aila

Keonho hates you with a burning passion. Every single move you make seems to be specifically to make him mad, and when he first got assigned this case on January 14th, he thought it’d be simple. Somehow, on February 14th – his birthday, mind you – you’d struck again, and you’d even left a post-it note with the words ‘Happy Valentine’s, and Happy Birthday, Detective Ahn!’ on the counter. 

Keonho knew everything about you, except your name. What he didn’t expect was for you to know everything about him as well. It was the strangest thing. You knew that his name was Ahn Keonho, and that his birthday was February 14th. You somehow knew that he had a dog named Cookie, and that he enjoyed swimming. 

Regarding you, Keonho knew that you wore star-shaped earrings, that your favourite colour was emerald green, and that your McDonald’s order was a Filet-O-Fish with medium fries and a medium Diet Coke. It’s still absurd to Keonho that he doesn’t know your identity when he knows your McDonald’s order, for gods’ sake. 

“How the hell do you know the perp’s McDonalds’ order? And why?” Soobin, his captain, asks when he’s looking through the case file. 

“Um… with good old fashioned police work? And who knows, maybe we’ll catch her in a McDonalds.” Keonho suffices. Soobin eyes him questionably, but doesn’t ask any other questions. He too, is confused as to how and why you’re somehow able to evade Keonho every single time. 

On March 14th, Keonho knew that you were going to show up again, but of course, he was a second too late. You’d left a stupid candy bar on the counter as a gift, telling him that he should eat it. Of course he couldn’t, because it was considered as evidence. 

On May 14th, you’d left him dog treats and a note that said it was for Cookie. He couldn’t give those to Cookie either, and they were once again, filed away and tested for DNA. Sure enough, there were none. Keonho nearly punched a wall that day. With the amount of evidence that you were leaving, it was supposed to be easy, but it was everything but. 

“Is she stalking me?” He’d asked Seonghyeon after he saw the note, but the other detective had simply shook his head. 

“You do know how active you are on social media, right?” Seonghyeon replies, looking at him incredulously. “One glance at your public Instagram feed tells me everything I need to know about you.” 

Keonho rolls his eyes. “Curse my stupid popularity,” he mutters. “I have to feed the fans, though!” 

“What fans?” 

“I have 50 thousand followers! I’m practically a micro-influencer!” 

“You’re the micro-influencer?” Seonghyeon suppresses a loud laugh. “They’re all there for Cookie anyways,” He looks back down at the glass case you’d smashed, checking if he can find any traces of hair or prints. 

“Come on, it’s not that weird for her to want to find out which detective’s trying to catch her. Maybe that’s why she’s able to avoid you so well.” 

On July 14th, you’d left a sticky note with the words ‘Hi, Keonho!’ You drew five hearts on the sticky note, and if Keonho wasn’t so frustrated at the fact that he’d just lost you again, he would’ve thought it was a hint. 

“We’re not on a fucking first-name basis!” he exclaims, gritting his teeth and balling his hand into a fist. He hates you. He hates you so bad, and he can’t wait for the day he can throw you in jail for tormenting him every month. 

Seonghyeon, his partner, peers over to look at the sticky note, and he raises a brow when he sees that it’s a heart. “A heart?” he laughs. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she has a crush on you.” 

“She’s pissing me off!” Keonho grumbles, storming off the crime scene. He got back into his car, slammed his fist on the wheel, and sighed. You were fucking flirting with him through post-it notes after robbing a jewellery store? Keonho thinks – no, he knows – that you’re an absolute lunatic. Either that, or you enjoy tormenting him. Or maybe both. 

Keonho had to catch you. August 14th, mark the date, he thinks. He wasn’t going to let you get away this time. 

He walks into the precinct the morning of July 17th with a cup of iced coffee in his hands, and oddly, Seonghyeon wasn’t at his desk. He furrows his brows – Seonghyeon’s always the first one in. 

He looks over at Martin, who’s lazily taking a sip of his morning coffee at his desk. “Have you seen Hyeon?” 

“He just left. You might want to go, now,” Martin says, flicking through a heavy file on his desk. Keonho knows that Martin’s been leading a task force that’s trying to take down the Jung crime family. It’s been troubling Martin just as much as you have been troubling Keonho. 

“Why?” 

“He got a tip about your nemesis. Girl who steals every time on the 14th. Seems pretty credible this time.” Martin replies, and Keonho’s eyes immediately widen in alarm. 

“What?” He nearly drops his coffee. “You’re kidding. The one every 14th? The criminal that’s been fucking flirting with me through post-it notes?” 

“Well, I didn’t know about the flirting bit, but you better get your ass to where Seonghyeon is if you wanna catch your nemesis.” Martin peers up at him through his glasses. 

“I can’t believe that son of a bitch stole my case,” Keonho mutters, leaving his coffee on the table. He grabs his coat and his car keys, and sprints towards the stairwell – there was no point in waiting for the lift. As he bounds down the staircase, he calls Seonghyeon. 

There’s no way in hell Ahn Keonho is going to let his partner, Eom Seonghyeon, arrest you without him being there. He’s been chasing you for months, and he’s not about to let Seonghyeon’s name be the only one on the arrest report. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you got a lead?” Keonho says immediately when the line connects. “You were late to work, Keonho. Plus, once I called you in the morning a few months back when I got a lead on that one murder case we were working together, and you told me to not disturb your beauty sleep.” Seonghyeon responds, and Keonho scoffs.

“Okay, first of all – I give you full permission to disturb my beauty sleep if it’s about her. Second of all, send me your location, because I’m rushing over there right now.” 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line before Seonghyeon speaks again. “Don’t freak out, okay? But… I’m heading to the McDonalds on 4th Avenue.” 

Keonho’s eyes widen with delight when he hears those words just as he flings open the door to his car. “Oh man. Are we going to arrest her in a McDonalds?” He asks, excitement evident in his tone. 

“Just get your ass over here, Keonho.” 

“Freeze!”

You drop the fry that you’re dipping in ketchup. “Hands up in the air,” the voice says, and you smile, doing exactly what he says. You can hear the smugness in his tone – he's finally got you.  

“Ahn Keonho?” you ask, even though you know exactly who he is. You’ve looked up his Instagram page too many times to even count. Was it strange that you had a crush on the detective that’s been chasing you for months? 

When you turn around, and Keonho finally gets a glimpse of your face, his breath quite literally gets caught in his throat.

Because you’re gorgeous. 

Ahn Keonho doesn’t, and has never, believed in love at first sight. But whatever he’s feeling right now – his heart fluttering, the world seemingly melting away, and everything just clicking together – this very well may be it. His archnemesis, the one that’s been robbing jewellery stores and tormenting him for months, might be the actual love of his life. 

It’s insane that this is one of his first thoughts, rather than feeling satisfaction from finally catching you.

He’s done this thing a million times before. You’re under arrest, you have the right to remain silent… all of that. They’re words that are far too familiar to Keonho, but suddenly, they’re all lost on him at the mere sight of you. 

You look just around the same age as him too. He’d expected that, based on the police sketches he'd drawn up on you after talking with other perps that knew you. You’re wearing a hoodie that he just so happens to own as well, and he gulps. 

You look at him almost expectantly, lips parted as if you’re about to say something. Keonho just can’t stop looking at you like you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen – because truly, he thinks that you might be. He’s so completely taken by you to the point where he’s forgotten what he’s actually here for: arresting you for grand larceny. 

“Keonho.” Seonghyeon says, looking at him strangely. Keonho’s completely frozen in place, and Seonghyeon’s never seen Keonho react this way to a perp. He can’t tell if the look on Keonho’s face is one of disbelief that he’s finally caught you, or something else – but a gut feeling tells him that it’s the latter. “Keonho!” 

He snaps out of it. 

He doesn’t say a word, though. Instead, he motions for Seonghyeon to handcuff you as he puts his gun back into his holster before pinching himself, as if it’s a reminder for him to get his act together. 

As Seonghyeon puts the handcuffs around you, all you can really think about is how pretty Keonho is. 

Your eyes are completely fixated on him as he stares at the floor, mumbling something to himself. He’s wearing a flannel jacket with a t-shirt underneath it, and his badge is dangling around his neck. He’s tall too, with strong brows and dark hair lightly tousled by the wind. He looked better than he did in the photos on his Instagram feed. You’re crazy, you think. Crushing on the detective that’s planning to put you in jail is laughable.

“Seems like you’ve finally caught me.” you say, and Keonho has to suppress a frustrated groan. This was just great. You were pretty, and your voice was beautiful. Even after he’s caught you, you’re still tormenting him, but truly, not in the way he had expected.

But Seonghyeon shoots him an odd look, as if it’s a reminder for Keonho to do his job. 

“You’re under arrest,” he says. He’s longed to say those words for far too long now. The satisfaction he feels from that makes him crack a small smile, suddenly forgetting how he froze on the spot at the mere sight of you. You try to ignore how your heart flips at the mere sight of his smile – after all, you are in handcuffs. 

“Well done, Detective Ahn.” you say after he reads you your rights, mirroring his expression. “I’m proud of you.” 

Keonho blinks at you, stunned at your words. He’s trying to forget about how the words ‘Detective Ahn’ rolled off your tongue ever so sweetly. For someone who would much rather be called his first name rather than something so formal, Keonho suddenly doesn’t quite mind. But then he remembers that it’s you, and he snaps right back into reality. He still needs to bring you in. 

“Why would you be proud of me?” Keonho asks incredulously. “I just caught you, and then I’m sending you to jail!” 

“I’m proud of you for achieving your goal, Detective!” Keonho looks at you like you’re fucking insane. Maybe you were. You did try and flirt with him over post-it notes after stealing thousands of dollars worth in jewels. “Also, can you hand me those fries over there? I’m still kinda hungry, you know.” 

“You literally just got arrested, and you care about… your fries?” 

“I’m hungry, Detective Ahn. I spent money on that! C’mon, please.” you pout. 

“Surprised it’s not a fucking Filet-O-Fish,” he grumbles under his breath. Much to his dismay, you hear him. 

“How’d you know my usual?” you ask, tilting your head. The corners of your lips quirk up in an amused smile, and Keonho doesn’t know why it stirs up a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. Surely it can’t be related to him finding you pretty. It can’t, and it shouldn’t. 

Must’ve had something bad today, Keonho thinks. But then he remembers that he hasn't eaten breakfast yet. Oh, maybe it’s the coffee. Maybe I’ve finally become lactose intolerant.

“Good old fashioned police work,” Keonho manages to blurt out some clever retort, and he feels like he should pat himself on the back at this point. “I have the same questions for you – how did you find out my name and that I have a dog named Cookie?”

Your smile seems to grow even wider. Keonho hates it. “You have a… striking public presence, I must admit.” you muse. “I like your Instagram feed. Cookie is really cute too.” 

You can’t be serious. Here you are, standing in front of him with handcuffs on your wrists, likely to be put away for the next five to ten years. And you’re telling him that you like his Instagram feed and that his dog is cute. 

Not to mention that you were extremely beautiful as well. You were simultaneously Keonho’s worst nightmare and dream girl all wrapped up in one, and it is maddeningly confusing. He’s not sure if he should hate you or allow himself to fall hopelessly in love. His job says the former, but his heart might as well be leaning towards the latter. 

“Just… get in the car.” he grumbles. You pout at the thought of having to leave your fries behind, but you don’t say anything. 

Seonghyeon walks you over to Keonho’s car, and you get in the front-seat without any protest. Keonho slides into the drivers’ seat next to you, letting out a relieved sigh at the thought that he’s finally caught you. But then, he remembers that he hasn’t asked for your name. 

“What’s your name?” he asks. “I need it for the police report.” 

“Oh, I’m (Name).” you hum, drumming your fingers on your lap. Wonderful, he thinks. Even your name was beautiful. Keonho wants to bash his head against the wall. This was absurd. 

You look around the cop car, craning your neck to get a good look at Seonghyeon. “You’re Detective Eom, right?” 

“Yeah,” Seonghyeon replies, stunned that you know him too. “You’ve really been keeping tabs on us, haven’t you?” 

You shrug in your seat as Keonho starts the engine to his car. “Might as well,” you hum. “I’m curious to know who’s on my tail, I guess. You’re a little bit more discreet, so I don’t know as much about you,” you tell Seonghyeon. But then your eyes turn to Keonho. “You, though. You’ve got a lot of stuff on Instagram.” 

“And you,” Keonho says, eyes narrowing. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly. “You’ve stolen a lot of jewellery.” 

You only let out a laugh. It’s warm and bubbly, and makes butterflies erupt in Keonho’s stomach. He opts to blame the coffee from this morning, because falling in love with a perp was absolutely ludicrous. Even more ludicrous because it was you, the person that he’s been cursing out every morning whenever he walks into the precinct. 

He grips his steering wheel a little tighter before driving back to the precinct. Keonho tries to not look in your direction whenever he hits a red light. You smell like vanilla and gardenia, and he hates it because it’s absolutely intoxicating. 

However, you occasionally steal glances here and there of Keonho as he drives. Ahn Keonho’s mere presence is making your heart beat faster than it does when you’re stealing jewellery. And it’s not because he’s sending you to jail — it’s because he’s just too beautiful. 

The ride to the precinct is shorter than expected, and when Keonho’s arm grabs yours to lead you in, your cheeks heat up. Wow, you think. This was crazy. You were crazy. 

There’s no way you were truly experiencing ‘love at first sight’ with the detective that’s been trying to put you in jail. 

The elevator ride up to the fourth floor is uncomfortably quiet. You and Keonho steal glances at one another every now and then as you tap your foot on the floor, his hand still latching onto your arm. 

You can’t help but admire how nice Keonho looks, even while you’re in this situation. And when Keonho looks at you and catches you staring, you flash him a smile before you look away, staring at the elevator doors. Keonho’s heart jumps. 

Seonghyeon’s standing behind the two of you, staring at you both intensely to try and figure out why he’s sensing the slightest hint of romantic tension. 

At this point, even Seonghyeon thinks he’s going crazy. They’ve been friends forever, and he knows that Keonho would never fall in love with a perp. 

When the elevator doors open, Keonho spots Soobin and Martin standing at his desk, flicking over his files. “Captain! Look who I’ve brought in,” he says, beaming. Keonho tries to not look at you – he’s worried that he’ll stumble over his words again. “This is (Name). She’s the one who’s been hitting up jewellery stores every month on the 14th.” 

“I haven’t confessed.” you interject. 

“Oh, so this is the alleged sworn enemy,” Soobin hums, and you raise an eyebrow, looking at Keonho. “Bring her into the interrogation room and see if you can get a confession, then.” 

“You talk about me?” you ask Keonho teasingly, and you watch as a faint blush creeps up on his cheeks. 

“Of course,” he scoffs, trying to feign indifference. It’s not like you’ve been making him go crazy for six months straight, and now, you were driving him crazy in a completely different way. “We have to discuss the case. And after we get the confession out of you, we’re gonna put you in jail.” 

“That’s funny,” you say, and Keonho’s suddenly worried because you haven’t got the slightest hint of concern on your face. “Hypothetically, what would it take for me to cut a deal with you guys and avoid jail time?” 

“You aren’t going to be avoiding jail time.” Keonho says, matter-of-factly. He knows he’s got you dead to rights. If you somehow thought that you could charm your way out of prison… honestly, you probably could.

That’s how gone Keonho was – but he was determined to resist your charms. If he couldn’t, at least Seonghyeon would be able to take over for him. 

“I’m just saying,” you shrug. “I know a lot of people that you guys might be looking for. And I could lead you to them.” 

Soobin raises a brow. “Keonho’s been chasing you for six months. You’d be crazy if you think that we’d be letting you get away this easily.”

“What about a local drug cartel?” 

“Not good enough,” Soobin hums, crossing his arms. 

“Burglary ring?” 

“Nope.” Soobin replies, and a grin slowly spreads across Keonho’s lips. You’re not getting away – not this time. 

“What about info on a crime family?” you ask, tilting your head slowly. Martin’s brow quirks up ever so slightly. “The Jungs. Have you heard of them?” 

Soobin and Martin immediately turn towards one another, eyes wide in shock. If you could lead them to the Jungs, they would genuinely consider it. Keonho watches as his captain goes silent, and he’s suddenly worried. 

Fuck, maybe this is why you weren’t concerned in the slightest, he thinks – you had leverage over them, and you were about to walk free. 

“We’re listening.” Soobin replies. Keonho looks at him, jaw slack with disbelief. 

“Captain, you cannot let her walk free – I’ve chased her for six months, come on!” Keonho protests, and Soobin gives him a look. 

“We’ll discuss this soon. Bring her to the interrogation room first though, Keonho,” Soobin replies. Keonho grits his teeth, groaning before he looks at you. Through his frustration, his heart skips a beat at the sight of your smile – even if it is unfortunately cocky. 

“I’m not letting you get away,” Keonho tells you, his hand holding onto your arm again as he brings you to the interrogation room. He smells like earl grey and cucumber, and your heart flips at the proximity between you two as he leans over the desk to click your handcuffs in place, connecting them to the metal bar on the table. 

“Sounds like you’re flirting with me.” It’s the first thing you somehow manage to think of, and even you’re shocked at your own boldness. You watch Keonho’s face practically turn bright red. 

Those words shouldn’t have made him feel something. The butterflies that erupted in his stomach at those words shouldn’t have happened. He shouldn’t be at a complete loss for words, with his mouth suddenly dry and tongue-tied. His heart shouldn’t be pounding impossibly fast in his chest. Keonho hates how incredibly alluring you are — it’s driving him crazy, and he only caught you less than an hour ago.

When he regains his composure, he looks at you, narrowing his eyes. “You’re the one that’s been flirting with me,” he says, pointing at himself. “I saw all your post-it notes, your treats for my dog, the candy bars, everything! You did all of that just to taunt me, didn’t you?” he hisses. 

You don’t say a word, simply leaning back in your chair with an amused smile on your lips. Keonho’s jaw tightens seeing your expression. It’s like you don’t have a single idea of how your words drive him absolutely crazy. 

“You infuriate me.” Keonho grumbles. 

“I know,” you say, your smile somehow growing even wider. You lean forward in your chair, inching your face closer to his.  “And you intrigue me.”

Keonho blinks at you, mouth agape. His cheeks turn even redder than before he takes a deep exhale. He can’t even seem to pull himself away until he hears the soft click of the door, snapping him out of it. It’s only then when he realises the proximity between you two, and his eyes widen. 

He jumps back like he’s just touched fire, and Seonghyeon looks at him oddly. “What happened?” Seonghyeon mouths at him, concerned. Keonho clears his throat before excusing himself from the room.

As the door closes behind him, Keonho brings his hand to his mouth, eyes wide with shock as he tries to process whatever the hell just happened.

All he can think about is how those words rolled so smoothly off your tongue, the teasing quirk of the corners of your lips as you smiled, and the smell of your vanilla perfume. Shit, Keonho thinks. 

It’s then when Keonho realises that he’s fucked. 

Completely and utterly fucked. 

“So, how do you know the Jung family?” Soobin asks you in the interrogation room. 

“I did some time in juvie with Vanessa Jung. Anyways, Vivian Jung approached me a couple of weeks ago and asked me to do a job for them,” you explain, drumming your fingers on the cool metal of the interrogation room table. You look at Keonho, who’s standing behind Soobin, arms crossed as he stares at you blankly. 

“A week ago?” Martin’s brows are furrowed. “What did they want?” 

“This one necklace. It’s worth quite a bit of money, and it’ll be on display at the gala. I agreed, but… not really that willingly. Vivian’s been spamming me to see what my plan’s going to be, but I haven’t replied yet.” you hum. “But, I’m just saying that all of them are going to be at the gala. All of them.”

Soobin and Martin look at each other with wide eyes. If what you were saying was true, this would mean that they could bring down the entire Jung family by the end of this week. Truly, it was too good of a possibility to pass up. 

“Captain, don’t tell me you’re genuinely considering this – please, I’ve been chasing her for six whole months!” Keonho protests, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout. It was sort of adorable, honestly.

“If we have the opportunity to take down all of the Jungs, we can’t let it go,” Soobin says to Keonho. “Martin’s task force needs a win, and I’m sorry.” 

Keonho narrows his eyes at you. “If we do make a deal with her, I want to be on this case. I’m going to make sure that you actually lead us to the Jungs. And we’ll only clear your record and give you zero jail time if you manage to give us all the Jungs. Every single one.”

“Sure,” you say casually, a smile tugging at your lips. “It’ll be fun to have you around, Detective Ahn.” 

Keonho’s heart stutters again at the sight of your smile. It’s then when it hits him — joining the case means that he’s going to have to spend the rest of the week with you, and considering how he seems to fumble at almost every turn, he’s getting a little worried. Ahn Keonho doesn’t know how to act around you.  

Martin raises an eyebrow at your words. “And… why would that be the case?” 

“For no reason in particular.” you shrug, smiling. Martin can tell that there’s more than you’re letting on, and he eyes Keonho with an odd look. Now… would you be so kind as to take these handcuffs off so we can discuss a strategy?” 

“You seem extremely confident that we’ll be able to get all the Jungs.” Keonho replies. 

“Well, there’s a lot on the line for me, so I’m gonna have to do everything it takes to make sure you catch all of them. Plus... they're not the nicest...” your voice trails off as you look into the distance. 

Keonho notices how your jaw tightens ever so slightly, and your brows furrow in what he thinks might be anger. What could that be about? he thinks. 

“Alright,” Soobin sighs. “If you do get us all the Jungs, we’ll clear your record and give you zero jail time. I’ll talk to the D.A. Deal?” 

You nod. “Deal.” 

Soobin nods approvingly, a small smile of satisfaction on his lips. Keonho, on the other hand, does not look happy at all. 

“Keonho, uncuff her,” Soobin says. “When’s the gala again?” 

Keonho groans before walking over to you and unclasping your handcuffs. The smell of earl grey and cucumber infiltrates your senses again, and you smile at him as he frees your wrists. 

“The gala’s this Friday,” you reply, stretching your arms now that they’re free of the restraints. “You need an exclusive invitation to attend, but I’m sure you guys will be able to find a way. Vivian gave me two tickets.” 

“I’m going with you,” Keonho blurts out before he can even think. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.” 

“Lovely,” you beam. “It’s what I wanted anyways.” 

It clicks right then and there for Seonghyeon, who’s been listening in to the entire interrogation. 

You think Keonho is cute. 

That explains the flirty post-it notes. Seonghyeon thought that Keonho was crazy at first for saying that you were flirting with him. But now, seeing how you were interacting with him, he thinks Keonho may be right.

He doesn’t know what the hell happened between you two when you were alone in the interrogation room, but he knew that Keonho looked panicked when he’d left. He’s never seen him freeze in front of a perp either, but this morning was a first. 

“Oh my god,” Seonghyeon mumbles. He didn’t even mean to say it out loud, and now everyone’s eyes are on him. “Sorry. I was just thinking to myself about another case that I was working on. Carry on.” He shoots Keonho a look, as if to say ‘we have to talk’. 

Soobin opts to ignore whatever epiphany that Seonghyeon just had, diverting his attention back to you. “So… we’ll need you to contact Vivian to give her the details of your plan. Detective Ahn will accompany you to the gala, and since he’s so adamant about not letting you leave his sights, he’ll be with you for the duration of the week to make sure that you hold up your end of the bargain.”

“I will?” he sputters. 

A whole week with you. Keonho doesn’t know how he’s supposed to function properly at all. He’d already just offered to go to the gala as your plus one, and he already regrets that. Now he’s going to be stuck to you like glue for the rest of the week – this couldn’t possibly get any worse. 

Soobin nods, confused as to why Keonho seems so shocked. “You said you wanted to jump on the case… and you also just said you’d accompany her to the gala.” He’s never seen Keonho act so strangely before, and he’s been his captain for four years. 

Everyone in the precinct knew that Keonho was laser-focused, never faltered and was quick on his feet. Soobin doesn’t know why Keonho seems to have turned into a completely different person overnight. 

“Fantastic,” you beam. “One problem – the phone I use to contact Vivian isn’t with me, it’s at home. Also, my little sister lives with me, and I don’t really want her to know I’m involved in… crime, so Detective Ahn will probably need to hide his identity a bit.” 

“That’s fine, just say he’s your boyfriend,” Martin says casually, and Keonho quite literally chokes on air. His face is red as he has a cough attack so violent that Seonghyeon’s worried he’s going to cough up a lung. 

Boyfriend. Your boyfriend. 

Keonho hates how he doesn’t mind at all about being known as your boyfriend. It sounded rather nice, in fact. His eyes widen at the realisation, and oh god – Keonho was in so fucking deep. It’s only been a few hours since he met you for the first time, and you’ve already gotten him hooked. 

“Jesus,” Martin says, eyeing Keonho with concern. “What the hell, Keonho?”

“Sorry,” he wheezes, voice raspy. He takes a deep breath before clearing his throat.  “He caught me off guard.”

You look at him with an odd look on your face, and Keonho doesn’t dare to make any eye contact with you. “Right…” you hum. “Detective Ahn here doesn’t seem like he wants to be my boyfriend.”

“I never said that!” Keonho practically yells. Everyone in the room looks at him, startled at his sudden outburst. Keonho, specifically, is a little too aware of your eyes on him. His cheeks are hot with embarrassment, and gosh, he really can’t believe he made a fool of himself in front of you. He wants the ground to swallow him whole. 

“So… you do want to be her boyfriend?” Soobin asks.

“What?” Keonho doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore. This is precisely why he regrets saying that he’ll jump on the case – he gets far too flustered around you. “I— no! Fuck, whatever. We’ll go get the fucking phone tomorrow.”

He excuses himself, practically running out the door. You watch as it slams shut, and Soobin, Martin and Seonghyeon all exchange a look. They’ve never seen Keonho act like this before. He’s never been so nervous or flustered around a perp. 

“Does he always act like this?” you pipe up, and Soobin shakes his head.

“I’m sure Detective Ahn is fine,” Soobin replies. “And you heard him — we’ll see you tomorrow to get the phone.”

“Sounds like a plan,” you reply. Keonho was cute when he was flustered, but gosh, you really didn’t think it was going to be that easy to rile him up. You get up from the metal chair, waving goodbye to Soobin, Martin and Seonghyeon before you disappear from the interrogation room.

When you’re gone, Soobin turns to Martin and Seonghyeon. 

“Is Keonho okay? What the hell was that about?” Soobin asks, brows furrowed together in concern. An amused smile tugs on the corners of Seonghyeon’s lips before he lets out an airy laugh. 

“I have an idea of what it may be about,” Seonghyeon chuckles. “But none of us are really going to like it.” 

eom seonghyeon work phone | 9:33am good morning our beautiful ahn keonho since you’re going to be with our perp all day today, i had to ask do you have a crush on her???  

eom seonghyeon work phone | 9:34am stop leaving me on read do you have a crush on our perp 3 2 1 answer now

eom seonghyeon work phone | 9:35am  i’m just going to say that you do 

keonho | 9:36am DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

eom seonghyeon work phone | 9:37am that’s a YES I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU HAVE A CRUSH ON OUR PERP SHE IS A CRIMINAL KEONHO 6 COUNTS OF GRAND LARCENY 

keonho | 9:37am I KNOW THAT

eom seonghyeon work phone | 9:37am wait if you date a criminal and it doesn’t work out well you can just send them to jail right clean breakup no i support it now go get your girl 

Keonho groans as he turns off his phone. 

How the hell did he get himself into this predicament? 

It wasn’t planned, of course. He didn’t expect you to be this beautiful, or for your coy smirk to make his heart race, or for your stupid words to make his brain completely short-circuit. He’s never frozen like that – and as a cop, you should not be stunned at the sight of a perp. 

But unfortunately, you were his ideal type – smart, quick-witted and a smooth talker. Maybe that’s why you were also such a good jewel thief. 

He had told Seonghyeon that all the dates that he had gone on recently were devastatingly boring. Keonho thinks that in you, he’s finally met his match. However, there was one massive, glaring problem – one that Seonghyeon had reminded him about mere minutes ago. 

You were a criminal. Cops did not fall in love with criminals. Or at the very least, they shouldn’t. 

The sound of you knocking on his car window snaps him out of your thoughts. Keonho’s breath hitches at the sight of you once again. “Get it together, Keonho. It’s just a case. She’s just a regular perp,” he whispers to himself as a reminder. He unlocks the car door, and you fling the door open. 

“Morning, Detective,” you say, beaming at him as you slide into the front seat. You’re holding two cups of coffee, and you hand one over to him. Keonho’s surprised at the gesture, but he thanks you for it nevertheless. 

“So, off to my place?” 

Keonho nods, not saying a word. He doesn’t want to speak, in fact. He’s worried that he’s going to say something strange like he did in the interrogation room yesterday and embarrass himself. Keonho opts to hand you his phone without a word, motioning for you to put in your address into his GPS app so that he can drive the two of you there. 

You hand it back to him, and your fingers brush ever so slightly. Keonho’s cheeks heat up from your touch, sending jolts of electricity through his body. You’d be lying if you didn’t feel the slightest hint of butterflies in your stomach too. 

Maybe it was a little absurd to have a small crush on the detective that was hellbent on trying to catch you. But you really couldn’t help it. 

“I’m sorry that I was difficult to catch,” you pipe up as Keonho presses his foot on the accelerator, driving out of the precinct parking lot. “I know it was frustrating.” 

Keonho’s eyes are strictly focused on the road, and he can’t tell if you’re mocking him with your words. Perps usually didn’t apologise for being difficult to catch – they wanted to avoid jail, in fact. 

“You’re a criminal. You weren’t supposed to make it easy,” he replies. “It would’ve been good for me, though. I’m just wondering why you did it.” 

For the first time, you don’t have a clever retort. Keonho just hears you sigh, and he doesn’t know why he just gets the feeling that things are a little more complicated than they should be. He wants to pry, but this isn’t an interrogation, and the last thing he wants to do is strike a nerve. 

“For fun,” you reply. Somehow, your voice is unconvincing, and Keonho doesn’t really believe you. He sneaks a glance at you, and you’re simply looking out the window – but he catches the way your jaw clenches in what he thinks may be anger. 

“I see,” Keonho taps his finger on the steering wheel rhythmically. He’s going to figure out your real motive – he has to. “You were leaving so much evidence, and I still couldn’t catch you. Which is why it was frustrating.” 

“I think you could’ve caught me sooner,” you shrug, your voice ever so casual. “You’re smart. I’ve heard of your track record.” 

He’s flattered, that’s for sure – but Keonho’s not quite sure what to say. “Um… thanks?” 

“You’re welcome,” Keonho hears you say. “Anyways, my little sister should be at home now. She’s six and she’ll ask you a lot of questions. Just… keep your cool, yeah? No outbursts like the one in the interrogation room.” 

That teasing tone in your voice is back again, and Keonho clenches his jaw. “That was… that was not my intention,” he replies, and you let out an airy laugh. Of course, it’s one of the most beautiful sounds Keonho has ever heard. He’s so distracted he nearly forgets to make a right turn. “I was simply… shocked at Martin’s words, okay?” 

“I know,” you hum. “But you don't have to get so flustered around me, you know.” 

Keonho gulps. Of course he knows. You're just... too pretty, too witty, too much of his type. He doesn't even know what to say in response.

The GPS tells him that you two have arrived just before Keonho can come up with anything coherent to say back.

“Oh, we’re here!” you chirp before opening the car door, and Keonho huffs. He gets out of the drivers’ seat, locking up his car before following you into the building, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. 

For a jewel thief, your apartment building was rather modest. 

You press the button for the elevator, tapping your foot on the floor as you wait for it to arrive. Keonho stands beside you, hesitant to even breathe. Even though your conversation in the car had alleviated some of the awkwardness and tension between you two, Keonho still finds himself confused about how to act around you. 

The lift arrives, and you let Keonho enter first. You press the button for the eighth floor, and you press the ‘close lift’ button a few times before it actually closes. Keonho notices that you’re quite impatient. 

You lead Keonho to your apartment, pushing your key and turning it before opening the door. “Welcome to my humble abode.” you quip, and Keonho smiles, albeit a little awkwardly. He kicks off his shoes, leaving them neatly against your shoerack. 

“Sadie?” you call out. There’s silence for about five seconds before a young girl that looks like you comes running and tackles you in a hug. You pick her up, spinning her around as a smile graces your lips. Keonho’s heart, once again, does another flip. 

“This is my little sister Sadie.” you introduce her to Keonho. The boy’s demeanour suddenly changes at the sight of Sadie waving at him, and he beams. Keonho’s smile is awfully pretty – it really could light up the whole room. 

“Hi, Sadie,” Keonho replies, crouching down to her height. He was good with kids too. Fuck, you think. He really was the perfect guy. If it weren’t for the whole cop and criminal element, you’re 99% sure that you would’ve already asked him out on a date. “I’m Keonho. It’s nice to meet you.”

Sadie looks at you, and then back at Keonho. “Oh, you’re the one with the cute dog that my sister likes on Instagram!” 

Your face is the one that heats up this time, and Keonho quirks a brow, looking at you expectantly for an answer. “You know what…” you mumble, flustered. “Sadie, why don’t you go and play with the new toys that Mom got you? Det— Keonho — and I have to talk about something important.”

Sadie obliges, albeit reluctantly. You lead Keonho to your room, but he manages to sneak in a ‘bye’ to Sadie before following you. 

“So… it seems like you talk about me too.” Keonho asks as you open a drawer in your room. This time, he’s the one with the teasing lilt in his voice, and you groan at the fact that he’s now got this information. 

“I mean, I told you that I’ve looked up your Instagram. It shouldn’t really be that surprising,” you say, rummaging through your things. “And you’ve finally seemed to get past that nervous stage – you’re teasing me now.”

Keonho lets out a laugh. “Right,” he muses. He looks around your room, and it’s not exactly what he expected of a jewel thief. It’s quaint, cozy even – posters of movies are strewn across your wall, and one in particular catches your eye. 

“Ocean’s 8?” Keonho laughs, almost in disbelief. That was the only sign in your room that remotely even indicated that you would commit grand larceny. Your eyes flick up to the poster, and you glance at Keonho, noticing his amused expression. 

Your laugh rings through the air, nodding before you start digging through the box again. “Yeah. Jewel robberies, The Met involved… It's what I’ll be doing at the end of the week. Right up my alley, isn’t it?” you reply. 

Keonho’s eyes then flick towards another poster – Midnight in Paris. One of his favourite movies. He’s a little stunned and astonished that the two of you have a similar taste in movies. We’re meant to be, he thinks. At that thought, his eyes widen, and he quite literally jumps back due to how easily it slipped into his mind. 

You look at him oddly, wondering what could’ve caused him to have that reaction. He simply shakes his head, sighing since he’s embarrassed himself in front of you again. “Sorry,” he says, clearing his throat. “I love that movie.” 

He gestures towards the poster, and a smile graces your lips. “Midnight in Paris? It’s one of my favourites too,” you reply. “I didn’t peg you as someone who enjoyed rom-coms, though.” 

“And I didn’t expect you to either. Thought you’d be into more crime-related films,” Keonho volleys back. Your lips curl up into a smile as you pull out the phone, handing it to him. Your hands touch once again, and Keonho tries – and fails – to hide the blush that’s already blooming across his cheeks. 

“Fair enough,” you hum. “I like rom-coms. Favourite genre.” 

“Me too,” Keonho replies. Your smirk grows a little wider. 

“Maybe we’re meant to be?” There’s a teasing, flirtatious lilt in your tone, and it sends butterflies straight to Keonho’s stomach. 

Instinctively, he replies: “Maybe,” The same coy lilt coats his tone, and your heart races. “I just think you want it to happen, though.” Adrenaline and intrigue courses through your veins at the mere prospect of Ahn Keonho flirting back with you. 

Fucking hell, he thinks, when he realises what he’s said. It was too easy, too natural, and perhaps for the first time, he’s actually able to counter your flirting with a teasing comment of his own. He doesn’t think his job has ever been this difficult before. Even foiling that massive bank heist two years ago was easier than this, and he developed a white hair from the stress. 

You’re far too hard to resist, and Keonho has to resist you. This case was going to make him go absolutely mental. 

The tension in the room is palpable, and somehow, you and Keonho have inched closer to one another. You don’t think you’ve breathed in the last five seconds until Sadie barges into the room, holding a small remote-controlled car. “(Name)! It won’t move!” she says, pouting as she shows you the toy. 

The spell, or whatever you and Keonho had going on mere seconds ago is completely broken. The two of you snap out of it, and you jump away from Keonho. You clear your throat before you crouch down and take the car and its remote from her. “Oh,” you hum, inspecting to see if it’s broken. “Isn’t this new?” 

“Yeah!” she pouts, clearly upset. “I wanted to show Emily it tomorrow.” 

“Let me see,” Keonho pipes up, crouching down as well. You hand him the toy and the remote, and he carefully inspects it as well. He flicks a small switch on the bottom of the car before putting it back on the ground. “I used to love remote-controlled cars when I was a kid.” he tells Sadie, who beams. 

He uses the remote to direct the car forward, and it does. Sadie’s eyes completely light up before Keonho hands her the remote and the toy back. “There ya go,” he says, smiling at her. He flips the car around to show her the switch, pointing at it. “You have to flip this to turn the car on.” 

“Oh,” Sadie replies. “Thank you, Keonho!” 

Keonho grins. “No worries, Sadie. Now if you don’t mind – your sister and I have some work to do, so do you wanna go back out and play with the car? There’s much more space in the living room, right?” 

God damn it. The more time you spent with Keonho, the more you think you’re falling. Of course he was good looking, smart, and your sister seemed to love him. The perfect guy for you was also someone who you definitely could not have. 

Sadie nods, waving goodbye to you two before heading back to the living room. Keonho turns the phone on, and he notices that you’re abnormally silent, only staring at him with a soft look in your eye. 

“What?” he asks, looking around. “Do I have something on my face?” 

You snap out of it, shaking your head quickly. “N–no!” you stammer, your face heating up. “Sorry, um… thank you. For being so nice to Sadie – and not mentioning the whole grand larceny thing.”

You’ve never been one to stumble over your words, and this was a first. You’re not at all surprised that it was in front of Ahn Keonho though. Seeing him be so nice to Sadie hit you right at your soft spot. 

Keonho nods, giving you a smile. “Of course,” he hums. “Do you mind messaging Vivian about the gala?” He hands you the phone – your hands brush again – and both of your hearts start racing. 

You message Vivian, telling her that you’ve got a plan for the gala. She responds almost immediately, which shocks Keonho. 

“Someone’s itching to get their hand on some jewels,” he says, leaning over to look at your phone over your shoulder. You look at him, and suddenly, you notice the proximity between you two. Your faces are almost touching, and you jump back like you’ve just touched fire. You stumble on a box that’s behind you, and you silently curse under your breath for embarrassing yourself.

“I…” You stammer, cheeks hot as you blink at Keonho. It’s the second time he’s seen you caught off-guard now. “Sorry.” 

If you wanted to kiss me, you should’ve just said so, he thinks. 

“What?” you exclaim loudly, cheeks burning hot. Shit, he said that out loud. That was not intended at all. 

“I didn’t mean that!” Keonho replies, putting his hands up like he’s the wanted criminal. “Forget what I said, that just slipped out. I mean, I’m not saying that I wouldn’t kiss you, because I would–” 

“What?” you exclaim even louder. At this point, Sadie’s about to run in here any minute after hearing all the commotion. Your heart jumps to your throat hearing those words – this wasn’t real. The detective that's been chasing you, and that you'd been crushing for a little bit... would kiss you, if the opportunity arose?

You don’t know what the hell is going on. Everything is happening all too fast, and Keonho claps his hand over his mouth like he’s just said his deepest, darkest secret – because he very likely has. 

“Fuck, what?” Keonho’s voice is muffled behind his hand. His eyes are wide in horror. He can’t believe he just told you verbatim that he would kiss you. He wants the ground to swallow him whole right now. This was worse than the humiliating coughing fit in the interrogation room. 

The crazy thing was, despite it being an uncharacteristic outburst, Keonho doesn’t really think that those words were a lie. 

And oddly enough, you wouldn’t quite mind if Keonho did kiss you. 

He takes a deep breath, composing himself. There was no way to get out of it now, was there? 

“I… sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying,” he says, trying to seem calm. He’s still freaking out on the inside. You gulp, nodding. For the first time, you’re at a complete loss for words.

Do you flirt back? Do you tell him that you would kiss him as well? 

From Keonho’s words, you could tell that he was, at the very least, attracted to you. After all, he did just tell you that he would kiss you. But this… this was wrong, wasn’t it?

Was it a crime in itself to be a cop and date a criminal with six counts of grand larceny on their record? You weren’t sure, but morally, it sure seemed like one. 

The flirting over the post-it notes were just for fun, to be completely honest. You weren’t expecting to actually find that Ahn Keonho was your ideal type. You just wanted him to catch you, approve the deal that you’d be making and let you go. You weren’t going to see him again, and he wasn’t going to see you again. 

And in the interrogation room, Keonho was just fun to tease and easy to get flustered. There was the added motivation of finding him cute, but of course you didn’t think anything would truly come out of it.

When you looked at his photos on your phone, he was just one of those unattainable crushes, like your favourite actor or singer. It just so happened to be that your unattainable crush was the detective that wanted to throw you in jail. 

But him being in your home? Having the same taste in movies? Being nice to Sadie? Telling you that he would kiss you, if the opportunity arose? 

Yeah, Keonho didn’t seem like much of an unattainable crush anymore. 

You and Keonho make a silent agreement to not talk about it. 

The two of you avoid the topic after, but you and Keonho find yourself talking for the next two hours in your room. You’d changed the topic to something about movies, and Keonho’s never been more grateful for that segue. He rambles to you about the Spider-Man movie – you scoff at him jokingly, and in a similar vein, Keonho tells you that he’s not surprised you’re reacting that way to a crime-thwarting vigilante.

You make some comment that's along the lines of 'I'd rather you catch me than Spider-Man', and Keonho doesn't know why in the world his heart races at that.

It’s easy to joke around with Keonho, despite how the two of you are supposed to be enemies. You ask him about Cookie too, and he shows you 500 photos of his dog like the chihuahua is his absolute pride and joy. You find that you really like how his eyes crinkle into crescents when he smiles, how his loud laughter is completely infectious, and how the cadence of his voice completely changes when he’s talking about something that he’s passionate about.

It doesn’t really take any detective skills to figure out that you’re crushing hard on Ahn Keonho. 

It’s been three days now, and you head into the 99th precinct every morning now like you’re clocking in for work. Seonghyeon eyes you suspiciously whenever he sees you, and there’s a knowing smile on his lips whenever you even utter the word ‘Keonho’. Martin seems to be onto you as well – you can practically feel his gaze on you and Keonho whenever you two are talking. 

The time you spend at the precinct makes Keonho grow closer to you, and unfortunately, that makes his feelings for you even more intense. 

Keonho finds that you’re much more of a listener than he thought. He probes you with questions under the pretense of ‘wanting to get to know you better’, and you answer them. Although, he notices that your answers are a little short, more clipped, always on topic – you’re not that much of a rambler. 

He knows it may boil down to the fact that you’re hiding something about why you’re stealing jewels in the first place – you don’t want Keonho to get too close. 

A particular moment sticks out in Keonho’s mind. He’d asked you about Sadie yesterday, and there was just something behind your eyes that Keonho couldn’t quite decipher. You’d gulped, almost out of nervousness, before you said the words: “I’d do anything for her.” 

The detective in him is telling him to pry, but noticing your reaction and your vagueness, Keonho doesn’t push it. But he is still ever so curious. 

However, the awkwardness between you two is miraculously gone with that two-hour long conversation at your apartment. Keonho doesn’t find himself stumbling over his words anymore. He’s still sometimes flustered when you throw the occasional flirtatious comment in his direction, but he’s now able to volley with you and throw one back. Before Keonho had left your apartment that day, he didn't miss how Sadie had mouthed ‘my sister really likes you’ to him. 

Keonho tries to ignore how his heart flips at those words. 

God, he really was falling in love with a criminal. 

The slight brushing of your shoulders, the shy smiles across the two of your lips whenever you both get a little too close before looking away, and the quick flirty comments that you both make like it’s the most normal thing in the world – all of it piles up, and Keonho cannot stop thinking about it. 

You were perhaps the most intoxicating person that Keonho has ever met, and it kills him a little bit inside when he knows that this is very likely wrong. A cop and a criminal – those words ring in his mind whenever he lets himself get a little too giddy at the interactions between you two. 

On Wednesday morning, you arrive at the precinct earlier than Keonho, and Seonghyeon looks at you with this strange look on his face – like usual. He slides a cup of coffee over to you from the precinct coffee machine. It’s in an NYPD mug, and you can’t help but find how ironic it is for you, a criminal, to be drinking out of it. There’s also a sticker on it of a dog that you recognise to be Cookie. It must be Keonho’s.

“It’s Keonho’s mug,” Seonghyeon reminds you, trying to make it sound like it’s no big deal. He eyes you to see if it brings any sort of reaction out of you. All you do is nod before taking a sip, telling him that ‘you figured’. Seonghyeon tries to hide his disappointment. 

After finding out that Keonho thought you were cute, Seonghyeon was not going to let this go. He wanted to see if you reciprocated his feelings, wanted to see if Keonho was going to do anything about it, and most of all – he wanted to see the complete mess that Keonho turns into whenever he’s around you. 

But, Seonghyeon doesn’t know about how Keonho told you out loud that he would kiss you. 

It’s totally not like you and Keonho haven’t been thinking about it constantly. 

Keonho heads into the precinct, rubbing his tired eyes as he pushes past the small gate that leads into the bullpen. He didn’t get much sleep last night, with all the tossing and turning… thinking about you. It’s been like this for the past few days, and Keonho doesn’t know if they’re dreams or nightmares at this point. 

Yeah, Keonho knows he’s fucked. But he supposes that this is just something that he’s going to have to deal with for the rest of the week, and then after you disappear from his life, he’ll have to move on. 

But Keonho doesn’t really want to. Not when you were everything that Keonho really wanted. 

He sees you sitting beside his desk, idly scrolling through your phone as you drink from a mug. But Keonho knows that it’s his mug, because there’s a sticker of Cookie’s face on it. Martin made those stickers for him and gave it as a Secret Santa gift three years ago.

It’s actually maddening how good you look without even trying. You’re in a hoodie and jeans, with scruffed up Converses that look identical to the pair that Keonho’s wearing himself. You chew the inside of your cheek, a habit of yours that Keonho notices that you do far too often.  

He takes a deep breath, reminding himself to not act too outlandishly in front of you. He’s humiliated himself too much recently. He walks up to you, ever so casual, and dumps his bag on the floor. The noise makes you look up, and Keonho’s heart stutters as he locks eyes with you. 

“Morning, sleepy,” you say, placing your – well, his – mug down on the table. “You look tired.” 

Keonho plops down in his chair, leaning back. “Didn’t sleep well.” He’s not going to tell you why. He’s also not going to tell you that even for the few hours he was asleep, his dreams somehow included you. 

“Oh,” you frown. You push the mug towards him, offering him to take a sip. “Have some coffee. Detective Eom made me a cup. What are your plans for today, by the way?” 

Keonho looks at Seonghyeon, who’s got the most devious smirk on his lips. Keonho narrows his eyes at Seonghyeon before turning back to you, giving you a tight-lipped smile before taking a sip from the mug himself. 

Wait. Keonho freezes – you just shared a drink. If Keonho was still in the fifth grade, he would be calling this an indirect kiss. He tries to rid his brain of that childishness, drinking the coffee like he didn’t just silently make himself go crazy. 

“Thanks,” he tells you, and thankfully, you don’t seem to notice how his brain had practically short-circuited back there. “Anyways, Captain Choi wanted me to head back to my apartment to grab some of the files I had on your case. He thinks it may be of some use, or whatever. He also said if I had the time, to take a quick pit stop at your apartment to see if there’s any other evidence that could be helpful.” 

“Oh,” you hum, straightening up in your chair. “You could’ve just texted me or something instead, I would’ve let you into my apartment.” 

Keonho rubs the nape of his neck sheepishly with one hand as he taps his pencil on the corner of the desk with another. “I… don’t have your number.” he replies. 

You pull your phone out of your pocket, nodding when you realise that he’s right. “Of course – just give me your number,” you say, handing your phone to him. “Then we can keep in touch.” 

“For what reason?” Seonghyeon pipes up, a shit-eating smirk on his lips. Keonho glares daggers at him, and Seonghyeon stifles a giggle before returning his attention back to his computer. 

Keonho shakes his head before tapping his number into your phone while simultaneously trying to ignore how you’re standing so close to him to the point where he can smell your perfume. In all honesty, it was driving him a little bit crazy. 

He hands you back your phone, and your hands brush. It sends jolts of electricity up his fingers, and Keonho gulps when he suddenly remembers what he’d said to you a few days ago. He clears his throat to try and push the memory to the back of his mind, but he doesn’t realise that he’s been in a complete daze for at least twenty seconds now. 

Seonghyeon could already tell he was a goner. 

Seonghyeon is also far too fixated on his friend’s reaction, and he completely fails to notice how there’s a dazed look in your eye as well. Your heart is racing, and you tell it to settle down. It was nothing – just the mere brushing of a hand. It totally wasn’t like these fleeting moments, along with the flirty comments hadn’t compounded and made you realise that you actually had fallen for the detective that was on your case. 

Keonho clears his throat again. “Um… so… is this the first time Vivian’s asked you to do a job for them?” he pipes up, figuring out that small talk was likely the best way to get himself out of his predicament. 

Wow, Keonho, he thinks. Such an intense question probably wasn’t the best choice for small talk.

You gulp, clearly hesitant to answer. “No,” you reply. “But it’ll be the last, I think.” 

Keonho doesn’t know why he thinks you’re lying, but he doesn’t press you on it. He nods, analysing your expression. You’re completely unreadable. “Right,” he says, voice trailing off as he taps the side of his desk. “Why?”

“Since it’s so… risky, I guess.” You don’t give him any more information, and it’s the first time since the interrogation room where Keonho feels like you’ve got something to hide. So much for small talk, he thinks. He wanted to keep things rather light and breezy, but now Keonho’s seemed to make things a little more awkward. 

“Anyways, mind if I tag along with you for today?” Your demeanour changes in an instant, and Keonho just can’t help but get a gut feeling that something’s a little bit off. You’re talking to him like absolutely nothing’s wrong, and you’ve plastered a smile on your face. 

“Yeah, of course,” Keonho nods, gulping. He digs through his pocket for his car key, and his eyes widen in alarm when he sees that they’re not there. “My keys,” he mumbles, eyebrows furrowed in worry, frantically searching his desk for them. 

“I have ‘em,” you say, throwing them at Keonho – thankfully, he reacts quickly. He looks at you in confusion, wondering how the hell you have them. “Sorry. Old habits die hard.” 

Was it weird that he found that oddly… attractive? 

Really, it was all too charismatic. You and your sly wit and your dazzling smile made Keonho weak in the knees, and it was rather awful because he’s a cop. He can’t be condoning pickpocketing… even if said pickpocket was completely irresistible. 

“Of course,” he exhales, his heart doing a flip at the sight of you smirking at him. He follows you towards the elevator, telling his heart to stop racing as he fidgets with his keys. This crush was bad, he thinks. His phone pings with a notification, and he checks it right when he enters the lift.

eom seonghyeon work phone | 8:34am you’re so down bad for our perp

Keonho sighs, pocketing his phone. 

Seonghyeon really didn’t have to state the obvious. 

The files at his apartment were really of no use.

But it made Keonho realise that he was completely doomed when it came to you. 

There you were, in his apartment, looking like you completely belonged. You played with Cookie – who had adored you instantly, and didn’t even want you to leave. Keonho sat on his dinner table, flicking through files as you taught Cookie a new trick that Keonho's been trying to get him to do for months, but to no avail.

But of course when you show up, you're able to get Cookie to perfect it instantly. Keonho should grit his teeth at that in frustration, but it only makes his heart jump. Yeah, he truly was a goner.

He's never seen you so happy either. There seemed to be a smile permanently plastered on your lips during the entire time you'd spent at his apartment, and it was rather infectious. Your laughter, combined with the joyous barks of Cookie rang through the air, and all Keonho could think was that he could very much get used to this.

Even when you’d left, Keonho somehow kept trying to find remnants of you that you’d left in his apartment.

Whatever this crush was, it was driving him absolutely insane. Maybe it was really because Keonho had told himself that he couldn’t really have you, which only made him want you more. Keonho was chasing the unattainable, but could anyone really blame him when you were this mesmerising? 

God, nobody but you had ever made Keonho feel like this. 

The gala’s tomorrow, and Keonho finds himself not wanting the week to end. Mainly because Keonho knew that after this week, he’d likely never see you again. And truth be told, even though Keonho had told himself moving on from you was a necessity, he doesn’t think that he can. 

You weren’t going to come into the precinct today, and Keonho found himself somewhat miserable. He knew you had a good reason though – Sadie had a half-day of school today anyways, and you wanted to spend a little bit of time with her before you pulled off the riskiest thing you’ve ever attempted yet. 

He was used to your presence already. The two of you had fallen into a routine – you’d show up at the precinct bright and early, waiting for him in his chair. You’d be drinking coffee out of his mug – really, it was yours now – and you’d slide it over to him so that he could take a sip. Seonghyeon would snicker and tease the two of you behind his back, and Keonho would pretend that he hated it when really, he wouldn’t ever mind being called ‘your boyfriend’. 

Then, you’d tag along with whatever he had to do today. Sometimes it was heading to his place to go through files – you’d told him that this was your favourite thing to do, because you were able to see Cookie. Keonho would slack off a little bit then, spending some time playing with Cookie as well. If anyone else was in the apartment with the two of you, they’d probably think that they were third-wheeling on a date. 

Or sometimes it was just doing paperwork at the precinct, but even you’d make that interesting. He’d let your voice fill the air as he filled out forms, nodding along to your words with a smile on his lips. 

Over time, you’ve opened up a little more to him. Your answers to his questions aren't as short or clipped anymore – matter of fact, you've been rambling to him more often now. He can't help but also find it awfully endearing when he sees your lips quirk up in a sly smile when you’ve thought of some smart retort to a flirty comment he's made, or some inane question he's asked you. 

So, not seeing you today was extremely odd, and Keonho just can’t help but feel disappointed. Was it too outlandish to just show up at your apartment after his shift was over? 

He could make up an excuse about just wanting to go over the plan for tomorrow’s gala, but Keonho had never been a good liar. He’d just probably end up telling you that he was there because he wanted to see your face. 

If the last three days had made him realise anything, it was that he truly did want to test the waters with you. He returns to his apartment after his shift, bounding up the staircase as he wonders what you’ve been up to all day. Maybe he should just text you. 

“Hi.” Your voice rings in his ears, and Keonho thinks that he’s hallucinating. He pinches himself to make sure that everything’s real, and lo and behold, it is. You’re standing in front of his apartment, jacket draped over you as you scratch the nape of your neck. 

“Hi,” Keonho replies, astonished at your presence. “Did you miss me that much today?” 

Right after those words slip past his lips, he realises that you’re standing there nervously.  It’s almost as if you’re nervous about something – your foot is tapping an unsteady rhythm against the tiles of the floor, and your eyes are shifty. His teasing words seem to cut through a little bit of that nervousness, because you crack a small smile. You also don’t deny it. 

“I did,” you reply, but behind the flirtatious retort, there is some truth to your words. “I needed to talk to you.” 

Keonho nods, fumbling with his keys before he unlocks his door. He motions for you to step in first, and he follows, closing the door behind him. 

Cookie greets you when you step in, barking happily at the sight of you. You coo at the chihuahua as Keonho watches with amusement – once again, he really could get used to seeing you in this light. You, Cookie, his apartment... he shakes his head to stop himself from daydreaming about you before heading to the kitchen to grab a mug, pouring some warm water into it. 

He hands it over to you, and you thank him gratefully. Keonho sits down on the couch, and you plop down beside him. “So… what’s up?” he asks. Though your presence was unexpected, Keonho didn’t mind at all. He wanted to see you. 

You gulp, the words trapped in your throat. Suddenly, you’re a little too aware that Keonho is a cop. 

But you didn’t have anyone else to go to. 

Over the week, you’re somehow astonished that Ahn Keonho, the detective who’s been hellbent on making sure that you’re put behind bars, is one of the only people that you feel like you can be vulnerable in front of. 

After the two of you had pushed past all that awkwardness, you and Keonho got along well. A little too well, even. Every moment you spent with him made you completely forget about the impending danger of Friday’s gala, and it was only today where it hit you right in the chest – if all were to go wrong, everything would come crashing down on you. 

Sadie would be confused as to why you had suddenly disappeared, and your mom would have to have that very difficult conversation with your little sister about how you were involved in crime. You'd also probably never get to see her for years and years. In this moment, you really do regret all the shit you've pulled in the last few months. But it wasn't like you did it for no reason.

You’re so tired of running, though. From danger, from the police, from everything – all you want now is a life of normalcy. It would be hard to achieve after the predicaments that you’ve gotten yourself into, but you wanted to at least try. 

Keonho looks at you, and suddenly you feel at ease. As if everything’s going to be okay. You trust him enough to actually let your guard down. 

“I was just… thinking about tomorrow, and I got really nervous,” you mumble. Keonho’s almost shocked at your words. You were – unfortunately – a brilliant jewel thief. Keonho doesn’t know why you’re nervous at all, when you’ve pulled off so many heists and he’s never been able to catch you. 

You didn’t even have to steal as many jewels as you typically did tomorrow. It was one necklace that they’d managed to get a dupe of, and all you had to do was pull off a fake heist. 

Your voice is shaky, your foot is restless and you’re fidgeting with your fingers. He’s never seen you this nervous and unsure of yourself before. Keonho instinctively reaches out to gently caress your hand in an attempt to comfort you, and your breath hitches at the contact. Fuck, he thinks. Should he have done that? 

“It’s going to be fine,” Keonho hums. “Just let me know what’s on your mind? I don’t know how much I can help, but… I’m here.” 

His hand is warm over yours, and his words are awfully comforting. Over the last few days, you’ve realised that you really do like Keonho. You like how much he cares for you, how he notices the little things, how he manages to make your heart race at every single turn. 

But being with Keonho was almost something forbidden – how could he ever date someone who’s got six counts of grand larceny against them? You don’t even know if you’re getting your immunity or not. 

“I… I don’t know. I’m worried that even if you are able to catch the Jungs, someone close to them will go after Sadie and my mom, and everything,” you gulp. “I… I’ve already put them in enough danger, and everything, right? I thought severing my ties with the Jungs would make it better, but what if it just makes everything worse? They’re well connected, they could know it’s me – even after they’re all put in jail. I just feel really stupid for getting involved with them in the first place.” 

Keonho nods. “It’s going to be okay, (Name). I’ll make sure Sadie and your mom are protected,” he replies, gently using his thumb to caress your hand. “I just… I just want to know, though – how involved are you with them?” 

“The jewels… I sold most of them to the Jungs,” you exhale. “In exchange for making sure Sadie’s school fees were accounted for. The rest… I have them. And I’ll return them after this is all over, I promise.” 

He knew you wouldn't pull off these heists for no reason. But that’s why you were being so secretive yesterday after saying that this wasn’t the first time that you’d worked for Vivian.

And then he remembers. When he first asked you why you did it, you had told him it was for fun. Keonho knew that he didn't believe you. With you being quiet, vague and nervous when he’d asked about Sadie, and then gulping before you told him that you'd do anything for her – it all added up now.

“Okay,” he breathes out. “You’ve got to promise me that, though.” 

You nod quickly. “I know. I… I don’t really want to go back to that life again,” you confess. “You’ll be happy to hear that, I’m sure.” You crack a small smile at him, and Keonho mirrors your expression. 

“Well, of course,” he chuckles. “But really, back to what you were saying – I’m gonna make sure that Sadie and your mom are going to be safe. Trust me, okay? And of course, I’ll make sure that you’re okay too.” 

You gulp. You don’t really think you deserve this much kindness from Ahn Keonho, especially after you’ve been tormenting him and the precinct for months. You’ve stolen millions of dollars worth of gems, and yet here he was, telling you that he’d make sure that you were taken care of in the event that the Jungs were going to come after you. 

Cookie, seemingly noticing how nervous you were, jumps up onto the couch and crawls into your lap. “Oh,” you exhale, and your hand gently goes to pet his fur. “I think Cookie could tell that I was kind of freaking out.” 

“He likes you,” Keonho beams. “And he usually doesn’t really like anyone. He still growls at Seonghyeon whenever he comes over, you know.” His words lighten the mood a little bit, and you let out an airy laugh. Keonho’s heart does another flip at the sound. 

“Thank you for letting me in, by the way. I know you weren’t expecting me, or this… conversation. I was just spending the entire day with Sadie, and I just couldn’t help but think about the very likely possibility of everything going completely wrong, you know?” 

“I know,” Keonho replies softly. “But don’t worry too much. I’ve got you.” 

“You’re too nice to me,” you laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “Considering that I’d made you lose your mind for the past few months. I’m sorry about that, you know.” 

“Well, I care about you.” 

The words slip past his lips far too easily. 

He didn’t intend to say that out loud, but now that he has, the entire atmosphere changes. Keonho knows he’s being honest – he was never a good liar, and especially not in front of you. The air thickens, his pulse thunders in his ears, and Keonho gulps. 

It’s the first time he’s admitted it out loud. He cares for you. A criminal. Despite all the odds stacked against you two, admitting that has never felt so right. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. “I care about you too.” 

You’ve grown far too fond of Keonho in the past week, and despite your brain screaming at you to tell you that things would never work out between you and him, you want to ignore it.

Both yours and Keonho’s words aren’t exactly a confession, but the two of you are very well aware of the underlying message they have. 'I care about you' is the best way that you can tell him 'I like you' without making things far too real.

Silence falls between you two as you let the weight of those words settle in. There are probably a million reasons why this can’t work, but Keonho can’t help but hope that maybe, just maybe – there’s one which makes it all possible.  

Keonho’s heart jumps, and he swallows the lump in his throat. He looks at you, and you’re looking at him with the fondest look in your eye. Keonho wants nothing more than to close the distance – to tell you how he really feels. 

“I don’t know if I’m being crazy, but…” 

“You’re not,” you say, interrupting him. You look at him, eyes glancing towards his lips, but then you look away. Keonho knows that this is it – confirmation that he wasn’t crazy. You felt the same way too. You liked him. Warmth blooms across his chest as you slowly turn your palm, lacing your fingers with his. 

"But I don't know how this would work," you confess. "You're you... and I'm... me. We're not supposed to..." you trail off, thinking that if you explicitly acknowledge your feelings for him, they'd have to be addressed right here, right now.

"Hell, you're supposed to be putting me in jail, Keonho."

"I know," he gulps. "But I... I don't know – maybe there's a way we can make it work. After tomorrow, surely there's a way."

“I think we should talk about this after tomorrow, then.” you exhale, gently stroking his hand with the pad of your thumb. “I don’t really know if I’m going to get my immunity unless we pull it off, and I don’t want either of us to have any… false hope.” 

You were right.

Keonho wants to tell you so badly that he has feelings for you – the words threaten to spill past his lips, but he holds his tongue.

If he’d told you how he truly felt right then and there, and you still had to be put behind bars, Keonho doesn’t think he’d know what to do with himself. Then, he would be truly wanting someone who he couldn’t have. 

The only comfort he has right now is that at least he knows that you feel the same way. He nods, settling for this quiet acknowledgment of your feelings for one another.

All Keonho can hope for is that tomorrow goes exactly the way you’ve planned. 

Keonho picks you up to head to The Met. 

He hops out of his car, smoothing down the creases in his suit before taking his phone out to message you. He rests against the hood of his car, scrolling through his text messages before sending one out to Soobin to say that he’ll be on his way soon. 

“Hi,” you say, and Keonho looks up. 

His jaw nearly drops at the sight of you. Keonho’s at a complete loss for words, and he swears that he doesn't even remember how to speak anymore. He doesn’t think he’s seen anybody look this beautiful. 

You’re wearing a long, satin red dress, with silver jewellery adorning your neck and your wrists. You’re holding a silver clutch in your hands as you stand on the steps, waiting for Keonho to speak. He’s been gawking at how gorgeous you look for the past few seconds now, lips parted as if he was going to say something. 

You soon realise that he isn’t going to, and you simply chuckle. “Keonho, you’re staring.” you say, giggling. That snaps Keonho out of it, and he clears his throat, cheeks tinted pink in embarrassment. 

“Sorry, sorry – you look… really pretty,” Keonho stutters, clearly flustered. It’s the first time Keonho’s faltered in front of you since that time he told you he’d kiss you in your apartment. 

“Thank you,” you beam. “You look really good too, Keonho.” 

You weren’t going to tell him, but your heart had jumped to your throat when you saw Keonho waiting for you at the front of your apartment complex. He was resting against the hood of his car, looking effortlessly good in a nice, crisp suit, with his hair styled to perfection. You were so distracted, you nearly tripped over your own heels as you made your way down the steps. 

Keonho heads over to the other side of the car to open the car door for you, doing so in a dramatic fashion. It elicits a bubbly laugh from you, and Keonho can’t stop himself from grinning ear to ear. 

“What a gentleman,” you quip, and Keonho chuckles, shaking his head before he heads over to the other side to get into the car. 

“Only for you,” he replies when he slides into the seat, and your cheeks heat up. It’s not like either of you have forgotten about last night’s conversation, where the two of you had basically said that you had feelings for one another. 

The atmosphere is a little different between the two of you now. Keonho rests his hand on yours like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and you let him. The shift to something a little more than friends, despite the confession being unsaid, is noticeable. 

Soobin sees it the second the two of you walk into The Met together, your arm linked with Keonho’s. He eyes the two of you suspiciously, and Keonho simply tells him that ‘it’s for the case’. Martin, who’s standing nearby, is tempted to come up with a clever retort, but the two of you have already scurried off. 

“They’re… not dating, are they?” Soobin says, eyeing the two of you from a distance. 

“No, they’re just pretending to be boyfriend and girlfriend,” Martin teases, referencing that day in the interrogation room. “It seems like Keonho has changed his mind about being known as her ‘boyfriend’, don’t you think?” 

He makes air quotes around the word ‘boyfriend’, and Soobin narrows his eyes. Not in disapproval, Martin notices, but more so intrigue. 

“I’ve never had a detective fall in love with their perp before.” Soobin muses, as he picks up the oyster that he’s been served on a platter. 

“You think they’re in love?” Martin asks. 

“Obviously,” Soobin replies, gesturing towards you and Keonho. He’s leaned in closer to you, and you’re whispering something into his ear. If Soobin’s eyesight isn’t deceiving him, he swears that Keonho’s arm is around your waist. “Look at the two of them. And we’ve all noticed how they’ve been acting all week. I feel like I’m third-wheeling in my own precinct.” 

Two hours into the gala, you meet Josh, who works for the Jungs, in the Rockefeller Wing. 

You’ve been away from the crowd long enough, dodging anyone who works for the Jungs expertly. Keonho’s been with you all night, admiring you in that red dress as the two of you explore The Met. He’s also miraculously able to make you forget about the very possible outcome of things going completely wrong, but it’s not that hard to be distracted when he looks this perfect.

You’ve picked up the briefcase with the fake necklace from Seonghyeon in one of the hallways, and he looks at the two of you with a knowing smirk on his lips. “Well, don’t you two make a lovely couple!” he says when he sees the two of you. 

Strangely enough, but much to his delight, you and Keonho don’t even deny his words. You simply beam, taking the briefcase from him. It’s enough for Seonghyeon to know that something happened. 

Your heart pounds anxiously in your chest when you spot Josh, who walks over to you. Keonho’s just mere metres away. Josh nods at you curtly as you hand the briefcase over, and he slides you a cheque. 

“Vivian thanks you.” he says, before turning around to leave. You wait a few seconds before you run out of the wing, your eyes darting around to search for Keonho. 

“Psst,” he whispers, and your eyes land on him. You rush up to him, your heart still beating a mile a minute. You don’t know if Vivian’s going to examine the necklace – if she found out they were fake before the rest of the cops could find them, you were absolutely doomed. 

“You did great,” Keonho says, sensing your nervousness immediately. His hand finds yours to calm you down, and you take a deep breath. Of course Keonho knows exactly what to do whenever it comes to you. “Come on – Josh went in that direction.” 

The two of you follow Josh discreetly, your hand still in Keonho’s. You don’t want to let go at all.

When the two of you reach the American Wing – sure enough, you see Vivian. Her long, sleek black hair is tied neatly into a ponytail, lips tinted with rouge. You gulp, your heart racing once again. Even though you’ve seen her multiple times before in person, you were still absolutely terrified. 

You lean against the wall, and Keonho stands in front of you, facing Vivian. “You peek into the room – if they see it’s me, it’s not going to end well.” you say, your mouth running dry. 

“Talk to me, so our cover isn’t blown. People are still going to walk past. I’m going to text Martin.” Keonho pulls his phone out to tell Martin that he’s found Vivian.

“Um… how was the food?” you ask. 

“It was okay,” Keonho replies, taking a deep breath. He tilts his head to peek in the room. Vivian hasn’t noticed him yet. “Crab cakes were so-so.” 

“Okay,” you exhale. Keonho can tell that you’re nervous, and he reaches for your hand once again. Your eyes dart up to look at him, and he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. 

“It’s going to be fine. Sadie’s going to be safe, your mom’s going to be safe. I’m not going to let them hurt you or them,” he whispers, and you nod. “Trust me.”

“Thank you.” you reply, your voice matching his. You look into Keonho’s eyes, and suddenly, you really do think that everything’s going to be okay. 

Keonho steals another glance at the room – Josh is handing Vivian one of the fake jewels that you handed off to him. This time, Vivian locks eyes with Keonho, her brows furrowing when she sees him. 

He quickly ducks back and looks at you. “She caught me. Shit.” Keonho says. He knows it’s a matter of time until they come out and ask him who the hell he is – he needs a way to hide both of your faces. 

Fuck. 

Keonho knows one way. The mere thought of it is making his heart race. Probably because he's been wanting to do this forever. 

He leans closer to you, his face mere inches away from yours. “I need you to trust me,” he whispers. At the proximity, your eyes flick towards his lips. “Can I kiss you?” 

Your eyes widen at the question. Yes, of course – is the obvious answer, but it’s strangled in your throat. The sound of footsteps startle you, and you nod before you immediately crash your lips onto his. 

Keonho kisses you back, his hands around your waist, holding you steady. Your fingers tangle in his hair as you melt into the kiss. Kissing Ahn Keonho for the first time in such a high-stakes moment was absolutely ridiculous, but it felt right. 

It was a little messy, a little rushed as you both tried to figure out a rhythm while trying to hide from a dangerous criminal mere metres away — but it was Keonho, so it felt perfect. 

His other hand moves up to cup your cheek – and hide your features from Josh, who’s come to see who’s outside. At the sight of you and Keonho kissing, Josh furrows his brows before returning to the room. 

“Just some guests kissing,” he tells Vivian, wrinkling his nose. “I guess they scurried over here for a little more privacy.” 

Even though Josh is gone, you don’t want to stop kissing Keonho. You’re completely addicted to the feeling, and for a second you forget who the two of you actually are. A cop and a criminal. Yet, somehow, madly in love. 

There truly were a million reasons why you couldn't work, and the biggest one was the fact that the two of you were polar opposites – yet, it's this kiss that makes you realise that you'd regret it for the rest of your life if you didn't take a chance on Ahn Keonho.

Screw false hope, or hesitation, or waiting on your immunity. You had Keonho right here in your arms, his lips pressed against yours, and you don't want to let him go.

When you pull away for air, Keonho’s eyes are practically gleaming, and he forgets that he’s in the middle of a very important mission right now. He cracks into a wide grin, and he can’t stop himself from kissing you again. “Sorry, just one more,” he giggles against your lips. 

“We’re on a case, Detective.” you mumble teasingly under your breath, but you’re more than happy to oblige. 

“Yeah, and this is what this case calls for,” he quips. “But you’re starting to sound an awful lot like me.” You roll your eyes before you lean in again, pressing your lips to his, and Keonho melts against you. 

Suddenly, catching the Jungs isn’t exactly your problem anymore. You’re far more focused on how Keonho presses his lips against yours with a little more insistence, and you can hear his heartbeat with his body flush against yours. 

When Keonho pulls away for air again, he’s looking at you with the most idiotic, lovesick grin on his lips. You want to kiss him again, and you’re about to, until someone interrupts the two of you.

“You guys done making out yet, or can we go and arrest them?” Martin hisses under his breath, his presence startling you. The two of you look at him, stunned that you’ve been caught – Keonho just knows that Martin isn’t going to let him live this down.

It doesn’t help that even Soobin is there too – that may be worse. His boss just caught him kissing the thief that he had chased for months. A very funny and beautiful thief that was his exact type. 

“I…” Keonho splutters, face flushed red and lips stained with your lipstick. “It was for the case.”

Martin looks at him, amused. “Yeah, whatever you say, buddy — we all know you’ve been waiting for this day since you met her,” he says wryly. “You joining us to bust them or what?” 

“Yeah, on it,” Keonho says, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “Stay here, yeah? It’s going to be fine.” He gently brushes your waist, knowing that you’re still worried about your family if the Jungs find out that you were the snitch. 

You nod, gulping. Keonho gives you a warm smile, and just before he heads in, you tug onto the sleeve of his suit. He looks at you, waiting for you to speak – but you lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“Thank you, Keonho.” you say softly, and Keonho beams.

“Of course,” he replies, practically fighting the urge to kiss you again. “I’ll be right back.” 

The mission is a complete success.

Martin and Keonho return to the precinct as heroes, and the two bask in the applause and cheers. Keonho, despite knowing that this may be one of the most successful takedowns of a crime family in recent years, isn’t really thinking about that right now.

It’s 8:30 in the morning, and you’re not at the precinct. He half-expected you to already be sitting in his chair with a smile on your lips, your foot tapping against the floor as you drink from his mug. 

His stomach twists with anxiety — you were supposed to be here this time. Soobin was going to tell you that your record was clear, and that you wouldn’t get any jail time. Keonho simply also just wanted to see you. 

He can’t get those kisses out of his mind. How could he? After he’d arrested Vivian, he returned to the same hallway, and there you were in your red dress, looking as beautiful as ever.

Then you’d kissed him again. And again. And again. Keonho was addicted to you at this point, and Martin had to practically pry him away from you so that the two of them could actually do their job. For the first time, Keonho wanted to slack off. He cared more about you.

“What’s on your mind?” Seonghyeon hums, as Keonho takes a sip of his coffee. He grumbles, huffing as he places his mug back down. Cookie’s face stares at him as he sighs, wondering where you could possibly be.

“(Name). Where is she?” Keonho asks. He’s completely shameless about his affections for you now — the entire precinct knew anyway. There was no point in hiding it. He was also going to ask you out today, but his plan hinged on you showing up this morning like you usually did. He fumbles with something in his pocket nervously, tapping his foot on the floor like you always did.

Seonghyeon seems to be looking at someone behind Keonho, and noticing that smug look on his colleague’s face, he turns around. He’s greeted by the sight of you, and you’ve got the brightest grin on your lips. Seonghyeon takes that as his cue to leave.

“Seems like you missed me,” you say, your voice teasing, hands in your pockets. Keonho lets out a sigh in relief, his heart flipping at the sight of you once again. “I’ve only been away from you for a few hours, Keonho. I didn’t know you were that clingy.”

Keonho suppresses a loud laugh at your words. God, he could kiss you right now. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Your voice is teasing when you notice how Keonho’s eyes flick towards your lips. “We’re at your workplace.” 

“I don’t mind dabbling in a bit of unprofessionalism,” Keonho jokes, and you tilt your head in amusement. “I thought you were well aware of that already.” 

“That’s not something to be proud of,” Soobin’s presence startles the both of you, but Keonho notices how he’s barely holding back an amused smile. “Anyways… Detective Ahn, (Name). Good morning.” 

“Morning, Captain,” you say to Soobin, before you turn your attention back to Keonho. “And don’t say that in front of your Captain, Detective Ahn,” your lips quirk up into a smile, before dropping low into a whisper. “It’s bad enough you’re in love with a criminal – don’t brag about not taking your job seriously too.” 

“Well, your record’s cleared now, I think.” Keonho replies, looking at Soobin expectantly. “So you’re technically a civilian. Unless you decide to go back to stealing jewellery, and then we’d have a problem.” 

“Yes, that’s precisely what I wanted to speak with you about,” Soobin nods, his tone authoritative and firm. “In aiding with the arrest of the Jung family, you’ve been offered immunity from all of your past crimes. You’re free to go.” 

You beam, smiling at Soobin. “Thank you,” you say. “Pleasure… doing business with you?” 

“Just stay out of trouble now,” Soobin tells you, a tight-lipped smile on his lips. But then he turns to Keonho, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “But I’m sure Detective Ahn will be keeping an eye on you.” 

“Why’d you say that, Captain?” Martin chimes in, a teasing lilt in his tone. Soobin’s eyes flick over to Martin before he shrugs, pursing his lips. 

“Yesterday night spoke for itself,” Soobin hums, referencing how practically everyone involved in the mission had seen you and Keonho kiss. Martin wouldn’t stop teasing him about it in the car, and Keonho had lightly whacked him in the chest afterwards. “Anyways… I’m sure I’ll see you around as well. Maybe at the precinct Christmas party. Friends, families… partners… are all invited.” Soobin makes sure to place extra emphasis on that word.

“Like Martin said… why’d you say that, Captain?” Seonghyeon’s the one who says those words now, and Soobin simply shakes his head, trying to stifle a laugh. He gives you a polite nod before he heads back into his office, and all the detectives are fighting the urge to comment on Soobin practically acknowledging Keonho’s massive crush on you. 

Keonho shoots a glare at everyone watching him expectantly – Martin, Juhoon, James and Seonghyeon – as if to tell them to shut up. “So…” he tells you, fidgeting with something in his pockets. “I guess that’s it. Case closed.” 

“I guess so,” you hum, sensing that something is just a little off with Keonho, almost as if he’s nervous about something. You can’t quite put your finger on it, though. “It was a fun ride.” 

Keonho accompanies you on the elevator ride back to the ground floor of the precinct. He’s eerily quiet on the way there, still fumbling with something in his pocket. You steal a glance at him, and he simply smiles softly at you. 

You’re waiting for him to ask you the question that’s been consuming your thoughts ever since last night. You don’t really think that you’ve gotten much sleep, in all honesty. All you thought about was how you’d crashed your lips onto his practically a thousand times, and he still hadn’t asked you out after it. 

He’d dropped you off at your doorstep, kissed you goodnight, and you had to try and hide your disappointment that he didn’t ask. You might’ve even punched your pillow in frustration the second you returned to your room, and Sadie had looked at you in concern. 

You’re looking at him, practically begging him to stop dragging his feet about it now – hell, even Soobin knew. 

“I have one more thing to ask of you – non case related,” Keonho says when the two of you are outside the precinct, and your eyes snap up to look at him. 

“Yeah?” you say, trying to not sound too eager. Please be it, you think. 

Keonho’s lips quirk up into a smile as he steps a little closer to you. You chew on the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling.

He stifles a giggle as he looks at you with a goofy, lopsided grin. He uses his free hand to rummage through the pocket of his leather jacket, handing you a folded sticky note. “Open it?”

You eye him suspiciously, folding open the sticky note. 

Go out with me? 

It’s scrawled in Keonho’s handwriting in pink ink, surrounded by five outrageously large doodles of hearts. It’s just like the one you left at the jewellery store on July 14th. Your lips crack open into a wide, giddy grin before you nod. 

You turn the sticky note around to show Keonho, and he grins sheepishly. “Seems like you’ve been learning from my tricks.” 

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles, stepping closer to you and snaking his arm around your waist. “Figured if you were going to steal jewels and my heart… I might as well steal something of yours too.” 

You stifle a laugh. “Are you falling for a criminal, Detective?” 

“Yeah, I am,” Keonho chuckles. “I've fallen for your smile, fallen for how you challenge me with your retorts, and as much as I hate to even admit it, I do love it when you steal my car keys. And also, you’re technically not a criminal, since your record’s clear – but yes, I've fallen head over heels for you.” 

“I’m glad you said the thing about the car keys,” you say, and you hold up his car keys in your hand, and Keonho’s eyes widen, gasping as he snatches them back from you. “I’ll keep doing it then.” 

“When did you–” 

“Just a few seconds ago,” you giggle. “Don’t arrest me.” 

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Keonho huffs, pouting as he shoves his keys back into his pockets. “You haven’t even told me how you feel yet.” You find the expression on his lips to be awfully adorable. 

“I've fallen for you too, Keonho,” you grin before pressing a kiss to his cheek. “But for what it’s worth, I already had a little crush on you after I did my internet sleuthing. But then I saw you in my apartment with Sadie, and just the way you care about me…  I thought I was crazy for falling for the detective that was hellbent on putting me in jail.” 

“You are crazy for that,” Keonho says teasingly. “But I guess I’m a little crazy too for falling for the perp I’ve been chasing for months."

"I guess you are. But then maybe it just means my flirting through the post-it notes worked well."

"I'd say a little too well." Keonho says, before he leans in and presses his lips to yours, closing the distance. You also find that it’s the perfect opportunity for you to steal his car keys again, but this time, Keonho’s a little bit faster. He grips onto your hand that’s reached out for the keys before he pulls away with a smirk on his lips. 

“Not letting you get away with this one,” he chuckles, shaking his head as you pout. “I’m getting used to your tricks.” You groan, muttering a ‘next time’ before you lean in to kiss him again.

As you melt against him in the kiss, you’re more than certain that Ahn Keonho’s heart is quite possibly the best thing you’ve ever stolen. 

© martinflms 2026.

By evening, his exhaustion was showing badly. He was noticeably worn out, dropping things from his hands, struggling to focus. When he sat with his laptop on his lap and you watched him take three times longer than usual to read a single email, squinting at the screen, you shut it with one firm motion and ordered him to bed.

It always started the same way – lying beside him, running your fingers through his hair while he tossed and turned endlessly, unable to find a comfortable position. At times like these, none of them felt right. All that mattered was that you were there.

Once his eyelids began to droop, you gently pulled him against you, guiding his head onto your chest just the way he liked it.

Listening to your heartbeat and feeling your arms wrapped tightly around him was always the fastest way to lull him to sleep. Soon enough, his quiet, steady breathing filled the room. Stroking his scalp gently, you drifted off not long after.

You were woken by a sharp shove, your eyes flying open in alarm.

Leon was lying slightly below you now, on his back – he’d accidentally hit you in his sleep, his arm now resting across your stomach. One glance was enough to tell you he was trapped in another nightmare.

His breathing was quick, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, muttering under his breath as his head tossed side to side. You sat up and placed a hand against his cheek, which only made him flinch and roll onto his side, turning his back to you.

You scooted closer, stroking him slowly from elbow to shoulder. When you noticed him calming slightly, you decided not to wake him, afraid he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again afterward.

You watched him for a while, catching half-formed words slipping from his lips every so often – “shit,” “don’t.” You wanted so badly to pull him free from that endless loop of memories. It hurt knowing he was reliving it all again, even when he was no longer physically trapped in that hell.

Eventually, exhaustion won over, and you drifted off again lightly, one arm around his waist, your hand clasped tightly with his.

The next time you woke was to exactly what you’d feared most.

The darkness and silence of your bedroom were shattered by a shout –

“Let fucking go!”

Your eyes snapped open as Leon shot upright in bed, breathing heavily, head hanging low, his hair completely hiding his face. Instinctively, you reached out to brush it aside.

“Leon, it’s okay, it’s me – ” you started, but the second your fingers brushed his chin, he jolted violently and recoiled, bracing himself on his hands.

He lifted his head, but he wasn’t looking at you – his gaze was vacant, panicked.

You reached for him again, trying to grab his hand, but before you could, Leon scrambled to the edge of the bed in a split second, arm reaching toward the nightstand.

“Where’s my fucking gun,” he muttered frantically.

“Leon,” you repeated, knowing your words didn’t matter right now – he just needed to hear your voice until he found his way back to you.

He tried to stand, but the hand he braced against the nightstand slipped, knocking the lamp down with it. Leon stumbled forward and crashed onto the floor.

“Fuck – are you okay?” You jumped out of bed and rushed to him, kneeling beside and grabbing his shoulder firmly.

For a moment, he stayed there, palms against the floor, before sitting up and leaning against the bed frame.

His eyes were glassy, lips parted, hair plastered messily to forehead. But this time, he was looking directly at you. His mouth moved, though no words came out.

You placed one hand on his chest – heart was pounding violently beneath your palm – and the other against his cheek, stroking gently.

“I’m here, Leon. We’re home. You’re safe.”

He exhaled shakily, lifting his hand to place it over yours, as if reassuring himself you were real. That he was real, too.

You gave him a moment to breathe before sliding your hand to the back of his head and pulling him gently against your chest, letting him bury himself into you.

He gave in without hesitation, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other stayed planted on the floor to keep from putting all his weight on you.

You rubbed slow circles into his back – not lightly. You wanted him to feel your touch, grounding and undeniable.

It didn’t escape your notice that his shirt was nearly soaked through. His body trembled every so often, still shaking off the remnants of the nightmare.

Eventually, he pulled away, hand running through his hair.

“Sorry...” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You simply squeezed his hand.

“We’ve talked about this. Don’t apologize for something you can’t control.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek deliberately.

He responded with a faint nod before standing, placing the fallen lamp back upright and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“I... uh, gonna take a shower real quick,” he muttered, heading for the door.

“Want help?”

“No, ’m fine. Get back to sleep, hun,” he replied far too quickly before disappearing from sight.

You knew that even if he wouldn’t admit it, he was upset with himself for waking you in the middle of the night. Typical Leon. Instead of worrying about the fact he couldn’t sleep, he only cared that you had been disturbed.

You had no intention of listening to him and simply going back to bed – but you decided to give him a moment to breathe.

You opened the window to air out the room, fixed the blankets, grabbed a glass of water and set it by the bed, picked out a fresh shirt for him, then headed to the bathroom.

You found Leon sitting in the shower stall, his back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, sitting motionless beneath the water.

“Hey,” you announced softly, not wanting to startle him.

Water streamed down his skin, hair soaked completely, and you couldn’t help but think he looked like a drenched puppy.

“It’s cold over there without you. Don’t make me wait too long,” you said with a shy smile, crouching beside him so you were eye level.

He turned toward you, thoughtful.

“Just a minute. Almost done.”

“You don’t look very busy, Leon...” you laughed, flicking his nose gently.

A small smile tugged at his lips as he shook his head.

“Right.”

“Up. Let the expert handle this,” you said casually, standing and waiting for him to follow.

You angled the showerhead aside so the water only hit him and not you, then grabbed a sponge and your favorite body wash.

“And lavender?” he asked, sounding mildly betrayed.

“You had plenty of time to pick something else. Your loss,” you replied, dabbing foam against his chin.

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

He stood still, watching your every movement as you carefully washed over his stomach and lower abdomen.

“Turn around, mister,” you ordered, and he obediently did as told while you began washing his back.

He was still tense – you could feel it in the way he held himself – so you took your time, making sure every touch was slow and deliberate.

You knew your touch meant everything to him. Though he’d never say it aloud, he’d probably only been waiting for you to come after him.

Only with you could he fully let his guard down. Only you were allowed to see this vulnerable side of him.

“There. Clean, pretty, and smelling nice. Out you go,” you declared, waiting with a towel.

Leon stepped out and took it from you, drying himself off.

The second he had his shirt and pajama pants on, he grabbed your hand and pulled you into him, hugging you tightly.

“Thanks. Needed that,” he admitted.

“I know,” you said smugly, puckering your lips expectantly for your reward.

Which didn’t come.

Instead, Leon kissed your forehead. Then your right cheek. Then your left – painfully slowly. Then your nose.

Only then did he glance down at your lips, now twisted into an exaggerated pout.

“So eager,” he chuckled quietly before finally pressing a sweet kiss to your mouth. His hands wandered across your back.

“Come to bed,” you whispered, your lips still close enough to feel his breath.

He simply nodded, pressing one last peck to the corner of your mouth before leading you back toward the bedroom, his hand in yours.

You climbed into bed and lay back, waiting for him.

Leon sat on the edge first, sneaking a glance your way before drinking the water you’d left for him.

Then he finally climbed over you, settling his body between your spread legs, his head once again resting on your chest.

You ran your fingers through his hair, gently brushing it aside – it was still damp. If he left it like that, he’d wake up looking like he’d been struck by lightning. That sight never stopped amusing you.

“You okay?” he asked after a moment. “Am I crushing you?”

There was uncertainty in his voice. Remnants of guilt.

“With you here? Never better,” you chuckled, tracing your finger slowly along his jaw.

“I hate when you see me like this,” he murmured, tilting his head up to meet your eyes.

Even in the dim light, you could tell he was searching your face for reassurance – that you weren’t upset with him.

How could you ever be?

“You hate when I see my beloved husband? Because that’s what this comes down to, Leon. I don’t care if you’re angry, sad, or scared. I want to be by your side through all of it. For better or worse. Isn’t that what I promised when I made my vows to you?”.

“I know,” he whispered. He knew he couldn’t argue with that. He knew you were right.

Leon lifted your hand from his cheek and pressed a long, gentle kiss to your wedding ring.

“Luckiest man on earth...” he mumbled.

“Well, aside from stealing your shirts, I really don’t have many flaws,” you teased, returning the gesture by kissing his ring the same way.

You lay there quietly for a while, basking in each other’s warmth before Leon asked shyly –

“Will you scratch my back?”

“Sure.”

Keeping one hand at the back of his neck, you slipped the other beneath his shirt and began scratching gently, moving slowly up and down his back.

He answered with a pleased hum.

Twice, you tried to stop, thinking he’d fallen asleep – but each time he let out a sleepy, protesting groan, so you obediently continued, fighting off your own exhaustion.

Eventually, sleep claimed you both.

You slept peacefully, tangled together, until the first rays of morning began slipping through the bedroom curtains.

There's a quiet kind of anticipation sitting in his chest, steady and familiar. You'll probably be asleep by now, or pretending to be, maybe upset because he didn't text you.

He can already picture it, the faint glow of the lamp, the way you'd shift when he walked in, like you always knew it was him even before he said a word. Maybe you'd mumble something about how late it is, voice thick with sleep, but your arms would still find him anyway. That part never changed, even if you were upset.

Leon exhales, long and slow. He's tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes in a single night, but the kind that lingers in the muscles, in the back of the mind, in the quiet spaces between thoughts. The mission hadn't been catastrophic, nothing that would make headlines or stick with him for years, but it had been enough. Enough to leave his shoulders tight, his reflexes still a fraction too sharp, his awareness just slightly out of step with the calm around him. It takes time for that to fade. It always does.

But you help. Just being near you does something he can't name. Like his body remembers how to stand down, how to unclench, how to exist without scanning every shadow for movement. It's a rare thing; he doesn't take it for granted.

The houses sit quietly, windows dark, the world settled into that deep, unmoving stillness that only comes in the middle of the night. No movement, no noise, just the low hum of distant electricity and the soft crunch of tires against pavement.

Leon slows as he pulls into the driveway, engine idling for a second longer than necessary. The engine clicks as it cools, metal ticking softly in the quiet. His gaze drifts to the front door. Something in his chest tightens. The porch lights are off. He knows you better than that. You'd never shut the porch lights off before he's home.

He lingers for a moment longer than necessary, fingers still resting on the wheel, that feeling brushing again at the edges of his awareness. It would be easy to dismiss it, to chalk it up to fatigue or the remnants of adrenaline that haven't quite settled yet. That happens sometimes. The body takes longer than the mind to understand that it's safe.

"Get a grip," he mutters under his breath, voice low and rough in the confined space of the car.

The night air is cool when he steps out, sharp enough to cut through the lingering haze in his head. It grounds him, brings everything back into focus as he shuts the door and starts toward the house. The walk is short and familiar, each step guided by routine more than by conscious thought. He's done this hundreds of times, returning from missions at odd hours, slipping back into a life that exists in the spaces between everything else.

His keys slide easily into the lock. The mechanism turns with a soft, familiar click. The door opens, and something shifts. It isn't immediate, not something loud or obvious. There's no sign of forced entry, no overturned furniture, no visible disruption waiting to greet him. At a glance, everything is as it should be. The entryway is intact, your shoes still near the door, your jacket hanging in its usual place. The house looks lived in, normal, untouched.

Leon pauses just inside the doorway, one hand still resting lightly against the door as it swings closed behind him. The silence presses in, thicker than it should be, carrying a weight he can't immediately explain. It isn't just quiet, it's still, the kind of stillness that feels unnatural in a space that's usually shared. His gaze moves automatically, sweeping the room with quiet precision. Every detail registers. Every shadow is accounted for. He doesn't think about it. He never has to.

"Hey," he calls out, his voice steady but low, carrying just enough to reach the next room. "I'm home."

The words settle into the silence and go unanswered. That, on its own, isn't unusual. You could be asleep, the house wrapped in the kind of quiet that comes with it. It wouldn't be the first time he's come back late enough to find you already resting, the world reduced to soft breathing and dim light.

Leon steps further inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seems louder than it should. The sound echoes faintly, swallowed quickly by the stillness. He shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair without looking, his attention already shifting past the entryway and into the rest of the house.

The living room is undisturbed. The couch sits as it always does, a blanket folded neatly over the arm, the pillows on either cushion are perfectly shaped in the corners, and the remote rests in its usual place on the table next to your book.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly as he moves past, his focus narrowing toward the kitchen. There's a light on. It's a small detail, the kind most people wouldn't think twice about, but it stands out to him. You don't leave lights on when you go to bed. You never have. It's a habit, one of those small, consistent things that become part of a person without them realizing it.

Leon slows as he approaches, his steps quieter now, more deliberate. "You still up?" he calls again, softer this time, the words carrying less distance.

No answer.

He crosses the threshold into the kitchen and stops. At first, it doesn't fully register. His gaze catches on the shape, the disruption in the otherwise clean lines of the room, but his mind takes a fraction of a second longer to process what he's seeing.

A mug lies shattered on the floor. The pieces are scattered unevenly, some larger, some reduced to sharp fragments that catch the light at odd angles. A dark stain spreads beneath them, long since dried, its edges faintly dull against the tile. It's been there for a while.

Leon doesn't move. His attention fixes on it, sharp and unblinking, his mind beginning to assemble the details whether he wants it to or not. The position. The spread. The way the pieces fell. You dropped the mug. You didn't set it down or knock it over. You dropped it. His mind is already working, already assembling the sequence of events in the only way it knows how, reconstructing motion from stillness, cause from aftermath.

His gaze shifts, slow and deliberate, tracing the subtle disruption in the room. The chair. The scuff along the floor. The angle of it was just slightly off, like it had been forced back rather than pulled. There's no sign of a prolonged struggle, nothing overturned, nothing chaotic. Whatever happened here was quick. His realization settles somewhere deep, heavy, and unwelcome.

Leon exhales quietly, the sound barely audible, and steps further into the kitchen. His boots avoid the larger shards without thought, his path instinctively careful as his attention moves beyond the obvious, searching for what doesn't immediately stand out. That's where the truth usually hides.

His fingers brush lightly along the edge of the counter as he passes, grounding, steadying, before his gaze catches on something near the sink. At first, it doesn't register as anything unusual. Just another piece of the kitchen, another detail in a space he knows well enough to navigate in the dark. But something about it holds his attention a second longer than it should.

Leon steps closer, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as the details come into focus. It's a casing. Metal, cylindrical, no larger than his thumb. Clean. Intact. Deliberately set, not dropped or discarded.

He doesn't touch it immediately. Instead, he studies it, his gaze narrowing as recognition begins to surface, slow and unwelcome. The design is subtle, almost unremarkable to anyone who doesn't know what they're looking for. No obvious markings, no bright identifiers.

But Leon knows better. He's seen something like this before. His hand moves then, precise and controlled, fingers closing around the casing with practiced care. It's lighter than it looks. His thumb turns it slightly, just enough for the faint etching along its side to catch the light. It's small. Nearly invisible unless you're looking for it. Not exactly Umbrella's symbol, but something newer, built from the debris.

Leon's jaw tightens, a muscle in his cheek flickering once as the last piece slides into place. This wasn't random. It wasn't a break-in. It wasn't chance, or opportunity, or someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was deliberate, targeted, and whoever did it wanted him to know.

The air in the room feels different now, heavier, like the walls themselves are closing in around the realization. Leon's grip on the casing tightens just slightly before he forces it to ease, control reasserting itself with practiced precision. Emotion can come later.

Right now, he needs clarity. He sets the casing back down exactly where he found it, careful not to disturb its position any more than necessary, and reaches for his phone. The motion is smooth and efficient, his mind already several steps ahead, pulling threads together and mapping out what comes next.

There are only a handful of people in the world who would leave something like this behind. Fewer still would dare to use it as a message.

The phone rings once. Twice.

Leon's gaze drifts back to the shattered mug on the floor, to the silence that's settled into every corner of the house, and for a brief moment, something flickers beneath the surface. It's cold and dangerous, leaving no room for panic.

The line clicks, and he wastes no time. "I need everything you have on Victor Gideon."

THREE HOURS EARLIER

The quiet in the house isn't unsettling. It settles around you like something familiar, something earned after a long day, the kind of silence that doesn't press too heavily but instead exists in soft layers. The lamp in the living room casts a warm, golden glow that pools gently over the couch and the edges of the coffee table, leaving the rest of the house in a comfortable dimness. Outside, the night has already taken hold, the world reduced to distant sounds that barely reach you, a passing car, the faint whisper of wind brushing against the windows, nothing that demands your attention.

You sit curled into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked beneath you, a book open in your hands. The pages shift slightly under your fingers as you read, though your focus drifts more than it settles. Your eyes move across the lines, but the words don't always stay with you, slipping away as your thoughts circle back to the same place they've been returning to all evening. You glance at the clock without fully meaning to, then back down at the page, then toward the door, a quiet, unconscious pattern that repeats itself before you even realize you're doing it.

Sometimes he doesn't have a chance to tell you he's going to be late. You knew that. You told yourself you wouldn't wait up this time. But here you are.

A small breath leaves you, something softer than a sigh, as you tilt your head back against the couch cushion. The book dips slightly in your hands, your thumb still marking your place even as your attention drifts completely away from it. It's not worry that keeps you awake, not exactly. You're used to this part of his life, the late nights, the unpredictability, the quiet spaces between when he leaves and when he comes back. It doesn't scare you the way it might have once. Not anymore. But that doesn't mean you don't feel it.

You sit up a little straighter after a moment, closing the book carefully and setting it aside on the table. The room feels just a touch too quiet now, the kind of quiet that makes you aware of your own breathing, your own movement, the small sounds that would normally go unnoticed. Your gaze drifts again, this time lingering on the front door, as if you could will it to open just by watching it long enough.

You push yourself up from the couch instead, the fabric shifting softly beneath you as your feet meet the cool floor. You fix the pillow in the corner of the couch, pushing it back and fluffing it up. The movement feels natural, easy, like slipping into a routine you didn't realize you'd already decided on. If you're going to stay up, you might as well make it count for something.

The kitchen light clicks on with a soft snap, brightening the space in an instant. The contrast from the dim living room is enough to pull you fully into the present, your surroundings sharpening into focus as you move further in. Everything is where it should be. Clean counters. Familiar shapes. The quiet hum of appliances that fill the silence just enough to keep it from feeling empty.

The coffee maker hums to life as you set it going, the low, steady sound filling the room in a way that makes it feel less still. You lean lightly against the counter while you wait, arms folding loosely as your gaze drifts again, unfocused now, pulled back into thought.

You wonder how the mission went. Whether it was one of the easier ones or something that left its mark in quieter ways. Leon never comes back unchanged, not really. Even on the good days, there's always something lingering beneath the surface, something in the way he holds himself, the way his eyes settle on things just a second longer than they should. You've learned to read those details over time, to understand them without needing him to explain.

Your expression softens without you realizing it. You'll see it the moment he walks through the door. You always do. And you'll meet him there, the way you always do. Sometimes with quiet, sometimes with warmth, sometimes with both. It's never something you plan out, never something you rehearse. It just happens, instinctively, the same way breathing does.

The coffee maker clicks softly as it finishes, the sound pulling you gently back into the present. You reach for the mug, wrapping your hands around it as the heat seeps into your skin, steady and grounding. For a moment, you just stand there, letting the warmth settle into your palms, letting the quiet exist around you again.

Your gaze drifts toward the doorway, toward the darker stretch of the hallway beyond it, and a faint smile touches your lips, subtle enough that you barely notice it. "C'mon," you murmur under your breath, your voice soft in the stillness. "You're taking too long."

You hear a soft tick against the window, like maybe a branch in the wind tapping against the glass. You look over, a weird feeling pooling in your stomach. At first, it's just a feeling, a subtle shift that brushes against your awareness without fully forming into thought.

You straighten a little, your fingers tightening just slightly around the mug as your gaze moves across the kitchen. Everything looks the same. Nothing has changed. The counters are clean. The light is steady. The space is exactly as you left it. And yet, the feeling lingers.

You listen more closely this time, your attention sharpening as you try to pinpoint what caused it. For a moment, there's nothing. Just the quiet hum of the house, the faint buzz of electricity, the soft settling of something far away.

Another sound. It's faint. Quick. Easy to miss if you weren't already paying attention.

Your head turns toward it immediately, your brows knitting slightly as your pulse gives a small, unexpected jump. "Leon?" you call, the name leaving you instinctively, hope threading through it before you can stop it.

The silence that answers is immediate.

Your grip tightens around the mug, the heat suddenly too noticeable, too sharp against your skin as your awareness shifts, sharpening into something more alert. "Hello?" you try again, quieter now, your voice carrying less distance, less certainty.

No response. But the silence has changed. It isn't empty anymore. It feels occupied. Your breath slows, shallow without you meaning it to be, as your eyes move carefully across the room, tracking shadows, edges, the negative space between things. Your body has gone still, instinct taking over in a way your mind hasn't quite caught up with yet.

There's a presence here. You can't see it. But you can feel it. A subtle awareness presses at the back of your neck, a quiet, unmistakable certainty that settles in before you can rationalize it away. You're not alone.

The realization doesn't come all at once. It unfolds slowly, like something being revealed piece by piece, each second stretching just long enough to let it sink deeper. Your heart picks up, not racing yet, but faster, heavier, each beat more noticeable than the last.

You take a small step back without thinking, your fingers brushing against the edge of the counter as if anchoring yourself to something solid. The kitchen suddenly feels too open, too exposed, every angle unfamiliar in a way it never has before.

There's a shift behind you, closer this time, unmistakable. Your breath catches as you start to turn, instinct finally overriding hesitation. But you don't get to finish turning.

The movement behind you is faster than your body can react to, faster than your mind can process, a sudden shift in the air that collapses the space between awareness and action into nothing. One second you're standing there, breath caught somewhere between instinct and realization, and the next there's a hand on you, firm and unyielding.

It clamps around your arm and wrenches you backward with a force that steals the ground out from under your feet. The world tilts sharply, your balance gone before you can even try to recover it. The counter digs briefly into your hip as you're pulled away from it, your body twisting on instinct, a startled breath tearing from your chest before you can stop it.

The mug slips from your hand. You don't feel it leave your fingers so much as realize it's gone, the warmth vanishing in an instant as gravity takes over. There's a split second where it hangs in the air, suspended between what was and what's about to happen.

Then it shatters. The sound is sharp. Violent in the quiet. Ceramic breaking against tile in a way that feels far too loud, far too final, the pieces scattering outward in a jagged arc as dark liquid splashes and spreads across the floor. It happens in the background of everything else, but it sticks, imprinting itself in your mind even as everything around you spirals out of control.

Your hands come up instinctively, grabbing at the arm holding you, fingers digging in as you try to twist free, your breath coming faster now, sharper. "Hey!" The word breaks out of you, half-formed, more reflex than intention, your voice catching as your body fights to regain control.

It doesn't work. The grip on you tightens, not frantic, not rushed, but controlled in a way that's somehow worse. Whoever is behind you knows exactly what they're doing. There's no hesitation in the movement, no wasted motion, just precision.

Your shoulder is forced back, your balance shifting again as your heel catches against the tile. For a brief, disorienting second, your gaze catches on the floor, on the shattered remains of the mug, on the dark stain already beginning to spread outward between the pieces.

Your heart is pounding harder now, the rhythm uneven, loud in your ears as adrenaline begins to surge, your thoughts scrambling to catch up with what's happening. You're not confused anymore. This is real, and this is happening to you.

You try again to pull free, your other hand coming up, reaching back, searching for anything you can grab onto, anything you can use. Your fingers brush fabric, then something harder beneath it, but before you can react, before you can even see, something presses against your face.

A cloth, rough and sudden. Your breath catches as the smell hits you, sharp and chemical, unfamiliar and immediately wrong. You jerk back on instinct, your body reacting before your mind can fully understand it, but the hold on you doesn't falter; it tightens.

Your lungs burn as you try not to breathe it in, your head turning sharply to the side, your movements desperate now, less controlled. Your hands come up again, grabbing, pushing, nails digging into anything they can find as panic begins to break through the edges of your control.

"Stop—" The word comes out strained, uneven, your voice already weakening as the world tilts again, the edges of your vision beginning to blur.

The room starts to slip, the sharp lines of the kitchen softening, distorting at the edges as your strength begins to falter. Your movements slow, not by choice, but because your body is betraying you, your limbs growing heavier with each passing second.

Your gaze drops again, unfocused now, catching one last glimpse of the floor. The shattered mug. The spreading stain. A moment frozen in place, already turning into something that will be left behind.

Your chest tightens as you try to pull in one more clean breath, but it doesn't come the way it should. Everything feels distant, like you're being pulled away from it piece by piece, your awareness slipping no matter how hard you fight to hold onto it.

The last thing you feel is the grip on you shifting, steady, controlled, as your body gives in. The last thing you hear is the quiet sound of movement in the house that was never empty, and then nothing.

Consciousness doesn't return in a clean, merciful line. It comes apart and back together in fragments, thin slivers of awareness pushing through a heavy, resistant fog that clings to you no matter how hard your body tries to surface. At first, there's no sense of where you are, no clear thought to anchor to, only sensation. A dull, distant awareness of your own weight presses against something solid beneath you, your limbs feeling slow and unresponsive, as though they belong to someone else entirely. There's a strange disconnect between intention and movement, like the signal is there but the response is delayed, muffled.

Sound finds you next, seeping in gradually rather than arriving all at once. A low, mechanical hum settles into your awareness, steady and unwavering, its presence so constant it almost feels like part of you rather than something external. It doesn't fluctuate or shift in tone. It simply exists, filling the silence in a way that makes the space feel controlled, contained. Beneath it, there's something softer, less predictable, a faint, irregular noise that might be water or machinery or something else entirely. It's too distant to identify, but close enough to remind you that you're not in a place meant for comfort.

Your breathing deepens unevenly as your body begins to catch up, each inhale dragging in air that feels heavier than it should, as though it carries a weight your lungs don't quite know how to process. Your chest rises a little too quickly, then steadies, then falters again as your system struggles to find a rhythm that feels natural.

When your eyes finally open, the light doesn't welcome you. It hits too harshly at first, blurring your vision into indistinct shapes and washed-out edges that refuse to settle into anything recognizable. You blink slowly, your lashes dragging as if even that small movement requires more effort than it should. The second attempt is steadier, your vision beginning to sharpen in reluctant increments until the ceiling above you comes into focus.

It's all wrong. That realization settles almost immediately, cutting clean through the haze with a clarity that feels almost jarring. The surface above you is smooth and industrial, broken only by faint seams that run in measured lines across it. A light fixture is embedded neatly overhead, its glow sterile and uninviting, casting illumination that feels functional rather than warm. There is no softness to it, no variation. It simply exists to reveal.

Your stomach tightens. Memory doesn't return gently. It forces its way in, sharp and fragmented, each piece colliding with the next in a way that leaves no room for denial. The kitchen. The quiet. The shift in the air. The hand. The smell. The mug.

Your breath catches, the reaction immediate and involuntary as your body attempts to respond before your mind can fully process. You try to sit up, the movement sudden, instinctive, driven by a need to orient yourself, to do something. The world tilts in response, your equilibrium failing you for a split second as your muscles protest the motion. A wave of dizziness pulls at the edges of your vision, the room threatening to slip out of focus again as your body struggles to cooperate.

Something stops you. The resistance is immediate, firm enough to halt your movement without jerking you back. It takes a second for your mind to catch up, for your gaze to drop and register what your body has already begun to understand.

Your wrists are bound. The realization lands heavy and cold, your pulse spiking in response as your hands instinctively pull against the restraint. The movement is quick, uncoordinated, driven more by reflex than thought, but the result is immediate and unchanging. There's no give, they're tight, and hold you down exactly like they're supposed to.

You slow, not because you want to, but because you have to, your breathing sharpening as you force yourself to look more closely. The material is unfamiliar, smooth against your skin but unyielding beneath your grip. It is not rope, not anything improvised or hastily applied. It feels intentional and manufactured. Meant to hold without question.

Your fingers flex against it again, more deliberately this time, searching for a shift, for anything, any weakness in its structure. There are none.

A slow breath moves through you, deeper this time, though it still catches slightly at the end as your chest tightens. Panic presses at the edges of your awareness, sharp and insistent, but it doesn't overtake you. Not yet anyway. You hold it there, contained, forcing yourself to focus on what you can control instead of what you can't.

The room is small, but not claustrophobic. Contained in a way that feels deliberate rather than accidental. The walls match the ceiling, the same sterile material, seamless and uninterrupted. There are no windows, no variation in texture or color, nothing to suggest time or place. The space feels isolated, cut off from anything beyond it.

Across from you, a door is set into the wall. It's solid, featureless from your side, with no visible handle or mechanism to open it. It blends almost too well into its surroundings, as though it is meant to go unnoticed until it becomes relevant.

Your shoulders tense slightly as your gaze drops again, taking in your position more carefully now. Your arms are secured in front of you rather than behind, which feels intentional in a way you don't like. It allows for movement, but not freedom. It gives the illusion of control while ensuring you have none.

A slow, measured breath fills your lungs as you force your body to settle, your thoughts beginning to align despite the lingering fog. You swallow, your throat dry, the motion grounding in its simplicity.

"Think..." you whisper, barely audible.

You piece it together as best you can, working backward from what you know. You were at home. You were waiting. You were safe until you weren't. The shift from one to the other had been fast. Too fast to fully process, too controlled to have been random. Whoever took you knew what they were doing. There had been no hesitation and no fumbling.

Your chest tightens again, thinking of Leon. The thought of him lands heavier than anything else, threading through the fear and the confusion with a sharp, undeniable weight. He wasn't there. He didn't see it happen. He doesn't know where you are. But one thing is certain, he'll know something is wrong. He'll know it the second he sees the porch lights off and the shattered mug.

Your eyes close briefly, not in defeat, but in focus, as you draw in another slow breath. He'll see it and he'll understand. And when he does he'll come looking.

The thought isn't really hopeful in the way you might expect. It's not fragile or uncertain either. It's something you hold onto without question. He will come.

Your eyes open again, sharper now, your awareness settling into something more controlled, more deliberate. Your gaze moves across the room once more, but this time with purpose, taking in every detail, every possible variable: the walls, the door, the light, the sound.

You're not safe. But you're not helpless. And whoever brought you here? They made one simple mistake, and that was taking you away from Leon.

The kitchen doesn't change. Even as Leon steps back, even as he forces himself to take in the full space again from a distance, nothing shifts, nothing rearranges itself into something easier to accept. The shattered ceramic still litters the floor in the same uneven arc, the dried coffee staining the tile in a way that speaks too clearly of time passed. The chair remains slightly out of place, the scuff mark near its leg catching the light just enough to make it impossible to ignore.

Everything is exactly as it was. And that's the problem. Leon's gaze moves slowly, deliberately, retracing the scene with sharper focus now that the initial shock has burned away into something colder. He doesn't rush. He never does. Every detail matters, and he knows better than to miss something because he moved too fast. His eyes track the path of disruption, from the counter to the floor, from the chair to the empty space where you should be.

He reconstructs it without thinking.

You were standing here. The mug in your hand. The machine still warm, recently used. You hadn't been waiting long. Maybe you were thinking about him, maybe you were distracted, maybe you didn't hear the first movement behind you. That's when the contact must have happened.

The mug drops. Shatters. You don't get the chance to react properly before you're already being restrained. There's no sign of prolonged struggle, which means whoever took you didn't need one. They knew exactly how to handle it. How to end it before it could escalate. All signs point to Victor.

Leon's jaw tightens slightly, the muscle flickering once as the image settles into place.

Staying won't give him anything new.

Finding you will.

He moves with purpose now, the transition so clean it almost feels like a switch has been flipped somewhere beneath the surface. The part of him that came home, the part that allowed himself to think about warmth, about rest, about you waiting on the couch, is gone. What's left is sharper, focused. Built for this, but wishing it wasn't you he was looking for.

"I need everything you have on Victor Gideon." Leon says, his tone even, stripped of anything unnecessary. There's no hesitation in it, no lead-in, no explanation offered before the request.

"That's not a name you drop casually," Hunnigan replies, quietly. "What happened?"

Leon steps out of the kitchen as he speaks, his gaze sweeping once through the living room, not searching anymore, just confirming. The space feels wrong now in a way that can't be fixed, the absence too loud to ignore.

"She's gone."

Hunnigan doesn't respond right away. He can hear it in the silence, the shift from listening to processing, the moment where this stops being a call and becomes a situation.

"When?" she asks.

"Within the last few hours," Leon answers, already moving toward the door. His free hand reaches for his jacket without looking, pulling it back on in one smooth motion. "It was a surprise attack."

"You're sure it's him."

Again, not a question.

Leon's expression doesn't change, but something in his posture tightens, something subtle that only shows if you know where to look. "I'm sure."

There's the faint sound of keys on the other end, fast and efficient, the rhythm of someone digging through things that aren't meant to be found easily. Leon steps outside as she works, the cool air hitting him again, sharper now, more grounding. The quiet of the neighborhood hasn't changed, but it feels different to him now, like a layer has been stripped back.

"Gideon's been buried for years," Hunnigan says after a moment, her voice threading through the line with a tighter edge. "Everything tied to Project Elpis was wiped or sealed. Official channels won't give us much."

"I don't need official," Leon replies, already moving toward his car. His steps are quick but controlled, each one placed with intent. "I need what slipped through."

"You'll have it," she says. There's no hesitation there, no pushback. She knows how this goes. "Give me a few minutes. I'll start with old Umbrella splinter data and see what overlaps."

Leon opens the car door but doesn't get in right away. His hand rests briefly against the frame, his gaze lifting toward the dark stretch of road ahead, his mind already moving beyond this moment, beyond this place.

"Leon," Hunnigan adds, her tone shifting just slightly. Not softer, but more deliberate. "If Gideon's involved, this isn't just leverage. He doesn't operate like that."

Leon's grip tightens almost imperceptibly against the door. "I know." Which means this isn't just about taking you. It's about using you.

The thought settles in without resistance, cold and immediate, but it doesn't derail him. It sharpens him further, narrows his focus into something that doesn't leave room for hesitation.

"I'll send you anything I find," Hunnigan continues. "Locations, contacts, even rumors. But Leon... don't disappear on me."

He exhales quietly, the sound barely audible over the line, more a release of breath than anything else. "I won't."

The line goes silent, an understanding quiet from Hunnigan as she works on her end. She'll dig, pull threads, and find what she can. Leon doesn't wait for it to be enough. He gets into the car, the engine turning over with a low, steady sound that cuts clean through the stillness. His hands settle on the wheel, familiar, steady, but there's a difference now in the way he holds it, a tension that wasn't there before, something coiled beneath the surface.

The car pulls out of the driveway, tires rolling over pavement with quiet intent as the house disappears behind him, shrinking into the dark like something already past. Somewhere out there, you're still breathing, and Leon is going to make sure it stays that way.

Time doesn't move the way it should in a place like this. It stretches, folds in on itself, becomes something difficult to measure without anything familiar to anchor it. The steady hum in the room never changes, never rises or falls, and without windows or shifting light, there is no natural rhythm to follow. You're left with your own breathing, your own thoughts, the subtle shifts in your body as the only markers that time is passing at all.

You've tried to count it. At first, it felt like something you could control, something to hold onto. Seconds stacking into minutes, minutes into something longer, a quiet attempt to impose order onto a place that clearly wasn't designed to have any. But the effort didn't last. Your focus slipped, your thoughts pulled elsewhere, and somewhere along the way, the numbers stopped meaning anything.

Now, you rely on smaller things. The way the air feels against your skin. The slight stiffness settling into your shoulders. The faint dryness in your throat that comes and goes in waves. They're not precise, but they're real, and right now that's enough.

You shift slightly where you sit, the movement careful, deliberate, testing the limits of what the restraints allow without drawing unnecessary strain. They haven't loosened. Not even slightly. Whatever they're made of, whatever mechanism holds them in place, it was designed with intention, with the expectation that resistance would come.

Your gaze drifts across the room again, slower now, more practiced. The walls haven't changed. The door remains closed, silent, offering nothing in the way of clues. There are no seams visible from this side, no indication of how or when it might open. The light overhead continues its steady, sterile glow, unchanging, indifferent.

It would be easy to let the stillness get to you. Easy to let your thoughts spiral, to fill the silence with fear, with everything you don't know, everything you can't control. The uncertainty presses at the edges, persistent, waiting for an opening.

Leon is still on your mind. But the thoughts come quieter than before. You picture him the way you last saw him, not physically, but in memory, in the small details that always stick. The way he moves when he's tired but trying not to show it. The way his voice softens just slightly when he's talking to you, even if he doesn't realize it. Surely he's on his way by now. He has to be looking for you already.

A sound breaks through your thoughts. It's subtle, like a door somewhere else in the building closing. Your body stills instinctively, your breathing slowing as your focus sharpens, every sense narrowing toward the source.

It's nearly silent, the kind of movement designed not to draw attention, but you feel it more than you hear it. A faint change in pressure, a slight adjustment in the air as the seam of the door separates just enough to allow it to open.

The light in the hallway beyond is dimmer, cooler, casting a muted contrast against the sterile brightness of the room. A figure steps through it, their movement unhurried and controlled, immediately setting the tone of the space. He's in no rush. And he probably doesn't need to be.

The door closes behind him with the same quiet precision, sealing the room again as if it had never opened at all. Your gaze lifts to meet him fully now, your posture tightening despite your effort to remain composed. Every instinct in your body sharpens at once, awareness spiking as you take him in.

There's nothing subtle about the wrongness of him. He stands just within the light, and it reveals too much all at once. His frame is tall but uneven in a way that isn't immediately obvious until you look closer, his posture held upright with deliberate control rather than natural ease. The long coat he wears hangs heavily from his shoulders, patterned and textured in a way that feels almost ornamental at a distance, but up close only adds to the sense that everything about him has been chosen with intention rather than comfort.

His skin is the first thing that truly settles in. It's pale, but not in any natural sense of the word. The color sits wrong, stretched thin across his face and neck with a texture that looks almost brittle, as if it might crack under pressure. Faint, branching lines run beneath the surface, subtle but visible, like fractures that were never meant to heal properly. They trace along his jaw, disappear beneath the collar of his coat, and reappear again near his mouth, where they pull slightly when he speaks, distorting the movement just enough to make it feel off.

Your focus shifts higher to his eyes. Or what's been done to them. Metal curves along his temple and cheek, anchoring multiple lenses over one eye, each one different in size, each catching the light in a way that makes it impossible to tell where he's actually looking. One lens glows faintly, a dull, artificial point of red that remains steady even as he moves, unblinking, unchanging.

"You're awake," he says finally.

Your jaw tightens slightly, but you don't respond immediately. You hold his gaze instead, steady despite the tension coiling beneath your ribs, refusing to give him anything more than what he can already see.

He takes a step closer. Then another. Each one is deliberate, controlled, the distance between you closing in a way that feels calculated rather than threatening. He stops just outside your reach, his attention never leaving you, his expression unchanged.

"Good," he continues, as if confirming something to himself rather than speaking to you directly. "That makes this easier."

Your fingers curl slightly against the restraint, the motion subtle, controlled, as your mind begins to work again, piecing together what you can from what little you've been given.

"Where am I?" you ask, your voice steady despite the dryness in your throat.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, his gaze shifts briefly, taking in your position, the restraints, the room, as if reviewing something already familiar. When his attention returns to you, there's something faintly different in it now. Interest.

"That's not the question you should be asking," he replies. A small pause follows, just long enough to make the silence feel intentional. "You should be asking why."

Your stomach tightens, but your expression doesn't change. You don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction, even as the weight of his words settles in. Because he's right. You know as well as he does that this was planned.

His head tilts slightly, studying you in a way that feels less like observation and more like evaluation, as though he's measuring something you can't see.

"Tell me," he says, his tone still calm, still clinical. "How long do you think it will take him to find you?"

Your breath steadies, your shoulders squaring just slightly as you meet his gaze without hesitation.

"...Not long," you answer.

For the first time, something shifts in his expression. It isn't a smile, but it's damn close.

"Good," he says quietly. "Maybe he will enjoy this show."

Even as every instinct in your body urges you to, even as the weight of his attention presses heavier with each passing second, you hold your gaze steady. There's something instinctive about it, something that refuses to give him more than he already has. If he's studying you, measuring you, the least you can do is make sure what he sees isn't fear.

His head tilts slightly, the movement small, almost thoughtful, as though he's adjusting his perspective rather than reacting to anything you've done. The lenses over his eye catch the light as he shifts, reflecting it in fractured pieces that make it impossible to track where his focus truly settles.

"Confidence," he says quietly, more to himself than to you. "Interesting."

The word doesn't sound like praise. It sounds like a note he says out loud.

Your fingers tighten slightly against the restraint, the motion subtle, controlled, your body grounding itself in something physical as your mind continues to work. Every word he says matters. Every reaction, every pause. You don't know what he's looking for yet, but you can feel the structure of it, the way this interaction isn't random. It's being observed.

"People tend to default to fear in unfamiliar environments," he continues, his tone calm, measured in a way that never rises or falls enough to offer you anything to read. "It's efficient. Predictable. Useful, in its own way."

He takes another step closer, closing what little distance remains between you. Not enough to invade your space completely, but enough that you can see the fine details more clearly now, the unnatural texture of his skin, the faint pull of those fractured lines when he speaks, the stillness of him that never quite resolves into something human.

"You didn't," he adds.

You don't respond immediately. Your throat is still dry, your body still adjusting, but your mind is sharper now than it was when you first woke up. You weigh your words before you let them go, not out of fear, but out of instinct.

"I don't know what you want yet," you say finally, your voice steady despite the tension coiled beneath it. "Seems like a waste to panic before I do."

There's a pause. It stretches just long enough to feel intentional, to make you aware of the silence again, of the hum threading through it, of the way his attention sharpens just slightly in response.

"Efficiency through restraint," he murmurs, almost thoughtfully. "You're already adapting."

Your chest tightens slightly at that, the implication settling in before you can stop it. This isn't just a conversation. It never was. Every response, every choice you make, is feeding into something larger, something you still can't fully see.

"You're trying to understand the situation before reacting to it," he says. "That's... uncommon, given the circumstances." Another small pause. "Encouraging."

Your jaw tightens, but you don't let it show beyond that. You don't give him the reaction he might be looking for, even as your mind starts connecting pieces you didn't want to consider.

Encouraging. Not for you. For him.

"For what?" you ask, the question leaving you before you can stop it, quieter than before but no less steady.

This time, he doesn't answer immediately. His gaze shifts, not away from you, but through you, as if he's considering how much to say, how much to reveal. When his focus settles again, there's that same faint edge of interest behind it, something clinical and precise.

"You're not here by accident," he says. "Of course, I'm sure you've noticed that already."

Your breath slows, just slightly, your body stilling in a way that has nothing to do with the restraints. He knows you knew that already. You felt it the moment you woke up, the moment everything about this place told you it had been planned.

"That still doesn't explain why." Another pause, longer this time.

He studies you in silence, the kind that feels less like hesitation and more like calibration, as though he's deciding how to frame something in a way that serves his purpose best. When he speaks again, his voice hasn't changed, but the weight behind it has.

"Your physiology is unusual," he says, the words chosen carefully, deliberately. "Your system doesn't respond the way it should. Exposure markers without degradation. Cellular stress without collapse. You maintain equilibrium where others don't."

Your stomach drops. You don't interrupt him, but your mind begins to run wild.

"You've been exposed before," he continues, his voice lowering just enough to feel more precise, more deliberate. "Not directly. Not in a controlled environment. But enough to register. Enough for your body to adapt."

"That's why you were viable," he continues, stepping just slightly closer again, close enough now that there's no distance left to soften the details of him. "Your body doesn't reject. It regulates. That makes you exceptionally useful."

"And Leon?" you ask before you can stop yourself, the question slipping through the cracks of your control, quieter now, edged with something you don't fully let surface.

His gaze sharpens just slightly. The reaction is immediate, though subtle, the kind you would miss if you weren't already watching for it. For the first time since he entered the room, his focus shifts in a way that feels more deliberate, more precise.

"Ah," he says softly. He's not surprised. "So that's where your thoughts go."

Your chest tightens, but you don't look away. You won't give him that. He watches you for another moment, that same quiet assessment settling back into place before he continues.

"He is not the reason you're here," he says. "He is the reason this works."

The distinction is small, but it changes everything. Your breath catches, just slightly, the meaning threading through his words before you can fully stop it. This isn't about leverage. Not in the way you expected. Not in the way it should be. This is something else.

"You're measuring him," you say, the realization forming as you speak it, your voice quieter now, more focused. "Through me."

That almost-smile returns faintly.

"Not just him," he replies. "Both of you."

The room feels smaller now. Tighter, like the walls have shifted inward without actually moving.

"You are the constant," he continues, his tone returning to that same calm, clinical cadence. "He is the variable. Time, distance, stress. All measurable. All predictable to a degree."

Another pause.

"But what interests me," he adds, his gaze settling fully on you again, "is where those predictions fail."

The hum in the room seems louder now, but maybe you're just more aware of it, more aware of everything. Whatever this is, it didn't start when you woke up. It started without your knowledge, without Leon's knowledge, long before this kidnapping.

The road stretches forward in a long, unbroken line, disappearing into darkness that feels thicker the further it goes. The headlights carve a narrow path through it, illuminating just enough of what's ahead to keep moving, but never enough to feel certain about what comes next. It's the kind of drive Leon has made countless times before, late hours, empty roads, the quiet space between one mission and the next. Usually, it gives him time to think, to let the tension settle, to put distance between what happened and what comes after.

Tonight, though, it does none of that.

The engine hums steadily beneath his hands, the vibration traveling up through the steering wheel and settling into his arms, a constant, grounding presence that does little to ease the pressure building in his chest. His grip is firm, controlled, but tighter than it needs to be, the leather faintly creaking under his fingers before he forces it to relax again. His gaze stays locked on the road ahead, sharp and unwavering, but his mind isn't there.

It keeps going back to the house, the silence, the space you were supposed to be when he came through the door. He's already reconstructed it more times than he can count, every detail, every shift, every second leading up to the moment you were taken. Not because he doubts what happened, but because that's how he works. He breaks things down until there's nothing left to question, nothing left to guess.

But there's still something missing. A gap he can't quite fill yet. And until he does, everything feels slightly out of reach.

His phone cuts through the silence. The sound is sharp against the steady hum of the engine, immediate and unwelcome, and Leon answers it without hesitation, his thumb moving across the screen before the second ring can finish.

"Talk to me."

On the other end, Hunnigan wastes no time. There's a tightness in her voice that wasn't there before, something controlled but unmistakable, the kind of tone she uses when what she's about to say matters more than the way she says it.

"I found something," she says. "But you're not going to like it."

Leon's expression doesn't change, but his attention sharpens, narrowing further as his grip adjusts slightly on the wheel. "Start talking."

There's a faint pause, the quiet sound of keys in the background as she pulls something up, cross-checking even as she speaks.

"I went back through what's left of the Elpis records," she says. "Most of it's been scrubbed, but there are fragments, overlapping data sets that didn't get fully erased. Personnel logs, incident reports, civilian exposure lists."

Leon's jaw tightens just slightly. "Get to it."

"Your wife's name is in one of the files."

Leon doesn't respond immediately. His grip tightens without permission, the leather pressing back against his palm before he forces his hand to ease again.

"That's not possible," he says finally, his voice low and even, but there's something under it now. Not disbelief.

"It shouldn't be," Hunnigan replies. "But it is."

The silence that follows stretches just long enough to make it feel heavier than it should.

"There was an incident," she continues. "Years ago. Small-scale containment breach tied to an off-site Elpis facility. It never went public. No major outbreak, no media coverage. It was contained quickly and buried even faster."

Leon's eyes flick briefly to the side, catching his own reflection in the mirror for a fraction of a second before returning to the road. His focus splits, part of him still driving, the rest already moving through what she's saying, fitting it into something that makes sense.

"Location?" he says.

"I'm sending it," she replies. "But listen first."

He doesn't interrupt again.

"There was a civilian exposure list," she says. "People in proximity to the breach. Most of them showed standard symptoms. Some didn't survive. A handful were flagged for follow-up monitoring and she was on that list."

The confirmation settles into him slowly, like something sinking deeper the longer it stays there. It doesn't hit all at once. It builds, piece by piece, until there's no space left to ignore it.

"She never told me," Leon says.

The words are quiet, more to himself than to her, but they carry weight all the same.

Hunnigan exhales softly on the other end. "She might not have known the full extent of it," she says. "Or it was downplayed. Low-risk exposure, no visible symptoms, something they monitor quietly and then classify out of relevance."

Leon's jaw shifts, tension settling in his shoulders as he processes that. It doesn't sit right. None of it does. "Define monitored."

"Periodic evaluations," Hunnigan answers. "Bloodwork, cellular scans, long-term observation. Nothing invasive on record, but enough to track irregularities."

Irregularities.

"What kind?" Leon asks.

There's the sound of keys again, faster this time. "Adaptive response markers," she says. "Her system didn't react the way it should have. No degradation, no instability. It just stabilized. Balanced itself out."

Leon's grip tightens again before he reins it in, the motion controlled but deliberate. The road ahead blurs slightly at the edges, not from distraction, but from the weight of what's settling into place.

"She was exposed," he says, the words quieter now, more grounded.

"Yes."

"And he knows."

"That's the part we can't ignore," Hunnigan replies. "If Gideon has access to those records, or if he's been tracking survivors from that incident, then this wasn't random."

Leon doesn't need her to finish. He already understands.

"There's more," she says after a moment. "The facility tied to that breach... it was never fully decommissioned. Officially, it was abandoned. Unofficially, there are signs of recent activity. Power draws. Data pings. Someone's been using it."

Leon's focus sharpens instantly, something locking into place with quiet certainty. "Send everything."

"I just did."

The phone vibrates in his hand, the incoming data lighting the screen briefly. He glances at it just long enough to confirm coordinates, then looks back to the road, his path already adjusting in his mind before the turn even comes into view.

"If her biology is what we think it is, then she's not just leverage."

Leon cuts her off, his voice sharper this time, but not raised. "I know what she is."

There's a brief silence after that, not tense, just understood. Because to him, none of that changes the only thing that matters. You're still you.

"Be careful," Hunnigan says quietly.

Leon doesn't respond. Instead, his foot presses down on the accelerator, the car surging forward just slightly as the dark road stretches ahead, no longer empty, no longer uncertain. Now it leads somewhere. All that's left is direction. Somewhere at the end of it is you.

Gideon's hand doesn't move quickly. There is no rush in him, no sudden motion that might trigger instinct before thought. Everything he does is measured, deliberate, as if even the timing has already been calculated. His fingers close around your wrist with quiet precision, the contact firm enough to hold, but not forceful enough to bruise. It's control without struggle, restraint without effort.

Your shoulders tense, your muscles tightening instinctively as your other hand pulls once against the restraint before you force it still again. You don't give him more than that.

"Try to remain still," he says, his voice low, even, not unkind but entirely without comfort. "Movement interferes with consistency."

Instead, you focus on the pressure of his hand, on the grounding weight of it, on the way your breathing moves in and out of your chest as you force it to slow. You tell yourself to watch. To remember. If this is happening, then it matters how.

His other hand comes into view. A small device rests between his fingers, compact and precise, more clinical than threatening at first glance. The casing is metallic, clean, designed for efficiency rather than intimidation. A narrow chamber holds a clear substance that catches the light just enough to make it visible without revealing anything about what it actually is.

Your stomach tightens. "What is that?" you ask, the question quieter than you intend, but steady enough to hold.

Gideon doesn't look at the device. He's watching you.

"A variable," he says.

Your grip tightens slightly against the restraint, your breath slowing again as you brace yourself without meaning to. Your body knows before your mind fully accepts it. There's no time to argue, no space to negotiate. 

He adjusts your wrist, turning it just enough to expose the inside of your arm. A sharp, precise pressure breaks the surface of your skin. A quick, controlled intrusion that sends a reflexive jolt through your system before you can stop it. The substance pushed into your system with practiced ease before the device withdraws just as smoothly as it entered. Gideon releases your wrist immediately after, stepping back without hesitation.

You don't speak. You can't even really try. Any words dissolve somewhere between your chest and your throat as the sensation deepens, spreading through you in a way that is impossible to ignore now. What began as something subtle, something easy to question, shifts into something far more defined, far more present. Heat blooms beneath your skin, not sharp or burning, but insistent, like your body is trying to correct something it doesn't understand.

Your breathing falters, then steadies, then falters again as you try to regain control over it. Each inhale feels just slightly heavier than the last, your lungs working harder for something that should come naturally. Your shoulders tense, pulling inward without permission as your muscles react to the unfamiliar strain. It doesn't hurt but the sensation is wrong.

Your fingers curl against the restraint, tightening instinctively as your pulse begins to climb, each beat more noticeable than the last. You can feel it in your wrists, in your throat, in the space just behind your ribs, a steady, growing rhythm that feels just slightly out of sync with everything else.

You force a breath in slowly, deliberately, holding it for a second before letting it out through your nose, trying to anchor yourself to something familiar, something controlled. It works, for a moment. The sharp edge of the sensation dulls just slightly, enough to give you the illusion of stability.

Gideon watches all of it. He hasn't moved from where he stepped back, his posture unchanged, his gaze fixed on you with that same clinical precision. There's no urgency in him, no concern, only observation, as though everything happening is exactly as expected.

"Elevated response," he says quietly, almost to himself. "But contained."

The words settle into the space around you, detached and measured, like he's reading from something already written rather than reacting to what he sees.

You swallow again, your throat tightening as the heat shifts, pulling inward now, concentrating somewhere deeper in your chest. For a brief moment, it feels like your body is bracing for something worse, something sharper, something that hasn't fully arrived yet. Your shoulders draw back as you try to sit straighter, your body instinctively fighting the sensation, pushing against it rather than giving in. Your breath comes faster for a second, then you force it to slow again, dragging it back under control one piece at a time.

Another wave moves through you, stronger this time, your muscles tightening in response as the heat spreads again, this time more evenly, less chaotic. It rolls through your arms, your chest, your core, like something searching for imbalance and failing to find it.

Your brow furrows slightly.

That's new. The initial spike of discomfort doesn't escalate the way you expect it to. Instead of building into pain, it... evens out. The sharp edges smooth, the irregular rhythm of your pulse settling into something steadier, something controlled despite the foreign presence still threading through your system.

Gideon's head tilts slightly as he watches the shift happen, the lenses over his eye catching the light as he adjusts his angle just enough to follow the change more closely.

"There it is," he murmurs.

The words are quiet and they carry something like confirmation in them. You feel it too. The wrongness doesn't disappear, but it changes, becoming something your body can hold rather than something it's fighting. The heat lingers, but it no longer spikes unpredictably. Your pulse steadies, your muscles easing just slightly as the initial strain fades into something more controlled.

The realization settles in slowly, unwelcome but undeniable.

You draw in another breath, deeper this time, testing it, measuring it the same way he is. It comes easier now. Not normal, not entirely, but closer than it should be given what just happened.

"What did you do?" you ask again, your voice quieter now, steadier despite everything.

Gideon doesn't answer immediately. His gaze remains fixed on you, tracking every shift, every subtle adjustment in your posture, your breathing, your expression.

"A baseline disruptor," he says after a moment. "Something that should introduce instability."

Your jaw tightens.

"Should." His head tilts again, that same small, thoughtful motion.

"In most cases, it does," he replies. "The body rejects it. Overcompensates. Breaks equilibrium in an attempt to regain it."

His gaze sharpens just slightly. "Yours didn't."

You swallow again, your throat less dry now, your body still humming faintly with the aftereffects of whatever he introduced.

"You're watching for failure," you say, the realization forming as you speak it, your voice gaining a slight edge despite your control.

A faint shift crosses his expression again, not quite a smile, but something that acknowledges the accuracy of it. "Yes."

The answer is simple.

"And when you don't get it?" you press, your fingers tightening slightly against the restraint again, grounding yourself in something solid as your mind continues to move.

"Then I adjust," he says.

Your chest tightens again, but not from the lingering effects of whatever he gave you. This could be just the beginning. Gideon steps back slightly, creating distance again now that the immediate observation is complete. His attention doesn't leave you, but his posture shifts just enough to signal that this phase, whatever it was, has reached its conclusion.

"For now," he adds quietly, almost as an afterthought, "you stabilize."

The second time, there is no warning. You see it in the shift of his posture, in the way he reaches for the panel again with the same precision, but there's something different now. Not in his movement, or in his expression, but in the certainty that settles into the space around him.

He's no longer observing you. He's about to escalate this.

Your body tenses before he even turns back toward you, every muscle tightening instinctively as your pulse begins to climb again. The lingering effects of the first injection haven't fully faded. You can still feel it beneath your skin, that faint, controlled hum of something unfamiliar that your body has somehow contained.

Gideon steps back into your space, the device in his hand similar in shape to the first, but not identical. The chamber holds something darker this time, the liquid catching the light in a way that makes it impossible to mistake the difference.

"That one didn't break me," you say quietly, your voice steadier than you feel. "So now you're going to try harder."

He doesn't deny it. "Adjustment is necessary," he replies, his tone as calm as before. "The first response confirmed baseline stability. This will test the limits of it."

You close your eyes and think of anything else. Home. Leon. He'll be here soon, you know it. Your fingers curl against the restraints again. 

"He's still a variable." Gideon adds, almost absently.

"You mean me," you say.

"No, you're the constant."

Before you can respond, before you can push back against it, his hand closes around your wrist again, firm and controlled. This time, you don't pull away. Not because you don't want to, but because you already know it won't matter.

You brace. The injection comes faster. The pressure is sharper this time, the intrusion deeper, less subtle. Your breath catches immediately, your body reacting before you can suppress it, a sharp inhale breaking through your control as your muscles tense hard against the restraint. 

It hits hard. There's no delay this time, no gradual creep. The sensation floods through you all at once, a violent surge beneath your skin that feels like your body is being pulled in two different directions at the same time. Heat spikes instantly, sharper than before, not spreading evenly but crashing through your system in jagged waves that refuse to settle.

Your breath breaks. You don't mean to. You want to keep quiet, composed. But the sound tears out of you anyway, raw and uncontrolled as your back arches slightly against the chair, your muscles tightening in a way you can't stop. It hurts and it hurts deep. Your chest constricts, your lungs struggling to pull in air as your pulse spikes violently, each beat slamming harder than the last. The heat turns into something sharper, something that burns through your limbs and settles in your core, like your body is trying to reject something it can't.

You try to fight it instinctively. Your hands clench, your shoulders pulling tight as you try to force your breathing back under control, but it slips, stutters, breaks again as another wave hits. Another sound escapes, and you don't recognize it at first, then you realize it's you.

Leon continues moving in. There is no space for distraction, no room for anything beyond the task in front of him. His breathing is steady, his pulse controlled, his body moving with the kind of precision that comes from years of experience and instinct working in perfect alignment.

When he reaches the door, he waits, listens. At first he hears nothing and reaches for the handle. Just the faint hum of something internal, too low to identify clearly from outside, too consistent to ignore completely. It's the kind of sound that suggests machinery, containment, something running beneath the surface where it can't be seen. 

Then he hears it. Faint, distant, but unmistakable. A sound that doesn't belong to the building. His body stills instantly, every sense sharpening as his head tilts just slightly, his focus shifting inward, past the walls, past the structure, toward the source.

It comes again. Muffled and broken. Something in him snaps. He knows that sound, even distorted beneath layers of concrete and distance. He knows your voice, and you're not speaking this time, you're in pain.

Leon's hand closes around the handle, the controlled precision changing into something sharper, something faster as his entire focus locks onto one singular point. You're here. And you're close enough to hear.

Inside, the pain doesn't fade. It only builds. Another wave crashes through you, harder than the last, tearing through whatever control you managed to hold onto as your body fights something it doesn't understand. Your breath fractures again, your chest tightening painfully as you try to pull in air that won't come fast enough. Your vision blurs at the edges, the room tilting slightly as your muscles strain, your entire body reacting in ways you can't stop.

Gideon just stands there watching. Unphased by your struggle. Focused on whatever it is he's trying to figure out now.

"Instability present," he murmurs, his voice distant against the rush of sensation flooding your system. "But not catastrophic."

Your hands clench harder, your body trembling now, caught between resisting and adapting, between breaking and holding. Another scream tears from you, louder this time, less controlled. Somewhere beyond the walls, Leon is moving as fast he as can, getting closer with every second.

The door doesn't creak. It opens easily. Leon notices as he slips inside, his movement controlled and immediate, his body already adjusting to the change in the environment before the door fully closes behind him. The night are disappears in an instant, replaced by something cooler, denser, the faint sterile scent of filtered air layered over something metallic and difficult to place.

The darkness inside isn't complete. Low-level lighting runs along the edges of the corridor ahead, thin strips embedded into the walls that cast a dim, clinical glow across smooth surfaces. It isn't enough to illuminate everything, but it doesn't need to. It's designed for navigation, not comfort.

Leon pauses just inside the threshold out of instinct. His gaze moves quickly, but not carelessly, tracking the length of the corridor, the corners, the ceiling, the floor. Every surface is too clean, too controlled, the kind of space that isn't meant to be lived in, only used. There are no visible cameras, no obvious surveillance, but that doesn't mean he isn't being watched.

Leon steps forward. His footfalls are silent against the smooth flooring, his weight shifting with practiced precision as he moves deeper into the corridor. The hum he heard outside is louder now, no longer distant, but integrated into the structure itself. It vibrates faintly through the walls, through the floor, through the air.

Every doorway he passes is closed, seamless against the walls, giving nothing away about what might be behind them. There are no signs, no labels, nothing to indicate function or direction. The only thing that keeps him directionally bound is the sound of your pained screams.

Leon's jaw tightens slightly as he continues forward, his mind mapping the space as he goes, committing every turn, every distance, every possible exit to memory. If something goes wrong, he needs a way out. He needs a way to you. The thought sharpens his focus further.

Another scream escapes you. Leon stops. Not abruptly, but enough that his entire body stills, his head turning just slightly as he isolates it. The corridor stretches ahead in two directions at the next intersection, identical in structure, identical in lighting, offering no immediate indication of which path leads where.

Something shifts in Leon instantly, something deeper than instinct, something that bypasses thought entirely. His chest tightens hard, his breath shortening for a fraction of a second before it steadies again, forced back under control through sheer discipline.

He moves faster now, but not reckless, his steps still placed with precision as he turns down the corridor where the sound came from. The distance closes quickly, the hum of the facility growing louder as he goes, layered now with something else.

Every second stretches. Every step matters. He passes another door, then another, his gaze flicking briefly toward each one, searching for anything that stands out, anything that breaks the pattern. Then he sees a difference.

One of the doors ahead is slightly recessed compared to the others, its surface broken by a narrow panel along the side, faintly illuminated in a way that suggests active use. It isn't obvious. It isn't meant to be.

Leon slows as he approaches, his body lowering just slightly, his hand moving instinctively toward his weapon as he positions himself beside the frame rather than directly in front of it. His breathing steadies again, controlled, measured, his focus narrowing to a single point.

Another pained sound escapes your throat and Leon knows that you're in the other side. For a brief moment, everything compresses, the space, the sound, the distance between where he is and where you're collapsing into something immediate and undeniable.

He reaches for the panel. His fingers hover for half a second, assessing, calculating. Locked, most likely. Secured in a way that won't respond to a simple override. So he doesn't try. Instead, he shifts his stance slightly, his weight settling, his grip tightening as he prepares to force it. Inside, the sound rises again. Sharper. More raw. And that's all it takes.

Leon moves. The impact is controlled, precise, his force directed at the weakest point of the frame rather than the center. The panel cracks first, a sharp fracture that breaks the seal just enough to compromise the structure. He doesn't stop there. A second, stronger hit. The mechanism gives. The door buckles inward with a dull, heavy sound, the controlled quiet of the facility breaking for the first time since he entered. Leon doesn't wait for it to settle. He pushes through.

Inside, the world doesn't make sense all at once. It comes in fragments. The dim lights are too bright. The air is too cold. The sound of your own breathing breaking apart as another wave crashes through you, your body no longer able to hold the same control it did before. The heat has turned into something sharper, something that burns through your system in uneven pulses that refuse to stabilize.

Your hands are clenched tight enough to ache, fingernails cutting through your palm, your muscles trembling under the strain as your chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow.

The door breaks. The sound cuts through everything. Sharp. Violent. Wrong.

Your head jerks instinctively toward it, your vision struggling to focus, the edges still blurred, the room tilting just slightly as your body tries to keep up with everything happening at once. For a split second, you don't understand what you're seeing. A familiar shape, quick movements. Another yell rips through you, the pain washing through your entire body again.

Gideon turns slightly, a full smirk playing on his lips as he recognizes who came through the door. He doesn't startle and doesn't retreat. He wanted this moment, he waited for this moment.

Leon.

The room seems to hold itself in suspension, the harsh overhead light cutting everything into sharp, unforgiving clarity. There is no shadow deep enough to hide in here, no corner untouched by the sterile brightness that reveals every detail whether it should be seen or not. The hum of the facility continues beneath it all, steady and mechanical, a constant reminder that this place was built for function, not for the moment unfolding inside it. The only sound to be heard now is your panicked breathing between screams.

Leon stands just inside the broken doorway, his body angled slightly forward, not quite advancing, not quite holding back. His breathing is controlled, but not calm, each inhale measured, each exhale tight, like something is being forced into place rather than settling naturally.

His gaze doesn't go to Gideon first. It goes to you. It finds you immediately, as if there was never any question where you would be, as if every step he took through the facility had already narrowed down to this exact point. His eyes move over you quickly at first, instinctively checking, assessing, searching for what's been done, what's still happening, what he might already be too late to stop.

He sees the tension in your body, the way your hands are clenched too tightly against the restraints, the uneven rise and fall of your chest as your breathing struggles to keep pace with something inside you that hasn't settled. The faint tremor running through your muscles isn't subtle enough to miss, not to him.

His jaw tightens. Something shifts behind his eyes, something darker, sharper, but it doesn't break through his control. Not yet.

"Leon—" Your voice doesn't come out the way you expect it to. It catches halfway, thinner than it should be, pulled tight by everything still moving through your system. Even saying his name takes more effort than it should, your breath hitching slightly as you try to push past it. But he hears it.

"I've got you," he says, his voice low, steady in a way that feels deliberate, like he's anchoring both of you at the same time. There's no hesitation in it, no question, just certainty, even if the situation in front of him doesn't offer any.

Gideon moves, turning with the same measured precision he's carried through every moment so far, his posture unchanged, his attention shifting from you to Leon as though the interruption is simply another variable entering the equation.

He studies Leon in silence for a moment, his head tilting slightly as if adjusting to a new data point rather than reacting to a threat.

"Earlier than projected," he says, his words calm. Observational.

Leon's attention shifts then, just enough to acknowledge him, but not enough to lose sight of you. His body remains angled between you and Gideon, instinctively placing himself in that space, that line, even before he's fully closed the distance.

"You picked the wrong person," Leon says, his tone controlled but edged now, something tight beneath it that doesn't quite surface but doesn't hide either.

Gideon doesn't react to the threat. If anything, his focus sharpens.

"No," he replies. "I selected precisely the right one."

Leon's gaze flickers back to you, just for a second, taking in the way your shoulders tense again as another wave moves through you, the way your breathing stutters despite your effort to keep it steady. Grunts of pain escape your lips.

"What did you do to her?" he asks.

There's no softness in his voice. Gideon doesn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze shifts between the two of you, not weighing, not comparing, but observing, as if this moment itself is something worth studying.

"A controlled introduction," he says finally. "A stressor designed to disrupt equilibrium."

Your fingers tighten again as another pulse moves through you, your body reacting despite your efforts to contain it. You try to steady your breathing, to keep yourself grounded, but the sensation hasn't fully faded. It lingers beneath your skin, quieter than before, but still present, still wrong.

"And?" he presses, his voice lower now, more dangerous.

Gideon's expression doesn't change. "She stabilized. Handling it quite well actually."

The words hang in the air. Leon's jaw tightens harder, his focus snapping fully to Gideon now, the meaning settling in faster than it should.

"That wasn't supposed to happen," he says.

Gideon's head tilts again, that same small, deliberate motion.

"Not typically," he agrees. "But she is not a typical subject."

Your chest rises sharply again as another smaller wave moves through you, your body still adjusting, still reacting in ways you can't fully control. You grit your teeth against it, forcing yourself to stay present, to stay aware, because Leon is here now, and that changes everything.

Leon takes a step forward slowly. His attention splits again, half on Gideon, half on you, calculating distance, timing, risk. Every movement is deliberate, every shift controlled, but there's something coiled beneath it now, something that's getting harder to keep contained the longer he stands there.

"You're done," Leon says.

Gideon doesn't move to stop him. Doesn't reach for anything. Doesn't even step back.

"If that were true," he says quietly, "you wouldn't have made it this far."

Leon moves again, faster this time. He closes the distance between you in a matter of seconds, his focus narrowing completely as he reaches your side. His hands come to the restraints immediately, his touch careful despite the urgency behind it, his fingers checking the mechanism, the material, the way it's secured.

"Hey," he says, softer now, his voice dropping just enough to reach you through everything else. "Stay with me, alright?"

Your head tilts slightly toward him, your vision still not fully steady, but clearer now than it was before. Being this close to him, hearing him, it cuts through some of the noise, some of the disorientation.

"I'm—" You try to answer, but the words falter as your breath catches again, your body still not fully cooperating.

"I know," he says quietly. "Just breathe."

Behind him, Gideon watches. Unmoved. Uninterrupted.

"Observe," he says softly. The word is almost lost beneath the sound of your breathing, but Leon hears it.

"I'm not part of your experiment," Leon says.

Gideon's gaze doesn't waver. "You already are."

Leon's grip tightens slightly against the restraint before he forces it to ease, his focus snapping back to you, back to what matters. The mechanism gives slightly under his touch, not completely, but it gives you some relief.

"Almost there," he murmurs, his voice low, steady, meant for you alone.

Your breathing hasn't fully settled, but it's better than it was. The violent spikes have dulled into something more contained, your body still reacting, still adjusting, but no longer overwhelming you completely. You hold onto his voice, onto the presence of him beside you, grounding yourself in something real while everything else still feels just slightly out of place.

"Leon..." Your voice is quieter now, strained but clearer, your fingers twitching faintly against the restraint as you try to steady yourself.

He glances at you briefly, just enough to confirm you're still with him, still holding on. "I've got you," he says again. And for a second, you believe it.

His hands still against the restraint, his body pauses just long enough to register the change before his head lifts, his attention snapping back toward Gideon. "You should have left when you had the opportunity, Leon."

Leon's jaw tightens, his posture shifting almost imperceptibly as he angles himself more fully between you and Gideon, his body placing itself there without thought, without hesitation.

"You're done," he says, quieter now, but edged with something harder, something less controlled.

Gideon's head tilts slightly. And then he moves. There's no warning, no buildup. One moment, he stands across the room, the next, he's there, the space between them collapsing in an instant. Leon reacts on instinct, his body turning, his arm coming up to intercept. But Gideon doesn't strike. He grips Leon's shoulder, then the force hits.

Leon's footing breaks as he's yanked sideways with a strength that doesn't belong to anything natural. The world shifts violently, the ground slamming into his back with a force that knocks the breath from his lungs before he can brace against it.

The impact echoes through the room, sharp and final.

"Leon!" The sound leaves you before you can stop it, your voice breaking through the space with a sharp edge of fear you can't contain this time.

Even as the air rushes back into his lungs in a strained inhale, his body rolls with the impact, momentum carrying him through the motion as he pushes himself back up. There's no pause, no recovery beyond what's absolutely necessary. His focus snaps back immediately, locking onto Gideon with a precision that overrides everything else.

Something in Gideon begins to change. A tension that wasn't there before, something coiling inward rather than expanding outward. His posture tightens, his shoulders drawing slightly as though containing something that no longer fits cleanly within him. The fractured lines beneath his skin darken, spreading in faint, branching patterns that pulse subtly with something alive.

You gasp because you can see it now. Something moving under his skin.

"Adaptation requires progression," Gideon says, his voice lower now, heavier, as though it's being pulled from somewhere deeper.

The mechanical apparatus over his eye flickers, the lenses shifting rapidly, adjusting in small, precise movements as if recalibrating to match whatever is happening inside him.

Leon's stance lowers instinctively, his weight settling, his body aligning for impact as his gaze tracks every shift, every unnatural movement.

"Yeah," he mutters under his breath, quieter, sharper. "Saw that coming."

A sound comes next. It's wet and wrong. A tearing pressure beneath the surface that builds for just a second too long before it breaks. His arm jerks slightly, not in pain, but in adjustment, his fingers flexing once, twice, before something forces its way through. The fabric of his sleeve splits as dark, sinewy appendages push outward, emerging from beneath the skin with a violent, organic motion that defies anything natural.

They unfurl rapidly, extending outward with unsettling control, each one moving with a purpose that suggests awareness rather than randomness. 

Leon doesn't wait. He moves first.

The moment the tendrils fully extend, he closes the distance, fast and direct, his movement cutting through the space before Gideon can fully settle into whatever he's becoming. His strike is precise, aimed to disrupt, to interrupt the transformation before it completes.

But one of the tendrils reacts faster. It lashes out, snapping forward with unnatural speed, wrapping tightly around Leon's arm mid-motion. The grip is immediate, constricting hard enough to halt him completely, the pressure sharp and unyielding. Leon's jaw tightens as he tries to pull free, his muscles straining against it.

You see it before it happens, faint arcs of electricity flickering along the length of the appendage, gathering, intensifying, the air around it crackling with something volatile. You try to call to Leon but another wave of pain rushes through you, head to toe, halting everything and stealing your voice, your breath, your mind.

The discharge hits. It tears through Leon in a sharp, violent burst, his body locking for a split second under the force of it before the sound breaks from him, low and strained, forced out despite his control. The tendril releases him just as quickly. He's thrown back, his body hitting the ground hard enough to echo again, the impact reverberating through the room.

Leon lies unmoving on the floor and it's the most helpless you've ever been. Restrained with no way to help your husband, who is only here to save you.

His hand presses against the floor, his body pushing up again, slower this time, but no less determined. His breathing is heavier now, sharper, each inhale drawn in with effort, but his focus hasn't shifted a single time.

Across from him, Gideon stands taller. The human shape is still there, but it's no longer dominant. The tendrils move slowly behind him, shifting, adjusting, as if testing their range, their strength, their control. The air around him feels charged now, faint arcs of energy flickering intermittently, unstable but contained.

"This is where it becomes meaningful," Gideon says, his voice steady despite everything else.

The room doesn't hold its shape for long. It gives in stages, like something under pressure, finally reaching the point where it can no longer hold.

At first, it's only the sound. A low, strained groan somewhere deep within the structure, metal bending where it was never meant to, the clean lines of the facility distorting under the weight of what Gideon is becoming. The sterile hum that once filled the space flickers, falters, then surges unevenly, as if the systems built to sustain control are now struggling to contain it.

Gideon stands at the center of it, no longer still in the way he had been before, but not uncontrolled either. The transformation does not make him wild. It makes him larger, more present, more impossible to ignore. The tendrils extending from his body shift with a purpose that's no longer exploratory. They coil and stretch in slow, deliberate motions, each movement accompanied by faint arcs of electricity that crackle through the air and dissipate against the walls in sharp, fleeting bursts of light.

Leon watches him without retreating. His breathing is heavier now, his chest rising and falling with effort, but there's no hesitation in the way he holds his ground. His body adjusts in small, precise ways, weight shifting, stance lowering, every muscle aligning with instinct and experience. He's already recalculating, already adapting to something that should not exist, because that is what survival has always required of him.

Gideon tilts his head, the mechanical lenses over his eye flickering rapidly as they track Leon's movement. "You continue to respond within projected thresholds," he says, his voice altered now, layered faintly with something deeper that resonates beneath the words. "Even under escalating conditions."

Leon doesn't answer. There's no space for it, no value in it. The moment Gideon's tendrils shift inward, drawing close to his body as the electricity along them intensifies, Leon understands what's coming. The air sharpens, the faint scent of ozone thickening as the energy builds, no longer scattered but concentrated, focused into something far more dangerous.

He moves before it releases. The discharge tears through the space where he stood a fraction of a second before, a violent arc of electricity that slams into the far wall with enough force to fracture the surface, the impact flashing white-hot before fading into smoke and sparks. The light burns briefly across Leon's vision, but he doesn't slow. He uses the opening created by the attack, the brief window where Gideon's focus shifts to recalibrate, and closes the distance instead of retreating.

The first strike lands cleanly. It snaps Gideon's head to the side, not with enough force to drop him, but enough to confirm what Leon needs to know. The thing in front of him can still be hit. It can still be interrupted. It can still be fought.

The response is immediate. The tendrils lash outward with far less restraint than before, their movements sharper, more aggressive, each strike aimed not just to stop Leon but to overwhelm him. He pivots through the first, deflects the second, the impact sending a jolt up his arm that he absorbs without breaking rhythm. The third comes from behind, forcing him to drop low, the appendage slicing through the air just above him before slamming into the wall hard enough to crack it further.

The room is coming apart now. Panels loosen and fall, fragments of the controlled environment scattering across the floor as the fight pushes beyond anything it was designed to contain. The hum of the facility distorts into something uneven, lights flickering in brief, erratic pulses that cast the entire space in shifting brightness.

It's all too much for your body as you fight whatever is coursing through your veins. The flashing lights, the pain bursting in waves. Darkness creeps at the edges of your vision as you watch Leon try to take down Gideon.

Gideon steps forward into the chaos, his movement heavier now, less human in its weight but no less precise. "Damage acknowledged," he says, the words strained slightly as the transformation continues to push through him. "Adaptation required."

The tendrils retract again, but not in retreat. They coil tightly around him, drawing inward as the electricity intensifies along their length, brighter now, more volatile. Leon recognizes the shift immediately, his posture tightening as his focus sharpens further. This is not another strike. This is an escalation.

Gideon's body convulses with sudden force, the remaining structure of his human form breaking further as the mutation surges forward. The tendrils expand again, thicker, longer, their movement more erratic as the transformation accelerates. His frame distorts, growing beyond its original shape, the balance of control giving way to something far more aggressive, far less contained.

The walls crack under the pressure. Metal groans and bends as the space struggles to hold him, the controlled environment collapsing into something unstable and dangerous.

He moves through the chaos, faster now, more direct, his path cutting between the snapping tendrils and crackling arcs of energy with a precision that leaves no room for hesitation. One shot strikes his shoulder as he passes, the impact heavy enough to stagger him a step, but he doesn't stop. He can't. Another slams into the ground beside him, sending debris upward in a sharp burst that grazes his side, but he pushes through it, closing the distance before Gideon can fully adjust.

This time, Leon commits. There's no testing strike, no probing movement. Everything aligns into a single, decisive action as he drives forward, his focus narrowing to a singular point. The moment opens, brief and dangerous, and he takes it.

The shot lands. The sound cuts through the chaos, sharp and final, the impact hitting with enough force to break through what remains of Gideon's structure. For a fraction of a second, everything seems to hold, the movement, the sound, the space itself pausing as the effect settles in.

Gideon collapses. The tendrils recoil violently, the electricity along them snapping out in erratic bursts before dying completely. Gideon's form distorts further, not expanding now but breaking down, the structure of it failing in on itself as the mutation loses cohesion. The surface of him shifts, softens, destabilizes, the defined shape melting into something unrecognizable. He doesn't fall, but dissolves.

The mass that was Gideon collapses inward, losing form, losing structure, the remnants of his transformation breaking apart into something viscous, unstable, spreading across the fractured floor in uneven, darkened pools. The last of the energy dissipates into the air, leaving behind only the fading hum of a facility no longer fully functioning.

The silence that follows doesn't feel real. It settles too suddenly, too completely, pressing in around the room like something waiting to be acknowledged. Moments ago, everything had been noise and motion and impact, the air alive with electricity and strain, the structure itself fighting to hold together under the weight of what had been happening inside it. Now, all of that is gone, leaving behind only the faint, uneven hum of failing systems and the quiet drip of something cooling against the fractured floor.

Leon doesn't move right away. His chest rises and falls with heavier breaths than he'd allow himself under normal circumstances, each inhale dragging in air that still smells faintly of ozone and heat. The tension hasn't left his body yet. It lingers in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way his fingers flex once at his side like they're still expecting resistance.

His gaze remains fixed for a second longer on what's left of Gideon, the dark, formless remains spread across the floor where something controlled and deliberate once stood. There's no movement there now, no sign of reformation, no indication that anything is coming back from it. Just the aftermath of something that pushed too far and lost its shape completely.

Only when that certainty settles does Leon turn. Everything that had been held tight during the fight, all that focus, all that precision, redirects in an instant, snapping back to you with a force that feels almost physical. His eyes find you quickly, already expecting to see you where he left you, restrained, struggling, still fighting through whatever Gideon put into your system.

You're there. You're upright. The restraints still hold you in place, your body angled slightly forward where you'd been straining against them earlier. But the tension is gone. The movement is gone.

Leon's chest tightens sharply.

"Hey..." The word leaves him before he's even fully crossed the distance, his steps closing the space between you faster now, no longer measured, no longer cautious. The control he held onto through the fight slips just enough to let urgency through.

He reaches you in seconds, hands coming up to your cheeks. "Hey, hey—" His voice drops, softer but edged now, the words coming quicker than before as he leans closer, his gaze scanning your face, searching for any sign of response. "Come on, stay with me."

Your skin is warm beneath his hand, warmer than it should be, the heat lingering from whatever Gideon forced into your system. Your pulse is there too, faint but steady against his fingers, a rhythm that reassures him just enough to keep moving, to keep focused. But your eyes don't open.

Leon exhales through his nose, the breath sharper than he intends as he shifts his grip, his hand sliding more securely along your arm as he checks you over with quick, practiced movements. There are no visible wounds beyond the restraint, no obvious signs of physical damage from the outside, but that doesn't mean anything here.

"What did he do to you..." he mutters under his breath, the question not meant for an answer, just something that slips out as his mind tries to piece together what he's seeing with what he already knows.

He adjusts his position, moving closer, his hands returning to the mechanism with more urgency than before, but not less care. His fingers find the weakened point he'd started working earlier, the subtle give in the structure that hadn't been enough then but might be now.

"Alright," he murmurs, quieter again, as if you can hear him even like this. "I've got you, sweetheart. Just hold on."

His grip tightens slightly as he applies pressure, shifting his angle and forcing the mechanism in a way that strains against it rather than working with it. The material resists at first, holding firm like it was designed to, but Leon doesn't stop. He adjusts again, changes direction, increases force just enough to push it past its limit without snapping it in a way that could hurt you.

Finally, the first wrist comes loose. Leon doesn't hesitate. He works the opening immediately, pulling it wider, freeing your other wrist carefully but quickly, his hand catching yours the second it's loose, steadying it before it can fall.

"Got it," he breathes, more to himself than anything else.

For a second, he doesn't move you.

He just stays there, one hand still around yours, the other hovering near your shoulder like he's bracing for something, like he's expecting you to wake up, to react, to do something. When you don't, the tension shifts again. Softer this time. More careful.

Leon slides his arm behind your back, supporting your weight as he eases you forward, out of the position the restraints held you in. Your body doesn't resist. It leans into him instead, unsteady, the lack of awareness making the movement feel heavier than it should.

"I've got you," he says again, quieter now, the words closer to a promise than anything else.

He adjusts his hold, one arm secure around you, the other steadying your head as he lowers you just enough to get a better look at you. His thumb brushes lightly along your cheek without thinking, grounding himself in the contact as much as he's checking you.

Leon's jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn't let it spiral. Not now. Not when you're right here, when you're breathing, when he can still do something about it.

"Come on," he murmurs, his voice low and steady again as he shifts his grip, preparing to move. "You're not staying here."

The facility groans faintly around them, a reminder that whatever stability it had before is gone now, systems failing slowly in the aftermath of Gideon's collapse. The lights flicker once, then again, the hum dipping unevenly as something deeper in the structure begins to shut down.

Leon doesn't wait to see how far it goes. He gathers you more securely against him, lifting you carefully, mindful of your condition, of the way your body still hasn't fully recovered from whatever was done to it. His movements are controlled again, but the urgency is back, sharper now, focused entirely on getting you out.

As he turns toward the broken doorway, his grip tightens just slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to make sure you're there.

The facility doesn't sound the same on the way out. What had once been a steady, controlled hum has fractured into something uneven, strained, like the structure itself is struggling to keep up with systems that are failing faster than they can compensate. The lights flicker overhead in irregular pulses, casting the corridor in shifting bands of brightness and shadow that make the space feel unstable, unfamiliar, even though Leon had just moved through it minutes before with absolute clarity.

Your weight is secure against him, one arm braced firmly around your back, the other supporting you beneath your legs as he moves through the corridor with controlled urgency. Every step is precise despite the pace, his body adjusting instinctively to keep you steady, to minimize the jarring motion that might make things worse.

Your head rests against his shoulder, your breathing warm against his neck, uneven but present. He keeps track of it without thinking, each inhale and exhale a quiet reassurance that cuts through everything else.

"Almost out," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his voice low and steady even as the world around him shifts.

The door he forced open earlier hangs unevenly now, the frame warped just enough to leave it partially ajar. Cool night air seeps through the opening, cutting through the sterile atmosphere behind him and bringing with it the scent of damp earth and open space.

Freedom.

Leon doesn't hesitate. He pushes through, stepping out into the night in one smooth motion, the shift in environment immediate and grounding. The air is colder here, cleaner, and for the first time since he entered the facility, his lungs pull in a breath that doesn't feel heavy.

The car is exactly where he left it, partially obscured by the treeline, its dark silhouette blending into the surroundings. He heads straight for it, his pace steady but urgent, every second outside the facility a step further away from everything that just happened.

Your body shifts slightly in his arms. At first, it's subtle. A change in weight. A small, uncoordinated movement that could easily be dismissed as nothing. But Leon feels it immediately. His grip tightens just slightly, enough to steady you as his gaze drops briefly, searching your face for confirmation.

Your brows furrow faintly as your breathing changes.

"Hey," he says, softer now, his voice dropping instinctively as he adjusts his hold just enough to support you better. "Easy. You're alright."

"...Leon?" The word comes out quiet, rough around the edges, like your voice hasn't fully returned yet.

He hears it immediately.

"I'm here," he answers without hesitation, his voice closer now, steadier, like he's anchoring you through the haze. "I've got you."

Your eyes open slowly, the night sky above you blurred at first, shifting slightly with each step he takes. It takes a second for things to settle, for your vision to catch up enough to focus, and when it does, you see him again. Up close and real, not the image you forced yourself to see while Gideon was tormenting you.

Your fingers twitch weakly against his jacket, the movement small but intentional as you try to ground yourself in something you recognize.

"I told... told him you'd save me." You barely get out. "You're... okay?"

"I'm fine," he says, though it's not the point. "You're the one I'm worried about."

You let out a faint breath, something that might almost be a laugh if your body had the strength for it. It fades quickly as a dull ache rolls through you again, your muscles tightening instinctively before easing.

"Feel like... a million bucks..." you murmur.

Leon reaches the car quickly, shifting his hold just enough to open the passenger door without setting you down, his movements efficient despite the care behind them. He lowers you into the seat gently, one hand steadying your back as the other guides your legs in, making sure you're settled before pulling back.

For a moment, he doesn't close the door. His hand lingers briefly against your shoulder, his gaze scanning your face again, checking, confirming, making sure you're still with him.

"I'm right here," he says quietly, reaching up to caress your cheek.

You nod faintly, your head resting back against the seat, your body still heavy, still not fully your own, but more present than before.

Leon closes the door and rounds the car quickly, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine without hesitation. The headlights cut through the darkness ahead, illuminating the path back in a way that feels far more real than anything inside that facility ever did.

As the car pulls away, the building disappears behind them, swallowed by the trees and the night as if it was never meant to be found. For a few minutes, there's only the sound of the road under the tires.

Leon taps a few buttons on his infotainment screen. The dial tone sounds in the car.

"Leon?" Hunnigan's voice comes through, alert immediately.

"I found her," he says.

There's a pause. Then relief, quiet but unmistakable. "Is she—"

"She's alive," he cuts in, glancing briefly toward you before returning his focus forward. "But Gideon got to her first. He injected something. I don't know what."

Your eyes shift toward him slightly at that, your focus hazy but present enough to follow the conversation. There's a brief sound of typing on the other end.

"If it's Elpis-related, it's not going to be simple," Hunnigan says. "You need to get her checked out as soon as possible. I can pull what I have on Gideon's compounds, but if he refined anything—"

"Bringing her now," Leon says, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument.

There's a pause.

"Understood," Hunnigan replies, quieter now. "Monitor her until then. Watch for instability, changes in heart rate, neurological response, anything abnormal."

Leon's grip tightens slightly on the wheel. "Yeah," he says. "Already am."

"I'll send you everything I find," she adds. "Leon, you did well."

He doesn't respond to that. He ends the call a second later, the quiet of the car settling in again as the road stretches ahead.

Your head turns slightly toward him, your voice softer now, more grounded despite the lingering exhaustion. "...You always do that," you murmur.

He glances at you briefly. "Do what?"

"Act like... you weren't worried," you say, your words slower now, but clearer.

Something in his expression softens, just slightly. "I was," he admits.

The answer is simple. Honest. And it sits between you in a way that doesn't need anything added.

The road carries you forward, the distance between where you were and where you're going growing with every second. It still feels longer on the way back. The distance hasn't changed, but every second now carries weight Leon didn't have time to feel before. The urgency hasn't left him. It's just changed shape, sharpened into something quieter, more focused, more dangerous in its own way.

He doesn't take the direct route home. He turns off sooner than expected, the car shifting onto a narrower road that disappears deeper into the trees. The headlights carve through the darkness in long, steady beams, illuminating a path that doesn't look like it leads anywhere permanent.

You notice the change, even through the lingering haze. Your head shifts slightly against the seat, your eyes half-lidded but tracking the unfamiliar surroundings as best you can.

"This isn't home," you murmur, your voice still softer than usual, weighed down by exhaustion and something else you can't quite place.

Leon glances at you briefly, just long enough to confirm you're still with him.

"No," he says. "Not yet."

The road narrows further before it opens into something unexpected, a structure set back from the tree line, low and unmarked, its exterior deliberately unremarkable in the same way the facility had been, but cleaner, maintained. A single light glows near the entrance, steady and controlled. Safe. Or as close as it gets.

Leon pulls up without slowing more than necessary, the engine cutting the moment the car stops. He's out of the vehicle in seconds, moving around to your side, the door opening before you fully register the shift.

"I've got you," he says again, quieter now as he reaches in, one arm sliding behind your back, the other beneath your legs as he lifts you carefully from the seat.

Your body responds this time. Weakly. Your hand finds his jacket again, fingers curling into the fabric without thinking, holding on as the ground shifts beneath you.

"Leon..." you breathe, your voice unsteady but present.

"I know," he murmurs. "Just trust me."

The door to the building opens before he reaches it. Hunnigan stands inside, already moving and prepared. There's no surprise in her expression, no wasted time on relief, just immediate focus as her eyes take you in, assessing faster than words could keep up.

"This way," she says, stepping aside.

Leon doesn't stop. The interior is brighter, cleaner, the air carrying that same clinical sharpness, but without the wrongness that clung to Gideon's facility. This feels controlled in a different way. Not experimental. It's protective.

He follows her down a short corridor and into a room already set up, equipment active, monitors ready, everything positioned with intention.

"Set her here," Hunnigan directs.

Leon lowers you onto the table with care, his hands lingering just a second longer than necessary as he makes sure you're stable before pulling back. He doesn't step far and doesn't look away.

A nurse comes over immediately, her hands steady as she begins checking vitals, attaching sensors, her focus sharp and efficient.

"Heart rate elevated but stable," she murmurs, more to herself than to either of you. "Temperature's up, not unexpected."

You flinch slightly at the contact, your body still sensitive, still not fully under your control as the lingering effects of the injection continue to hum beneath your skin.

"What did he give her?" Leon asks, his voice low, controlled, but tighter than before.

She doesn't answer right away. She moves quickly, pulling a sample, running it through a portable analyzer already humming to life on the counter beside her.

"Give me a second," she says.

The machine processes faster than anything standard, its quiet mechanical sounds filling the space between your uneven breathing and the tension settling heavier in the room.

Leon's attention doesn't leave you. Your eyes drift toward him, unfocused at first, then clearer as your body fights its way back toward something resembling normal.

"I'm okay," you try, your voice softer now, but he doesn't buy it.

"I know," he says, but it doesn't sound like agreement.

It sounds like reassurance for himself more than anyone.

The machine beeps. Hunnigan's attention snaps to it immediately, her eyes scanning the results as they populate across the screen. Her expression tightens, just slightly, something small but enough for Leon to catch it.

"What is it?" he asks.

She exhales quietly. "It's a modified Elpis compound," she says. "Derivative strain. Designed to destabilize cellular response and force rapid adaptation."

"And?"

The nurse looks at you, then at the screen, chiming in. "It should've caused systemic failure," she says. "Organ stress, neurological breakdown... worst case, full collapse."

Your stomach drops faintly, even through the haze.

"But it didn't," Leon says.

"No," Hunnigan replies. "It didn't."

She taps the screen lightly, pulling up another set of data.

"Her system compensated," she continues. "Regulated instead of rejecting. It's stabilizing the compound instead of letting it spread."

"What does that mean?" you ask.

"It means you're not in immediate danger," the nurse says. "But it also means whatever he put into you isn't gone."

Your fingers curl slightly against the surface beneath you, your breathing steadying more now as the worst of the earlier effects fade into something duller, more manageable.

"...so I'm not dying tonight?" you ask, your voice quiet, but clearer now.

Hunnigan looks at you directly.

"No," she says. "You're not."

Leon exhales, probably louder than he intended. It's the first real release of tension since he found you. Hunnigan's gaze shifts back to the screen.

"But we're going to need to monitor you," she adds. "Closely."

The house is quiet when the door opens. Not the heavy, suffocating quiet Leon had walked into earlier, the kind that had pressed in on him with something wrong beneath it. This is different. Softer. The kind of quiet that belongs to a place waiting to be filled again, not one that’s already been emptied. Still, when he steps inside with you in his arms, something in him tightens.

For a split second, the image overlaps, the broken stillness from before, the absence, the space where you should have been. It flickers through him before he can stop it. Then you shift against him.

Leon exhales slowly, the breath quieter this time, less controlled, as he nudges the door closed behind him with his foot. The soft click of it sealing shut sounds louder than it should, final in a way that settles something deep in his chest. You're here, and that's what matters.

“I can walk,” you murmur against him, your voice still a little worn, a little softer than usual, but stronger than it was before.

He doesn’t answer right away. His grip doesn’t loosen either.

“I know,” he says after a second, glancing down at you briefly. “You don’t have to.”

You huff a faint breath that turns into a smile, your hand shifting slightly where it rests against his jacket, fingers brushing the fabric like you’re reminding yourself he’s real, too.

“You’re stubborn,” you mumble.

“Yeah,” he replies. “You married me anyway.”

You break out into a sleepy grin. He carries you further into the house, his steps slower now, no urgency pushing him forward anymore, just care. The rest of the house comes into view, familiar in a way that almost feels surreal after everything that came before it.

Then he stumbles upon the kitchen. The light is left on, the chair is still slid out, and the broken mug is still there. Ceramic shards scattered across the tile, the dark stain long since dried where coffee had spilled and been left behind, frozen in the moment everything went wrong.

You follow his gaze, your brow knitting faintly as your eyes settle on it, memory catching up in pieces, the last normal moment before everything had been ripped away.

“And that was my favorite one too,” you murmur quietly.

Leon exhales, something in his chest shifting again, not sharp this time, not panic or urgency, just something quieter, something closer to relief tangled up with the remnants of everything else.

“I’ll get you a new one,” he says.

He carries you past the kitchen, leaving the broken pieces where they are for now. It can wait. None of that matters in this moment, not compared to the weight in his arms, the warmth of you against him, the quiet proof that he didn’t lose you.

When he reaches the couch, he finally lowers you carefully, his movements slow and deliberate as he eases you down into the cushions. This time, he doesn’t pull away immediately. His hands linger on your, one at your back and the other at your arm. He's not ready to let go just yet.

Instead, your hand finds his wrist again, your fingers curling lightly around it before he can step back, holding him there in a way that’s gentle but unmistakable.

“Stay,” you murmur.

He shifts instead, sitting beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch, his body angled toward yours without thinking. For a second, neither of you says anything, the quiet settling in around you again, but this time it feels different. It's safe and full.

Your head tips slightly toward him, your body leaning just enough that he reacts without hesitation, his arm coming around you instinctively, pulling you closer, steadying you against his side. You melt into him naturally, more dramatically than usual.

His hand moves slowly along your back, his thumb brushing lightly in absent, repetitive motions that feel more like habit than thought.

"When you weren't home, I thought..." his words drop quietly. They don't come easily.

You tilt your head slightly, your cheek brushing his shoulder as you glance up at him. “I know,” you say softly.

You don’t make him finish it. You don’t need to. His jaw tightens faintly, his arm around you pulling just a little closer, like the thought alone is enough to make him hold on tighter. You shift slightly, turning more toward him despite the lingering heaviness in your body, your hand sliding up from his wrist to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric there as you steady yourself.

“I’m here,” you murmur.

This time, it’s for him. His gaze drops to you, something in it softer now, less guarded, the edges worn down by everything that’s already passed.

“I know,” he says.

You study him for a second longer, then lean in, closing the small space between you. The kiss is gentle, slow, less about reassurance and more about presence. Your hand stays against his chest, grounding yourself in the steady rhythm beneath it as his hand comes up to your jaw, holding you there with quiet care. There's no urgency; it's just warmth and you.

He leans into it fully this time, the tension finally easing from his shoulders as he lets himself settle into something that doesn’t require fighting, doesn’t require thinking, doesn’t require anything except being here with you.

When he pulls back, it’s only slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath steadying in a way it hasn’t since before any of this started.

“Next time,” you murmur softly, a faint hint of teasing threading through the exhaustion, “I’m making tea instead.”

That almost makes him laugh. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Safer choice.”

The quiet stretches around you, soft and steady, the kind that doesn’t press in or demand anything. It just exists, wrapping around the two of you like something familiar, something earned.

You don’t realize how heavy your body feels until you try to move again. It’s subtle at first, a shift against him, your muscles protesting just enough to remind you that you’re still recovering, still not fully back to yourself. The exhaustion settles deeper now that everything else has quieted, pulling at you in a way that’s harder to ignore.

"We have to get cleaned up, sweetheart," he says, kissing your head.

"Okay," you reply, half asleep.

Before you can argue, before you can insist on anything else, his arm shifts around you, steady and sure as he moves to stand. The motion is smooth, practiced, like he’s done this before, like taking care of you has always come this naturally. Your arm slides around his shoulders without hesitation, your body settling against him with a quiet acceptance that feels as natural as breathing.

“You’re really not going to let me walk, are you?” you murmur, your voice softer now, edged with tired amusement.

“No,” he replies simply.

The two of you move together down the hall, slowly, quietly. The bathroom light flicks on, warm and soft, filling the space in a way that feels almost jarring after everything else. It’s normal, ordinary, safe. He sets you down on the closed toilet lid. Leon moves ahead just enough to start the water, adjusting it carefully, testing the temperature with his hand before letting it run. Steam begins to rise slowly, curling into the air and softening the edges of the room.

You lean lightly against the counter, watching him through the haze of exhaustion, the small, familiar movements grounding you in a way nothing else quite has yet.

“You do this a lot,” you murmur faintly.

He glances back at you, brow lifting just slightly. “Take care of you?” he asks.

You nod once. Something in his expression softens, just a fraction.

“I always will,” he says quietly.

He steps back toward you then, slower now, his hands gentler as they come to rest at your arms, steadying you again. His gaze flickers briefly over your face, checking, making sure you’re still with him, still present.

“Can you stand?” he asks.

You nod. “I think so.”

He doesn’t completely take your word for it. He stays close anyway. Careful and patient. There’s no rush in what comes next. Just a quiet understanding between you as he helps you out of your clothes, his movements respectful, unhurried, like this isn’t something to get through, but something to do right. His hands are steady, never lingering where they shouldn’t, never pulling away too quickly either.

When you step into the bath, the warmth surrounds you immediately, sinking into your muscles in a way that makes your breath catch softly in your chest. You lower yourself slowly, the water rising around you, easing tension you didn’t even realize you were still holding. It’s not just relief, it’s release.

Your shoulders drop, your head tipping back slightly against the edge as your eyes close for a second, letting yourself settle into it. Leon stays close. Not in the water yet, but right there beside the tub, one hand resting lightly along the edge, his attention still entirely on you.

“Too hot?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head, your voice softer now. "Perfect."

He nods once, then reaches for the shampoo, his movements slower, more deliberate as he shifts closer. His hand brushes lightly against your shoulder first, a silent check, a pause to make sure you’re with him.

You tilt your head slightly in response, and that's all he needs. His fingers move through your hair gently, working the shampoo in with care that feels like heaven. There’s no rush, no distraction, just the steady rhythm of his hands, the quiet presence of him there with you. The tension leaves you in pieces. 

Your head leans back a little more, your eyes slipping closed again as you let yourself relax into it, into the warmth of him.

“You’re really good at this,” you murmur, your voice barely above the sound of the water.

When he rinses your hair, one hand steadies at the back of your neck, careful, protective, making sure the water doesn’t hit too hard, doesn’t pull you out of the quiet you’ve finally found. You lean into that touch without thinking.

By the time he's done, the air feels different. You feel lighter, cleaner, safer. He lingers for a second, his hand still resting lightly along the edge of the tub as he watches you settle deeper into the water. The tension that had been sitting in your shoulders has eased; your breathing is slower now, your body finally beginning to let go of everything it had been holding on to.

His gaze shifts, thoughtful. “You sure you’re steady?” he asks quietly.

You open your eyes just enough to look at him, the faintest hint of a smile returning. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur.

He exhales softly, then moves, slower this time. There’s no hesitation in it, just a quiet decision as he steps back, shedding the last of his own clothes with the same unhurried care he showed you. It’s simple, practical, like this is just the next step.

Then he steps into the bath behind you. The water shifts around him, rising slightly, warmth settling over both of you as he lowers himself carefully, mindful of your space, of your balance, of everything you’ve just been through. His movements are controlled, even here, even now, but there’s something softer in them too, something that isn’t about precision anymore.

You feel the warmth of his chest against your back. His arm comes around you almost immediately, instinctively, resting lightly across your middle, not pulling you in too tightly, just enough to steady you, to keep you anchored there with him.

You exhale, slow and quiet. “That’s better,” you murmur.

A faint breath leaves him, something just short of a laugh. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, it is.”

The water laps gently against the sides of the tub, the only sound in the room aside from your breathing, which has finally evened out into something calm, something steady. The warmth sinks deeper now, loosening what little tension remains, dulling the last edges of pain into something manageable.

Leon’s hand shifts slightly against you, his thumb brushing absent, slow patterns along your arm. It’s not deliberate, not something he’s thinking about. It’s just there, familiar, grounding, something he’s done a hundred times before in quieter moments.

“You still with me?” he asks after a while, his voice low, close to your ear.

You nod faintly, your head tipping back just enough to rest lightly against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just tired.”

“I know.”

His hand tightens just a fraction, then eases again, like he’s reminding himself you’re here, that he doesn’t have to hold on so tightly anymore.

You reach back slightly, your fingers finding his arm where it rests around you, tracing lightly over his skin without thinking. It’s a small movement, but it’s enough to pull his attention fully to you again.

“You okay?” you ask, softer now.

There’s a pause. “I am now,” he admits.

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him, your gaze meeting his in the soft, warm light of the room. For a second, neither of you moves, the space between you close but unhurried.

Then you lean in. The kiss is gentle, slower than before, your hand coming up to rest lightly against his jaw as your lips meet his. There’s no urgency in it, no need to prove anything, just quiet reassurance, the simple fact that you’re both here, both real, both okay.

He responds just as softly, his hand shifting from your arm to your side, holding you there with a steady, careful touch as he leans into it. It lingers just long enough to mean something, to settle into something real, before he pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours.

"I was scared," he murmurs.

"I know," you whisper. "Me too."

His eyes close briefly at that, his breath steadying as he leans into your touch for just a second. The water cools slowly around you, but neither of you moves right away. There’s no rush to leave this moment, no urgency pulling you forward. Just warmth, and quiet, and the steady presence of each other. Eventually, though, he shifts.

“Come on,” he murmurs gently. “Let’s get dried off and get to bed.”

Leon reaches for a towel immediately, wrapping it around your shoulders before you can even think about it, his hands moving with that same practiced gentleness as he draws you closer, drying your hair first, slow and careful, working through it like he had in the water.

Another towel follows, this one warmer, softer as he drapes it around you and guides you to sit on the edge of the tub for a second, making sure you’re steady before stepping back just enough to grab fresh clothes.

He helps you again, keeping you steady as he eases the fabric over your arms, adjusts it at your shoulders, and makes sure you're comfortable before moving on. By the time you're both dressed, the whole world has softened. The sharp edges from before have faded into something else.

Leon’s hand finds yours without thinking as he leads you back toward the bedroom, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as you walk. You don’t pull away. If anything, your grip tightens slightly, grounding yourself in the warmth of him, in the steady presence that hasn’t left your side since he found you.

When you reach the bed, he slows, turning slightly toward you instead of immediately guiding you down. For a second, you just stand there.

"Thank you, Leon," you say quietly, looking at his tired eyes.

The words are simple, but they carry everything behind them, everything you don’t need to explain because he already knows. Leon’s expression softens in that small, almost imperceptible way it does when something gets past his guard. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his free hand comes up, resting gently at your jaw as he leans in just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

“I love you, okay?” he murmurs against you, his voice low, steady, like he needs you to hear it, to hold onto it.

Your breath catches just slightly, something warm settling in your chest as you meet his gaze.

“I love you too,” you reply, just as soft.

He leans his forehead briefly against yours, then shifts, guiding you gently down onto the bed, his hand never quite leaving you as he settles beside you moments later.

You turn toward him instinctively. He meets you there. His arm wraps around you, pulling you close, your body fitting against his like it always has, like it always will. The exhaustion is heavier now, pulling at you in a way that’s impossible to fight, but it doesn’t feel overwhelming anymore.

Your hands come up to rest against his chest, and you listen to the steady sound of his heart where your head lies near his chest. Leon’s hand moves once along your back, then stills, holding you there as the quiet settles in fully around you.

When sleep finally comes, it's gentle and safe. And this time, home finally feels like home again.

-----

My requests are open! <3 I would love to hear from you!

“No, I told you multiple times my husband and I aren’t interested in this insurance deal, we’re already covered.”

He froze, breath hitching, eyes widening ever so slightly. Husband… Your husband. Warmth flooded his entire body, his loving gaze never leaving you as Leon tried to process what was happening. To think you felt safe enough to call him this, to think you saw this relationship as something permanent, something that would last forever… To think you chose him over others. It felt overwhelming — Delightfully overwhelming. And he could swear his vision blurred for a bit, eyes glassy from the few tears of joy threatening to spill. It was already a privilege in itself to have you for himself. To walk outside, hand in hand, for the world to see. Leon is the kind of guy that worships the ground you walk on, that celebrates the smallest of your accomplissements like you just found the cure of a deadly disease… That can’t believe you’re his, despite his flaws.

Starting something with Leon wasn’t the easiest ship you had to sail — Far from it. The nightmares, the insecurities, the traumas, the fear of being rejected, abandoned… Or worst. To see you die. So many obstacles that could have ruined everything, so many times he told himself he didn’t deserve you — Only for you to be ever so patient with him, all the time. To be there when he woke up from his endless nightmares, to show him he also deserved to be loved and to know what happiness felt like. Leon was a mess when you first met him — emotionally wrecked, completely devastated by countless losses. To him, it felt like you were the light guiding him through the dark, to a better place… To a safe haven. So many people would have fled, leaving him behind, a bit more broken, a bit more vulnerable — But not you. You were determined to make it work, because you knew he was the love of your life, as stupid as it sounds. You knew you would never love someone else as much as you love him, so you stayed. Through the storms, through the sleepless nights, through the tears and anger.

Throwing your phone away on the couch, you turned around only to be started by his presence. A hand against your heart, you almost let a curse out.

“Jesus Leon… You could have told me you were here,” you let out a chuckle, reducing the distance between the two of you until your arms could reach the back of his nape. “Hello handsome.”

He stood there silently for a moment, still stunned — Still wondering if it was all a dream after all. Yet his arms gently pulled you closer, his lips pecking yours a few times, slow and soft.

“Hello, Mrs Kennedy,” the words felt good on his tongue. So good he wondered why he didn’t ask you to become his wife way sooner. Your eyes widen, mouth opening ever so slightly as a grin stretches his lips.

“It’s just that…” you’re embarrassed, warmth creeping up your cheeks as you’re caught redhanded. Was it too early? Did you do too much? Should you have asked him if it was okay for you to call him your husband first? Hundreds of questions crashed in your mind, only for them to vanish at the sound of his laugh reaching your ears. “Stop playing dumb,” you gently slap his shoulder, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

“Your husband is dumb?” Leon teases, his fingers caressing the soft skin of your back, under your shirt.

“Oh zip it,” you scoff, eyes rolling in fake annoyance as you lift your face to kiss him, preventing him from embarrassing you further.

The kiss is tender, soft — Pure. Something that ressembles the love the two of you have for each other. It lasts for a few more seconds, his lips leaving yours almost reluctantly.

“Keep telling everyone I’m your husband Mrs Kennedy, because it will be a fact very, very soon.” He whispers, his warm breath fanning over your lips as your eyes flutter open to look at him. And for a moment, your heart beats so fast it feels like it’s about to burst off your ribcage. You want to cry, to jump everywhere, to tell everyone about it, to hold him tight until the euphoria passes — So many emotions all at once your brain struggles to process them all. You can feel your lash line watering despite all your efforts to keep those tears for yourself, as Leon gently grabs your face in between his large hands. Palms pressed against your cheeks, he kisses your forehead, the tip of your nose, your closed eyelids, your chin and then your lips one more time.

“I love you,” an other murmur, a promise. The three words Leon would sometimes struggle to say, and you never made him feel bad about it. Because you know how hard it is for him to love someone without being so afraid to lose them. Because you know there’s this little voice at the back of his head still telling him, from time to time, that he doesn’t deserve any of it. Those three words you sometimes hoped to hear more often, yet never blamed him for being who he is. How could you, after everything he’s been through?

And here they are — Those pretty tears rolling down your face, unable to stay still and hidden. But Leon kisses them all away as you sob silently, overwhelmed by all the love he’s giving you in this very moment.

“I love you too, Leon,” your voice is barely above a whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. Carefully, he places one of his arm on your lower back, his free hand grabbing one of yours, lifting it to his lips so he can kiss your wrist, then your knuckles.

“Want to give me a first dance, Mrs Kennedy?”

"Hey, you're gonna be okay," he sounds like he's convincing himself of it, too. You must look pretty bad. Which is saying something, because Leon is covered in gashes and blood, the latter covering his body so much that you could no longer tell what's his and what isn't. 

"You okay?" You manage to get out, and he chuckles at you, eyes softening. You were on the verge of passing out, and asking if he was alright.

"You kidding? I'm the picture of health," his thumbs rub over your cheeks. He glances down at your torn open shirt, ribs covered in a gash deeper than he's ever seen on him or you before. You laugh weakly as he tears a bit of fabric from your already shredded shirt.

"You should take me to dinner first before ripping my clothes off me," you feel him wrap the strip around you, tying a secure knot to keep pressure on it.

"All the shit we've seen, I think we're past the dinner phase," he wraps his arm around you. "You think you can stand with me?" You nod, and he begins to lift you up to your feet. The room shifts violently, vertigo making you sway a bit. He moves closer, bracing you with his chest. "C'mon, I got you, baby. Let's get the hell out of here before you pass out on me." You try to pretend that even in your dazed state, the name baby doesn't send a flood of emotion through you.

It's a slow limp back to Leon's car, which is miraculously still there after all this shit. At least zombies don't know how to drive.

Leon basically lifts you into the passenger seat, but not before trying to lay you in the back. He quickly (willingly) loses an argument with you and your half slurred protests. He didn't want to waste time while you were actively bleeding, the once beige fabric now a deep red. It's easier to keep an eye on you this way, anyways.

You spend the entire drive answering Leon's questions, which you know is just a tactic to keep you conscious while he speeds to the nearest motel. Normally, you'd patch each other up in the car, but there were some stray infected wandering around, ones that had escaped your bullets. Leon didn't want to take any chances lingering around that hell hole. You're pretty sure he went near 100 miles an hour, but you're also drunk on blood loss, so maybe you imagine it.

Once you finally find a motel, Leon lifts you out of the car. You had started to be lazier and lazier in talking to him, so he bypasses any of your stubbornness by picking you up without comment. You need to be patched up now. You had barely registered him leaving the car briefly to retrieve a key and unlock the door before you were inside, and he deposits you gently on the bathroom counter against the aggressively yellowed wall, next to the world's grimiest mirror. He opens his massive first aid kit next to you, and you thank god for his insane level of practicality. You aren't exactly in the mood to walk into a drugstore to grab bandages and alcohol.

"Is it okay if I take this off?" He tugs at the hem of your shirt. You almost laugh. You either let Leon see you shirtless, or you bleed out and die. But you give him consent nonetheless.

Leon begins to peel away the makeshift bandage. You're so numb to the pain at this point, all you can do is shiver as he removes the fabric stuck in your open tissue.

"I'm gonna have to stitch you up," he murmurs, and you catch the look on his face that says it all. Guilt, worry. "I'm sorry."

"Nothin' to be sorry for," you close your eyes and wince at the antiseptic he swipes over your wounds. "You killed that asshole, I really should be thanking you." Leon just sighs through his nose as he threads a needle.

"This isn't gonna feel good," he moves in closer to get a better angle. Before doing anything, he grabs your hand and moves it to his shoulder. An offering of something to hold onto to distract yourself from the pain. He looks up at you to ask if you're ready and you grimace with a nod.

What follows is the longest 10 minutes of your goddamn life. You suppose that it's good you can feel every bit of it. It means your nerves aren't shot, and it shocks your system out of its exhaustion.

Leon dabs over the newly closed wound again with disinfectant when he's done, and the coolness, even with the sting, feels good against your hot skin. You shiver pleasantly as Leon's hands ghost over the rest of you, wrapping up your side, and searching for other injuries that may need tending to. Every scrape, minor cut, he's wiping it with disinfectant and carefully inspecting the severity.

"'M alright, Leon," you wave nonchalantly. "Got a killer headache, but I'm not gonna die."

"I wasn't so sure for a minute," he says, tucking your hair behind your ears.

"I could say the same about you," you smile softly, eyes combing over the cuts and reddening bruises littering his body as he begins to tidy up the medical supplies scattered everywhere. "You're one stubborn asshole, Kennedy."

"You're one to talk."

"Touché, emo boy," you grunt, knees almost buckling as you go to stand up. Leon catches you without hesitation. His hands rest securely on your hips, letting you use his chest for safety while you start to regain your balance. "Jesus, you've got a full-time job saving my ass."

"Don't pretend like you haven't done the same for me before," his voice goes soft. You're fully standing now, but his hands still grip at your waist. "Besides, you never owe me anything. It's just... not like that," he pauses before going further. "I don't know what I'd do without you." This is what may make you pass out, you think. You can feel your cheeks start to burn at the way he looks at you. Your eyes betray you, flickering to his lips, and you take a stutter of a few steps away, managing to flip on the shower without falling over.

"I'm gonna clean up," you spot the towels folded on the counter and suddenly find them the most fascinating thing you've ever seen. "Thanks for stitching me up."

"Don't mention it," there's a touch of dejection in his voice. Fuck. "You still feel okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," you manage a smile. He nods with one last long look at you. There's an almost shy look on his face, something that's the antithesis of Leon these days. It's just been a long time since he's had that look. A thousand lifetimes ago, a rookie you met in the middle of an infected war-zone had that look. When he's around you, you see him come through a lot. Boyish grins. Soft chuckles at his own jokes.

The hot water feels like heaven on earth washing away the grime and blood, even via your half-assed sponge bath. A scratchy washcloth and cheap soap that has your skin uncomfortably squeaky clean aren't exactly your first choices for a shower. At least it's better than zombie goop.

You try your best not to let your mind wander, but it's hard not to. You dip your head under the faucet, letting the cheap shampoo rinse out, and let the popcorn ceiling become a canvas for everything you had just seen. The dead. The reanimated. Some of them children who had their lives ripped from them. The terrified look across Leon's face when he was across the room and was too far away to block the claws ripping at your side before you could even register it. The way his body went limp when being thrown into the ground. Tears welled in your eyes at the mere memory. You thought he had died. You really did. And in that moment, with your vision going in and out, you were struck with a pit in your stomach at the idea of having to do this, do anything, even wake up without that man's endless calls, his dumb jokes, his mere presence next to you.

You had acknowledged your feelings long ago, hell, you and Leon got drunk one night after a debrief and some heavy petting had ensued. You don't know if he remembers that; you only have foggy memories of sloppy touches and his body against yours. But it's enough to make you blush thinking about it.

It isn't impossible that he felt similarly towards you. You aren't stupid. But in this line of work, relationships like that aren't exactly ideal. Naming it would bring it fully to fruition. And the cruelness of the world would punish you for it, you fear. But the need for that certainty, the freedom of being open about that with him, and to be loved so candidly in return? It was overwhelming.

Eventually, you force yourself to be done. And soon realize that you need clothes that aren't ripped and covered in blood.

You wrap a towel around you and peek out of the bathroom. Leon had settled in one of the rickety chairs, eyes closed, brow furrowed. He looks up at the squeak of bathroom door hinges. His eyes flicker over your collarbone, your legs. You aren't sure if the heat down your spine is from the shower or his eyes.

"I had some extra clothes in my car," he brings you a pair of neatly folded sweatpants, a soft, worn shirt on top. You thank him and pop back into the bathroom to change. The outfit is clearly an extra set of gym clothes. Loose and comfy, with a hint of his cologne still lingering. You re-enter the main area of the room, and Leon swallows thickly at the sight of his clothes hanging off your frame. His mouth can't help itself.

"Cute," he says, so quietly you almost don't hear him. He follows it with a regular volume. "Feeling any better?"

"A little," you shrug, sitting down on one of the beds. The springs squeak obnoxiously under your weight. "Your turn."

"What? You think I stink?" He opens his arms, showing off every inch of now dried, brown bodily fluids across his body. "Would've never guessed."

As Leon showers, you stay stationary on the bed, wondering how on earth you'd be able to sleep tonight with remnants of anxiety lingering over you. It's not like you hadn't dealt with it before, but having nearly watched Leon almost die... you're pretty shaken up.

You nearly jump out of your skin when the bathroom door opens a while later, a freshly clean Leon padding out in an almost matching set of shirt and sweats to you. Cute.

The two of you don't talk much the rest of the night. Leon retrieves an utterly nutritious dinner of vending machine food with a generous helping of water, and you watch some rerun of a sitcom on the world's tiniest TV. The wrappers crinkling and soft voices on the television is enough to fill the space. It's a calm reprieve from all the chaos the two of you had been engulfed in the past few days.

It takes a few hours of laying in bed after your shitty dinner before you give up pretending to not know what would make you feel safe enough to sleep.

"Leon?"

Maybe he's already asleep.

"Yeah?"

Fuck.

"Would you-" You have to squeeze your eyes shut to get what you really need out. "Can you come over here? I... can't sleep." You don't explain further. You don't have to. He climbs into your bed without a second thought, laying on his side to look at you. The world seems to shrink down to just the mere inches between the two of you in this tiny, shitty bed.

"Thought I was gonna lose you earlier." Leon finally says.

"Me too," you meet his gaze. He looks at you, eyes kind. You can almost feel the static in the air between the two of you. "Don't do that again."

"I'll try my best," he scoffs with a smile. That rookie cop you met so long ago flashes in his expression. You feel like you could melt into the mattress. It only gets worse when he reaches out to touch your cheek. His thumb grazes over a scar just over the top of your cheekbone. He was there when you got it, and you can see his eyes flickering, thinking about that very same memory.

You can't believe what's happening when suddenly he pulls you into a tight hug. It takes you longer than it should for you to remember to hug back. He squeezes you close to him, and you can't help but wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers coming up to brush the hair at his nape. He shivers against you at the touch, and you feel brave enough to go further, gently stroking his hair. His fingers knead at your waist.

"Don't go anywhere," you mumble into his neck. He wraps his arms around you, holding you impossibly closer.

"I won't," he says, confidence ignited in his voice again. "As long as you stay here with me."

———————

You don't remember how long that lasted before the both of you fell asleep.

The late morning light shines through the barely opaque curtains, casting over the room in a golden glow. Leon's arm is still slung over you. You watch his chest rise and fall, brow devoid of the furrow normally persistently there. You brush his hair away from his face, and he leans into your touch. You smile. Everything felt right, despite the day before's events. Despite the ache in your body. Despite the shitty, bumpy mattress and the nicotine-yellowed walls around you. Next to this man, that's what it means to feel safe.

You grunt as you manage to sit up on the side of the bed, going to check on your injury. The bandage is dry and there's only a little blood peeking through. A good sign. It hurts like fucking hell though. You nearly jump when you feel a hand touch your hip on that side.

"How's it feeling?" Leon's voice rumbles deeply, gruff with sleep.

"Not too bad," you shrug. You turn to look at him already staring up at you. A bruise had begun to turn a deep purple near his chin. You reach out and rub your thumb over it. He leans into your touch, eyes closed. He looks like he's never been worried a day in his life. "They got you good."

"I've been worse," he mumbles. "I'm feeling pretty good right now, actually." A laugh falls from you lips. There's something so easy about the way he's laying it on thick now. Something so unspoken before seems to have broken through the normalcy, and it feels as average as saying hello.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah," he opens his eyes again to look at you. You meet his gaze this time without any hesitation. He covers your hand on his face with his, giving a squeeze as he sits up, moving closer. Your hand falls to his chest, and he's suddenly so close to you. Your eyes flicker to his lips again, and this time Leon doesn't take any chances. In a flash, he's kissing you like his life depends on it. Heat floods your body, your stomach turning over, your heart soaring. You let your body fall into his, and he takes you willingly into his arms. The kiss turns messy, frantic, and in an instant you're moving to climb on his lap. He groans against your mouth, doing his best to ignore the tent rising in his sweatpants. "We can't."

"Why the hell not?" You laugh against him, continuing to plant kisses everywhere you can get your lips on.

"Your stitches," He gently pushes you away, all kiss-bitten lips and heavy breathing. You're almost pouting, and it nearly has him giving in. "Don't look at me like that. The last thing I need is you bleeding out on me again."

"Would be worth it."

He chuckles, tilting his head back against the wall. His eyes don't leave you, scanning over your face. Enjoying the light flush of your cheeks, sitting on him. He commits this vision to memory. Every detail, every feeling. The fabric of his clothes covering your body, pressed up against him so comfortably like its a daily occurrence. Your fingers tracing his shoulders, his neck, his chest. The warmth of your skin underneath his palms. He's afraid he'll never get to feel this again. But it can't hurt to try.

"Hey," The lightheartedness is replaced by an air of something more serious, but still dripping with affection. "I love you. I'm tired of pretending like we both don't know it." The words leave his mouth before he has a second thought, and you go still. Here it is. Out in the open. You swallow hard. You're not sure if you're ready to dive in, but you do so anyways. It's the obvious impulse, just like jumping in front of a bullet for him is. Leon's eyes search yours for your reaction, and you can't bear to leave him in desperation for that long. You press a hard kiss to his mouth. He breaks it after a few blissful moments.

"Tell me, baby," he breathes so, so sweetly. There it is again. Baby. You've never heard Leon Kennedy beg before.

"I love you, Leon," you're surprised at how easy the words flow off your tongue, like it was just as natural as breathing. He kisses you again, a relaxed sigh escaping him. The tension in his body goes fully limp as he pulls you in, desperate to feel every inch of you against him.

You don’t know if it’s bad news. Somehow, you could never think of it that way, not when this is the fruit of your love, your passion. Still, it makes your breath feel scarce, as if any time soon you’re passing out because of how… grand this suddenly seems.

Eight weeks.

You’ve been carrying your baby for eight weeks in your womb without you knowing.

The timeline suddenly makes sense—you can easily recall when and how this came to fruition. The way Leon’s body moved along yours, how he showered your skin with the utmost delicacy and love a person can ever muster in his being. It was passion and love and everything in between. It didn’t just happen once or twice. It was frequent.

And yet, your mind reminds you that you chose not to use protection that day. Whether it’s because you forgot, or you were so lost in the throes of passion that you threw caution to the wind—it all comes down to this moment right here, when you’re leaning against the counter of your kitchen, and you reread the results over and over.

As if you can erase it with just a single glance.

Your mind wanders to different places. Though mostly, you can hear it nagging at you. The most rational part of your brain is scolding you for being so irresponsible, because now isn't the absolute best time for you to get pregnant.

For one, you’re graduating in two months. You’re basically just wrapping up your internship and waiting for the pre-graduation rituals to happen. By then, you’d be four months pregnant, and your belly will do the talking for you. You’re showing by the time you walk up the stage and receive your diploma. And your apprehension worsens when you think about what other people will say, especially your family.

Your parents.

Relatives that will mention your failed potential already.

But another thing that worries you is how you’re going to provide for this baby.

You think of already looking for a job right now. Waiting tables seem fine, and you swallow down your pride at the thought of searching for a minimum wage job. It isn’t what you’ve envisioned for yourself, but given the circumstances, who are you to complain?

Leon has just gotten his job at the Raccoon City Police Department. It’ll take at least six months for him to become a regular employee, and it’s just the right time for when you’re already eight months pregnant, about to give birth soon—and that’s another thing that scares you, but you don’t dwell on it long enough for it to bother you right now.

You’re more concerned with how this is going to work. Leon has a job, yes, but his salary isn’t enough to provide for a baby just yet. It’s already enough to cover rent and your basic necessities, and throw in a few wants here and there, but a baby? Where the hell are you going to get the budget to raise a baby in your apartment that’s big enough for just two people?

Then it hits you, like a brick to your face without warning. The question exposes itself to you before you’ve even had a chance to gather your bearings.

What if Leon doesn’t want this with you?

You feel bile rising in your throat, and you toss the papers to the side before you’re hunched over the sink, vomiting the lunch you barely ate after your appointment at the OB-Gynecologist earlier.

Hot tears stream down your cheeks. You’re so overwhelmed that you can’t breathe. The world feels as if it’s caving in around you, and just thinking about Leon not wanting this with you feels like a physical blow to the chest, and you place your hand over it, as if it will ease the pain that you feel right now.

You’ve been so caught up thinking about how you and Leon are going to handle this that you failed to consider if he even wants this in the first place. Now your mind is playing you for a fool—it’s telling you all your deepest fears materializing right in front of you.

Except, Leon doesn’t know. And he will be finding out in a while, because he’s already on his way home, and you’re already thinking about how to tell him.

You decide to make dinner first. Something to ease you off of the panic and anxiety that is threatening to swallow you whole. Even though you’ve willed yourself to calm down, the ever present nausea is still there, sitting right at your stomach as your fingers quiver when you start cutting up some onions and garlic.

Truthfully, you have no idea what you’re making, but it slightly distracts you and you’re grateful for any sort of distraction right now. The more you think about telling Leon the news of your pregnancy, the more your stomach twists itself in an anxious knot, because you’re fully convinced that he’s going to walk away from you when you tell him.

You’re in the middle of cooking up your last two slabs of steak in the fridge when the front door opens. You stiffen, but you will yourself to stay calm, inhaling deep breaths and neutralizing your expression for Leon.

“Hey babe, smells amazing!” Leon says cheerfully as he enters, and he immediately follows the scent to the kitchen. “Whatcha making, beautiful?”

He stands right behind you and embraces you from behind, planting a soft kiss to the side of your neck. You tense up—though you didn’t mean to. Leon notices this and his brow furrows, so he tentatively releases you from his grasp. Your heart and stomach sinks.

Leon clears his throat. “Uh… anyway, I got you something. Remember the bakery near the PD? Well I got in just in time to grab your favorite scones. And I got them for a deal too—they’re buy one get one free! Isn’t that cool? Also I was talking with lieutenant Branagh a while ago and he said—”

“Leon, we need to talk.”

You turn off the stove before you face him, your expression crestfallen and anxious. Leon notices this immediately, and he places your scones on the table before he walks towards you, still in uniform and all.

“What’s wrong?” he immediately asks you, concern etched all over his face. He stands in front of you, reaching for both of your hands. “Did something happen in your internship today? Was it your supervisor again? I swear, if he makes you uncomfortable again—”

You shake your head, your palms cold and clammy against his own. “No, no… it’s not that.” The way your voice sounded weak and unstable makes you uncomfortable. “Look, I went to the doctor earlier. An OB gynecologist. I missed my period twice, and I thought something’s wrong…”

The more you speak, the more your voice shakes. Tears form around the corner of your eyes, and you hate how you struggle to find the words to tell him. Leon is obviously worried as he notices your apprehension, and he’s trying to understand what’s going on.

“Yeah? What did the doctor say?” He asks, though frankly, he can feel his stomach clenching as he realizes the possible answers. “Did something happen?”

For the nth time, you shake your head.

You need to tell him. You try to reason with yourself that you have to say this because you know it’ll change your lives forever, and Leon deserves to know.

Taking a deep breath, you brace yourself.

“Leon, I’m… I… I’m eight weeks pregnant.”

Leon’s hands loosen around yours, and you immediately feel the lack of warmth leaving your skin. Your head is hung low, and you refuse to look at his expression because seeing the rejection there might hurt less if you just don’t gaze up.

The kitchen is quiet, save for the noises outside your apartment. Leon doesn’t say anything, and that makes it worse.

“Say something.” You implore, almost pleading.

Finally, you look at him, and you see his expression.

Leon looks stunned.

He’s momentarily confused, and you see the play of emotions painted all over his face. It’s as if he’s taking his time to figure out the timeline of events. Eight weeks you tell him. Eight weeks and both of you had no idea you’re carrying his baby.

“Y/N… I don’t… I don’t know what to say,” he finally murmurs, his gaze locking into yours. You see the confusion and surprise written in his eyes. “You’re pregnant—wow, I didn’t… I’m in shock, I’m just… I can’t believe it…”

Something about his reaction almost frustrates you, and you don’t even understand why. You’ve spent an hour mulling over what he’s going to say, and you’ve already prepared for the worst. So when he seems less apprehended by the news, you almost feel something twisting in your chest and your stomach. He’s supposed to be upset. He’s supposed to say something that he won’t mean and then you and him are supposed to get into a huge argument about this because that’s what you’re thinking will happen.

Instead, he reaches for your hands again, and he squeezes them as he takes in your worried, apprehended expression, as if you’ve been subjected to some sort of vitriol by your thoughts.

“Are you okay? Did the doctor say anything about the baby? Is it… is it healthy?” He asks you tentatively, his voice teetering on the edge of something cautious. “Talk to me, Y/N…”

His gentleness takes you by surprise. You’ve half expected him to say something that will signify the end of your relationship, but not this. Not his sudden tender concern and gentle affection that you can feel in his words.

“What?” you stammer, tears building up the corners of your eyes. “I don’t… I don’t understand…”

Leon’s brows knit together in concern. “What do you not understand? What’s wrong?”

A tear rolls down your cheek, and another, until you’re practically sobbing in front of him. You don’t know if it’s because you’re overwhelmed or it’s the pregnancy hormones kicking in.

Leon’s startled by your tears, and he’s already moving closer towards you, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks, thumbs gently brushing away your tears. “Hey… hey… it’s okay. I’m here,” he pulls you in for an embrace.

You fall apart in his arms. As soon as he holds you, you crumble—sobbing on his shoulder while your shoulders tense. Leon is quick to react—he’s holding you, rubbing circles over your back as you try to voice out what’s been on your mind the second you told him you’re carrying his baby.

“I don’t understand, you’re supposed to tell me you can’t do this… you’re supposed to tell me we can’t make this work and we’ll have to break up and you’re going to leave me and I’ll raise our baby by myself and, and—”

“Hey… shhhh, none of that,” he cuts you off gently. “Who said I was gonna leave you alone, hm? Who said I was going to break up with you?”

You fall short on coming up with a reply. Because you know deep down it’s your thoughts that’s been saying all these mean things to you. That your biggest enemy right now is your mind that’s currently overwhelmed with the news of everything.

“I just thought…” you trail off, sniffling into his uniform. “I’m just so scared, Leon… how am I going to do this? You just got your job, and I’m graduating, and I don’t know what to do… I’m so terribly afraid, I can’t—”

Leon pecks your temple, and you melt into his touch immediately. As if you’re longing for his comfort and his touch, his reassurance that can do wonders for your frazzled nerves right now.

“It’s okay, I’m scared too… but Y/N, we’re in this together, right? Whatever happens, you know I’ll love you still… even more now that you’re carrying our baby. We’ll figure it out one step at a time, but right now, my priority is your comfort and well-being.”

Leon continues rubbing smooth circles on your back, calming you down. “Breathe with me. In and out… like this,” he breathes in for a few seconds and exhales afterwards, which you mimic. “That’s good, that’s really good. You’re doing so well.”

You slowly calm down, and Leon gently pulls away to search your face for any distress. Clearly, it’s written all over your face, and Leon’s quick to respond to it. He brushes away your tears and plants soft kisses over your face.

“Look, I know this is difficult to navigate, but we don’t have to figure it out immediately. I’m as scared as you are—heck, I’m scared shitless right now, but I know I want to do this with you, and we’ll get through it one day at a time.” He tells you reassuringly.

Leon searches your gaze. “I’m nervous, Y/N… I’m scared too.. I don’t know how we’re going to do this, but I know I want to try with you. For you and our baby… our… our family.” His voice quivers at the last bit as he exhales a shaky breath.

It’s all dawning on you again. It’s not just you and Leon anymore, it’s you, Leon, and your baby growing in your womb. It’s all three of you. It’s your family now.

Leon actively choosing to be with you throughout all this feels surreal. You were so afraid he’ll walk out on you, but instead, he’s choosing to stand by you through all of this. You know he’s chivalrous, but this feels different, this feels more like devotion than just him seeing you like an obligation he just needs to fulfill.

“You’re not… you don’t think this is just an obligation, right?” You can’t help but ask, your voice weak and quiet.

“No, of course not, no,” he answers you quickly. Leon cups your cheek and tips your chin up so you’re looking at each other. “You’re not just an obligation to me, Y/N. I love you, and I want to do this with you and I don’t see myself doing anything other than being there for you through this… this new journey we have together. That’s a promise.”

Your heart nearly aches with his reassurance. “But what… what will people say? I haven’t even graduated college yet, and then here I am… getting knocked up.” You say it as if it’s your fault, which your distorted way of thinking believes.

But Leon’s shaking his head, holding onto your shoulders to reinforce his comfort. “Listen to me, sweetheart… none of this is your fault, it’s not anyone’s fault. We just… fell short when it comes to planning this but I don’t regret anything, and I hope you wouldn’t too.”

“Because I choose you,” he whispers, leaning down until your foreheads were nearly touching, and you see the adoration swirling in the depths of Leon’s eyes. “I choose this, us… our baby…” his hand slides down to palm your belly through your shirt. “We’ll figure it out. You know it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else but us. I’ll stand by you, no matter what. I hope you know that, Y/N.”

You sniffle, feeling the tears start again. These damn waterworks. “Even when my family might disown me?” you ask him like a child. “Even when people might say things about us?”

“Especially then,” he replies gently. “I don’t care what other people say… what matters to me is that you’re okay, that our baby’s healthy and growing in you. You’ve always been my priority, and right now, I want you to know I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure this out slowly, okay? You and me… always.”

Leon holds you closer, pulls you in until there’s absolutely no space between the two of you from top to bottom. You bury your face in his chest, crying your heart out until your sobs subside because of Leon’s comfort and gentle reassurance. He hushes you, and tells you things will be okay, despite you knowing it’ll only get much more difficult from here. But at least you have Leon—you have each other, and that counts as something.

When you eventually calm down, he helps you plate the dinner you made a while ago, saying that you should keep your strength up because your baby is growing inside you and you should probably start becoming more mindful of what you eat.

Of course, you listen—right now you aren’t in a good place emotionally, and Leon, being the more rational one between the two of you sometimes, decides he’ll take care of you tonight and reassure you as many times as you need him to.

After dinner, after you’ve both washed up the dirt and stress of the day, the two of you lay in your bed together, and Leon’s holding the ultrasound picture between his fingers, his eyes bright with wonder and curiosity, if not awe.

“Wow… it looks so small…” he mumbled, eyes tracing over that tiny pea shaped being clinging to your womb. “Is that our baby?”

You nod, snuggling close to him. “Yeah, that’s what the doctor said. Eight weeks along.”

Leon smiles—something real and tender and fond. He traces the outline of the little pea with his finger. “Wow,” he murmurs again. “I can’t believe we made this together.”

The way he says it makes your heart ache in a good way. Leon sounds so fond, so in awe of this, of your baby in your womb that’s barely even there yet. But you know he speaks from the heart, because you rarely see him like this, his eyes twinkling with wonderment, lips almost agape, a small smile in his cheeks.

“Can I talk to them?” He asks, setting the ultrasound picture aside. “Isn’t that like… good for their development?”

“I doubt they can hear you as of now, Leon.”

“But still, it doesn't hurt to try,” he insists, looking at you almost pleadingly. “Can I?”

You shrug, though you’re quite nervous to hear what he has to say. You lean back against the propped up pillows and lift up your shirt over your stomach, watching as Leon situates himself so he’d be facing your tummy.

Leon places a gentle palm over it, the pad of his thumb caressing the soft skin. “Hey there,” he starts, almost nervous. “I know you can’t hear me right now, but… I just wanted to say hello.”

“I haven’t met you yet, but I know deep down in my heart I will love you. Even though right now, your mommy might think otherwise,” he teases.

“Hey, that’s not true,” you counter, playfully rolling your eyes.

Leon chuckles softly, before he continues. “I want you to know… that whatever happens, I’ll make sure you’ll be okay. Both you and your mom. No matter what you need, I’ll do my best to provide it for you. You just sit there and grow, okay?” he gently pats your tummy.

Something about his words make your eyes water.

“I can’t wait to meet you,” he murmurs, planting a soft kiss on top of your stomach. “I wonder what you’ll look like? Though I hope you take after your mom… so that I can look at my two favorite people in the world and feel so damn lucky.”

That makes you smile, and you reach down to run your fingers through Leon’s soft, dirty blond hair. You feel your heart warming up, and suddenly, all your prior worries and fears vanishing into thin air.

“Don’t give your mom any trouble, okay? I know she’ll get sick in the morning and her back will ache… but I know she loves you too. So much. Like I do already,” Leon whispers, placing another soft smooch. “Just stay there and grow… and when you’re ready to come out into the world, I’ll be waiting with open arms.”

Leon finally looks up at you, and you see the adoration in his blue eyes that speak right through you. Your heart aches with love—you’ve never felt this way before, never had this affection taking over your entire being and it overwhelms you just a bit.

He moves up, reaching for your cheek, before he leans in and kisses you. It’s soft and gentle and sweet, filled with tender love and affection that speaks volumes about how he feels about you and your baby right now.

When he pulls away, your eyes are shimmering with tears, and Leon smiles as he looks at you. “I love you, you know that right?” he whispers close to your lips. “And that means I’ll stand by you and our baby no matter what the future holds for us.”

“I love you too.” You answer him, almost tearfully. “So much.”

And then he lays there, right next to you, holding you between your arms while you both talk about a future that seems perfect right now for the two of you and your little one. It’s not much yet, given the circumstances, but it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but the two of you.

After all, you’re in this together now. And if Leon chooses you for the rest of his life, you and your baby, then you know you’re in good hands. You know that you can trek through the difficulties of life and this pregnancy with Leon by your side.

It’ll be okay, you tell yourself.

You will be okay with taking small baby steps in this new journey you'll take together.

All three of you.

🔖 taglist: @rednnedy @eu4rialy

this is one of my favorite requests! so to the person who sent this in my inbox, i hope you like it 🤍 thank you so much again for requesting! i hope i was able to capture the essence of your request.

i'm in the middle of writing some requests right now but i'll be posting more soon, especially since i have an internship break next week for a couple of days >< i'm so excited to write and share them with you ʚɞ

thank you so much for reading this fic, don't hesitate to send me an ask or anything under the sun! i'm happy to read your requests and messages 💞

— aali 𑣲

note: dividers are from @/cursed-carmine!

Of course that’s to account for the dose that cured him of his T-virus syndrome, but there’s just something so freeing about confronting his fears, and making sure he has no more regrets about not being able to make a difference. Because he did, this time. And that’s all he needs to rest easy tonight in your arms, hopefully.

Leon unlaces his boots and sets them by the shoe rack. His weapons and tactical gear are in a duffel bag, and he sets it down somewhere before he makes his way to the kitchen, grabbing himself a glass of water.

It’s quiet in your home. It’s only a little over nine, but he wonders—are you already asleep? It’s too early for you to be sleeping, especially since it’s a weekend tomorrow and you don’t have work. He thinks you’re probably resting, but then, a small sound interrupts his thoughts.

A squeak.

A tiny whine.

His brow quirks, and he sets down the glass before listening closely. His senses are heightened because of his missions and his training, and right now, he’s using them to his full advantage.

He follows the sound of those tiny little whines—sounding more like meows and little whimpers. Leon makes a beeline for your bedroom door, and when he pushes it open, there he finds you on the bed.

Except, you’re not asleep.

To Leon's surprise, you’re currently preoccupied by three small kittens, playing around in a basket while you nudge them gently with your finger, rubbing their backs or their chins with a gentleness that only you can be capable of.

Leon pauses by the doorway, watching you, your fond expression, and his heart aches. There’s something about you, about seeing you like this that just softens him. He’s all rough around the edges, but you give him that touch of softness he never knew he needed.

You’re leaning against the headboard, one kitten in your arms, and the other two are wrestling each other in the basket. The sight makes Leon smile, the corners of his lips lifting.

“Y/N.” He says your name to catch your attention, announcing his presence to you. “Hey sweetheart.”

Your heart immediately thrums as you hear his voice. Turning around, you see your boyfriend standing by the doorway, a smirk plastered on his lips. Without much thought, you set the kitten in the basket before you push yourself off the bed and practically race to his arms. Leon catches you without hesitation, pressing his lips to the top of your head, kissing it twice.

“You’re home,” you murmur, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. Smiling, you stand on your tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “When did you get back? I didn't hear you!”

“Just now.” Leon answers you, but his gaze is drawn to the basket on your bed, one with cloth inside and three furballs that meow constantly for your attention. “Are those kittens?”

As if remembering your earlier activity, you turn around to gaze at the little furballs on your bed. There’s three of them—one is black and white, a black spot on its ears; the other is a tuxedo kitty, all black fur and white paws; and the last one seems to be a calico kitten. The tuxedo kitten explores your bed, sitting down while its other two siblings wrestle in the basket, making you smile.

You tug Leon close to the bed. As you sit down, Leon follows, and you pick up one kitten in your palms and offer it to him with an excited grin on your face.

“My coworkers and I found them outside our building, near the parking lot. I think someone left them there.” You explain to him gently, watching as Leon pauses, his eyes trained over the ball of fluff. It meows at him. And you can see his expression growing unreadable.

“I stopped by a pet shop to buy some supplies. Just goat milk and all that whatnot. Since they seem a bit malnourished.”

You’ve never really known what he’s like around animals, let alone vulnerable little things such as kittens, so seeing him react to them is a first. And somehow, you feel a little nervous because you took these kittens in without consulting them, though really you’re just fostering them temporarily while you find forever homes and people willing to adopt.

When Leon doesn’t respond, you set the kitten down on the bed. It crawls towards him, nudging his thigh with its head. Leon stills, watching how it moves, almost like he’s assessing a situation, except the “threat” he’s perceiving is a tiny fluffball.

The other two kittens climb out of the basket, fall gently on the mattress and approach Leon with curiosity. He offers a finger for one of them to sniff, and he stays very still so he doesn’t scare any of them.

You watch this scene unfold, nearly holding your breath as the kittens swarm him. The calico kitten nuzzles his finger first, approaching him without a second thought. Leon’s shoulders visibly relax, and you see that hint of a smirk on the corner of his mouth.

“Well, aren’t you brave?” He murmurs, picking up the calico kitten in between his large palms, and then starts petting them, slow and steady. He adjusts his hold, one palm serving as a barrier so the kitten doesn’t fall. “You look like… a rat.”

You snort. “Leon.”

“What?” he meets your gaze, smirking. “It’s just so small, plus its fur is sticking out in all different directions.”

That makes you laugh just a bit. “They’re just a few weeks old, Leon. Don’t be mean.” You say, a hint of teasing in your voice.

“I’m just being honest.” He shrugs, though he sets the calico kitten down on the bed. “They’re… cute.”

“Yeah? I’m thinking of names for them, but I’m coming up short. I think I’ll leave that to the people adopting them.”

Leon glances at you, watching as you nuzzle your finger against one of the kitten’s chin. “You’ve found some people wanting to adopt these… things?”

“Yup. One of my coworkers will, and then two of my friends came forward saying they want to take care of them. So that’s settled.” You smile a bit, knowing these kittens will be in good hands. “But they’ll adopt them next week. I just want to take care of them right now since they’re just so small and malnourished.”

Leon’s gaze falls onto the kittens once more. He reaches out to the smallest one. “This must be the runt of the litter,” he tells you, a note of assessment in his tone. “Smaller than the others.”

“Yeah. I feed him more milk than the other two since he needs to grow.” You explain, watching as one of the kittens climb your shorts, before settling on your lap. You chuckle softly. “And this one’s clingier.”

“Yeah?”

Leon lies down on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. He suddenly forgets that he's extremely exhausted, his attention focused on you and how you're tending to these kittens with gentle care and affection.

One of the kittens comes to him, and they climb up his chest. He pokes and prods it, playing with the black and white kitten that seems enamored with his finger, mistaking it for some sort of toy. Leon trails it around, and the kitten follows, meowing when Leon won’t let it have what it wants—to sink its growing teeth onto the flesh of his index finger.

By then, all the kittens flock to him. It warms your heart, seeing him surrounded by balls of fluff, and you sear the image at the back of your head, hoping to remember this moment for as long as you can. Even though you have no idea what Leon is thinking of at this moment, you can tell he isn’t uncomfortable or uneasy having to play with kittens. He isn’t a cat person, but he isn’t averse to them either.

You reach for your phone, secretly taking a photo of them. Leon’s gaze is on the three kittens now, and vying for his full attention seems impossible when he’s focused on them. His eyes aren’t bored, but they’re calm, neutral.

“It’s time for their next feeding, I’ll go prepare some milk.” You say before getting up. “Watch them for me?”

Leon just nods without looking up at you. “Of course. They’ve already held me hostage so you don’t have to worry about me going anywhere.”

Giggling to yourself, you exit the room, padding towards the kitchen to prepare some warm milk for the kittens. Leon, on the other hand, lies on his side, head propped up on his palm while he dangles his finger over one kitten. He reaches down, scratching behind its ears while his expression softens even more.

“Yeah… you’ve got it easy, huh? My girl’s feeding you milk and taking good care of you… you’re all little lucky rascals.” He smirks to himself, before shaking his head.

Leon yawns quietly before relaxing onto the soft mattress of your bed. It’s cool and comfy, and it’s basically all he needs to fall into a restful sleep. He’s exhausted—muscles aching and needing to stretch lazily over the bed, but he’s occupied watching your kittens as they entertain themselves with each other.

Gazing down, Leon observes the kittens.

Such measly little things, but full of life nonetheless. And if they captured your heart, then he isn’t going to complain. Seeing you happy is just one of his many favorite things about you. If these kittens are the sole reason for your happiness right now, he’ll very much oblige your request to watch over them even though he’s feeling the tiniest bit jealous of the attention you’re giving to them, instead of him since he’s been gone for a few days.

He decides to relax against the mattress this time. Leon tells himself he’ll only close his eyes for a while, and he’ll be up and running when you return with the milk.

But when you do come back to the bedroom with a bowl of milk and a dropper a couple of minutes later, Leon’s already snoring softly, an arm covering his eyes. The kittens are curled over his side, all bundled up against each other, settling into sleep as well.

You almost melt into nothing then and there. Setting the milk at your bedside table, you sit beside them, careful not to walk your boyfriend or the kittens that are all settled on top of each other, finding a warm spot on Leon’s rib.

Something tugs at your heart. Maybe it’s these bundles of joy asleep next to the love of your life, or it’s just Leon himself, but it’s a definite feeling of love and affection that threatens to overflow from your chest.

Leaning down, you place a soft kiss on Leon’s cheek, and he just stirs, before he continues his sleep. He’s exhausted, you can tell. And you know it’s time for you to take good care of him too, without a second thought.

It’s not out of obligation, but out of love—out of the adoration that you feel for this man who fights tooth and nail to keep the world a safer place for you.

Your goal this week? Take care of three kittens.

And your boyfriend too.

Especially him.

🔖 taglist: @rednnedy @eu4rialy @jqsjournal

this was such a cute request! i hope this lives up to your expectations, anon 🤍 thank you again for sending this request and i hope you guys are having a wonderful day so far 🫶

my tag list and requests are currently open by the way, if you guys are interested (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡ i appreciate your requests so far and it's been fun writing them. tysm for making this blog so full of life!

— aali 𑣲

note: dividers are from @/cursed-carmine.

It started small. At first, you didn't pay much attention. So he'd say something stupid, make a joke. You'd always been direct, and he'd always tried to lighten the mood. It worked.

But then it stopped being just jokes. It became... a system.

The first time you noticed was at the supermarket.

You were grocery shopping, a regular evening, nothing special. You were picking out meat, Leon standing by the cart, watching you with an expression that suggested you were doing something incredibly interesting.

"You know," he said as you picked up a package of chicken breast, "if you were a steak, you'd be well-done."

You froze, package in hand.

"What?"

"Well-done," he repeated. "Because you're... well... done. Well done. Like, good job. You did well. And also—"

"Kennedy," you said. "Did you just compliment me through meat?"

"It was a pun."

"It was idiocy."

You turned and walked on, but out of the corner of your eye, you saw him smiling and tossing something into the cart that you definitely hadn't asked for.

After that, it became regular.

Week two. You were sorting papers in the kitchen, trying to focus on a report that needed to be submitted by morning. Leon sat across from you, twirling a pencil, watching you.

"You know why I love watching you work?" he asked.

"No, and I'm afraid I'm about to find out."

"Because you're always in focus."

You looked up. He was looking at you with such pride, as if he'd just formulated the theory of relativity.

"That was a camera pun," he explained. "Focus. Get it?"

"Leon, if you don't shut up right now, you're going to have a focus with my fist."

He shut up. For five minutes.

Week three. You were walking down the street, coming back from a friend's place. The night was warm, starry, you were in a good mood, and even your back barely hurt. Leon walked beside you, watching you, and you knew that look—something was coming.

"You know," he began.

"No," you said.

"I haven't even said anything yet."

"And you don't need to."

"You look tonight like you..."

"Leon."

"...stepped off the cover of a magazine."

"Which magazine?"

"Any of them." He smiled. "The 'Your Wife Is Out of This World' Weekly."

You stopped. Looked at him. He stood there, hands in his pockets, with that stupid happy face.

"You made that up just now?"

"That was an improvisation."

"That was terrible."

"You're smiling."

"I'm not."

"You are. I see it."

You turned and kept walking, but he was right. You were smiling.

One month. You were watching a movie. Some old detective film you'd already forgotten because all your attention was on your husband, who sat beside you apparently preparing his next line.

"Look," he said when the hero on screen drew his gun. "He's got the same model as mine."

"You have a different one."

"I mean the model." He turned to you. "You know why I love my gun?"

"I don't want to know."

"Because it's always loaded. Like me when you're around."

You slowly turned your head. Leon was looking at you with the expression of someone who'd just said something profoundly romantic.

"You just compared your dick to a gun."

"It was a pun."

"It was a cry for help."

He laughed. You rolled your eyes, but when he reached for you, you didn't pull away.

Two months. You were cooking dinner, Leon sat at the table drinking coffee. You could feel his gaze on your back, knew he was smiling, knew something stupid was coming.

"Y/N," he said.

"Mm."

"You know what you and a good wine have in common?"

"No, and please don't say you've aged well."

"No." He paused. "You both get better with time."

You turned. He sat back in his chair, cup in hand, looking at you as if you were the only thing that mattered.

"That was almost sweet," you admitted.

"Almost?"

"If you ignore that you compared me to alcohol. Given our history, that's..."

"I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly.

"I know." You walked over, took his face in your hands. "You're an idiot, Kennedy."

"Your idiot."

"That you are."

You kissed him. He kissed back—soft, warm, and you could feel him smiling against your lips.

"I love you," he said when you pulled back.

"I love you too. Even when you're insufferable."

"That's the important part."

Three months. You were sitting on the couch, reading a book—or pretending to read. Actually, you were watching Leon, who was scrolling through his phone and periodically glancing at you with the look of a man preparing for a major presentation.

"Y/N."

"Mm."

"If you were a vegetable, you'd be..."

"If you say a cucumber, I will kill you."

"No." He put down his phone. "You'd be a pepper."

"A pepper?"

"Hot," he explained. "And sweet at the same time."

You looked at him for a long time. A very long time.

"Did you Google these jokes?"

"No."

"You're lying."

"A little."

You couldn't help it—you burst out laughing. Loud, genuine, head thrown back. Leon watched you with shining eyes, and in that moment, he wasn't an agent, not a hero, not a man who'd seen too much death. He was just your husband, who loved you and didn't know how to say it directly.

"You're an idiot," you said when you finally stopped laughing.

"I know."

"But you're my idiot."

"That's the important part."

You moved closer, settled on his lap the way you always did. He wrapped his arms around you, pulled you close, buried his nose in your hair.

"Why do you do it?" you asked. "All these stupid jokes?"

"Because you smile," he said simply. "You so rarely smile for real. And when you do, I forget about everything else."

You were quiet for a moment. Then you turned and kissed him—long, deep, so he would understand without words.

"Thank you," you said.

"For what?"

"For making me happy. Even in stupid ways."

He smiled. That same smile that had made you fall in love with this cop all those years ago.

"It's my job," he said.

"Your job is saving the world."

"This is the bonus."

You laughed again, and he laughed with you. And in that laughter, in that warmth, in this home where you were alone together, was everything. All your lives, all the trials, all the losses and all the gains. And all those stupid jokes that had become something more than just words.

Because behind each one of them stood: I love you. I want to make you smile. I want you to be happy. I'm here. I'm with you. Forever.

And that was better than any words.

The idea was given to me by @darlin-collins

“we’re really doing this, huh?” you whisper, lips inches away from his ear.

he bites his lip, hands clutching the sides of your waist tightly.

you slow down, teasing as if to pull out. this is instantly felt by the guy you’re on top of.

the first whimper leaves his lips.

you continue riding him at your usual pace, his thrusts meeting yours in a perfect rhythm.

anton starts whimpering, his eyes squeezed shut.

when he pauses for a moment to let you take control, you tease him by threatening to pull away, inching your body off his tip.

whines leave his mouth again; you can feel him start to tremble under you. “fuck, fuck, fuck, don't do that,” anton whimpers.

“hmm?” you smirk, rubbing his shoulder sensually. you start sucking on the sensitive spot behind his ear, making sure he feels the smirk against his skin.

anton looks so ruined and desperate even with his eyes closed, his grip on your waist remaining steady.

you face him, watching his reaction as you continue to ride him.

anton whines at the top of his lungs. in response, you decide to take full advantage of your position on top of him.

you slow down again.

incoherent whimpers spill from anton’s mouth while his hands hover, lost and unsure of where to touch you.

“what’s wrong, tony?” you continue to drag out the pace. you trace your fingers along his jawline, his gaze finally snapping from your eyes to your lips.

a continuous string of whimpers fills the room.

anton looks completely undone, his skin flushed and his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath, caught between the overwhelming pleasure and the frustration of your teasing.

“hmm?” you plant a soft peck on his lips, his expression still frantic when you pull away.

when you see his lips part as if to speak, you bottom out again and suddenly pick up the pace.

you speed up.

the loudest whimper yet finally breaks from him. you look down at him; his face is a deep crimson, and he’s trying to hide a breathless smile.

one of his hands finds your shoulder blade while the other tangles into your hair.

“embarrassed much?” you tease, tilting his chin up with your thumb to admire his flustered face.

“aww, can’t say anything?”

when he opens his mouth to respond, a low syllable starts to form, but another whimper wins out.

he’s so flustered that he pulls your face down to his, hiding his own in the crook of your neck. you giggle as he begins to leave marks on your skin.

anton’s breath is hot against your skin, his whimpers turning into shallow, desperate gasps.

his thrusts take over as he holds your waist steady, stopping you from bouncing so he can set the pace himself.

“you’re so pretty when you’re like this, tony,” you murmur, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to his lips. you thread your fingers through his damp hair and tilt his head back so he has to look at you again.

anton finally finds his voice. “you’re so mean…” he whispers, his voice completely wrecked.

anton looks completely spent, speeding up his pace, while both of you are trembling violently already.

you gasp a sharp, choked-off sound now that he’s back in control, and his movements are desperate and heavy.

oh no.

you had been complaining for weeks that you could not swim properly. anton, being the sweet friend he is, immediately offered to teach you. “i’ll help you,” he said with that soft smile, “no pressure. we can go to the dorm pool when it’s empty.”

so here you are on a quiet sunday evening, the indoor pool lights low and blue, water lapping gently. you are in a simple black swimsuit, standing at the shallow end, arms wrapped around yourself because you feel exposed. anton is already in the water, tall frame cutting through it effortlessly, hair wet and pushed back, looking way too good in just swim trunks.

“okay, first things first,” he says, voice gentle like always. “float on your back. i’ll hold you so you do not sink.”

you hesitate. he notices, swims closer, and offers his hands. “i got you. trust me.”

you lie back. his palms slide under your shoulder blades, warm even in the cool water. “relax… breathe… good girl.” the praise slips out naturally and both of you freeze for half a second. he clears his throat. “i mean, good job.”

he guides you through basic kicks, his hands light on your waist to keep you steady. every touch feels electric. when he moves to correct your arm position, his fingers brush the side of your breast accidentally. you jolt. he pulls back instantly, ears red.

“sorry—did not mean to—”

“it is fine,” you mumble, cheeks burning. but your voice is breathy and the water suddenly feels hotter.

he keeps going, trying to stay professional. shows you how to engage your core. his palm presses flat against your stomach under the water. “tighten here… feel that?” his voice is lower now. you nod, but all you can focus on is how big his hand is, how his fingers span almost your entire lower belly.

then he moves behind you to demonstrate the freestyle stroke. his chest brushes your back as he reaches around to guide your arm. you can feel every line of muscle, every breath he takes. his other hand rests on your hip to steady you and his thumb unconsciously strokes the bare skin there.

the tension is thick. neither of you speaks for a while. the only sounds are the gentle splash of water and your own too-fast breathing.

“you are doing really well,” he says quietly, but his voice has gone husky. his hand on your hip squeezes once, then lingers. you turn your head slightly and your eyes meet. the air feels charged.

“toni…” you whisper.

he swallows hard. his fingers flex on your hip again, almost like he cannot stop touching you. “yeah?”

you do not know what to say. the moment stretches. his hand slides a little lower, thumb brushing the top of your thigh. your breath hitches. he notices. his eyes darken.

“is this okay?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you nod, small and shy. he steps closer, chest now fully pressed to your back, both hands on your waist under the water. his lips brush your ear.

“you feel so small like this… makes me want to hold you tighter.”

your heart is racing. you can feel him getting hard against your lower back through his swim trunks. he does not pull away. instead he lets out a shaky breath and rests his forehead on your shoulder.

“sorry… i should not… but you are so soft… and you smell so good even in the water…”

his hands slide up your sides, slow and careful, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. you shiver. he feels it and makes a soft, helpless sound.

“tell me to stop and i will,” he whispers, but his fingers keep tracing light patterns on your skin, like he cannot help himself.

you do not tell him to stop.

instead you turn in his arms, faces inches apart, water lapping at your chests. his eyes flick to your lips, then back to your eyes, asking without words.

the tension snaps.

he kisses you. slow at first, then deeper, one hand cupping the back of your head while the other stays on your waist, pulling you flush against him. you can feel how hard he is, how his body trembles slightly from holding back.

when you finally pull apart, both of you are breathing hard. he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, voice shaky.

“i have wanted to do that for so long… you have no idea.”

you smile, shy and happy, fingers tracing his jaw. “me too, toni.”

he kisses you again, softer this time, arms wrapping around you like he never wants to let go. but the kiss quickly turns hungrier. his hands slide down to your ass, squeezing gently as he pulls you closer. you whimper into his mouth and start rocking against him, feeling his hard cock press between your thighs through the thin fabric.

“fuck… baby,” he groans against your lips, voice cracking. “you are so warm… so soft… keep doing that.”

you grind down harder, desperate little humps against his length, the water making everything slick and easy. he helps you, big hands gripping your hips, guiding your movements while he kisses you deeper, tongue sliding against yours.

“that’s it… just like that,” he whispers between kisses, breath hot. “feels so good… you feel so good… my pretty girl…”

you are whimpering now, soft needy sounds spilling out every time your clit rubs against him through the swimsuit. he is panting, hips rocking up to meet yours, the friction making both of you shake.

“toni… i—i need—”

“i know angel… i know,” he murmurs, kissing your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. “just keep moving… use me… make yourself feel good on me…”

you grind faster, chasing the feeling, arms wrapped tight around his neck. he keeps one hand on your ass, the other sliding up your back to hold you closer, whispering praises between kisses.

“so cute… so needy… love how you sound… love how you move on me… my perfect baby…”

you cum with a broken whimper, thighs trembling around him, burying your face in his neck as waves of pleasure roll through you. he holds you through it, rocking you gently, kissing your hair and whispering “good girl… so good for me… love you… love you so much…”

when you finally stop shaking he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes soft and dark at the same time, cheeks flushed, lips swollen.

“you okay?” he asks, voice hoarse.

you nod, still breathing hard, and hide your face in his chest. he chuckles softly, arms wrapping tighter around you.

“we should probably get out before we get pruny… but i do not want to let go yet.”

you smile against his skin. “then do not.”

“because someone here keeps distracting me,” you shoot back, turning your chair to glare at him, but keonho only smiles back innocently.

he looks around the room, pretending to be clueless. “i wonder who…” you throw a highlighter at him. “okay! sorry.”

“thank you,” you say with a smile. you spin your chair around to face your desk, regaining your focus. your eyes scan the notes mindlessly, rereading the same sentences over and over again.

you aren't sure if it's because you feel keonho’s gaze practically burning into your scalp, or if your brain is completely fried from studying for hours. probably the latter.

you sigh defeatedly, turning your chair once more to face your boyfriend. his elbow is propped against your desk, his head resting lazily in his hand, grinning like he knows you were gonna give in.

“done already?” he asks, voice annoyingly soft and teasing.

you narrow your eyes at him. “i hate you.”

“no you don't.”

you roll your eyes, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms, pouting. “my brain’s not working anymore.”

“take a break.”

“i've been,” you point out. “because of you.”

“hey,” he lifts his hands in defense, smiling. “it's not my fault you can't resist my handsome presence.”

“i'm gonna throw this textbook at you.” you threaten. you try to hold onto your annoyed expression, but it slips a little the moment you hear a small chuckle from him.

there's a brief pause before you hear his chair rolling a little closer to yours. “come here,” he says after a second. you stare at him dumbfounded. you should say no and return to your studies before thinking about anything else—but instead you roll your chair a little closer.

“two minute break,” you warn, leaning into him. “nothing more.”

“whatever you want, princess,” he says easily, the pet name sliding off his tongue like it's no big deal. he leans in slowly, as if he's giving you time to stop him.

“keonho…”

your hands wrap around his neck, softly tugging him closer as he deepens this kiss. his hands settle at your waist, thumbs brushing gentle circles that make it hard to remember anything you were just studying.

you sigh quietly into the kiss, and you can feel him smile against your lips. for a slight second you can feel the weight off your shoulders.

you barely pull back, resting your head against his, your breaths uneven. he exhales a soft laugh. “y’know i think we just studied chemistry,”

“do not pretend your distraction was educational.”

cortis taglist ୨ৎ open

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK - 1945

“I’M GONNA MAKE HIM AN OFFER HE CAN’T REFUSE.”

“Dad,” Juhoon says with his careful diction. “The Edwards have already gotten a tip about our ammunition source. Holding a gun to their head will only—”

“Escalate things?” James finishes the sentence for him. “Juhoon, things have already escalated. Or have you already forgotten about their little murder escapade last fall?”

Juhoon says nothing. His hands lightly grip the small glass of whiskey from their father’s side table.

It has always been this way. James has always been the one to take charge. He has always been the unofficial consigliere to their father. He has always wielded power as naturally as one could wield it. And it has always been that Juhoon is the ice to James’ fire. Juhoon has always been the secondary component to the main event of a son that James is.

Of course, neither James nor Juhoon hold the title of the favorite son. That is specially reserved for the youngest of the three—Keonho.

Keonho has never gotten involved in the affairs of the family. He has always deviated from the standard path of the family—high school and then the family business. He first made his differences clear when he chose to go to college. The second was when he joined the army, and became a treasured war hero instead of a dangerous mafia son.

It was funny, really. Nobody could ever really imagine the sweet boy of the three sons to get involved in the convoluted crimes of New York.

“Boys,” their father speaks. His voice carries through the dim study. He leans forward in his desk chair, resting his worn palms on the oakwood. “The Edwards will not move until we do. There's a reason they haven't raided the ammunition as of yet.”

“What are we to do then?” Juhoon asks.

Father takes a long drag on his cigar, then taps the ash on his engraved glass tray.

“We wait. Bring ourselves to a stalemate. Gather any and all information on the Edwards that can possibly be exploited and then,” He coughs into his hand. “We make them an offer they can't refuse.”

The streets of Brooklyn have always had that slightly sweet scent on humid days. Springtime makes the evening sun linger until it casts hues of purple and pink and orange.

Keonho walks through the bustling streets in his uniform. It’s speckled with stars and made of green fabric—an olive green with some two or three loose threads on the inside.

The rumble of cars continues on. He walks past grandmothers in their nightgowns drinking tea and middle-aged men smoking cigars on their front steps. Past shops that are slowly closing as evening approaches, as well as clubs that are slowly opening as night falls.

The specific club he’s going to is one Seonghyeon told him about. We’re finally home, Keonho, Seonghyeon had said. You should join me in going to the place in Little Sicily. Jae tells me there’s tons of people there—women too.

He’s right. The symphony of bottles clinking and swing jazz greets him right as Keonho walks through the door. There’s plenty of people. Women dancing in heels to the Big Bands music, accompanied by men in the same army green uniform, holding them by the waist.

Keonho takes off his patrol cap and fully steps inside the nightclub. There’s, of course, the handshakes of men in uniform, the small waves of pretty women in red lipstick, the excitement of Seonghyeon at the sight of his friend actually showing up to the scene tonight.

“Keonho, you made it!” Seonghyeon gives him a strong pat. “You’ll be glad you came, trust me.”

So he does. He always has.

It’s a small unspoken thing that one should never approach the dance floor of a jazz evening alone. Medleys of Cole Porter songs fill his ears. Keonho circles a small glass of some mysterious liquid—bourbon or whiskey or some other drink that burns his throat. His brother, Juhoon, has always liked it. Keonho never really got the appeal.

Minutes go by. Cole Porter’s ‘you’ve got that thing’ makes the mood slower. The tap dancing morphs into a slower dance. Ladies rest their heads on their gentleman partner, gentlemen hold their waists and sway them gently.

“You haven’t touched your drink.”

A voice, akin to a guardian angel whispering in his ear, cuts through Porter’s swanky lyrics. Keonho catches his off-guard expression in the reflection of his whiskey. He turns in his bar chair.

You’re…a wonder. He could say beautiful. He could say any positive adjective to describe you really—gorgeous, entrancing, intriguing, heavenly. Your hair is open and slightly draped around your shoulders. He can tell it was permed—the loose waves still cascade down your locks. Bright, red lipstick graces your lips, which matches the maroon colored dress that reminds Keonho of wine.

Your legs are crossed in the chair beside him, raised higher to reach the bar countertop. You have small, black heels that you tap on the chair leg in rhythm with the song.

He recovers, though, from being surprised by you and whatever intoxicating presence you seem to have. It’s instinct, one can’t be a soldier without being quick on his feet.

“I think I may need to buy another one,” he smiles. “One…for you, perhaps?”

You grin, red lipstick stark against your white teeth. “You’re quite the charmer. But I’m afraid I have to make it back home tonight at least somewhat in control of my senses.”

“I could always walk you back home,” he runs a hand through his hair and tosses his patrol cap onto the counter. “I’m a man of honor.”

“You’re a soldier?” You say—really not as a question, eyeing his uniform up and down.

Keonho’s eyes keep drifting down to your lips, and then they drift back up. To your eyes and the deep orbs within them. To the questioning look they have, wondering who this man is and wanting to know more.

“Mhm.”

“Yet you look my age,” you observe.

“Joined the academy young.”

“Mm,” you nod. Your red lips purse and you take a sip of your drink. “What did you do in the army?”

His elbow leans on the bar countertop. His hand creeps closer and closer across the wood—still restrained by whatever ounce of control he’s still able to hold onto. It’s quite difficult, with you sitting across from him.

“I was a rifleman.”

“Where were you deployed?”

“Italy.”

“Ah,” you take another sip. “I’ve always wanted to travel abroad. I hear Italy’s very romantic.”

Your lips curve into a smile—quite possibly the most beautiful thing Keonho has ever seen.

“It is. I should take you there someday.”

“You should,” you’ve noticed his hand inching closer across the bar tabletop by now. “Although, I would love to know your name first.”

“It’s Keonho,” he tells you. His fingertips brush yours. You don’t pull away when he takes your hand in his and starts rubbing his thumb along your knuckles. You don’t pull away when he lifts your hand and presses the softest kiss along your fingers.

“I’m y/n,” you laugh while he continues to hold your hand.

There’s something poetic about meeting one person in a club of many. Of wanting to hold someone, dance with someone, kiss someone, when the reason people come to places like these is to share a fleeting moment with whomever.

When Keonho’s eyes meet yours once again, with more familiarity than one should have, he can’t help but think…

“Would you dance with me?” He caresses your knuckle again. “Please?”

You’re warm. That’s the first thing he notices. Not feverish, not the kind of warmth that is dizzying and makes one pull away. You have the warmth of someone who’s kind—someone unlike his family who are so involved in cold-blooded schemes. He feels the warmth of your hands on the nape of his neck, of your face which he realizes is only inches away from his.

Keonho wraps both hands around your waist. It’s what the song calls for.

He pulls you slightly closer. His senses are faintly aware of you. His touch feels the chiffon fabric of your red dress, hands resting at the dip of your waist. The aroma is filled with what is likely your shampoo—citrus and sandalwood and some other floral.

His ears can hear the small clicks of your heel when you put a little too much weight on one side while swaying to the music, and the barely audible hums that your voice lets out.

How perfect it is, the way you two dance together.

Keonho’s handsome, that much you know is undeniable. He’s tall, kind, and funny. He lives up to his self-proclaimed name as a man of honor. He sees you, you know that much. You can see it in the way he looked into your eyes—no more than minutes ago. How he saw you as more than a woman. How he saw the complexities and convoluted thoughts through pupils that likely seemed too curious for their own good.

Keonho draws his hand from your waist, placing it on the back of your head, and therefore bringing you closer. His nose approaches the crown, taking an inhale and letting the music take over.

You’ve lived a lifetime in the duration of a jazz medley.

taglist @mbella607 @one-chance-pls @notesbyeliza @09zpzkeonnss @jiyeons-closet @yunjiiin @jesmightjumptmr @kisscortis @uhbuhhbuhbbhu @cjrnctzenforlife @vanillakirstein @jellywichu @nevernowsa @heesunglover @clemenzzz @lovhyeon @camdenlou @lcvehyeon @realseanshady @yu-sofan @lunaryoongie @dearlyhyeon @fleuriins @dejundesign

The harsh fluorescent lights of the concrete parking garage buzzed overhead, cars were packed bumper to bumper on every level, trunks popped open, music bleeding from portable speakers. The air was thick with the smell of exhaust, alcohol, and the distant, muffled thud of bass vibrating from the stadium a few blocks away.

“Hold still, you’re going to mess up the gems,” Yunjin scolded lightly. She pressed a final iridescent rhinestone near the corner of your eye, using the rearview mirror of Shotaro’s SUV as a makeshift vanity. Stepping back, she admired her handiwork. “Okay. You look devastating. If you don’t ruin at least one man’s life tonight, I’m revoking your rave privileges.”

She pulled out her silver digi cam, the flash blinding you for a second as she snapped a picture of your makeup. Then she squeezed in next to you, pressing her cheek against yours, and held the camera out at arm’s length. The flash went off twice—one normal, one with both of you mid-laugh because Sunoo yelled something stupid from across the trunk.

You laughed, adjusting the straps of your top. You’d gone all out tonight: a black mesh set that hugged every curve, layered under a harness. Your arms were stacked with kandi bracelets, the plastic beads clinking together as you reached for the plastic cup resting on the bumper.

“She’s not ruining anyone’s life, she’s going to be too busy trying not to pass out before the opener finishes,” Sunoo chimed in, appearing at your side. He passed a joint to Yunjin before handing you a plastic cup filled with a mix of peach soju and Yakult. His own face was dusted in silver glitter. “Pace yourself. You just took a shot and hit that twice.”

You rolled your eyes, taking a sip. The alcohol burned pleasantly down your throat, mixing with the warm, heavy buzz of the weed already settling in your limbs.

It wasn’t your first rave, but you were definitely the more casual raver of the group. While Shotaro and Sohee hit festivals almost every other weekend, you usually only tagged along here and there when you had time. Tonight was the final stop of the Illenium and Dabin tour, and it was your first time seeing either of them live. The group chat has been hyped for months.

“Are we moving or what?” Sohee yelled, bouncing on his heels near the concrete stairwell. He and Shotaro were already halfway to the exit, looking back at you three with impatient grins. “We’re going to miss Dabin’s intro!”

“We’re coming!” you shouted back, downing the rest of your drink. You tossed the cup into a nearby trash can, linking arms with Yunjin and Sunoo as you hurried to catch up.

The walk to the festival grounds was a blur of neon outfits, pulsing lasers bleeding into the night sky, and thousands of people vibrating with the same collective anticipation. The alcohol was definitely hitting you now. The edges of your vision were soft, your limbs felt light, and the heavy dubstep echoing from the main stage made your heart race.

You followed Shotaro as he navigated your group through the dense crowd. He was a seasoned raver, weaving through the sea of bodies with practiced ease, his hand firmly gripping Sohee’s backpack so they wouldn’t get separated. You kept one hand on Sunoo’s shoulder as you pushed deeper into the crowd, aiming for a spot just behind the VIP rail.

“We’re meeting a friend of mine here!” Shotaro yelled over his shoulder, his voice barely cutting through the music. “He saved us a spot!”

You finally broke through a particularly dense wall of people, stumbling slightly as the alcohol made your platform boots feel a little heavier than usual. You bumped into a solid wall of a chest, letting out a small gasp.

Large hands immediately caught your shoulders, steadying you before you could fall.

“Careful,” a deep, yet soft voice rumbled above you.

You looked up, and your breath hitched.

Standing there, towering over the rest of the crowd, was a guy who looked like he had been carved out of marble specifically to ruin your life. He was ridiculously tall, with broad shoulders showcased perfectly by a black, sleeveless muscle tank. A silver chain rested against his collarbone, catching the strobe lights. His dark hair was slightly messy, falling into his eyes in a way that looked effortlessly perfect.

Shotaro crashed into him with a massive hug, clapping him on the back. “You actually held the spot! You’re a legend.”

The guy laughed. His voice was a rich, warm rumble that you could feel in your chest even over the heavy bass. He hadn’t let go of your shoulders yet.

Shotaro pulled back and gestured to your group. “Guys, this is Anton. We play soccer together. Anton, this is Sohee, Sunoo, Yunjin, and…” Shotaro’s eyes landed on you, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “…and this is my favorite person, but don’t tell the others.”

Anton’s gaze shifted down to you. The moment his dark eyes locked onto yours, the rest of the festival seemed to fade into background noise. He looked you up and down, a slow, deliberate sweep that took in the platform boots, the mesh, the harness, and the few gems around your eyes. When his eyes finally met yours again, a slow smile spread across his face.

“Hi,” he said, his hands finally dropping from your shoulders. Up close, he smelled like expensive cologne and clean laundry, a sharp contrast to the sweat and smoke of the crowd.

“Hi,” you breathed back, suddenly hyper-aware of how much skin you were showing, and how warm your cheeks felt from the vodka.

“Okay, group photo before we lose each other!” Yunjin interrupted, pulling out her silver digi cam. She shoved it into Anton’s hands since he was the tallest. “Take one of us?”

Anton chuckled, taking the small camera. He took a step back, crouching slightly to frame you and Yunjin as she threw an arm around your waist. Right before he pressed the button, his eyes flicked up from the screen, catching yours over the top of the camera for a beat too long. The flash went off, blinding you for a second, but you could still feel the weight of his stare. He handed the camera back to Yunjin before turning his attention fully back to you.

“First time seeing Illenium?” he asked, leaning down slightly so you could hear him over the music.

“First time seeing him, yeah,” you admitted, having to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. The size difference between you was staggering. He was a wall of solid muscle, his presence completely enveloping you. “Not my first rave, but… I don’t go as often as the other guys.”

“I can tell,” Anton murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before flicking back up. He tilted his head, studying your flushed face. “You pregamed a little hard, didn’t you?”

You blinked, feeling caught. “Is it that obvious?”

“Just a little,” he chuckled, the sound low and incredibly attractive. “Stick close to me. The crowd gets rough when the headliners come on, we don’t want you getting trampled.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. As Dabin took the stage and the crowd surged forward, Anton naturally positioned himself just behind you. He didn’t touch you, but you could feel the heat radiating off his chest, a solid, protective barrier between you and the crushing weight of the thousands of people pushing from behind.

The set was incredible, but about thirty minutes in, the combination of the heavy bass, the flashing strobe lights, and the alcohol you had downed in the parking garage started to catch up with you. The air in the middle of the crowd was stiflingly hot. You swayed slightly, pressing a hand to your forehead as a wave of dizziness washed over you.

Instantly, Anton’s hands were on your waist. “Hey. You okay?”

You leaned back against his chest instinctively, closing your eyes. “Just… a little dizzy. It’s really hot.”

“Alright, come here,” Anton said smoothly. He didn’t ask Shotaro or the others. He just wrapped an arm securely around your waist and gently but firmly guided you out of the thickest part of the crowd, moving toward the slightly more open space near the back rail.

He found a spot where the air was cooler and the bodies weren’t pressed so tightly together. He turned you around to face him, his hands resting on your hips. “Better?”

“Yeah,” you exhaled, opening your eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Anton said softly. He reached into his small crossbody bag and pulled out an unopened bottle of water, twisting the cap off before handing it to you. “Drink this. Slowly.”

You took it, sipping the cool water gratefully. Anton stood in front of you, blocking you from the chaotic flow of people walking by. He reached up, using his large hand to gently fan your face, the cool breeze feeling heavenly against your flushed skin. He was so attentive, his dark eyes watching you carefully to make sure the color was returning to your cheeks.

“Thank you,” you murmured, looking up at him.

“Anytime,” he replied, his thumb brushing lightly against your waist. “You feeling sober enough to go back in, or do you want to stay back here for a bit?”

“I’m okay now,” you smiled, the dizziness fading into a pleasant, manageable buzz.

When you moved back to your group, the dynamic had shifted. Anton kept one hand resting lightly on the small of your back the entire time, instead of just standing behind you. Every time the crowd shoved forward, his grip would tighten, pulling you flush against his chest to protect you from the impact. The touch was respectful, but it sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core every single time.

Halfway through Illenium’s set, the music slowed, the heavy bass fading into a soft, melodic acoustic intro. The crowd roared in recognition as the opening chords of “Hearts on Fire” echoed through the stadium.

“You want to see better?” Anton’s voice rumbled right next to your ear, his breath hot against your neck.

You turned your head, your face inches from his. “What?”

“Get on my shoulders,” he offered, a playful glint in his eyes. “You can’t see the visuals from down here.”

Before you could protest, Anton crouched down slightly, tapping his broad shoulders. “Come on. I got you.”

You hesitated for a second, then grabbed his hands to steady yourself. You swung one leg over his shoulder, then the other, and the first thing you noticed was how wide he was. Your thighs barely fit around the span of his shoulders. Then he stood up, lifting you with effortless strength like you weighed nothing. You could feel the muscles in his shoulders and neck shift and tighten beneath your thighs as he adjusted you, his traps solid and warm under the thin fabric of his tank top.

The view was breathtaking. The entire festival grounds stretched out before you, a massive ocean of people swaying in unison under a canopy of lasers. But as incredible as the view was, all you could focus on was the feeling of Anton beneath you.

Your thighs were pressed flush against his neck, his large hands gripping the backs of your thighs to keep you steady. His fingers dug slightly into your skin, a firm, possessive grip that made your breath catch. You could feel every shift of his broad shoulders between your legs—the way they rolled when he adjusted his stance, the hard muscle flexing under your weight like it was nothing.

The beat dropped, a massive, euphoric explosion of sound and light. Confetti cannons erupted, raining colorful paper down on the crowd. You threw your hands up, completely consumed by the music and the adrenaline. Anton’s hands tightened on your thighs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just below your skirt, and a sharp spike of heat coiled low in your belly.

When the song ended, he slowly lowered you back down to the ground. You slid down his chest, your body pressing flush against his for a long second before your boots hit the grass.

You were breathless as you looked up at him “Thank you.”

Anton didn’t step back. He stayed exactly where he was, so close you could feel the rise and fall of his chest. His eyes dropped to your lips again, and this time, they stayed there.

The tension between you was thick, pulling you toward him like a magnet. You wanted him to kiss you. You wanted it so badly your skin ached with it.

“Hey!” Sohee’s voice shattered the moment, and you both jumped slightly as he threw an arm around Anton’s shoulders. “We’re going to grab water before the finale. You guys want anything?”

Anton cleared his throat, taking a small step back, though his eyes never left yours. “We’re good. We’ll hold the spot.”

The rest of the night was a blur of heavy bass, blinding lights, and the suffocating tension between you and Anton. You traded kandi with him during a quiet moment, teaching him the PLUR handshake. When your fingers interlocked with his, he held on for a second too long, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. He gave you a bracelet that said RAVE HEAD, and you gave him one that said YOURS. You had made it as a joke, but when he read the beads, his eyes darkened, and he slipped it onto his wrist without a word.

By the time the final fireworks went off and the festival lights came up, you were exhausted. Your ears were ringing, your feet ached, and the adrenaline crash was hitting you hard.

The walk out of the venue was a chaotic mass of thousands of people trying to leave at once. The crisp night air felt amazing against your sweat-slicked skin, but you couldn’t stop a shiver from running down your spine.

Without a word, Anton pulled his black zip-up hoodie out of his backpack and draped it over your shoulders. It was massive on you, swallowing you completely, and it smelled exactly like him.

“Okay,” Shotaro announced as your group huddled near the rideshare pickup zone. “There’s an afterparty at this warehouse downtown. Sohee knows the DJ. We’re all going.”

You groaned internally, leaning your head against Yunjin’s shoulder. “Taro, I love you, but if I hear one more bass drop tonight, my brain is going to liquefy. I’m so tired.”

“You can’t tap out now!” Sunoo protested, though he looked sympathetically at your exhausted expression.

Anton looked down at you, his eyes assessing. He could see the fatigue pulling at your features, the way you were practically holding yourself up with Yunjin’s help.

“My hotel is three blocks from here,” Anton said quietly, addressing Shotaro but looking at you. “I’m not really feeling the afterparty either. I can take her back with me. Let her crash there, and you guys can go.”

Shotaro looked between the two of you, that same knowing smirk returning to his face. “You sure, man? We don’t want to impose.”

“It’s fine,” Anton said, his voice steady. He looked down at you, his dark eyes intense. “If she wants to.”

You pulled the oversized hoodie tighter around yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs. You weren’t drunk anymore, but you were definitely not feeling like going to the after party.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I want to.”

Yunjin gave you a look that screamed we are talking about this tomorrow in excruciating detail, before hugging you goodbye. You waved to the rest of the group as they piled into a rideshare, leaving you and Anton standing alone on the crowded sidewalk.

“Come on,” Anton said softly, his large hand wrapping around yours. His fingers intertwined with yours perfectly, his grip warm and solid. “Let’s get out of here.”

—

The walk to his hotel was quiet, the ringing in your ears making the city sounds feel muffled. He kept you tucked close to his side, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles over the back of your hand.

His hotel was upscale, the lobby quiet and dimly lit. You rode the elevator up to the fifteenth floor in silence, watching the numbers tick up.

Anton unlocked the door to his room and pushed it open, stepping aside to let you in first. The room was dark, illuminated only by the city lights filtering in through the large window.

The heavy door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet room.

You turned around to face him, but before you could even open your mouth, Anton was there.

He didn’t hesitate. He backed you up against the door, his large hands coming up to cup your face, and crashed his mouth down onto yours.

It was everything that had been building up since the moment you locked eyes in the crowd. You gasped into his mouth, your hands flying up to grip the front of his tank top as his tongue slid past your lips, tasting you like he had been starving for it all night.

“God,” he groaned against your mouth, his hands sliding down from your face to grip your waist, pulling you flush against his massive frame. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the second I saw you.”

You breathed, tilting your head back as his lips trailed down your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck. “Don’t stop.”

Anton let out a low, ragged sound. He grabbed the hem of his tank top, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. The sight of him made your breath hitch. He was huge. Broad, thick, and carved with heavy, defined muscle, his skin glowing in the dim light of the city.

He reached for the zipper of your skirt, his large hands making quick work of your rave outfit. The mesh, the harness, the boots—everything was discarded until you were completely bare, standing against the door.

He dropped to his knees right there in the entryway.

Your breath caught in your throat as his large hands gripped the backs of your thighs, pulling your legs slightly apart. He looked up at you, his dark eyes blown wide with lust, the city light catching the sharp angles of his face.

“Anton—” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his dark hair.

“Shh,” he murmured, his breath hot against your center. “Let me taste you.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He pressed his mouth against you, his tongue swiping in a broad stroke that made your knees buckle. You cried out, head falling back against the door. He was relentless, his large hands gripping your thighs tight enough to bruise, holding you in place as he devoured you.

“So fucking sweet,” he hummed against your slick folds, the vibration sending a jolt straight to your clit. He sucked hard, his tongue flicking with a precision that had you sobbing his name.

“Anton—please—” you babbled, fingers gripping his hair as your hips jerked forward.

He pulled away right before you tipped over the edge, leaving you whining. He stood up, massive frame towering over you, lips slick with your wetness.

Anton led you toward the bed, shedding the rest of his clothes in seconds. He didn’t lay you down. He sat back on his heels, grabbed your hips, and pulled you forward until you straddled his lap.

The size difference was staggering. Sitting on him, you felt incredibly small, his broad chest and thick thighs dwarfing you.

“Ride me,” he whispered, eyes dark and hungry.

You guided his thick, heavy length to your entrance and slowly sank down. The stretch was overwhelming. He was so big you had to stop halfway, a broken whimper tearing from your throat.

“Fuck,” Anton groaned, jaw clenched tight. His hands steadied your hips. “Take your time. You’re so tight.”

You took a shaky breath and forced yourself down the rest of the way. When you finally bottomed out, a loud, shameless moan ripped from your lips. You were completely full, the pressure making your vision blur.

Anton’s hands moved from your hips to rest flat against your lower stomach. His eyes widened.

“Look,” he commanded softly.

You opened your eyes. His large hand was pressed right over the faint, visible press of him against your lower bellythe subtle outline of how deep he was inside you.

“Hmm,” he breathed, thumb tracing the slight bulge. “You take me so well.”

You started to move, lifting and sinking at a slow, agonizing pace. The angle was incredibly deep, every downward thrust making you gasp. Anton watched with hunger, his hand staying firmly pressed against your stomach to feel every inch of himself filling you up.

After a few minutes, Anton let out a frustrated growl. He grabbed your hips and flipped you over in one fluid motion, pinning you face-down against the mattress.

Before you could process the change, he settled between your thighs, lifted your ass slightly, and drove into you from behind with a single, brutal thrust.

You screamed into the pillows. The angle was even deeper now, his broad chest pressing your back, his large hands gripping your hips like a vice.

“You feel so good,” he panted, pace turning frantic. He was relentless, hips snapping forward with bruising force, the wet slap of skin echoing loudly in the quiet room.

He reached around, his large hand sliding down your stomach to find your swollen clit. The moment his thumb pressed against it, your brain short-circuited.

“Anton—ah—wait—” Your voice cracked on a high, broken moan as he bottomed out inside you, thumb circling your clit simultaneously. “It’s too much—”

“You can take it,” he breathed against your ear, his voice thin, strained, almost whiny. “Fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight—” He let out a shaky, desperate sound against your neck. “Don’t stop.”

Your protests dissolved into loud, broken moans. He kept his pace hard and deep, each thrust dragging against oversensitive walls, pulling high, desperate sounds out of you.

“Oh my god—Anton—fuck—” You babbled, words slurring, fingers clawing the pillows. “I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he panted, voice breaking. His thumb pressed harder, hips stuttering as his breath came in ragged gasps. “Let me feel it. Come for me.”

You couldn’t hold back. The orgasm crashed into you—sharp, intense, ripping through you. You screamed his name, walls clamping down hard around him as your body convulsed.

The force dragged him over the edge. Anton let out a broken, wrecked cry against your shoulder, his whole body shuddering as he spilled deep inside you, hips jerking in shallow, desperate thrusts. He collapsed against your back, heavy, sweat-slicked body pinning you to the mattress, chest heaving.

Neither of you moved for a long time. Just the sound of ragged, uneven breathing filling the room, your bodies tangled together, both of you trembling.

He slowly pulled out of you, and before you could even process the emptiness, he was flipping you over onto your back. Your body was limp, boneless, and he moved you like you weighed nothing.

The sight of him above you knocked the air out of your lungs. His chest was flushed, his dark hair falling into his eyes, his lips swollen and parted. His broad shoulders blocked out the dim hotel light behind him, caging you in completely.

“Anton,” you whimpered, your thighs trembling around his waist. You were so sensitive it almost hurt. “I can’t—not yet—”

“Please,” he murmured, lowering himself until his forehead pressed against yours. Sliding his tip up and down your wet slit, and you felt him push back inside you—slow, agonizing. The stretch on your oversensitive walls made your eyes roll back, a broken moan dragging out of your throat.

“Oh—fuck—” Anton’s voice cracked the second he bottomed out, his whole body shuddering above you. His arms were trembling where they braced on either side of your head. “You feel so—god—” The words came out thin and strained, like he was barely holding himself together.

You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. Your hips bucked up against him involuntarily, and the friction made both of you moan.

He let out a shaky exhale that sounded more like a whimper. “Ngh—I’m not gonna last—”

He started to move anyway, slow and deep, his hips rolling into yours with a deliberate rhythm that had your back arching off the mattress. Every thrust dragged against your swollen walls, punching out sounds from your chest with every roll of his hips.

Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, pulling him deeper. A high, broken groan vibrated against your collarbone. “Fuck—baby—don’t do that—” His hips stuttered, his composure slipping. His voice pitched up at the end, needy and wrecked.

“Feels so good,” you whined, your head pressing back into the pillows. “So deep—Anton—ah” Your words dissolved into a trembling moan as he hit a spot inside you that made your vision blur.

You clenched around him on purpose. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, a choked whine spilling out of him as his hips jerked forward. “Please—” he gasped. “I’m trying to make this good for you and you’re—”

“It’s good,” you breathed, pulling his face up to yours. His eyes were glassy, his bottom lip bitten raw. “It’s so good.”

Something in him snapped. He hooked one hand under your knee, pressing your thigh up toward your chest, and the new angle made you scream. Your free hand flew to his back, nails raking down his spine. “Anton—I can’t— too much—” A sob cut off whatever you were going to say, your body arching off the bed.

His free hand found yours, lacing your fingers together and pinning your hand beside your head. He buried his face in your neck, broken moans muffled against your skin, your name slipping out of him over and over.

“Look at me,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

You forced your eyes open. His face was inches from yours, his pupils blown wide, his jaw tight, his lashes wet. He looked completely undone.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Stay with me.”

“I’m gonna—” you whimpered, your walls fluttering around him. “Anton—I’m so close—”

Every time he bottomed out, a small, helpless sound punched out of his chest. His breathing was ragged, punctuated by quiet, whiny gasps every time you clenched around him.

“I’m close,” he choked out, his hips losing their rhythm. His hand squeezed yours tight. “Baby—please—”

“I’m coming—” you cried, your voice shattering into a broken moan as your body seized around him.

He came with a sound you’d never forget. A raw, wrecked cry that cracked in the middle, his body shaking as his hips pressed flush against yours and stayed there. The feeling of him pulsing inside you, the desperate way he clung to you, his broken whimpers against your neck—it dragged you over the edge with him, your second orgasm ripping through you in slow, devastating waves.

Neither of you moved for a long time after. Just the sound of ragged, uneven breathing, his body still covering yours completely. His face was pressed into the crook of your neck, and you could feel the wetness of his breath against your skin.

When it finally subsided, you were boneless. Completely spent.

Anton slowly rolled off you, pulling you flush against his side. He wrapped his strong arms around you, tucking your head under his chin. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his hand tracing soothing circles over your bare arm.

“You’re staying the night,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. It wasn’t a question.

You smiled against his chest, closing your eyes as the last of the adrenaline faded away. “Yeah.”

—

The next morning, sunlight was streaming through the sheer hotel curtains when you finally woke up. Anton was still asleep, his heavy arm draped securely over your waist, his face buried in your neck.

You carefully reached for your phone on the nightstand, wincing at the brightness of the screen. Your group chat was blowing up.

Shotaro: [Voice note: 0:25]

Yunjin: ????????????????

Yunjin: HELLO????

Sohee: lol

You smiled, typing out a quick I’m alive, tell you later before tossing the phone back down. You noticed Yunjin’s silver digi cam sitting on the nightstand. She must have slipped it into your bag before you left the venue.

Curious, you turned it on and clicked through the photos from last night. There was the one of you in the parking garage, the group photo Anton took, a blurry one of the stage, and then the one Yunjin had secretly taken of you on Anton’s shoulders.

“What are you looking at?” a rough, sleep-heavy voice mumbled against your skin.

You turned the camera off, sliding back down under the covers and pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Nothing. Just pictures from yesterday.”