#wallflowerwrites

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.

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

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.

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.

The bank statement glares accusingly from the countertop, its numbers blurring into a mess of overdraft fees and coffee-stained receipts. You flip it over, deciding ignorance is bliss, at least until tomorrow’s tips come in.

The bell above the café door jingles, and you don’t even have to look up. "Late again, Oliveira," you call out, (though the smile on your face is barely concealed) already reaching for the espresso machine.

Carlos slouches into his usual seat at the counter, rubbing a hand over his face. "Got held up filing report shit, m’ brain is melting," he whines, like that explains anything. You barely know anything about his job. At this point, you're sure it's for your own safety. The black UBCS jacket he always wears is zipped halfway, revealing the edge of a tactical vest underneath. You’ve learned not to ask. God, do you want to though.

"You’re lucky I like you," you chuckle, rolling your eyes fondly, sliding his usual- a double shot with a splash of cream, no sugar- across the counter. His fingers brush yours as he takes it, and you pretend not to notice the way your stomach flips.

Carlos takes a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours over the rim of the cup. You busy yourself wiping down the already-clean counter, just to have something to do with your anxious hands. "So," he says after a beat, "you working tomorrow?"

You shrug, flicking the rag over an invisible coffee ring. "Same as always. Open to close. You know my schedule."

He hums, tapping his fingers against the ceramic. The café is dead quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional drip of the faucet you’ve been meaning to fix. Outside, the streetlights flicker on, casting long shadows across the empty tables. You let yourself enjoy the silence and his presence. 

"You ever get tired of this place? Cause' I'm so fuckin' tired of Umbrella," he ponders, probably thinking his thoughts out loud more than asking you.

You pause, the damp rag still pressed against the counter. "Tired of it?" The question feels heavier than it should. "I mean, yeah. Sometimes." You glance at the clock, twenty minutes past closing, and you haven't even started counting the register. "But it pays the bills. Mostly."

Carlos smiles lazily, swirling the dregs of his coffee. "Mostly? You've never mentioned that,” he echoes in concern, like he knows exactly how much your bank account is screaming.

The silence stretches. You should kick him out. You should. Hell, you should've kicked him out the first night he stayed till closing, but it's been months and you can't deny how ecstatic you feel when his curls pop through the door. Instead, you sigh and toss the rag into the sink. "You're stalling, Carlos. What's really up? C'mon, it's me."

He exhales sharply through his nose, suddenly fascinated by his empty cup. "Fine, yeah it is something else. Fuckin’ hate how well you know me. Got assigned a long-term op tomorrow. Won't be back for a while."

Your fingers freeze mid-wipe against the counter. The microfiber rag slips from your grip, landing with a wet slap against the stainless steel. "How long is 'a while'?" you ask, voice steadier than you feel.

Carlos rotates the empty cup between his palms, avoiding your gaze. "Six weeks. Maybe eight." The ceramic clinks softly against the counter as he sets it down. "Depends how it goes."

You swallow hard, busying yourself with stacking sugar packets into a too-neat pyramid just to keep your hands from shaking. The silence between you stretches thin enough to snap. "You gonna tell me where you're going this time?"

"Can't, m’ sorry, you know I want to," he says, and the word hangs there, sharp as a blade. Then his shoulders slump, and he reaches across the counter to flick the edge of your nametag, the one he swears is crooked every damn day. "Wish I could, querida."

Sweetheart.

Your fingers hover over the sugar packets, the pyramid collapsing under the slightest tremor in your hands. On a normal day, the nickname would make you blush up to your ears. Today, it just barely softens the blow of him leaving. The words six weeks echo in your skull like a countdown. "You couldn’t have led with this?" you say, forcing a laugh that cracks halfway through. 

Carlos leans forward, elbows on the counter, close enough that you catch the faded scent of gun oil and his stupid citrus cologne. "Would’ve ruined my dramatic entrance," he tries, but the joke falls flat. His thumb grazes your wrist, briefly, and accidentally, and you both freeze like you’ve touched a live wire.

The faucet drips. Plink. Plink. You should say something. Instead, you blurt, "I’ll save your seat."

His brows lift. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you say, softer than you mean to. The word hangs between you, fragile as the sugar packets you’re still clutching. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow. Carlos’s fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you again, but he shoves them into his jacket pockets instead.

"Good, that's- uh- good," he fumbles, too quickly. His eyes dart to the clock, twenty-five minutes past closing now, and he exhales sharply through his nose. "Shit, didn't realize how late it got. I should- " He jerks his chin toward the door, already half out of his seat.

You nod, though now, you're desperate to keep him here, to wrap your hands around his wrist and beg him to stay just five more minutes. Instead, you wipe your palms on your apron and force a smile. "Don’t get shot out there, Oliveira."

Carlos barks a laugh, rough around the edges. "No promises." He hesitates at the door, one hand on the handle. The streetlight outside paints his profile in gold. "Hey," he says, glancing back, "you ever take a day off?"

You blink owlishly, fingers tightening around the sugar packets. "What?"

Carlos shifts his weight, the toe of his boot scuffing against the floor. "You're always working, gatinha," he says, like it's obvious. "You ever take a day off? Like, ever?"

Kitten.

"Uh." You crumple the sugar packet in your fist without meaning to. "Sometimes? Why?"

Carlos shakes his head, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the doorframe. "Nothing," he says, too casually. "Just wondering." The lie sits between you like a third person at the counter. He pushes off the doorframe with one shoulder, already halfway out into the night. "I'll see you when I get back, yeah?"

The bell jingles again, too loud in the empty café, and then he’s gone. You stand there, staring at the door like it might swing back open. The crumpled sugar packet falls from your fingers.

The sugar packet hits the counter with a sound like a gunshot. Six weeks. Six weeks of counting the register alone, of wiping down tables without anyone to distract you with stupid jokes, of prepping his usual order just in case he walks in, even though you know he won’t. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes until colors burst behind your lids to stop tears from forming in your eyes. 

The café feels too big without him.

—

Days blur into weeks. You memorize the rhythm of the espresso machine’s hiss, the exact number of steps from the counter to the fridge, the way the clock’s second hand stutters at the 42-second mark. Regulars ask where that handsome Brazilian is, and you shrug like it doesn’t gut you every time. "Business trip," you say, and change the subject.

Then…

The café door slams open with a force that sends the bell overhead into a frenzied jingle, one loud enough to startle you into nearly dropping the mug you’re polishing. Your head snaps up just in time to see Carlos Oliveira stumble inside like a hurricane in human form, his boots scuffing against the tile. His jacket’s zipped all the way up this time, hiding the tactical vest, but the dark circles under his eyes tell their own story. He looks exhausted. He looks alive. Oh thank God.

Your fingers tighten around the mug. "Six weeks and three days," you say, voice steadier than your hands. "You’re late."

Carlos grins, slow and crooked, like he’s been practicing it the whole way here. "Meu Deus, you counted?" He slides into his usual seat with a groan, stretching his arms overhead until his knuckles pop. "Miss me that much, querida?"

You don’t dignify that with a response, just turn to the espresso machine like your life depends on it. The familiar hiss of steam fills the silence while Carlos watches, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against the counter. When you slide his usual across the counter- double shot, splash of cream, no sugar like always-  his hand brushes yours, deliberate this time.

Carlos exhales sharply as he leans over the counter, fingers tapping against his untouched coffee. "Mission sucked," he grumbles, voice rougher than usual, like he’s been shouting for days. His thumb traces the rim of the cup, avoiding your gaze. "But I kept thinking- ‘God, I miss that shitty café coffee.’ Pathetic, huh?"

You snort, elbowing the sugar shaker toward him, a peace offering. "You’re paying for that shitty coffee, Oliveira." The words come out lighter than you feel; your chest is too tight, like you’ve been holding your breath since he left.

His grin flickers, tired but real. "Worth every cent." He hesitates, then digs into his jacket pocket and slaps a crumpled bill on the counter, way too much for just a coffee. Before you can argue, he adds, "Birthday’s next week. Consider it an advance on my celebratory espresso."

Your fingers freeze mid-reach. "Birthday?" You blink at him, the word lodging somewhere between your ribs. He’s never mentioned it before, not even when you guys hang out outside of the cafe.

The mug slips from your fingers entirely this time, shattering against the counter with a sharp crack that makes Carlos jerk back. "Shit- " You scramble for a towel, but your hands are shaking too much to pick up the ceramic shards. "You never told me your birthday before."

Carlos shrugs, leaning forward to help you gather the pieces gently, his fingers brushing yours every other second like he’s doing it on purpose. "Never stayed in one place long enough for it to matter," he admits, tossing a jagged piece into the trash with more force than necessary. "But figured you’d wanna know. Since you’re my favorite barista and well, you know, my only close friend." His grin is lopsided, but his eyes dart away like he’s nervous, Carlos Oliveira, nervous. The world might as well have flipped upside down.

You swallow hard, clutching the damp towel like a lifeline. "Yeah, well." Your voice cracks. "You’re my only customer who shows up five minutes before closing and stays an hour past and also the only friend I have who cheats religiously at Mario Kart." The words come out softer than you mean them to, and Carlos’s fingers still against the countertop, his knuckles whitening.

The café is too quiet suddenly, the hum of the fridge unbearably loud. Carlos clears his throat, tapping his fingers against his knee, a habit you’ve memorized by now, it's the way he fidgets when he’s trying not to say something stupid. "So," he says finally, dragging the word out like he’s testing it, "you gonna bake me a cake or what, querida?"

The towel slips from your fingers again, landing with a wet plop on the counter and suddenly, you're laughing with him again and everything is alright. "You- " You choke out between giggles. "You remember that?"

Carlos leans back in his stool, arms crossed, chuckling himself, but his knee won’t stop bouncing. "What, you think I don’t listen when you talk?" He flicks a stray sugar packet at you. "You spent twenty minutes last month complaining about your roommate’s burnt birthday cake. Said you’d ‘do it right’ if you ever got the chance." His grin falters for half a second. "This is your chance to shine."

Your face burns hotter than the espresso machine. You’d been rambling, half-asleep at 3 AM after a double shift, while Carlos doodled on a napkin and laughed at your passionate ranting. You hadn’t thought…

The café door jingles, and Mrs. Ferdinand shuffles in for her 4 PM chamomile. You scramble to sweep up the last of the broken mug, heart hammering against your ribs. Carlos watches, silent, until the old lady settles in her corner booth. Then he leans so close his breath ghosts your pierced ear. "So?" he teases. "Do I get a cake or not?"

The sugar shaker slips from your fingers, scattering granules across the counter like spilled sand. You stare at Carlos, glaring at his stupid smirk, and the way his knee keeps bouncing under the counter like a live wire, and something inside you snaps. "Fine," you hiss, grabbing a rag to wipe up the mess with more force than necessary. "But only if you promise not to die before I get the chance to force-feed it to you."

Carlos barks out a laugh that startles Mrs. Kowalski into nearly dropping her teacup. His fingers catch your wrist as you scrub at the sugar, thumb pressing into your pulse point. "Deal," he murmurs, too soft for anyone else to hear. His touch lingers a second too long before he pulls away, leaving your skin buzzing.

The rest of his visit passes in a haze of half-finished sentences and stolen glances. Every time your hands brush while passing sugar packets, every time he leans too close to "help" with the espresso machine when it falters in working for you sends your heart ricocheting against your ribs. By the time the café empties, your apron pockets are stuffed with crumpled napkins where Carlos scribbled his number ("In case you forget, querida") (like you'd ever forget, you both text way to often for you to forget) and a list of his favorite flavors ("Chocolate. But you can surprise me").

___

The second Carlos leaves, with one last lingering smirk and a backward wave, your phone is already out, thumbs flying over the screen as you text your manager to swap shifts. Your hands shake so badly that you hit the wrong keys twice. Six weeks and three days without him, you think, and now suddenly six days isn’t enough time to plan a birthday surprise.

You spend the next three nights elbow-deep in flour, cursing every failed attempt at a chocolate ganache. Your tiny kitchen looks like a bakery exploded, bowls stacked haphazardly in the sink, cocoa powder dusting your forehead, and at least two burnt trial cakes shoved into the trash. Your roommate pokes her head in once, takes one look at the chaos, and wordlessly hands you a glass of wine. "For the love of God," she says, "just buy a cake."

"No," you mutter, whisking furiously. "He remembered. I'm doing this for him no matter what it fucking takes."

The morning of his birthday, your alarm goes off at 5 AM, two hours before your usual shift, and you bolt upright like you’ve been electrocuted. The cake sits boxed on your counter, its chocolate glaze gleaming under the fridge light. You poke it for the fifth time, as if it might spontaneously combust overnight.

By noon, your phone buzzes with a text from Carlos: Missed my usual today. Slacking, querida? You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, fingers hovering over the screen. Swapped shifts, you reply, then add, Don’t die before dinner, because sincerity feels too dangerous. His response is instant: Prometo. You don’t speak Portuguese, but you’ve heard him murmur that word a few times to you before, enough to know what it means. 

At 6 PM, you’re pacing your apartment like a caged animal, adjusting the same three candles for the fifteenth time. The dinner you cooked- well, attempted to cook, is keeping warm in the oven, though the chicken looks suspiciously charred at the edges. Your hands won’t stop shaking. What if he hates it? What if he laughs? What if- 

Three sharp knocks at the door. You freeze mid-step, heart slamming against your ribs. The knock comes again, louder this time, accompanied by Carlos’s voice: “Querida, you better not be dead in there.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you fumble with the lock, nearly tripping over your own feet in your rush to the door. The moment you swing it open, Carlos stands there, tall, rumpled, and grinning like he knows exactly what he does to your pulse. His dark eyes flicker past you, taking in the flickering candles scattered across every available surface of your tiny apartment, the faint scent of chocolate and (slightly burnt) chicken hanging in the air. His grin falters for a heartbeat.

"Meu Deus," he murmurs, voice softer than you've ever heard it. "You actually- "

"Happy birthday!" you blurt, throwing your arms around his neck before you can second-guess yourself. Carlos staggers back a step, his hands instinctively catching your waist, warm and so solid through the fabric of your sweater. His laugh vibrates against your chest as he squeezes you tighter, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"You little dork," he croons into your skin, but he doesn't let go. His breath is warm against your collarbone, his fingers pressing into your hips like he's memorizing the shape of you. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are suspiciously bright. "You really did all this for me?"

"Of course I did," you mumble, suddenly embarrassed by the sheer amount of candles, now realizing they probably make your apartment look like a shrine. Carlos’s hands linger at your waist, thumbs pressing into the softness there in a way that sends heat crawling up your neck. Before you can overthink it, you grab his wrist and tug him inside. "Come on, dinner’s gonna get cold."

Carlos kicks the door shut behind him, his boots scuffing against your cheap laminate flooring. He follows you like a man in a trance, taking in the mismatched plates you’ve set out, the lopsided cake on the counter with Happy Birthday Carlos scrawled in shaky icing letters. His throat works when he sees the wrapped present next to it, a small box you’d agonized over for days.

"You didn’t have to- " he starts, but you cut him off with a pointed shove toward the table.

"Sit," you order, hands fluttering nervously to your glasses, pushing them up your nose. "Before the chicken turns into charcoal."

Carlos laughs, low and warm, as he collapses into the chair you’ve shoved him toward. His fingers tap against the tabletop, an uneven rhythm you’ve come to recognize as nervous energy. "Smells like you might be too late on that," he teases, but his eyes are soft, tracing the way your hands flutter from your glasses to your sweater sleeves, tugging them over your wrists anxiously.

You duck into the kitchen to pull the chicken from the oven, wincing at the blackened edges. "Shut up," you mutter, but there’s no bite to it. Your chest feels too tight, too full, like you might burst if you look at him for too long.

When you set the plate in front of him, Carlos doesn’t even hesitate. He picks up the fork and stabs a piece of chicken, shoving it into his mouth with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Delicioso," he declares through a full mouth, grinning when you swat at his shoulder.

"Liar, it can't be that good,” you huff, but you’re grinning too, unable to stop yourself.

Carlos swallows the overcooked chicken with an exaggerated gulp, then immediately steals a forkful from your plate. "Hey- " you whine in protest, but he’s already chewing with a smirk, his boot nudging yours under the table.

"You won't share with me on my birthday, of all days, querida?" he teases, kicking your chair leg lightly.

You roll your eyes and shove the rest of your portion onto his plate. "Shut up and eat before I change my mind."

He does, with alarming speed, like he hasn’t eaten in days, but his eyes keep darting to the gift-wrapped box beside the cake. You pretend not to notice, fiddling with your glasses until he finally caves. "Alright," he groans, pushing his empty plate away. "How long are you gonna make me wait?"

You watch his fingers hover over the wrapped box, those rough, scarred hands that handle firearms like extensions of his own body suddenly tentative over cheap birthday paper. "Open it," you urge, voice smaller than you'd like.

Carlos exhales sharply through his nose and tears into the wrapping with surprising delicacy. The second the box lid lifts, his breath catches. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is the stainless steel watch he'd pointed out in a shop window months ago during one of your rare lunch breaks together. The one he'd called "too fancy for a guy like me" before dragging you into a bodega for empanadas instead.

Your fingers twist in your sweater sleeves as he lifts it carefully, turning it over in his hands. "You- " His voice cracks. "Shit. You actually remembered that?"

"I mean, you wouldn't shut up about it for weeks," you mutter, pushing your glasses up your nose. The lie tastes bitter, even if you haven't said it out loud, you'd spent almost your whole paycheck buying it for him. You don't regret it at all.

Carlos stares at the watch like it might vanish if he blinks. The candlelight catches the steel face, casting fractured reflections across his knuckles. His thumb traces the edge of the dial slowly, reverent, before his gaze snaps to yours. "You listened," he says, voice rough like gravel.

Your stomach twists. "I- it might not be the right model. You mentioned wanting one with a moon phase thing, but the sales guy said- "

Carlos moves so fast the chair screeches against the floor. He catches your wrists, pressing the watch between your palms, his fingers wrapping around yours. "Honey," he breathes, forehead nearly touching yours. "This is- " His throat works. "You’re the best gift I could ever ask for. These are just the cherry on top, little bonuses if that."

What?

The words hang between you, fragile as the candle flames trembling in the draft from your shitty AC unit. Your pulse thunders where his thumbs press into your wrists. "What do you mean?" you whisper.

Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, his grip tightening around your hands like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. The watch presses into your palms, cool metal warming between your skin. "I mean," he starts, voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it, "that I don’t just see you as my best friend." The admission hangs in the air, sharp and sudden, like a bullet casing hitting the floor.

Your breath catches. The apartment feels too small suddenly, the candlelight too bright, the space between you charged with something you’ve been too afraid to name. Carlos’s eyes flicker over your face, searching, hesitant, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks unsure. "Say something," he begs, thumb brushing your pulse point. "Por favor, i'm going crazy here."

You don’t think. You surge forward, chair screeching back as you crash into him, hands fisting in his jacket to pull him closer. Carlos stumbles a step before catching you, his laugh vibrating against your lips as you kiss him, hard, desperate, like you’ve been waiting years instead of weeks. His hands slide up your back, pressing you flush against him, and you can feel the rapid hammer of his heart through the fabric of his shirt.

When you finally pull back, gasping, Carlos’s grin is crooked, his lips swollen. "Finally," he breathes, forehead resting against yours. "I thought I’d have to wait another six weeks for that."

The watch clatters to the floor, forgotten, as Carlos’s hands slide up to cradle your face. His palms are rough against your cheeks, but his touch is unbearably gentle, like you’re something precious. "Say it again, please, bebe," he coos against your mouth, his breath warm with the taste of chocolate cake and burnt chicken.

You laugh, shaky and breathless, fingers tightening in the fabric of his jacket. "Happy birthday?"

Carlos groans, nipping at your lower lip. "Not what I meant and you know it, brat." His thumbs trace the apples of your cheeks, smudging your glasses askew. "Tell me you feel it too."

The vulnerability in his voice unravels you. You press closer, nose bumping against his, and whisper, "I’ve wanted this so long it’s fucking embarrassing."

Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, half laugh, half disbelief, before pressing his forehead to yours. His fingers tremble slightly where they cradle your face, rough calluses catching on the delicate skin behind your ears. "You- " His voice cracks. "Caralho. Say that again, please, I need to hear it again."

Fuck.

You bite your lip, suddenly aware of every point where his body presses against yours, the heat of his palms framing your jaw, the solid weight of his thigh between yours where you’ve practically climbed into his lap. "I’ve been crazy about you," you murmur, fingers tightening in the fabric of his jacket, "since the day you walked in here complaining about our ‘shitty espresso’ and then ordered it every damn day for a month."

Carlos barks a laugh, breath hot against your lips. "Mentira." But his grip tightens, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s no space left between you at all. "You hated me that first week. I just know it."

Liar.

You grin, nipping at his lower lip. "Hated how hot I thought you were," you admit sheepishly, and the confession sends a shudder through him, like you’ve unraveled some tightly coiled wire in his chest. His hands slide down to your waist, fingers pressing into the softness there with a reverence that makes your breath hitch.

Carlos exhales sharply, his breath warm and uneven against your neck, before suddenly lifting you clear off the floor. You yelp as he maneuvers you both toward the couch, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His laughter rumbles against your sternum when your glasses nearly topple off mid-stride. "Cuidado," he croons, catching them with one hand before they can fall, his fingers lingering at your temple.

Careful.

The couch cushions dip under your combined weight as Carlos settles over you, his knees bracketing your hips. His hands find yours, threading your fingers together as he presses them into the cushions above your head. The position stretches your sweater taut across your chest, and you watch his gaze drag downward, hungrily, before snapping back to your face. "Christ," he breathes, "you have no idea how long I’ve wanted…" His voice breaks when you roll your hips up against him, the friction drawing a ragged groan from his throat.

"Tell me, please," you demand, arching into him. His grip tightens around your wrists, pinning you more firmly.

Carlos ducks his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Months, it's been months," he admits, voice rough. "Watching you bite your lip while you steam milk. The way you push your glasses up when you’re frustrated." His teeth graze your earlobe, and you gasp. "Drove me insane. I wanted to fuckin' eat you."

His mouth crashes into yours before you can respond, swallowing your gasp as his hips roll against you in a slow, deliberate grind that knocks the air from your lungs. The watch lies forgotten on the floor, the candles flicker in the draft, and all you can think is Carlos, his weight, his warmth, the way his teeth catch your lower lip like he’s savoring the taste of you.

"You- " you manage between kisses, fingers twisting in his hair, "made me wait for six weeks- "

Carlos groans, dragging his lips down your throat, nipping at the pulse point hammering beneath your skin. "Tease," he dramatically accuses, voice rough. His hands slide under your hoodie, an old thing with your cafe's logo on it, calloused palms skimming your ribs, and you arch into the touch with a whimper. "You knew. You knew and you- " His thumb brushes the underside of your breast, and the words dissolve into a shudder.

You laugh, breathless, tangling your fingers in the collar of his jacket to yank him closer. "You were the one- hah- showing up five minutes before closing every night," you whine as his mouth finds the hollow of your collarbone, suckling.

His jacket hits the floor with a muffled thump, Carlos shrugging it off without breaking contact, his lips never leaving your skin. You gasp as his teeth scrape your collarbone, fingers scrambling at the hem of his shirt. "Off," you demand, voice ragged. "Now."

Carlos laughs against your throat, almost in disbelief this is actually happening, but obeys, yanking the fabric over his head in one fluid motion. The sight of him bare above you steals your breath: the broad planes of his chest, the scars mapping his torso like constellations you want to trace with your tongue. His skin is warm under your palms, his heartbeat wild against your fingertips.

Carlos lifts you like you weigh nothing, like he’s been imagining this exact motion for months, the way his hands slot under your thighs, the hitch of your breath when he hoists you up against his chest. You yelp, scrambling to loop your arms around his neck as he strides across your tiny apartment, kicking open your bedroom door with his boot. "Wait- " you start, but the protest dies in your throat when he freezes in the doorway, his grip slackening just enough for you to slide down his body until your feet hit the floor softly.

For a beat, there’s only silence, Carlos staring at your bedroom like he’s just walked into a crime scene. Then he bursts out laughing, shoulders shaking, one hand braced against the doorframe like he might collapse. "What the fuck?" he wheezes, gesturing wildly at the explosion of pink bedding, the mountain of plushies piled against your pillows. "This is where you sleep, bebe?"

Carlos presses his forehead against the doorframe, shoulders still shaking with laughter. "Querida," he gasps, wiping at his eyes, "you sleep like a child." He gestures wildly at the pile of plushies, a menagerie of pastel horrors that take up half the bed. "Are these witnesses? What kind of sick joke is this?"

You cross your arms, pushing your glasses up your nose with more force than necessary. "They're emotional support," you huff, but your voice cracks halfway through when Carlos steps closer, his bare chest brushing against your folded arms. His grin softens as his fingers trail over the nearest plushie, a ridiculous pink axolotl with cross-eyes.

"Fofo," he thinks out loud, thumb brushing the stuffed animal's stitched smile. Then his expression shifts, something darker flickering behind his eyes as his gaze drags from the plushie to you. "Jesus, I can't fuck you with them watching. I'd traumatize them."

Heat floods your face so fast you're surprised your glasses don't fog up. Carlos doesn't wait for a response, he just strides into the room with sudden purpose, grabbing the axolotl by its floppy gills. He turns it carefully, positioning it to face the wall with absurd reverence before patting its head. "Desculpe, amiguinho," he mutters solemnly, and your giggle bursts out before you can stop it.

Sorry, friend.

Carlos shoots you a look over his shoulder, half exasperation, half fondness, before methodically working his way through the pile. A unicorn with a glitter mane gets spun toward your dresser; a squishmallow octopus is tucked under your pillow like it's being put to bed. By the time he reaches the giant stuffed sloth draped over your headboard, you're wheezing into your hands, shoulders shaking.

"Bebe," Carlos whines, wrestling the sloth's limp arms into a position where it can't "see" the bed. "This is torture, a sick joke." But his lips twitch when you collapse onto the mattress in a fit of laughter, your curls fanning out across the pink sheets.

Carlos pauses mid-plushie adjustment, his eyes raking over you, the way your hoodie has ridden up, the flush spreading down your chest. His throat works. "Porra," he breathes, abandoning the remaining stuffed animals to kneel over you on the bed. His palms land on either side of your head, caging you in. "You're adorable," he coos, leaning down until his lips brush yours. "And I'm about to ruin you."

Shit.

The shift is instantaneous, his mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and hunger, his hands sliding under your sweater to map the softness of your waist. You arch into him with a whimper, fingers scrambling at his belt buckle. Carlos groans against your lips when your nails scrape his abdomen, his hips grinding down in a slow, filthy roll that punches the air from your lungs.

The belt buckle clatters to the floor, followed by the sharp zip of Carlos’s pants, and suddenly there’s nothing left between you but the thin barrier of your leggings and his boxers. His groan vibrates against your throat when you roll your hips up, the friction drawing a ragged curse from his lips. "Caralho," he hisses, dragging his teeth down your neck. "You’ve been killing me all evening. No more.”

Fuck.

You gasp as his hands slide under your hoodie, pushing the fabric up until it bunches under your arms. His palms are rough against your stomach, tracing the softness there with a reverence that makes your breath stutter. When his thumb brushes the wire edge of your bra, you arch off the mattress with a whimper, fingers tangling in his hair.

Carlos pulls back just enough to drag your hoodie over your head, tossing it somewhere near the exiled plushies. His gaze burns as it rakes over you, the swell of your breasts above the cups of your bra, the way your stomach rises and falls with each ragged breath. "Deus," he murmurs, voice thick. "You’re perfecta." The words land like a punch to your ribs, unraveling the knot of insecurity you’ve carried for years.

You fumble with the clasp of your bra, but Carlos catches your wrists, pressing them back into the mattress. "Let me, I've got it," he rasps, and the hunger in his voice sends heat pooling low in your belly. His fingers trace the strap along your shoulder, featherlight, before unhooking it with practiced ease. The fabric slides away, and Carlos exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for this exact moment.

Carlos doesn’t move for a heartbeat, just stares, his pupils blown wide, lips parted like he’s forgotten how to breathe. His fingers hover above your bare skin, trembling slightly before finally skimming down your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist with a touch so light it’s maddening. “My girl…” he whispers, voice wrecked. “All soft and beautiful…”

You squirm under his gaze, suddenly self-conscious, but Carlos catches your hips, pressing you firmly into the mattress. “Don’t,” he orders, thumbs rubbing circles into the softness of your stomach. “Don’t hide from me.” His mouth follows the path of his hands, nipping at your ribs, laving his tongue over the swell of your breasts, teasingly, until you’re arching off the bed with a pathetic whine.

The last of his clothes hit the floor in a frenzy of tangled fabric, and then he’s pressing against you, skin to skin, his body a solid weight that steals the air from your lungs. His erection drags against your thigh, hot and insistent, and you gasp, digging your nails into his shoulders. “Carlos- please- ”

“I’ve got you, don’ worry, I won't make you wait,” he croons against your collarbone, one hand sliding down to hook under your knee, hitching your leg higher around his waist. His other hand ghosts over the waistband of your leggings, fingers dipping beneath just enough to tease. “Are you sure?” he asks, voice rough, his breath hot against your throat. “Tell me you’re sure.”

Your fingers curl into the sheets, breath hitching as Carlos hovers above you, his dark eyes searching yours. His thumb traces your lower lip, slow, and deliberate, before he exhales sharply and pulls back slightly. "Wait," he murmurs, voice rough. "Before we- " His throat works. "Fuck, I don’t want this to ruin what we have."

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. You freeze beneath him, pulse stuttering. "What?"

Carlos drags a hand through his hair, his expression torn. "I love being your best friend," he admits, fingers skimming your jaw. "Love our stupid café talks, how you roll your eyes at my shitty jokes, how you actually listen when I ramble about mission logistics you don’t even understand." His thumb brushes your cheekbone, achingly tender. "But, God, I want you like this too. More than just a friend. And if that fucks everything up- I'd-  "

You catch his wrist, pressing his palm flat against your racing heart. "Carlos," you whisper, "do you honestly think I’d let you into my bed if I didn’t want this to change everything?"

He exhales sharply, forehead dropping to yours. "Honey, you don’t know how many nights I’ve laid awake terrified of wrecking this." His grip tightens on your hip. "You’re my person. Like- If I lose you- "

"You won’t." You tilt your chin up, capturing his lips in a slow, deliberate kiss—softer than before, pouring every ounce of certainty into it. When you pull back, his pupils are blown wide, his breath uneven. "We’re too damn stubborn to ruin this."

Carlos laughs, a rough, relieved sound, before suddenly flipping you onto your back with a growl. "Prove it," he challenges, nipping at your earlobe. His hands slide down to peel off your leggings, fingers tracing the waistband edges of your panties with deliberate slowness. "Tell me you want this."

"I want this, want you," you gasp as his mouth finds the sensitive spot behind your knee. His teeth graze your inner thigh, and you arch off the mattress with a whimper. "Carlos- baby- please,"

Carlos doesn't make you wait. His fingers hook into the lace of your panties, dragging them down your thighs with a roughness that makes your breath catch. The moment they hit the floor, his mouth crashes into yours again, hungrier now, his tongue sliding against yours with a filthy desperation that sends heat spiraling through your veins. You arch against him, gasping into the kiss as his hands slide up your bare thighs, fingers pressing into the softness there like he's memorizing every inch, every stretch mark.

"Christ, you're dripping," he groans against your lips, his thumb brushing through your folds in a teasing stroke that makes you jerk against him. "How long?" His voice is rough, wrecked, his breath hot against your cheek as his fingers explore you with agonizing slowness. "How long have you been this desperate for me, querida?"

"Weeks," you admit on a whimper, hips rolling against his hand shamelessly. "Every time- oh god- every time you leaned over the counter to steal a sip of my coffee, I thought about pouncing on you," The words dissolve into a gasp as his fingers curl inside you, his thumb circling your puffy clit with filthy precision.

Carlos curses under his breath, his forehead dropping to yours as he watches you unravel beneath his touch. His fingers move with a practiced rhythm, dragging moans from your throat with each thrust. "Holy shit," he breathes, lips brushing yours. "Should've done this months ago then."

You gasp as his thumb presses harder against your clit, the pressure just shy of painful. Your hips buck against his hand, chasing the sweet friction, but Carlos pulls back slightly, grinning at the frustrated whine that tears from your throat. "Tão bonita," he murmurs, voice rough. "Wanna see you come apart for me first."

Good girl.

The words send a shudder through you, your fingers digging into his shoulders. "Carlos- "

He nips at your earlobe, his breath hot. "Say my name like that again," he orders, fingers crooking inside you just right. "Again, bebe."

The dominating tone he's taken on makes your brain want to melt out of your ears.

"Carlos," you whine, the syllables cracking as his fingers thrust deeper, his palm grinding against your swollen clit with each movement. Your hips jerk uncontrollably, your thighs trembling around his wrist. His name spills from your lips like a prayer, broken, and desperate, and his answering hum vibrates against your throat where he's biting kisses into your pulse.

"Again, say it again, c'mon bebe," he demands, voice ragged. His free hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat to his punishing teeth.

You sob his name this time, the sound ripped from your chest as pleasure coils tight in your belly. Carlos curses in Portuguese, his rhythm faltering for just a second, like the sound of his name on your lips is unraveling him too. Then his thumb presses harder, circling your clit in tight, insistent circles that have your vision whiting out at the edges.

"That's it, look at how well you listen to me," he praises, against your collarbone, his breath scalding. "Cum for me, honey, let me feel it. Wanna' see you cream alllll over my fingers."

“Carlossss, don't- hah- that's so filthy,” you whine out, embarrassment making your cheeks tinted red. Carlos's resounding chuckle is fond, but does little to cure your bashfulness. 

“Awee, bebe, don't be shy,” Carlos croons, practically giggling at you and your flushed state.

Your back arches off the mattress with a broken cry while he watches with fond amusement, fingers scrabbling at Carlos’s shoulders as your orgasm crashes through you like a scorching tidal wave. His fingers don’t stop, they're fucking relentless, coaxing every last shudder from your body until you’re gasping, oversensitive, sticky thighs clamping around his wrist in a feeble attempt to push him away. Carlos chuckles darkly against your throat, the vibration sending aftershocks rippling through you, but finally, mercifully, he slows his movements, easing you down with featherlight strokes that make you whimper needily and claw at his thick arm. 

“Look at you, Fofura,” he coos, lifting his glistening fingers to his mouth with deliberate slowness. His tongue flicks out, tasting you, and your stomach clenches at the filthy sight. 

Cutie.

You groan, covering your face with your hands, but Carlos catches your wrists, laughing at your shyness, pinning them above your head. His hips slot between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your slick heat in a way that makes you both gasp. “Don’t hide,” he orders, voice rough. “I want to see you.” His thumb brushes your lower lip, smudging it with the taste of yourself. “All of you.”

Carlos pulls back just enough to scan the floor for his discarded vest, his movements sharp with urgency, until his bare foot catches on the axolotl's floppy tail. He stumbles sideways with a startled "Fuck!", nearly face-planting into the unicorn plushie still glaring judgmentally from the corner. Your giggles burst out before you can stop them, muffled behind your hands as Carlos glares at the stuffed animals like they've personally betrayed him.

"This," he growls, kicking the axolotl aside with more force than necessary, "is why grown adults shouldn't sleep with fucking sea creatures." The plushie hits the wall with a sad flop, and you dissolve into another fit of laughter, clutching your stomach. Carlos pauses mid-step to glare at you, his flushed chest rising with each ragged breath, but his lips twitch when you wheeze, "They're- they're witnesses, remember babe?"

His vest finally located (half-buried under the sloth's limp arms), Carlos yanks it toward him, sending a stray condom packet fluttering to the floor like some absurd mating ritual. He swipes it up with a grumble, but the effect is ruined when he trips again- this time on your discarded leggings- and barely catches himself on the edge of the bed. "Porra!" he hisses, knee smacking the floorboards.

You're laughing so hard tears leak from the corners of your eyes, your glasses askew. Carlos freezes, the condom clutched in his fist, and stares at you like you've grown a second head. Then, slowly, he crawls back onto the bed, his movements predatory despite the baby pink  sheets beneath him. "You think this is funny? This place is a fucking occupational hazard, babe," he murmurs, dragging his teeth along your inner thigh, his canines catching on your cellulite.

You should be embarrassed, yeah, but the only thought on repeat in your mind is that you never want him to stop calling you babe.

The laughter dies in your throat when his tongue replaces his teeth, laving a slow stripe up your sensitive skin. Your hips jerk involuntarily, a whimper escaping your lips as Carlos grins against your thigh, all sharp canines and wicked intent. "Not laughing now, are you? Huh?” he taunts, nipping at the soft flesh just above your knee.

You gasp when his fingers trace your folds again- too soon, you're still oversensitive, but Carlos ignores your weak attempt to push him away, his thumb circling your clit with featherlight pressure that makes your toes curl. "Carlos- sensitive-" you warn, voice cracking, but he just hums against your skin, his breath hot and uneven.

The condom wrapper crinkles as he tears it open one-handed, his other hand still working between your thighs with devastating precision. You barely have time to process the sound of the wrapper tearing before he's pressing into you, slow as your fucking sloth plushie, his breath hitching when you clench around him. "Caralho," he groans, forehead dropping to yours. "You feel-fuck- so warm-"

You arch against him, nails scraping down his back as he bottoms out with a ragged gasp. For a moment, neither of you moves, just breathing each other's air, foreheads pressed together, the only sound the squeak of your bedsprings and the distant hum of the city outside. Then Carlos rolls his hips experimentally, and the breath stutters in your lungs.

Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, his hands shaking where they grip your thighs. "Too much?" he checks in, voice wrecked, but you shake your head frantically, hips canting up to meet his next slow thrust. The stretch burns in the best way, your body adjusting to him with every drag of his hips, every ragged breath that ghosts across your lips. He curses under his breath when you clench around him, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise. "Honey, you're gonna kill me. M’ gonna fucking die tonight."

You laugh- breathless, and giddy at his dramatic behavior-  tilting your head back as he finds a rhythm that has your toes curling into the sheets. Carlos doesn't rush, doesn't fuck you with the same desperation he kissed you with earlier. Instead, he moves like he's memorizing you, every hitch of your breath, every stuttered moan when his hips roll just right. His hips hit yours hard, but steady. Enough to make you feel bone on bone when his hips meet yours and its fucking delicious. His thumb finds your clit again, circling in time with his thrusts the best he can and you sob, arching off the mattress as pleasure coils tight in your belly.

"Look at me," he demands, voice desperate, and when your eyes flutter open, his gaze burns hotter than the candles still flickering in the other room. There's something unbearably tender in the way his free hand brushes your curls back from your forehead, his thumb tracing your cheekbone like you're something precious. "Tão linda," he murmurs, lips brushing yours with each gasped word. "My querida. Mine."

So beautiful. My sweetheart.

The possessive note in his voice sends a shudder through you, your fingers tightening in his hair as his pace stutters. Carlos lets out a groan that trails off into a whimper (though he'd never admit it), forehead dropping to yours as his thrusts grow sloppier and quicker, his breath coming in ragged pants against your lips. "Gonna- fuck- holy shit honey-" His voice cracks, irking up in tone, his hips jerking erratically as he chases his own release.

Carlos’ hips stutter against yours, his rhythm fracturing as he gasps into the curve of your neck, hot, open-mouthed whines that raise goosebumps across your skin. You feel the exact moment he loses control, his fingers spasming against your thigh, his groan vibrating through your chest where he’s pressed against you. His hips jerk once, twice, before he buries himself deep with a ragged cry, his forehead dropping to your collarbone as he shudders through his release. 

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your mingled breathing, harsh and uneven, and the distant drip of a faucet in your bathroom. Carlos’ weight presses you into the mattress, his sweat-slick skin sticking to yours, but you don’t mind. You trace idle patterns tenderly across his shoulder blades, smiling sappily when he shivers at the touch.

He lifts his head eventually, his dark eyes hazy with satisfaction and affection, his lips swollen from your kisses. "Christ, that was- " he starts and stops to swallow, his throat dry and voice rough. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, smudging away a tear you hadn’t realized had escaped. "Tão perfeita."

So perfect.

You laugh breathlessly, pushing his damp curls off his forehead. "You’re heavy," you complain halfheartedly, but he just grins, rolling his hips lazily against yours- still buried inside you- and drawing a whimper from your throat. The feeling of his cock's tip hitting your already-battered and bruised cervix is way too overstimulating.

Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, still half-laughing as he eases off you, careful despite the way your legs cling to his waist like you’re afraid he’ll vanish. His fingers brush your inner thigh as he pulls away, the touch lingering just long enough to make you shiver. "Heavy, yeah," he teases, voice raspy with exhaustion and something warmer. "But worth it, não?"

You flick his forehead, grinning when he catches your wrist and presses a kiss to your palm. His lips are chapped, his stubble rough against your skin, and the tenderness of the gesture punches through your chest like a bullet. 

The condom disposal is…less romantic. Carlos makes a face as he ties it off, muttering something in Portuguese you can't make out, before chucking it toward the trash can… missing spectacularly. It lands on the axolotl’s head like some sort of deranged party hat. You both stare for a beat before dissolving into laughter, Carlos collapsing back onto the bed beside you with an embarrassed groan that shakes the mattress.

His arm slings over your waist, tugging you against his side like he’s afraid you’ll float away. You nestle into the heat of him, your curls sticking to his tan sweat-damp chest, and he hums, fingers tracing idle circles on your hip. "Doesn't matter," he thinks out loud, voice thick with sleep. "Best birthday ever. No notes."

“For real? No notes?” You giggle, tracing silly doodles on his chest. 

“Yeah, for reals, bebe. No notes.”

Carlos’ heartbeat thrums steady beneath your ear as you both fall into content silence, his fingers still tangled lazily in your curls as moonlight spills across the tangled sheets. You nuzzle closer, pressing a kiss to the scar just above his left nipple, the one he’d shrugged off as a “minor scrape” when you’d asked about it months ago over lukewarm café con leche.

“Carlos?” you murmur, voice thick with sleep. His thumb strokes your cheekbone in response, a silent I’m listening. “You know how much I love you, right?”

His breath hitches. The hand in your hair stills. For three agonizing seconds, the only sound is the distant hum of your refrigerator kicking on. Then, he answers. Softly, disbelieving- “You love me?”

You lift your head just enough to see his face, the way his dark eyes shimmer in the low light, the vulnerable part of his lips. The sight punches through your ribs like a fist. Grinning, you press another kiss to his chest, right over his racing heart. “Yes, obviously, you dork.”

Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, his grip tightening around you like he’s afraid you’ll dissolve. His laugh is wet, unsteady. “Porra,” he rasps, dragging a hand down his face. “Say it again. Please, wanna' hear it again.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, studying the way moonlight catches on his lashes, damp now, clumped together. The raw wonder in his expression makes your own throat tighten. “I love you,” you whisper, brushing your thumb beneath his eye. It comes away damp. “Even when you cry on my good sheets.”

Carlos barks a laugh, swatting at your hand halfheartedly. “Idiota,” he mutters, but he’s grinning as he tugs you back down, your body slotting against his like two puzzle pieces. His lips find your forehead, before he murmurs against your skin, “Eu te amo, Bebezinha.”

Baby girl.

You hum happily, tucking your face into the crook of his neck where his pulse thrums steady and alive. His fingers resume their lazy path through your curls, occasionally pausing to trace the shell of your ear or the slope of your shoulder. The silence stretches, comfortable and thick, until…

Carlos shifts suddenly, rolling onto his side to face you, his expression uncharacteristically serious despite the way his thumb keeps brushing your bare hipbone. "Hey," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and something heavier. "We should- uh-" He scrubs a hand down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose. "We should talk about- " His fingers flex against your skin. "Us."

Your stomach drops. "Oh god," you blurt, scrambling upright so fast your glasses slide crooked. "You're having regrets." The words taste like ash. "It's okay if- "

Carlos grabs your wrist, yanking you back down with enough force to make the bedframe creak. "No, nononono," he cuts you off quickly, his grip tightening when you try to pull away. His other hand cups your cheek, forcing you to meet his gaze. "I don't regret shit. But tomorrow- " His throat works. "Tomorrow I go back to work. I just want to know what tomorrow looks like. For us. Y'know?”

Your fingers curl into the sheets instinctively at his words- tomorrow I go back to work- the reality of his job slamming into you like a freight train. You'd almost forgotten, wrapped up in the warmth of him, the way his hands traced your skin like he was memorizing you. But now it’s all you can think about, the missions, the danger, the way he'd sometimes come into the café with fresh bruises he refused to explain.

Carlos must see it on your face, the sudden tension in your jaw, the way your breath hitches, because his thumb brushes your lower lip, gentle but insistent. "Hey," he croons, voice softer now. "Look at me." When you do, his dark eyes hold yours with an intensity that makes your chest ache. "I always come back."

You swallow hard, forcing a nod, but your fingers find his wrist, the one with the watch you'd given him, and squeeze. "I know," you whisper. "But…” Your throat works. "You don't have to do it alone anymore."

Carlos stills above you, his brow furrowing. "What? What do you mean?"

"You let me throw you a birthday party," you point out, tracing the edge of his watch strap. "Let me bake you a cake, cook dinner, buy you shit- " Your voice cracks. "But you won't let me help you. Not really." His pulse jumps beneath your fingertips. "You don't have to let me fight your battles, Carlos. Just...let me hold you after. Maybe be there for you when it gets too heavy."

His breath stutters. For a long moment, he just stares at you, eyes wide, lips parted, like you've handed him something fragile and priceless. Then, slowly, he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. "You already do," he admits, voice rough. "Every time you make my coffee too sweet. Every time you fix my vest buttons when I'm too damn tired." His fingers tangle in your curls, tugging gently. "Every time you look at me like I'm worth something."

Your laugh is wet, shaky. "Because you are."

Carlos exhales sharply, his grip tightening. "I'm not used to this," he murmurs against your lips. "Having someone who sees me. Who gets me." His kiss is slow, aching,.less hunger now, more devotion. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheekbone, smudging away a tear you hadn't realized had escaped. "But I'm learning, and I want to learn with you."

Carlos’ fingers trail down your spine, slow and deliberate, as if tracing the path of your vertebrae is the most important thing he’s ever done. The weight of his confession lingers between you. You nuzzle closer, pressing your lips to the scar just above his heart, and feel his breath catch beneath your touch. “You’re staring, what is it?” you murmur against his skin, smiling when his chest rumbles with a quiet laugh.

“Can’t help it,” he admits sheepishly, his voice rough with sleep and something softer. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, smudging away the last traces of tears. “Never thought I’d get this.” His fingers tighten in your curls, just slightly, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his grasp. “You.”

You tilt your head up, catching his lips in a slow, lingering kiss. When you pull back, his dark eyes are hazy with something that makes your stomach flip. “Get used to it,” you whisper, grinning when he groans and drops his forehead to yours.

“Wait, does that mean I have to share you with twenty fucking plushies now?” Carlos grumbles, but there’s no real heat in it, just the same playful exasperation he uses when you correct his coffee order for the third time. His fingers trail down your side, pausing to flick the axolotl’s tail where it’s still dangling off the bed. “Am I a father now? Is that what’s happening?”

“Yes, a father of twenty. Obviously.” You deadpan, and Carlos lets out a full-bodied laugh. Your eyes crinkle at the edges, smiling. 

Carlos’ breath is warm against your collarbone when he stops laughing, the heat sending goosebumps rippling across your skin. “Merda,” he murmurs, nudging the axolotl farther away with his foot. “Can’t believe my first time with you was auditioned by a goddamn stuffed animal.” His fingers trace lazy patterns down your thigh, pausing to pinch the soft flesh there, just hard enough to make you yelp. “And you, you little brat,” he adds, voice dropping into that low, teasing growl that makes your stomach flip, “laughed at me.”

You bite your lip to stifle another giggle, failing miserably when Carlos scowls and gestures toward the unicorn still glaring from the corner. “That one judged me,” he accuses, pointing an accusing finger. “I saw it.”

Your laughter dissolves into breathless wheezing, your forehead dropping against his shoulder as your body shakes. Carlos watches you with exaggerated indignation for exactly three seconds before cracking, his grin wide and unguarded, the dimple in his left cheek popping in a way you’ve only seen a handful of times. The sight punches the air from your lungs.

Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, his laughter still vibrating against your cheek where it's pressed to his shoulder. His fingers skim up your spine, tracing lazy patterns between your shoulder blades before tangling in your curls again, like he can't stop touching you now that he's allowed. "You're adorable," he murmurs, voice thick with something warm and syrupy. "Even when you're laughing at my extreme humiliation."

You tilt your head up, grinning when his thumb brushes a stray tear from your cheek. "Your extreme humiliation?" you parrot, pressing a kiss to the base of his throat. "The axolotl didn't even blink at you. He doesn't even have thoughts."

Carlos groans, rolling onto his back and dragging you with him, your body slotting against his like two puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. His palm settles on the small of your back, fingers splayed wide over your skin like he's mapping the curve of you. "Next time," he mutters, nipping at your earlobe, "no audience."

"Next time," you murmur, tracing the scar on Carlos' ribcage with your fingertip, "we'll do this at your place." His breath hitches when your nail drags lightly over the raised tissue. "I'm not abandoning my plushie army just because you're scared of a few audience members."

Carlos barks out a laugh that shakes the bedframe, his fingers tightening in your curls. "Meu Deus, you're never letting that go, are you?" His thumb brushes your cheekbone, calloused but gentle. "Fine. But- " His grin turns wicked as he rolls you beneath him in one smooth motion, his hips slotting between your thighs with practiced ease. "You'll have to deal with my collection."

You blink up at him, your hands pausing on his shoulders before you ecstatically ask: “You have plushies, too?"

Carlos’ grin sharpens, his teeth flashing in the dim light as he leans down until his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Não, bebe,” he grins wolfishly, the words curling hot against your skin. His hips grind down deliberately, drawing a whimper from your throat. “Not that kind of collection.”

The implication hits you like a punch to the gut. Your face burns so fast you’re half-convinced your glasses fog up. “Oh,” you squeak, fingers tightening in his hair. The mental image of Carlos- your Carlos, with his stupidly perfect curls and infuriating smirk- picking out toys with that same focused intensity he uses when adjusting his vest straps sends heat pooling low in your belly.

Carlos laughs at your expression, nipping at your earlobe. “Sim, querida,” he teases, dragging his tongue along your pulse point. “You should see your face.” His hand slides down your side, pausing to squeeze your hip. “I’ll show you sometime. Figure out which ones you like best.” The promise in his voice makes your thighs clench involuntarily.

Carlos exhales through his nose, long and slow, as he rolls onto his side, his back pressing warm against your chest. His fingers twitch where they're tangled loosely with yours, calloused thumbs brushing your knuckles in lazy, absent circles. The weight of him molds perfectly against you, solid and real, his breathing already deepening into something softer at the edges. You press your lips to the nape of his neck, grinning when he shivers.

"Sleep," you murmur, tightening your arm around his waist. The scent of him, gun oil and coffee and something uniquely Carlos, fills your lungs like a balm. "I've got you. I'll be here when you wake up, sleepyhead."

He hums, noncommittal, and drowsy, but doesn't protest when you card your fingers through his curls, scratching gently at his scalp the way you've found he likes. Outside, the city hums with life still, but here, in the tangle of your sheets, it's just the two of you and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Carlos' grip on your hand slackens gradually, his muscles going heavy with sleep. You watch the way moonlight catches on the curve of his shoulder, the dip of his spine, the faint scars mapping his skin like a constellation only you're allowed to trace. The axolotl stares accusingly from the floor- still crowned with its absurd condom hat- and you bite your lip to stifle a laugh, careful not to jostle Carlos.

His nose scrunches when you press a kiss to the knob of his spine, a tiny, unconscious reaction that makes your chest ache. Carlos shifts against you, his breathing deepening, fingers flexing once around yours before going lax. The moonlight catches on his lashes, casting delicate shadows across his cheeks as his features soften in sleep. You study the way his lips part slightly, the faint snore already building in his throat, the sound ridiculously endearing for someone who usually moves through the world like a stormfront.