Cont. from where we left off after the check.
Turns out I have a thing for jealous, off-balance Leon.
Also turns out I don’t think he’s suffered enough yet—and I’m still working through my emotions from 9.
So Claire’s gonna handle that for me.
Stay with me. I’ll pay it off.
The hallway swallows the sound of their footsteps.
Claire walks a half step behind him, close enough to feel the residual heat of the bar still clinging to him, far enough that she can pretend this isn’t deliberate. The carpet is too soft, the lighting too warm—the kind of quiet that makes it easy to keep going, like the space itself was built for this exact walk, the one where you don’t stop to think too hard about who you’re following, or why it suddenly feels like crossing a line you’ve been circling for years.
Claire’s eyes drop before she can stop them. Brief. Not subtle on the second pass.
God, she likes him like this.
Less government issue. More—
Her thoughts catch, snapping back into place when she notices the way he’s moving.
He doesn’t check if she’s still with him.
There’s something settled in the way he moves now, a quiet kind of certainty that sits under his stride like he already decided how this ends and doesn’t feel the need to rush it.
Claire watches the line of his shoulders, the way his hand flexes once at his side before going still again. She knows that tell. Has known it for years.
It used to mean he was about to do something stupid.
Her teeth catch her bottom lip, a small, involuntary tell of her own as she watches him think it through.
Claire squints slightly, like she’s trying to see past it, past him, past the version of this he’s already decided on.
The elevator waits at the end of the hall. He hits the button anyway, thumb pressing harder than necessary. The doors slide open with a soft chime.
He steps in, turning just enough to hold it.
She follows without breaking stride.
The space closes around them as the doors shut, smaller than it should feel. The mirror catches them at the wrong angle—him all sharp lines and tired edges, her holding herself together a little tighter than she wants to admit.
He leans back, one hand braced behind him, the other turning the keycard over between his fingers. Once. Again.
She tracks it longer than she means to.
“Do you always get this quiet after you win,” she asks, voice light, “or is this new.”
His gaze lifts to her. “Win.”
“You got me upstairs.” She shifts against the wall, shoulder settling into it like she plans to stay there. “Feels like you should be celebrating.”
Something pulls at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile.
“You came up on your own.”
“Mm.” Her eyes drag over him, slower this time, taking inventory instead of teasing. “Debatable.”
The elevator hums as it climbs.
He glances at the panel, then back at her. “You’re already rewriting it like that, huh.”
“Like I dragged you up here.”
Claire’s lips press together, holding back something sharper.
“I didn’t say that,” she says. “I’m just noticing patterns.”
“Yeah.” She tilts her head, studying him a little too closely now. “You get a look. Right before you make up your mind.”
She lets the silence stretch a second, watching him watch her.
“Like you’ve already figured out how this ends,” she says. “You’re just waiting for everything else to line up.”
He exhales through his nose, something in it close to a laugh. He pushes off the wall a little, not enough to make a thing of it, just enough that the space between them shifts.
“And what do you think this is,” he asks, quieter now. “What do you think I’m so sure about.”
Her gaze drops for a second, then comes back up.
“That this is simple,” she says. “You show up, I’m here, we don’t ask too many questions.”
He frowns slightly, not pulling back from her.
“You think that’s what this is,” he says. “That I come back expecting you to still be here.”
Her mouth curves, not quite kind.
“Sometimes when you get lonely, you look to your bench,” she says. “And I’m easy. I know your pitches. I know when the game’s over.”
He frowns slightly, something in her words not sitting right.
“That’s not what this is,” he says. “It’s not a game, Claire. There isn’t a bench.”
She watches him for a second.
Like she’s deciding if she believes that or just wants to.
“Mm,” she hums, not convinced. “Feels like one.”
The way she says it doesn’t agree.
Which somehow makes it worse.
He shifts, weight rolling back slightly like he’s trying to reset the footing between them, get them back to where they were five minutes ago.
“You’re reading into it,” he adds, quieter now. “That’s not how I—”
“When’s the last time you had sex.”
It cuts clean through him.
Leon blinks, thrown in a way he doesn’t bother to hide this time.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t soften it.
“That’s—” he lets out a short breath, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t land. “That’s where we’re going now.”
His hand drags down his face, buying himself a second.
“That’s not really—relevant,” he says.
Her tone stays even. Not pushing harder. Not backing off.
Leon looks at her, trying to read where this is coming from, what she’s actually asking.
Claire shrugs, like it’s obvious.
“Because I’m heading to your hotel room,” she says. “And it feels like something I should know.”
He huffs, something frustrated slipping through.
“You didn’t seem that concerned five minutes ago.”
“I was,” she says. “You just weren’t asking the right questions.”
Leon studies her again, longer this time.
“…It’s been a while,” he says.
It comes out quieter than everything else. Honest.
Claire doesn’t answer right away.
Just watches him. Like she’s weighing it. Turning it over. Deciding if it fits with everything else she knows about him.
The doors slide open and he steps out first, already moving, like momentum might carry him past whatever that moment was.
The hallway feels different now. Tighter. Quieter in a way that presses.
She sees it in the way he pulls the keycard from his pocket, the way his thumb drags over it once before he slots it into the door. Misses the reader the first time.
He exhales, sharper than before, tries again. The light flashes green.
Worse—She shouldn’t like it.
This version of him. Not the one with the easy answers, the practiced lines. This one—off balance, a little irritated, real.
Her mouth presses together, holding that in as she steps past him when the door opens.
He follows, letting it shut behind him with a solid click.
For a second, neither of them moves. Then—
There’s heat in it when he turns to her, frustration finally breaking through.
She doesn’t meet it with more force. Just looks at him, steady, like she’s not trying to win anything here. Just waiting for him to be honest.
It takes a second, but it lands.
The edge drains out of him as quickly as it came, his jaw tightening before he exhales, gaze dropping for half a beat before coming back to her.
He watches her when he says it, like he’s bracing for something—pushback, judgment, anything.
Claire doesn’t give him what he’s expecting.
“No,” she says, just as even. Not sharp, not softening it either.
She shifts her weight slightly, grounding herself before she continues, her voice steady in a way that feels more deliberate now.
“There isn’t a right answer, Leon. We’re just adults here.”
Her eyes stay on his, not letting him slip past it.
“I want to know what you’ve been up to.”
The words don’t hit like an accusation. They land like a line she’s drawn for herself.
He watches her, waiting for the rest of it.
“For now.” A small lift of her shoulder. “Your turn.”
“Yeah.” She tips her head toward him, expectant. “Ask something.”
There’s a pause while he tries to figure out if she’s serious.
“…What, like an interview.”
“If that’s what you need.”
His mouth pulls, not quite a smile. More disbelief than anything.
“You’ve got rules now,” he mutters.
“I’ve got standards,” she corrects.
He huffs a quiet breath, glancing away, then back at her. Still not quite sure what game they’re playing, or if it even is one.
“You’re the one who wanted to know what this is,” she adds. “So ask.”
He studies her for a second longer, like he’s trying to land on the right question and coming up short.
There are a dozen things he could say.
None of them feel like they’ll go where he wants.
“…Right,” he says finally, more to himself than to her.
He lifts a shoulder, already looking toward the minibar like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“You said ask something.”
“I meant something real.”
“That is real,” he shoots back, grabbing two glasses. “Feels like a good place to start.”
She shakes her head, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth despite herself.
“You didn’t say it had to be deep.”
“I didn’t think I had to say it.”
His shoulder brushes hers as he moves past, light, passing contact that lingers a fraction longer than it should.
Claire exhales, glancing toward the bottles.
“…Yeah,” she says. “Sure.”
“Still water or are we pretending we’re relaxed,” he asks.
He hums, grabbing two small bottles, something amber and expensive-looking. Pours without measuring. Hands her one.
There’s a couch. A chair. A bed she pointedly does not look at.
They stay standing, a few feet apart, like neither of them wants to be the one to decide what happens next.
His gaze drifts over her, slow, familiar in a way that catches low and immediate. The line of her throat when she swallows, the shift of her shirt when she breathes—small things, nothing she’s thinking about until he makes her aware of them.
It’s the way he says it that gets to her.
Her mouth presses together, holding something back before it can show.
“Mm,” he murmurs, stepping closer like it didn’t land at all. “You’ll survive.”
He’s close enough now that she can feel the heat of him again, that same pull from the elevator, stronger here without the distraction of movement. The space between them tightens, not quite gone, just thin.
Her fingers curl slightly around the glass, grounding herself in the weight of it.
“Careful,” she says, quieter now. “You’re getting predictable.”
Leon’s mouth curves. “That so.”
“Yeah.” Her gaze flicks to his lips before she catches herself, dragging it back up. “This is the part where you decide you’ve waited long enough.”
He studies her for a second, something sharper settling into his expression.
“I think,” he says, voice low, “you’d have stopped me by now if you didn’t want to be here.”
The space between them tightens until it feels like it’s doing the work for them.
He steps in, not rushed, not hesitant—just enough that she has to feel him there. Heat, breath, the faint brush of his shirt when she shifts.
Her fingers tighten around the glass instead, grounding herself in something solid while everything else starts to slip.
He’s close enough that if she leaned forward—
Her gaze drops. Mouth. Back up.
Work in the morning. His flight. The way this always goes—fast, easy, over before it has time to mean anything.
Which is exactly what this is supposed to be.
His hand lifts, slow, giving her time to stop him.
His fingers find her side, light at first, like he’s checking if she’s real or if this is going to disappear the second he presses any harder.
Her breath catches anyway.
Her hand comes up to his chest, not pushing, not pulling—just there, feeling the steady rhythm under her palm like she needs proof he’s actually standing in front of her.
He exhales, something shifting in him at the contact.
Her name sounds different like this. Lower. Closer.
She tilts her head up before she can think about it.
Close enough that she can see the cut along his lip, the way his focus keeps slipping, like he’s trying to decide if he’s going to do this or ask first.
Her pulse hits, sharp and immediate, her grip tightening slightly against his shirt.
This is exactly how it always happens.
Like they skip everything in between and land here—
Claire presses her palm a little firmer against his chest, just enough to hold him there, to keep the moment from tipping over.
It lands right in the middle of everything.
Leon blinks, the shift immediate and unguarded in a way she’s not used to seeing on him.
Claire doesn’t move her hand from his chest. Doesn’t step back.
If anything, she steadies there, like she’s anchoring herself to the choice instead of the moment.
“Do you have condoms,” she repeats, softer this time. Not pushing. Not apologizing. Just making sure he heard her.
Leon lets out a breath through his nose, slower now, his gaze flicking over her face like he’s trying to place where this came from—what changed between them.
“You’ve never asked me that before,” he says.
Claire’s mouth curves slightly.
“No,” she says. “I haven’t.”
Her hand stays on his chest, thumb brushing once against his shirt without thinking about it, like she’s reminding herself he’s still right here.
“I used to make this easier,” she adds, lighter now, but it doesn’t soften it. “For both of us.”
His brow tightens a fraction. “That’s not—”
“I know what you meant,” she cuts in, not sharp, just… not letting him redirect it.
He searches her face for a second, like he’s trying to find where the line is now.
He watches her, still not quite settled.
“Then what’s the question.”
Her thumb shifts again, a small, absent movement against his shirt as she looks at him—really looks this time, not teasing, not dodging.
“Just making sure I know what I’m doing,” she says.
Claire’s mouth pulls slightly at one corner.
“Going to bed with you,” she says.
It lands softer than before. Less edge. Still honest.
His hand at her waist adjusts, not pulling her closer, just staying there like he hasn’t decided what to do with the moment yet.
“…And before,” he says, quieter now, “we never needed one before...”
“It was different then,” she says.
He exhales, something in it closer to frustration than amusement now, but it doesn’t push her away.
She watches that happen, the shift in him, the way he’s trying to line this up with what he expected when they walked in here.
It’s not quite landing the same way.
Claire tilts her head slightly, studying him.
“So,” she says, softer now, like she’s offering him a way back into it, “do you?”
He lets out a short breath, something like a laugh slipping through despite himself.
“…No,” he admits. “Didn’t plan that far ahead.”
It’s lighter now. Not letting him off the hook, but not cutting either.
His hand shifts at her waist again, lingering.
“You want me to go get some,” he asks.
The way he says it—no attitude, no game, just… adjusting. Meeting her where she is without making it a thing.
It catches her off guard more than anything else tonight.
Her mouth softens before she can stop it.
Something in her chest gives.
She leans in before she can think better of it, hand sliding up from his chest to his jaw, pulling him down just enough—
Heat, familiar and immediate, the kind that skips the part where she pretends she doesn’t want this. His hand tightens at her waist, breath catching as he meets her there like he’s been waiting for permission he didn’t know he needed.
For a second, it’s easy again. So easy.
Her lips brush his once more, softer this time, like she’s deciding something mid-motion before she steps out of it entirely.
She turns, reaching for her bag like she didn’t just do that.
“It’s fine,” she says, casual, already digging through it. “We can go to my room. I’ve got some.”
Leon goes still. It’s immediate.
The shift in him is sharper this time—no smoothing it over, no catching it before it shows.
She doesn’t look at him right away, still half-turned, pulling her keycard free like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Behind her, the silence stretches.
“So you just—have them,” he says.
But there’s something under it now. Tight. Off.
Claire glances back at him, brows lifting slightly.
“Yeah,” she says. “I do.”
Leon exhales, dragging a hand down his face, pacing a step before stopping himself.
The pieces aren’t lining up.
Not the way they did downstairs. Not the way they did in his head walking her up here, like this was something he understood. Something familiar.
He looks at her again, sharper now.
“You’ve been—” he starts, then stops, jaw working before he tries again. “All night you’re asking me questions, making it sound like I’m—”
He gestures vaguely, frustrated.
“And you’re just—what. Stocked up.”
Claire watches him, expression steady.
“No?” she cuts in, still calm, still holding eye contact. “Because it sounds like that’s what you mean.”
He shakes his head, quick, irritated.
“It’s just—” he exhales, frustrated at himself more than anything. “You’re sitting here like I’m the one—like I’ve been out there doing whatever and you’re—”
Because that’s the part that doesn’t fit anymore.
Claire tilts her head, watching him work through it.
“I gave you a chance to ask,” she says.
Her tone stays light. Not letting him off the hook, not escalating either.
Leon looks at her, something unsettled still sitting under everything else.
He thought he knew what this was.
Claire shifts her bag onto her shoulder, stepping a little closer again, back in his space like she never left it.
“Ask better questions,” she says.
they’re right back on the edge of it again.
“Ask me what you want to ask, Leon.”
He looks at her for a second.
Long enough that she almost thinks he’s not going to.
“…Do you even want me anymore.”
Claire’s brows pull together, not hurt—more like she can’t believe that’s the question he landed on.
“That’s not fair,” she says.
“And you know the answer.”
“Yeah,” she says. “You do.”
She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder, not moving away from him, just… settling into herself.
“Me having a life doesn’t mean I don’t want you,” she says. “It means I don’t stop mine every time you show up.”
“No,” she agrees. “You didn’t ask for anything.”
That one lands. Harder than the rest.
He exhales, sharper now. “So what, this is better?”
“It’s not a test,” she says. “It’s me not pretending this is more than it is.”
“And what is it,” he pushes.
He lets out a quiet, frustrated laugh, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s the part I’m having trouble with.”
“Because you don’t look like ‘tonight,’ Claire.”
That one slips out before he can stop it.
She stills for half a second.
“Well then that’s the problem,” she says.
Her voice stays even, but there’s something under it now. Tired. Real.
“I don’t want to want you tomorrow,” she adds. “When I’m heading to work and you’ve disappeared again like nothing happened.”
“I don’t just—disappear.”
“You do,” she says, not raising her voice. “Maybe not on purpose. Maybe not to you. But you do.”
He looks at her like he wants to argue it.
Claire watches that land, something in her expression softening just slightly—but she doesn’t take it back.
“So yeah,” she says, quieter now. “I want you.”
“I just don’t want to pay for it tomorrow.”
And it sits between them heavier than anything else they’ve said.
“So,” she says, like they didn’t just crack something open and leave it there between them, “you coming or not.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer.
Just turns, crossing the room, pulling the door open like this is easy. Like it’s already decided.
The hallway light spills in around her, soft and warm against the edge of her shoulder.
Leon doesn’t move right away.
He’s still standing where she left him, her words hanging there, heavier than they should be for something that’s supposed to be so fucking simple.
