissing you, and something in your chest tightens at that (and the suprise petname, the you don't complain).

His fingertips tremble against your stomach, barely noticeable unless you're pressed this close, which you blessedly are, and suddenly it hits you that Leon Kennedy, who's been nothing but confident since the moment Claire introduced him, is nervous. The realization sends warmth flooding through your chest, loosening something tight behind your ribs. You catch his wrist before he can pull away, guiding his hand higher until his palm cups the swell of your breast over your wired bra. "More than okay," you breathe out, watching his throat work as he swallows hard.

Leon exhales sharply through his nose, his thumb brushing your nipple through the lace. "Jesus," he rasps, dropping his forehead to yours. "You're so soft." His hips jerk against yours involuntarily, drawing a ragged moan from both of you. "Fuck, I've thought about this so much." His confession is raw, unguarded, his breath hot against your cheek as his hands grow bolder, mapping the curves you've spent years apologizing for with a reverence that makes your eyes sting.

When his fingers find the clasp of your bra behind your back, you stiffen, just for a second, but Leon notices instantly, his hands stilling. "Hey," he coos, nudging your nose with his. "We don't have to do this, we can just- "

"No," you interrupt, clutching his shoulders. "I want to. I just..." Your throat clicks when you swallow, suddenly embarrassed. "The lights."

Leon’s hands withdraw instantly, his palms skimming up to cradle your face instead. His thumbs brush your cheekbones, gentle, deliberate. “Sweetie,” he murmurs, voice low enough that you feel it in your ribs more than hear it. “Look at me.” When you do, his gaze is steady with no pity, just patience. “You’re fucking gorgeous.” The words land with the weight of fact, not flattery. His thumb traces your chapped lower lip. “But we can keep the lights off. Or stop. Your call, pretty girl. Jus’ wanna be near you.”

Leon’s hands feel like brands on your skin as he leans back just enough to unclasp your bra with surprising dexterity, one-handed, the other still cradling your jaw like you’re something precious. The fabric slips away, and you instinctively curl inward, but Leon’s exhale is downright reverent. “My god,” he breathes, his fingers tracing the swell of your breast with aching slowness. “You’re so warm.” His thumb brushes your nipple, and you gasp, arching into his touch before you can stop yourself. Leon makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat, his lips crashing into yours again as he palms your other breast, kneading gently. 

His mouth trails down your neck, teeth scraping lightly over your pulse point before he ducks lower, laving his tongue over one peaked nipple. You cry out, fingers tangling in his golden hair as he suckles gently, his free hand caressing your other nipple just enough to make your thighs clench around his waist. “Leon. Oh my god- fuck- ”

“Not god, sweetie. Just me.” He lifts his head, lips glistening, pupils blown so wide his irises are nearly gone. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of your Levi jeans. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart.” The pet name curls warm in your belly, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your hipbone. “You make the calls tonight.”

You swallow hard, your pulse rabbiting in your throat. “You,” you manage, voice cracking. “I like you.”

Leon’s breath hitches when you reach for his belt buckle, your fingers fumbling against the cold metal. He catches your shaking wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm before guiding your hand away. “I've got it,” he murmurs, voice rough as he unfastens it himself, the leather sliding free with a soft hiss. His jeans hang low on his hips when he stands to shuck them off, revealing the sharp v of his pelvis and the strained outline of his boxer briefs. Your throat goes dry.

He kneels between your thighs again, hands sliding up your bare sides as he ducks his head to press an open-mouthed kiss just below your navel above your pudgey stomach. His barely there stubble scrapes your skin, the sensation drawing a shiver from you that has nothing to do with the cool air. “You’re shaking…” he whispers in awe against your stomach, fingers tracing the lace trim of your panties. His thumbs hook into the waistband, pausing. “Is this still good?”

You nod frantically, lifting your hips to help him slide them down. Leon makes a sound halfway between a groan and a whimper when he sees you, his hands tightening momentarily on your thighs before he forces himself to relax. “Fuck, you’re- ” His voice breaks. He exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a shaky fingertip through your slick folds with a reverence that makes your toes curl. “So fucking adorable like this.”

His first touch is tentative, just the pad of his middle finger circling your puffy reddened clit to test your reaction, slow enough to make you squirm proper. When you whine, he chuckles darkly, adding a second finger to stroke you in earnest. “That’s it,” he murmurs, watching your face as your hips jerk into his hand. “C’mon, honey, let me hear those cute noises.”

Leon's fingers curl into you with practiced precision, and you realize suddenly that this is too perfect, like he's been studying exactly how you'd react. The thought makes your mind scramble. "You- " you gasp, hips arching off the couch when his thumb presses just right. "Did you fucking research this, Leon?"

His laugh is rough against your inner thigh, teeth scraping lightly as he mouths his way higher. "Claire owes me twenty bucks," he admits sheepishly, the words vibrating against your skin. His free hand pins your hip to the cushions when you buck up again. "Told her you'd catch onto me fast."

You're about to laugh in disbelief when his tongue suddenly replaces his fingers, hot and flat against your hole, licking a slow, savoring stripe that leaves you clawing at the couch cushions. Leon groans like he's the one being devoured, his grip tightening on your plush thigh as he settles between your legs with single-minded focus. Every flick of his tongue is calculated, testing, adjusting based on the way your breath stutters or your muscles tense. It's infuriating. It's perfect. He's perfect. 

"You're- fuck- you're such a cheater," you whine, twisting your hands in his hair. Leon hums in agreement, the sound traveling straight to your core as he slips two fingers inside you, crooking them just so upwards. Your vision whites out momentarily, a broken noise tearing from your throat that Leon swallows with another pass of his tongue.

Leon pulls back just enough to watch your face as his fingers work deeper, his lips glistening with your slick, his breathing ragged. "Good?" he rasps, curling his fingers again in that maddening way that makes your thighs tremble. "Tell me, please." His thumb rubs tight circles while his fingers press up, relentless. "Tell me what I'm doing that's right."

You choke on air, your hips jerking off the couch as he drags another ragged moan from you. "Leon- please- "

"Please what, pretty girl?" His voice is wrecked, his free hand sliding up to grip your hipbone. "Use your words."

You whine high in your throat when he slows his fingers to an agonizing crawl, his thumb still working your clit in sharp, precise strokes. "Need you," you gasp, arching into his touch. "Inside me, need more than this."

Leon’s fingers still inside you abruptly, his breath catching in a way that makes your stomach flip. For one heart-stopping second, you think you’ve said the wrong thing, but then he’s surging up your body, pinning you to the couch with his weight as his mouth crashes into yours. You taste yourself on his tongue and the realization sends heat licking up your spine.

Leon’s forehead presses against yours as he pulls back just enough to fumble with his wallet, his hands shaking so badly the condom wrapper slips twice before he manages to tear it open. You watch the flex of his throat as he swallows hard, his breath stuttering when your fingers brush his hipbones to help guide him. “Alright, slow.” he hisses through clenched teeth as you sink onto him inch by inch, his knuckles whitening where they grip the couch cushions beside your head. “Christ, you feel so warm.”

You cut him off with a jerky roll of your hips that makes his entire body jerk, his hips stuttering forward involuntarily. Leon makes a sound like he’s been punched, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he struggles to hold still. “Wait- fuck- wait, baby,” he gasps almost whiny, his biceps trembling with the effort of restraint. “Give me a sec or this’ll be over before it starts.”

You drag your nails down his back in selfish retaliation, relishing the way his hips snap forward in response. He's buried to the hilt now, the stretch bordering on overwhelming. Though you can’t say you're surprised. 

Leon’s groan vibrates against your collarbone, his teeth scraping the skin there as he begins to move with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, soft plaps filling the silence of your apartment. Every drag of him inside you feels calculated to wring another broken cry from your throat, especially his breath hot against your neck and his hands cradling your head like you're something precious, something fragile. 

“Look at me, let me see those pretty eyes,” he rasps, nudging your chin up with his sharp nose until your gazes lock. The raw intensity in his eyes steals your breath, blue nearly swallowed by black, his lashes fluttering when you clench around him. “Fuck, you're doing so well sweetie, just keep moving like that, yeah?” His thumb finds your clit again, circling in time with his thrusts until your back arches off the couch. “Come on, pretty girl, wanna see you let go for me, know you can.”

Leon’s thumb presses harder against your clit just as he angles his hips deeper, a brutal, perfect precision that sends white-hot sparks shooting up your spine. Your fingers scramble for purchase against his shoulders, nails digging into sweat-slick skin as your thighs tremble around him. “Leon- ah- I can't,” His name fractures in your throat, syllables crumbling into an unbearably loud whine as pleasure coils tighter, unbearable.

His lips crash into yours, swallowing your protests of overstimulation as his pace turns even more punishing than you thought it could be, each thrust punctuated by the creak of couch springs and the slick plap of skin. “That’s it,” he soothes against your mouth, his breath ragged. “C’mon, sweetheart, you can. I know it's a lot but you can.” His hand slides from your hip to grip your thigh, hiking it higher over his waist, and the new angle wrings a shattered cry from your lungs.

You cum with a sob, back arching off the cushions as pleasure rips through you, wave after wave, your vision spotting at the edges. Leon curses, hips stuttering as he chases his own release, his forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck, that's it sweetie, there it is.” His voice breaks, his thrusts turning erratic before he stills with a groan, his body shuddering above you as he cums in succession. 

For a long moment, the only sound is your shared panting, the rush of blood in your ears. Leon’s weight settles over you, warm and solid, his lips brushing your temple absently. “Holy shit, we just did that,” he giggles, voice wrecked. His fingers trace idle circles on your nipple, gentle now, where moments ago they’d pinched hard enough to bruise.

Leon’s breath evens out slowly, his chest rising and falling against yours in a rhythm that makes your eyelids heavy. His fingers trail absently up your side, not seeking more, just savoring the presence of you and you realize with a start that his hands are still shaking. 

"Are you okay?" you coo, brushing a damp strand of hair off his forehead.

Leon exhales a laugh against your collarbone. "Shouldn’t I be asking you that?" His thumb swipes over the love bite blooming on your neck, his voice dropping to something rough and private. "Did I- "

"You didn’t." You press your palm to his stubbled cheek, guiding his gaze up. His eyelashes flutter against your fingertips, blue eyes hazy with lingering pleasure. The streetlight through your blinds stripes gold across his shoulders, catching the sweat still drying at the hollow of his throat.

Leon rolls off you with a groan, the couch springs protesting as he lands half on the cushions and half on the floor. His arm drapes heavily over your waist, fingers tracing lazy, tender patterns over the swell of your belly. "Fuck me," he mutters, voice still wrecked. "That was…" His thumb digs into the muscles just above your navel, his exhale shuddering. "I don't actually have words right now."

You nudge his ribs with your toes, grinning when he grabs your ankle with startling reflexes. "Leon Kennedy, speechless?" you tease, stretching your arms above your head. The movement makes you wince, your muscles ache in places you didn't know could ache, and the scratch of his stubble lingers like a brand across your chest. "Never thought I'd see the day."

He tugs your leg until you're half-sprawled across his lap again, his palm skimming up your thigh with proprietary ease. "Keep talking like that," he murmurs against your knee, teeth scraping lightly, "and I'll have to shut you up again. And I gladly will, let me be clear, honey." His grin is wolfish when you squirm, fingers tightening around your calf.

The analog alarm clock above your TV ticks loudly in the sudden quiet, counting seconds where neither of you move. Leon's thumb rubs absent circles against your ankle, his gaze fixed on the purpling mark just below your collarbone. "You're staring, why?" you point out, poking his shoulder.

Leon’s fingers pause their idle tracing, his thumb pressing into the hollow of your ankle like he’s grounding himself. “Yeah, well.” His voice is rough, sleep-soft around the edges. “Can’t help it.” His gaze flicks up to yours, lingering for a heartbeat before dropping back to your chest, to the marks his mouth left. Something complicated flickers across his face. “Should’ve been more gentle, you deserve that and more,” he mutters guiltily, fingers ghosting over the bruise with a gentleness that belies the way he’d gripped your hips just a few minutes ago.

You catch his wrist, guiding his palm to your sternum where your heartbeat thrums beneath his fingertips. “I liked it,” you admit, quieter than intended. The confession lingers between you, raw in the dim light. Leon’s breath hitches before his fingers spread wide, spanning your ribcage like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“You’re gonna kill me with that kinky shit, aren't you?” he laughs in disbelief, ducking his head to press his lips to the inside of your knee. His stubble rasps against your skin, the sensation drawing a shiver you can’t suppress. Leon notices instantly, his smirk warm against your thigh. “Always the quiet girls that are into that stuff, right?”

You kick his shoulder halfheartedly, but he catches your foot, pressing a deliberate kiss to your arch that makes your toes curl. “Asshole,” you mutter, tugging your leg back, but he holds on, hauling you gracelessly into his lap with a grunt that dissolves into laughter when you elbow him, embarrassed.

Leon's laughter reverberates through your chest where you're pressed against him, his arms tightening around your waist as you squirm. "Easy, sweetheart," he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. "I think you bruised my ribs." His hands slide up to frame your face, thumbs smoothing over your cheekbones with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. "Worth it."

The overhead light flickers when Leon reaches across you to snag your discarded sweater from the floor, his biceps flexing, the motion effortless despite the way his fingers tremble slightly when they brush your shoulder. "Here," he murmurs, bundling it around you with exaggerated care like he's wrapping something fragile. The fabric smells like him now, like sweat and the cheap detergent he uses and something faintly metallic that makes your stomach flip.

"You're ridiculous, you don't need to fuss over me so much," you mutter, but burrow into the sweater anyway, your toes curling against his thigh.

Leon's grin is smug as he tugs you closer, his palm skating up your bare spine beneath the fabric. "Yeah, but you like it, and so do I." His thumb finds the knob of your spine, pressing in with just enough pressure to make you sigh in relief. The streetlight through your blinds catches the scar above his eyebrow, the one Sherry asked about once, the one he'd shrugged off with a joke about a "very aggressive stapler."

You trace it now with your fingertip, watching his eyelashes flutter at the contact. "Stay, please?" The words slips out before you can stop it, too soft, too vulnerable. Leon goes still beneath you, just for a heartbeat, before his hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your damp curls.

Leon's fingers still against your scalp after a beat, his breath warm where it fans across your forehead. For a heartbeat, he says nothing, then his arms tighten around you, pulling you flush against his chest with a quiet exhale. "Try getting rid of me now," he teases, lips brushing your hairline. His chuckle vibrates through you when you pinch his side. "I mean it. You're stuck with me now, sweetheart."

The weight of his words settles over you like a physical thing, warm and solid as the arm he tucks beneath your knees, hoisting you effortlessly against him as he stands. You yelp, clutching his shoulders as he carries you down the hallway, his steps sure despite the way he stumbles over your discarded shoes. "Leon, put me down, I know I'm heavy!"

"Nope." He noses aside the collar of your sweater to press a kiss to your shoulder, his grip tightening when you squirm. "Compromised structural integrity. Can't risk you stepping on- fuck- was that a stapler?" The pained grimace he shoots at your desk is so exaggerated you can't help laughing, even as he kicks your bedroom door open with more force than necessary.

Moonlight spills across your rumpled sheets when he drops you onto the mattress, his hands braced on either side of your head as he leans over you. The streetlight catches the sweat still drying at his temples, the way his throat works when your fingers trail down his sternum brushing at his chest hair. "See something you like?" he teases, but his voice cracks halfway through, his breath catching when you press your palm flat over his heartbeat.

Leon exhales sharply when your thumb brushes his nipple, a quick, involuntary reaction that makes his hips jerk against yours. "Fuck," he mutters, catching your wrist to still your wandering hands. His grip is loose, more suggestion than restraint, his pulse hammering beneath your fingertips. "God, give me five minutes, sweetheart, I can't go again that fast." His grin is lopsided, boyish in a way that makes your chest ache.

You roll your eyes but relent, letting him collapse beside you with a groan that shakes the mattress. His arm drapes heavily over your waist, fingers tracing absent patterns against your hip. "Sherry's gonna interrogate me tomorrow," he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion. His thumb presses into the softness of your stomach, not tentatively, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch, but possessively, like he’s reminding himself he’s allowed. 

"Swear that kid's got a sixth sense for weakness." His breath hitches when you twist to face him, your knee slotting between his thighs.

Moonlight stripes across his face, catching the way his eyelashes flutter when your fingers card through his hair. He leans into the touch like a cat, his sigh ruffling the collar of your sweater. "She’ll like you still," you whisper, surprised by your own certainty. "Once she stops being pissed you lied."

Leon’s laugh is quiet, warm against your temple. "Yeah?" His fingers find the hem of your sweater, skating beneath to trace your spine. "Gonna vouch for me, pretty girl?" The pet name curls low in your belly, his thumb pressing into the dimple above your tailbone in a way that makes you shiver.

Leon’s fingers stutter against your spine when you press closer, your nose brushing his in the dark. The analog clock on your nightstand ticks loudly or maybe that’s just your pulse thundering in your ears. "You’re second guessing yourself," he accuses, thumb smoothing the furrow between your brows. "Stop it."

"Easy for you to say," you mutter, but your breath hitches when his palm slides up to cradle the back of your neck, his fingertips massaging the tense muscle there. The motion is practiced, too practiced, again, and you squint at him. "How many YouTube tutorials did you watch for this one?"

His grin is unrepentant in the moonlight. "Twelve." His teeth flash when you pinch his side. "What? Claire said you get tension headaches." The admission is softer than intended, his thumb pausing mid-circle. His exhale fans across your lips, warm and uneven. "I wanted to get everything right for you tonight."

Something hot and heavy settles behind your ribs. You press your forehead to his, suddenly unable to hold his gaze. "Leon Scott Kennedy," you whisper, "are you secretly a sap?"

Leon's fingers still against your scalp. The silence stretches just long enough for your stomach to drop, then he huffs a laugh so soft it's barely audible, his nose brushing yours. "Only for you, sweetheart." His thumb traces your lower lip, calloused and gentle. "Don't tell Chris. I've got a reputation to uphold."

"You're such a sap, I can't believe this," you giggle into the space between his collarbones, but your fingers tighten around the hem of his shirt, holding on like you're afraid he'll vanish if you let go. Leon's answering chuckle rumbles beneath your cheek, his thumb tracing idle circles against your shoulder blade.

"Only for you," he mumbles again around a yawn, his voice thick with exhaustion. His fingers card through your curls absently, tugging gently when you try to lift your head. "Rest that head of yours, cutie." The words are sleep-soft, barely audible.

Moonlight pools in the hollow of his throat when you prop yourself up on one elbow, brushing his hair back from his forehead with careful fingers. His eyelids flutter at the touch, his breath evening out beneath your palm. "Sleep," you whisper, tracing the arch of his eyebrow with your thumb. "I'll be here."

Leon catches your wrist before you can pull away, pressing a drowsy kiss to your palm that sends heat skittering up your arm. "'Night, sweetheart," he murmurs against your skin, his voice already slurring at the edges. His grip slackens as sleep tugs him under, his fingers slipping from your wrist to drape heavily over your waist.

You bite back a laugh when he nuzzles into your collarbone with a contented sigh, his breath warm against your skin. His eyelashes cast shadows across his cheekbones in the dim light, his features softening in sleep. You trace the bridge of his nose with featherlight touches, mapping the slope of it down to the stubborn set of his jaw, memorizing the way his forehead smooths out when dreams take him.