Synopsis: Rivals turned undercover partners, you and Leon Kennedy fake a relationship during an Umbrella operation. Only to realise the hardest mission isn’t survival, but choosing each other.
Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Fake Relationship, Forced Proximity, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Emotional Vulnerability, Miscommunication, Action/Combat, Protective Leon Kennedy, Rivals to Equals, Confession Scene.
Warnings: Gun Violence, Injury, Blood, Emotional Distress, Arguments, High-Stress Situations, Feelings
Words: ~17k
A/N: im just going to ignore the infection on leon's neck in the new trailer :') (pls capcom dont play with me rn)
The Division of Security Operations headquarters never slept, but it also never felt alive.
Steel-panelled walls reflected fluorescent light in a way that flattened everything, faces, voices, victories. Even the air felt regulated, filtered until it lacked personality. The kind of place that existed to remind you that emotions were liabilities and efficiency was king.
Which was ironic, considering how personal things always got.
The leaderboard hung at the far end of the operations floor, suspended like a silent judge.
Agents gathered as the system refreshed, boots echoing against polished floors, conversations tapering off mid-sentence. There was always a crowd when post-mission reports finalised. Half anticipation, half fear. Careers shifted on that screen. Egos bruised. Grudges sharpened.
You stood with your arms folded, posture casual in a way that took effort. Like you weren’t waiting. Like you didn’t already know exactly who you’d be fighting for space with.
The board flickered.
For a split second, everything went dark.
Then the names snapped into place.
#1 — YOU
#2 — LEON KENNEDY
The reaction was immediate.
A low whistle cut through the room. Someone muttered, “Jesus, again.” Another agent laughed softly, like they’d just lost a bet.
You didn’t smile.
Smiling would’ve felt like gloating, and gloating around Leon Kennedy always came back to bite. Instead, you exhaled through your nose, jaw tightening just enough to hurt. Relief tangled with triumph, knotted together in a way that never quite felt like a win.
Across the floor, Leon stood a few feet away. Too close. Close enough that you could feel him without looking, like static in the air, irritating and unavoidable. He didn’t react. No sigh. No curse. No flicker of irritation that would’ve been satisfying to see.
He just stared at the board, hands loose at his sides, shoulders squared like this was exactly where he expected to be. Second.
That was the thing about Leon. He never looked bothered. Which only ever made you want to bother him more. Finally, he turned his head. Not fully. Just enough to acknowledge your existence.
“Congrats.”
The word was clean. Controlled. Devoid of warmth. Not a compliment, an obligation. You turned on him immediately.
“Wow,” you said, voice light in a way that wasn’t. “That sounded painful. You okay?”
A few agents nearby froze, suddenly very interested in anything that wasn’t the two of you. Someone cleared their throat. Loudly.
Leon’s eyes slid to you then—really looked. Blue, steady, unreadable. Like he was cataloguing you, the way he always did, as if you were a problem he hadn’t solved yet.
“I’ll survive,” he said. “I usually do.”
There it was. The implication. The reminder. That he didn’t need the board. Didn’t need the validation.
You scoffed. “Right. Keep telling yourself that.”
Your heart was beating faster than it should have. You hated that. Hated that he still had that effect. You told yourself it was just rivalry. Professional friction. Two agents chasing the same metrics.
Except metrics didn’t make your blood boil. Metrics didn’t make you remember every mission where he’d overridden your call. Every briefing where he’d questioned your judgment with that infuriating calm. Every time he’d acted like you were a variable to manage instead of an equal.
Leon gave a short nod, not concession, not respect. Closure.
Then he turned away.
As if the conversation hadn’t mattered.
As if you hadn’t mattered.
Your fingers curled before you could stop them. You remembered the first time you’d tried to talk to him. Fresh out of training, adrenaline high, stupid enough to think camaraderie was a given. You’d said his name.
He’d walked straight past you. You’d decided then that he was an asshole. Every interaction since had only reinforced it.
The operations floor slowly returned to life as agents peeled away toward briefings, the tension dispersing but not disappearing. Not between you and Leon. It never did.
As you headed toward the briefing room, you caught his reflection in the glass wall ahead. Same expression. Same calm. Locked down so tight it felt deliberate. Like a wall he wanted you to slam into. And God help you, part of you wanted to break it. Just to prove that something under there could crack.
You squared your shoulders and kept walking. You didn’t care. You absolutely did.
The mission briefing chime cut through the operations floor with surgical precision.
“Conference Room A. Five minutes.”
The reaction was immediate and universal.
Groans rippled through agents who hadn’t moved fast enough to make themselves scarce. Chairs scraped back. Tablets were snapped shut. The loose, post-leaderboard tension evaporated, replaced by something sharper, more disciplined.
You moved with the crowd on instinct alone.
It wasn’t until you were halfway there that you realised exactly where it was taking you.
Conference Room A.
You grimaced internally.
The room was large by design, tiered seating, wide tables, enough space to accommodate egos as well as bodies, but it had a habit of shrinking whenever certain people occupied it.
You stepped inside and scanned for an open seat, already bracing yourself.
Of course.
Leon was already there.
Middle row. Dead centre. Prime vantage point of the screen and the handler’s podium. Perfect posture. Perfectly composed. Like he’d planned it that way.
There were empty chairs scattered throughout the room, but they might as well not have existed. Too far. Too obvious. Too cowardly. The only viable option, the one that didn’t scream avoidance, was the seat beside him.
Unavoidable. You took it. You dropped into the chair with more force than necessary, the legs giving a brief, sharp screech against the floor. Leon didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to.
The tension snapped into place the instant you sat down, tight and immediate, like a wire pulled too far. You felt it in your shoulders. In the way your spine straightened despite yourself.
Conversations around you faltered. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough that you noticed the sudden lack of noise in your peripheral hearing. Someone a few rows back leaned in to whisper something to their partner. Another agent glanced at the two of you, eyebrows lifting before they very deliberately looked away.
No one wanted to be involved. The air felt thick. Pressurised. Like it might rupture if either of you pushed too hard.
Leon crossed his arms, posture relaxed but closed. Casual in the way that required discipline. Control. You leaned back, ankle resting on your knee, adopting your own version of indifference. Two opposing stances. Same message.
The handler entered, and the room snapped to attention.
Lights dimmed. Screens flared to life, flooding the space with satellite imagery, data streams, mission headers scrolling in clean, clinical fonts. The low hum of equipment filled the silence left behind by agents who suddenly remembered how to listen. For a few minutes, it was almost normal. Almost.
“Umbrella-affiliated assets have increased activity along the European biotech circuit,” the handler said, laser pointer gliding across the map. “High-profile events. Private funding galas. A lot of noise. Very little traceable movement.”
Leon leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table.
“Which means the actual exchange won’t happen on-site,” he said. Calm. Certain. “It’ll be routed through a secondary node. Off-grid. Clean.”
You didn’t look at him.
“Or,” you cut in, eyes still fixed on the screen, “they keep it local because no one expects them to risk exposure in a room full of donors and diplomats.”
The room stilled. You felt the shift before you saw it, attention pivoting, subtle but undeniable. Leon turned his head slowly. Deliberately.
“That would be sloppy,” he said. No heat. No edge. “Umbrella isn’t sloppy.”
You let out a soft, humourless breath. “Neither are shell corporations hiding in plain sight,” you replied. “Especially when they’re backed by people who think money makes them invisible.”
A pause. Leon’s mouth twitched. Not irritation. Amusement.
“That’s an assumption,” he said. “Arrogance isn’t a reliable variable.”
You turned then, meeting his gaze head-on. “It is when arrogance is the only reason they’ve survived this long.”
For a split second, his eyes held yours. Then he smirked. Not big. Not obvious. Just enough. And it pissed you off instantly.
A few agents shifted uncomfortably. Someone cleared their throat. The handler didn’t intervene, never did. Not when it was the two of you. They’d learned better. From somewhere across the room, barely under someone’s breath, came a muttered, “God help whoever has to work with them.”
It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t annoyed. It was resigned.
You saw Leon’s reaction out of the corner of your eye. The faint tightening at the corner of his mouth. Not anger. Something closer to agreement. Like the comment confirmed something he already knew. The rivalry wasn’t subtle. It never had been.
Leadership knew it. Field agents knew it. Even analysts who avoided combat zones like the plague knew better than to put the two of you on the same assignment without contingencies.
And yet. Here you were. Side by side. Again.
As the briefing continued, the friction didn’t ease, it deepened. You filled gaps Leon dismissed as irrelevant. He dismantled assumptions you made with surgical precision. Neither of you raised your voice. Neither of you yielded an inch.
It wasn’t about ego. It was about being right.
Leon shifted beside you, the movement small but unmistakable. Intentional. Close enough that you could feel his presence without looking. Close enough to feel like a provocation.
You refused to glance at him.
The handler cleared their throat sharply.
“Enough,” they said. Calm. Firm. “Both of you.”
You leaned back in your chair, jaw tight, eyes still forward.
Leon didn’t move at all.
Except for that damn smirk that hadn’t quite faded.
The briefing ended the way most did.
Not with resolution but with an abrupt cutoff and a roomful of people pretending they hadn’t been holding their breath.
The lights brightened. Screens went dark. Chairs shifted as agents remembered how to move again. Conversations started up too fast, too loud, like noise could erase what had just happened.
It couldn’t.
Agents filed out in a rush, boots striking the floor with sudden urgency. No one lingered. No one made eye contact longer than necessary. The tension was something physical now. Something that could snag you if you weren’t careful, wrap around your ankle and drag you down with it.
You were halfway to the door when the handler’s voice cut through the noise.
“You. Kennedy. Stay.”
Your spine stiffened.
Of course.
Leon stopped beside you without looking at you, like he’d been expecting it. Like this was just another outcome he’d already calculated. You hated that most of all, that nothing ever seemed to catch him off guard.
The rest of the room emptied fast.
Too fast.
Even the analysts who usually hovered with questions and clarifications suddenly remembered pressing deadlines and non-existent meetings. The last agent slipped out, the door sliding shut behind them with a soft, almost polite hiss.
Click.
The sound echoed.
Silence flooded in, heavy and deliberate.
The handler didn’t bother with theatrics. They never did. They stood at the head of the conference table, hands loosely clasped, posture easy in a way that only came from authority earned the hard way.
They looked unimpressed.
Calm. Experienced. Patient in the way of someone who had watched far worse people implode and lived to tell the story.
Their gaze flicked to you.
Then to Leon.
Like they were reviewing two familiar problem variables in a report they already knew by heart.
“You’re going to hate this assignment,” they said evenly. “So I’m going to give it to you quickly.”
Leon’s shoulders barely moved. No reaction. No protest.
You crossed your arms tighter, already bracing for impact.
The handler tapped the remote.
The screen behind them changed, maps and data streams replaced by a glossy event flyer dripping with gold accents and forced elegance.
THE KENSINGTON BIOTECH BENEFIT
A private gala supporting global medical innovation.
You scoffed quietly.
The kind of event that smelled like money, power, and immunity.
“Umbrella-adjacent shell companies have been laundering research funding through three different foundations,” the handler continued. “One of them is sponsoring this gala. Donors, executives, foreign ambassadors. Wealth. Influence. Enough plausible deniability to make a prosecutor cry.”
Another click.
A timeline appeared. Then a guest list, names blurred, titles redacted, power implied without explanation.
“Tonight,” the handler said, “their data broker makes a handoff. We believe it includes proprietary files and field logs. Evidence of illegal trials. Off-book transport routes. Personnel rosters.”
Your focus sharpened despite yourself.
“Where’s the handoff happening?” you asked.
Leon beat you by half a second.
“And how do we extract it without tipping the room?”
You felt irritation spark immediately. Predictable. Of course he’d jump straight to logistics, like this was just another clean operation and not a nest of vipers in tuxedos.
The handler’s eyes flicked between you again, cataloguing the tension like it was another asset to manage.
“The handoff is digital,” they said. “Encrypted drive. Stored temporarily on a secure device in the VIP lounge. The broker uploads it to an off-site server at 23:00. We need the device before then.”
Too clean.
You frowned. “So we infiltrate. Grab the device. Disappear.”
“Correct,” the handler said. “Which is why this is an on-site operation. No drones. No external breach. Umbrella’s countermeasures are tight.”
Leon’s jaw flexed once. Barely noticeable. You caught it anyway.
“Then we’ll need invitations,” he said.
“Already handled.”
The handler clicked again.
The screen changed.
Two names appeared. Two immaculate profiles. Wealthy. Connected. Polished to perfection.
A couple.
Your stomach dropped.
You read it once.
Then again.
And again.
Couple profile.
You looked up slowly. “No.”
The handler didn’t blink. “Yes.”
You let out a short laugh, sharp, humourless. “Absolutely not.”
Leon still hadn’t spoken.
His eyes were locked on the screen, but his posture had gone rigid in a way you recognised. The same way it did right before a firefight. Before something went wrong.
His jaw was tight. Mouth set into a flat line.
If a bullet had been aimed at his head, he would’ve looked exactly like this.
“The guest list is exclusive,” the handler continued. “Couples only. It’s not charity, it’s a filter. Singles draw scrutiny. Couples imply stability.”
You leaned forward, palms slamming onto the table. “Send literally anyone else.”
“There is no anyone else,” the handler replied calmly. “Not for this.”
Your temper flared hot and fast. “Why? Because we’re top-ranked?”
“Because your skill overlap is ideal,” they said. “One of you excels in social manipulation and close-quarters infiltration. The other excels in threat assessment and extraction under pressure.”
You opened your mouth.
“Don’t,” the handler said sharply. “You’re both excellent. Together, you’re efficient.”
Leon finally spoke.
“And if we refuse?”
Low. Controlled. Dangerous in its restraint.
The handler didn’t soften. “Then we miss the handoff. Umbrella keeps their data. People die later because we didn’t do our jobs now.”
Cold. Final.
You clenched your jaw. “So your plan is to shove us into a ballroom and hope we don’t kill each other.”
“My plan,” the handler said, “is to send two professionals into a controlled environment with a clear objective. Your personal feelings are irrelevant.”
“They’re not irrelevant if they compromise the mission,” you snapped.
Leon glanced at you then.
Brief. Sharp.
Unreadable.
He didn’t defend you. Didn’t agree. Didn’t disagree.
He just stood there, calm, contained, infuriatingly above it, like he always did.
You wanted to shake him. To crack that composure just once.
The handler watched you both like someone observing a storm they’d already charted.
“If you can’t play nice for one night,” they said evenly, “you don’t deserve that leaderboard.”
The words landed hard. Because they were true.
Because the leaderboard wasn’t just numbers. It was proof. Of every sacrifice. Every cut corner. Every fight you’d survived to get here. You felt the hook sink deep.
Leon didn’t react outwardly, but you saw it. The subtle lift of his chin. The tension in his throat as he swallowed. Pride caught him too. The handler shut off the screen.
“You’ll attend as Dr. and Dr.,” they said, sliding dossiers across the table. “Long-term couple. Convincing. You will touch. You will smile. You will sell it.”
You stared at the dossiers like they were weapons. Leon picked his up with careful precision. Of course he did.
“This is not optional,” the handler said. “Get the device. Get the data. Come back.”
They looked at you both.
“Try not to embarrass me.”
The door unlocked with a hiss.
You didn’t move.
Neither did Leon.
The truth settled ugly and heavy in your chest.
You weren’t being asked to work with Leon Kennedy. You were being forced to pretend you wanted him.
The training wing smelled like disinfectant and old sweat, cleaned often, never enough. The kind of smell that clung to the back of your throat no matter how many times they scrubbed the floors. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, cold and unforgiving, washing everything in a sickly white glow that did no one any favours.
The DSO didn’t do cozy. It did functional. It did survive.
A door slid open at the handler’s badge swipe, revealing a smaller room tucked off the main mat space. It was laid out like an interrogation room that had tried—and failed—to pass itself off as an office.
One table. Two chairs. A stack of folders.
And a tablet already lit up with a form that made your soul leave your body on sight.
You stared at it like it had just insulted your family.
“Sit,” the handler said.
Leon took the chair opposite you immediately. No hesitation. No comment. Of course he did. You waited half a second longer, purely out of spite, then sat, crossing your legs and folding your arms like the tablet might try something.
The handler slid two clipboards across the table.
“You’ll fill these out together,” they said. “Your cover is long-term. Married. High-value donors with private ties to the foundation. Security will look for inconsistencies: names, habits, timelines. If you don’t align, you’ll set off alarms before you hit the champagne.”
They pushed a third folder toward Leon. “Apartment layout. Memorise it. If someone asks where the bathroom is in your home, you answer without thinking.”
Leon scanned the paperwork with that infuriatingly calm focus he brought to bomb schematics and ambush routes. No sarcasm. No commentary. Just silent efficiency.
You hated him a little extra for it.
“I’ll be outside,” the handler added. “You have forty minutes. Try not to kill each other.”
The door shut.
Click.
You and Leon were left alone with the lie. For a moment, neither of you moved. Leon’s eyes stayed on the paperwork. Yours stayed on him.
You grabbed the top sheet and skimmed it.
How did you meet?
When did you move in together?
Anniversary date:
Pet names used in public:
Pet peeves:
Shared routines:
Preferred terms of endearment (optional):
Your jaw clenched.
“This is ridiculous.”
Leon finally lifted his gaze. “It’s standard.”
You scoffed. “Standard. Right. Because nothing says ‘authentic marriage’ like a fill-in-the-blank worksheet.”
He picked up his pen. “How did we meet?”
The bluntness threw you for a second. “Wow. No warm-up? No foreplay?”
Leon didn’t blink. “Focus.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Prague.”
His pen paused midair. “Vienna.”
You stared. “I’m sorry, did you just veto my city?”
“Vienna makes more sense,” he said evenly. “Diplomatic circuit. Donors. Embassy galas.”
“Prague is beautiful,” you shot back. “Historic. Romantic. Exactly the kind of place two rich idiots would pretend to fall in love over overpriced wine.”
Leon’s mouth flattened. “It’s cliché.”
“And Vienna isn’t?”
“It’s believable.”
“So is Prague.”
He exhaled slowly, like he was counting to ten. “We need a story that holds up under scrutiny.”
“And we need one that doesn’t sound like it was written by a man who alphabetises his spices.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes. “I don’t alphabetise my spices.”
“Wow. Growth.”
The argument escalated almost instantly. It was petty. You both knew it. It was also loud, because neither of you was willing to lose the first detail. Like it mattered. Like this wasn’t all fake anyway.
Leon tapped the page. “Vienna. We met at a benefit dinner. You spilled a drink on me.”
You barked a laugh. “Of course I did.”
“It’s memorable.”
“It makes me clumsy.”
“It explains why we talked.”
You bristled. “Or you bumped into me.”
Leon raised an eyebrow. “That makes you the victim.”
“And?”
“It makes me the asshole.”
You smiled sweetly. “Finally. Something accurate.”
For a second, his mouth twitched. Barely. Gone as fast as it appeared.
“Anniversary date,” you said quickly, flipping the page.
“November,” Leon said without hesitation.
“Why November?”
“Forgettable.”
“Wow. Romantic.”
He didn’t react. “The fifteenth.”
You paused. “That’s weirdly specific.”
His gaze flicked away. Just for a fraction of a second. “It’s fine.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You absolutely have something on the fifteenth.”
“No.”
“Uh-huh.”
You wrote it down anyway.
Pet peeves.
You read the line and looked up. “This is where you put ‘people who talk too much,’ isn’t it?”
Leon folded his arms. “It’s where we put things we can answer quickly.”
“Oh. Then write ‘emotion.’”
“What’s yours?” he countered.
“Men who think silence counts as depth.”
His pen stilled. “You hum when you’re thinking.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“That’s not a pet peeve.”
“It is when it’s constant.”
Heat crept up your neck. “You’re creepy.”
“Observant.”
Next line.
Pet names used in public.
You stared at it like it might explode.
“No.”
“We need something.”
“Something neutral.”
“Babe.”
You physically recoiled. “Absolutely not.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Try again.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Honey.”
Leon grimaced. “That’s worse.”
“It’s normal.”
“It sounds like a threat when you say it.”
You gasped. “Rude.”
“Pick one.”
You exhaled hard. “Love.”
He froze.
“What?” you snapped.
“It’s… British.”
“We’re in London half the year. Write it down.”
He did.
Your stomach did something annoying.
You shoved the clipboard away. “Done?”
Leon flipped to the apartment layout. “No.”
He started listing details like a man preparing for war. Door directions. Furniture placement. Appliance locations.
“You’re insane,” you muttered.
“It’s my job.”
The way he said it stopped your next insult cold. Before you could unpack that, the door hissed open.
“Time,” the handler said. “Training.”
The training room was louder. A raw, grinding decibel that felt less like sound and more like physical pressure against your eardrums. It was hotter, a dense, clinging heat that rose from the mats and bodies and pooled against the ceiling. This place was brutally, viciously honest in a way the slick corridors and polished debriefing rooms of headquarters never dared to be. Here, pretence was the first thing stripped away.
Every sound was amplified, thrown back by the barren walls: the scuff and slap of boots against padding, the meaty thud of bodies hitting the mat, the sharp, bitten-off bark of instructors.
This was where elegance went to die. Where you were reminded what you were underneath the tech and the tactics: flesh, bone, and flawed instinct.
Leon shrugged out of his jacket as if shedding a second skin. The movement was economical, unshowy, the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting in a deliberate roll beneath his dark shirt as he pushed his sleeves to his elbows. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. His indifference was a practiced weapon, and he wielded it perfectly.
You hated that you tracked the motion anyway. Hated the way your eyes followed the line of his forearm, the shift of his weight. A silent catalogue of the enemy.
Mirroring him was a reflex, but you made it aggressive. You rolled your shoulders back until the joints gave a soft pop, tilted your neck until it burned. Your pulse was already climbing, a drumbeat of pure, undiluted adrenaline bleeding into your veins ahead of the impact. This wasn't nerves. It was a craving for collision.
“Close-quarters,” the handler’s voice cut through the din from the edge of the mat. “No distance. No weapons. You’re going to be in each other’s space until one of you breaks or the clock does.”
Lucky me.
Leon turned to face you fully, and the overhead lights carved him out of the gloom. The sharp, unyielding line of his jaw, the steady, metronomic rise and fall of his chest. His eyes swept over you once. Not dismissive. Not curious. Assessing. Coldly, clinically reassessing a variable he already had quantified.
“Try to keep up,” you said, the words grating out, already furious at the glacial calm on his face.
The corner of his mouth twitched. A phantom of a smirk, there and gone. “Show me.”
The first clash was less a fight and more a detonation.
You lunged without preamble, a silent, violent blur closing the distance before he could settle into a textbook stance. He reacted not with surprise, but with a speed that felt like an insult, catching your leading arm, redirecting your momentum with infuriating efficiency. Your shoulder slammed into the wall of his chest. Solid. Immovable. The impact reverberated up your neck, rattling your teeth.
You hooked his leg; he countered your hook. You twisted for leverage; his grip shifted, strong, calloused hands locking like manacles around your wrist and forearm. He stepped into you, using your own forward drive to uproot your balance.
The mat rushed up to meet you. You hit with a force that punched the air from your lungs in a sharp, humiliating wheeze.
He followed you down, a controlled avalanche. One knee braced near your hip, his weight a deliberate, undeniable pressure. One hand planted beside your head, caging you. The other pinning your arm with machined precision.
Too close.
His heat enveloped you, a living, breathing furnace. You could feel the coiled tension in the muscles of his arms and chest as he held himself back, a restraint that was somehow more arrogant than full force. His breath, still steady, washed over your cheek.
“Yield.” A single, quiet word, dropped into the scant space between your mouths.
You bared your teeth, a soundless snarl. “Dream on, Kennedy.”
You bucked, shifted your hips, used the micro-second his weight adjusted to hook your leg and roll. The world flipped, ceiling lights streaking, his form a blur of controlled motion, and suddenly you were on top, your forearm braced against the solid column of his throat, your knees digging into the mat on either side of his ribs.
Beneath you, his chest heaved once. A deep, aborted expansion. For a suspended heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Sweat slicked your skin where you pressed against him. The mat was warm and smelled of defeat. Leon’s hand came up, his grip closing around your wrist, not to throw you, not to hurt. To test. To measure the resistance. He was already adapting, his body learning yours even as yours screamed to reject his.
Your pulse was a roar in your ears, a chaotic counter-rhythm to his terrifying calm.
You shoved off him as if burned, scrambling to your feet before the strange, charged stillness could solidify.
“Not so perfect,” you spat, your breath coming in gusts you hated.
Leon sat up smoothly, as if rising from a lounge chair. As if your reversal had been a predicted, inconsequential sub-routine. “You’re fast.”
It wasn’t praise. It was data entry. And you hated that the distinction felt so vital, and that it landed somewhere in the uncharted, dangerous space between contempt and something else.
“Again,” the handler barked.
The next round was worse. Longer. More intimately brutal. It was a war of pressure and proximity. He caught a strike and used it to drive you back into the mat, his shoulder pinning you down, his forearm a bar of iron across your chest, not crushing, just absolutely controlling. You could feel every breath he took. You kicked out, twisted, your hands scraping against the corded steel of his arms as you broke free.
“You fight angry,” he muttered, the words a low vibration in the scant space between your bodies as you circled again, panting.
“You fight like a robot,” you shot back, your voice raw.
“You’re predictable.”
“Only to someone arrogant enough to think they’re smarter.”
“I think you’re reckless.” His eyes were chips of ice in the heat.
You lunged again, if only to wipe the assessment from his face.
He caught you, of course he did, but this time you were ready. You rolled with the momentum, dragging him down with you in a tangle of limbs. The mat shuddered. The grapple became a raw, grinding struggle for dominance, a silent conversation of strain and resistance. Your knee found his side; his elbow bracketed your ribs. Sweat-slick skin slid against damp fabric. Neither of you would yield an inch. The sheer, stubborn will of it was a third entity in the fight.
By the time the handler called the reset, your skin was sheened, your lungs burned, and your muscles trembled with fatigued fury. Across from you, Leon’s breathing had finally deepened, still controlled, but unmistakably heavier. His shirt was plastered to the planes of his back, darkened in a long, damp streak down his spine.
You refused to acknowledge it. You refused to even look.
“Live-fire simulation,” the handler called, gesturing to the adjacent door. “Now.”
The next room was a labyrinth of moveable walls, strobing lights, and disorienting sound cues. Training pistols, heavy with marking rounds, were thrust into your hands. No room for error. No room for anything but the drill. You and Leon moved through the doorway as a single, fractured unit. No words. No signals.
You took point on instinct. He covered the angles you couldn’t see, his presence a shadow at your six. It felt profoundly wrong, this seamless coordination, how your strides synced, how you pivoted around a corner and he was already there, clearing the blind spot. It felt like a betrayal of the mutual contempt that had been your only common ground.
A target snapped up from a left-side port.
You pivoted, weapon rising, finger finding the trigger -
Leon moved.
No shout. No warning. A pure, unthinking kinetic shift.
He stepped into your line of fire, his body turning, his shoulder angling to intercept the shot that wasn’t even real. A blunt, physical declaration.
Protective. Automatic.
The training round smacked into the hard plate of his vest with a dull, final thwack.
Your finger froze. The world narrowed to the spot of neon paint now blooming on his shoulder, to the broad back that had just placed itself between you and a theoretical threat.
“Reset!” the handler’s voice was distant, irrelevant.
Leon stepped away immediately, his posture snapping back into that flawless, impregnable control as if the last five seconds had been edited out. As if his body hadn’t just made a decision his mind would never consciously permit.
You stood rooted, your pulse a frantic bird in your throat, staring at the mark on his vest.
The venue rose out of the city like a monument to excess.
Marble columns framed the entrance, pale and flawless, each one tall enough to make a statement about permanence, about money that didn’t worry about time or consequence. Crystal chandeliers glittered beyond the glass doors, scattering light across polished floors in a way that felt deliberate, curated to impress and intimidate in equal measure.
Inside, an orchestra played something classical and unobtrusive, strings swelling just enough to fill the space without demanding attention. The music threaded through conversations held in low, confident voices, people who had never had to check over their shoulders when they spoke.
This place wasn’t just expensive. It was insulated.
You stepped inside and felt it immediately: the invisible barrier between the people here and the rest of the world. Consequences didn’t reach this far. They slid off champagne flutes and tailored suits, drowned under polite laughter and charitable donations.
Umbrella executives were everywhere. Not obvious. Not branded. Just… present. Men and women with immaculate posture and smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. People who knew exactly how much power they held and exactly how well it was hidden.
You straightened instinctively, not because you needed to, but because the room demanded it. Tonight, you weren’t an agent.
The dress was a calculated piece of armour. It clung and moved in a way that looked effortless, the kind of confidence that came from knowing every movement would be watched and finding satisfaction in it. Hair styled, posture relaxed, expression composed. Lethal, but not visibly so. Danger tucked beneath refinement.
Leon stood beside you, and the contrast was almost obscenely perfect. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed. The tailored suit fit him like a second skin, draping over broad shoulders and a lean frame with an almost insulting elegance. It was dark, understated, and it made him look disarmingly respectable, the kind of man donors instinctively trusted. The earpiece was invisible, his edge concealed beneath a veneer of sophisticated calm. He looked… safe. Predictable. It was the most effective disguise he’d ever worn.
No weapons. No tactical gear. Just a man who cleaned up a little too well. Neither of you looked like agents. You looked like you belonged.
Leon’s eyes swept over you as you adjusted a strap on your shoulder, his gaze lingering a fraction longer than strictly operational. When he spoke, his voice was a low, private rumble. “They didn’t mention the dress.”
You kept your eyes forward, scanning the crowd. “It’s not in the briefing notes, Kennedy. It’s called a uniform.”
“It’s a distraction,” he said, and there was a trace of something in his tone, not warmth, but a clinical sort of acknowledgment.
Before you could retort, the second you crossed the threshold fully into the ballroom, his hand settled at the small of your back.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t awkward. It was proprietary.
His palm rested there with a pressure that was both grounding and possessive, his fingers splayed just above the curve of your hip. His thumb brushed once, a slow, deliberate stroke against the delicate fabric, and your entire spine went rigid in response. The heat of his hand burned through the silk, a brand you felt in every nerve ending.
He leaned in, his breath disturbing the hair near your temple. “Easy,” he murmured, his voice a velvety counterfeit of intimacy. “Smile.”
You did, a perfect, glazed curve of the lips. Under your breath, barely moving them, you hissed, “If you leave your hand there any longer, I’m billing the DSO for emotional damages and a dry-cleaning bill. Your palm is sweating.”
Leon didn’t look at you. His hand didn’t move. If anything, his fingers pressed more firmly, pulling you a millimetre closer into the orbit of his body. “Relax, sweetheart,” he said aloud, his tone soft, affectionate, convincingly doting. “You look breathtaking.” The endearment was a bullet wrapped in velvet.
A nearby couple glanced over, their smiles fond and approving.
Your jaw ached from clenching. “You sound disturbingly natural. I think I might throw up.”
His mouth curved, a private, dangerous flicker. “That’s because you’re holding your breath. They’ll notice the lack of oxygen before they notice the lie.”
“Maybe if you weren’t manhandling me.”
“My hand’s not moving,” he replied, his calm an infuriating counterpoint to your tension. “You’re just hyper-aware of it. Mission focus, remember?”
You hated that he was right. The awareness was a live wire running from the point of contact straight to your core. Publicly, you were seamless, an elegant couple drifting into the flow of the gala, bodies aligned, steps synchronised. Privately, it was a silent war of attrition.
Leon guided you toward the bar with infuriating ease, his hand a constant, navigating pressure. He nodded politely, offered brief, warm smiles. You felt every shift of his fingers, every minute adjustment of his grip.
An Umbrella executive, tall, with cold, appraising eyes, glanced your way.
Leon’s hand shifted. His fingers spread, pressing more fully against your spine as he angled you subtly, protectively, closer to him. His head dipped, his lips near your ear. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, your own gaze locked on the executive.
“Focus,” Leon murmured, his voice a low vibration you felt in your bones. “He’s not just looking. He’s calculating. Smile at him. Like you find him tedious.”
You tilted your head, letting your gaze drift over the man with the lazy, disinterested contempt of the truly privileged. You offered a faint, dismissive smile. The man’s gaze lingered, then moved on, satisfied you were no one of consequence.
Leon exhaled, a soft sound that feathered against your skin. “See? That’s the point.”
You glanced up at him, your cheek nearly brushing his jaw. “Don’t get smug.”
“I’m not smug,” he said, raising a hand to effortlessly snag two champagne flutes from a passing server. He handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours. “I’m effective.”
“You remembered the champagne,” you noted flatly, taking the glass.
“I remember things,” he replied, his eyes scanning the room over the rim of his flute. “Drink with your left hand. Your ring’s on the right. It flashes under the lights.”
You froze for a half-second, a tiny, betraying stumble in your composure. Then you switched hands smoothly, the crystal stem cool in your left fingers. “Stop paying attention to irrelevant details about me.”
“Can’t,” Leon said, his voice dropping back into that confidential murmur as he guided you away from the bar. “That’s the job tonight. Every detail is relevant.”
The orchestra swelled as the evening deepened. The air grew thick with perfume and false camaraderie. Leon’s hand remained on your back, a constant, maddening presence. You became a connoisseur of its pressure, firmer when navigating a crowd, lighter but no less present when stationary, his thumb tracing an absent, subconscious arc that made your breath catch.
As you moved, you saw the illusion take hold. The casual glances from guests, the approving nods from older patrons, the way security teams assessed you as a unit and then dismissed you. They bought the story. The elegant, connected, slightly bored couple.
The realisation was a cold trickle down your spine. Because it wasn’t just them. It was him, too.
He moved through the charade with a terrifying, fluid ease. His touches, his murmured words, the way his body curved around yours in a crowd, it all looked effortless. Like it cost him nothing. Like the simmering hostility that defined your every interaction had been switched off, replaced by this seamless, galling performance.
You were starting to resent how good he was at it.
A guest intercepted you near the edge of the ballroom, an older man with silver hair and a practiced smile, glass of champagne cradled loosely in one hand. His eyes flicked between you and Leon with open curiosity.
“Forgive me,” he said pleasantly, inclining his head. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Leon smiled before you could respond, warm and unhurried. “Of course. This is my wife.” The word still sent a strange jolt through you.
“And you are?” the man asked, turning his attention to you. “Involved in the foundation as well?”
You opened your mouth to speak. To think of something fast before you started spilling word vomit.
“She is,” Leon answered smoothly, his hand settling at your back again. “She led the data consolidation project for the Helios Initiative last year. Streamlined the entire reporting pipeline. Saved the board six figures and a lot of embarrassment.”
You stilled. Just for a fraction of a second. The man’s brows lifted, impressed.
“She has a talent for finding inefficiencies people prefer not to admit are there,” Leon continued, tone light, almost fond. “She’s very good at seeing patterns others miss.”
Your heart stumbled. The guest chuckled. “Dangerous skill.”
Leon’s thumb brushed your spine once, subtly. Familiar. “Only if you’re hiding something.”
The man laughed and excused himself moments later, drifting back into the crowd, already satisfied. You remained where you were, gaze fixed ahead, the music suddenly too loud in your ears.
“How did you know that?” you asked quietly, once you were certain no one was listening.
Leon didn’t look at you. “You did it during the Marseille op,” he said simply. “Flagged the discrepancy in the shipping logs. Everyone else missed it.”
“That was years ago,” you said. “I remember,” he replied.
There was no pride in his voice. No edge. Just fact.
You leaned back into his touch, your shoulder blades pressing against his chest as you pretended to point out a painting. Your voice was a razor in the velvet dark between you. “They’re eating this up. It’s almost pathetic.”
“Yes,” Leon replied, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder. His breath was warm on your neck. “They are.”
He gave you nothing else. Just the steady, burning pressure of his hand.
The orchestra shifted, the music melting into a slower, more intimate piece. The dance floor began to fill. Leon felt the shift in the room’s rhythm a moment before you did.
He turned to you, his expression softening into something convincingly expectant. He extended his hand, palm up. Not a question. A quiet command in the language of the evening.
You stared at his offered hand, at the faint scars across the knuckles you knew the origin of. Then you placed yours in it, your cool fingers sliding against his warm, calloused palm. “You step on my feet,” you whispered, “and I’ll make a scene they’ll talk about for years.”
A ghost of a real smile touched his lips. “Noted.”
He drew you into him, one hand returning to its familiar place on your back, the other closing around your hand. The world narrowed to the space between your bodies. You could feel the fine wool of his suit under your splayed fingers, the solid muscle beneath.
“You dance like you fight,” you accused as he led you into the first steps.
“Precisely?” he murmured, his eyes holding yours.
“Stiffly. Like you’re waiting for an attack.”
“You’re leading.”
“I am not.”
“You’re anticipating my lead and resisting it. It’s the same thing.” He adjusted his grip, his hand on your back firming, guiding your turn. “Stop fighting the rhythm. Let it happen.”
You bristled. “I don’t just let things happen.”
He leaned in, his lips a breath from your ear. His voice dropped, losing its polished edge, revealing the rougher truth beneath. “You do. You always have. You anticipate the strike. You brace for the impact. You’re doing it now.”
The direct hit silenced you. The banter evaporated, leaving only the truth of the movement. You were bracing. Against him. Against the music. Against the unnerving synchronicity.
Somewhere in the next turn, the resistance broke. Not with a surrender, but with a mutual, unspoken recalibration. Leon’s guidance became less a direction and more a suggestion. Your following became less a resistance and more a mirror. Your weight settled, your steps aligned. He shifted; you matched. It became effortless. Fluid. A silent, perfect dialogue of motion.
It felt exactly like the rare, terrifying moments in the field when everything went to hell and instinct took over, when you moved not as two separate entities, but as a single, coordinated organism.
Your breath hitched. You felt his do the same, a stutter in his otherwise controlled chest. Neither of you spoke.
The music carried you, and his hand on your back was no longer a point of conflict. It was an anchor. His other hand held yours, not with performance, but with a simple, undeniable connection. You were suddenly, acutely aware of every point of contact: his thigh brushing yours, the heat of his palm, the steady beat of his heart against your own racing one.
The song began to wind down. Security was tightening; you could see the increased scrutiny at the edges of the room.
Leon’s voice was a raw scrape against your ear, all pretence of gentleness gone. “They’re locking the perimeter. Broker’s in the east wing. We need to move.”
You nodded, your forehead almost touching his chin. The final note hung in the air. Applause scattered through the room. Couples began to separate. Leon didn’t let go.
His hand remained on your back. His fingers were still laced with yours. In the dim, chandelier-lit haze, for a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity, you just stood there, locked in the echo of the dance and the glaring, inconvenient truth it had revealed.
You were still holding on. And so was he.
Finally, he released your hand, the absence feeling like a sudden chill. His palm slid from your back, leaving the ghost of its heat imprinted on the silk. You took a half-step back, the ballroom noise rushing back in.
“Next time,” you said, your voice strangely thin, “warn me before you decide to be competent at something.”
He looked at you, his blue eyes stripped of their usual ice, something darker and more complicated swirling in their depths. “You didn’t need a warning. You kept up.”
He turned, offering his arm again, the picture of the attentive partner. After a stunned second, you slid your hand into the crook of his elbow, your fingers trembling slightly against the fine cotton.
Conversations continue, a tapestry of polished lies, but your senses have already pared them down to a meaningless drone. Your focus narrows, homing in on the anomaly. Across the room, an Umbrella scientist, a man with the pallid complexion and careful detachment of someone who spends more time with data than people, has stopped moving.
He isn't staring. That would be amateur. His attention is a series of precise, surgical observations: the way you stand with your weight slightly forward, not relaxed back; the subtle, the specific tension in your shoulders that speaks of readiness, not repose. His head tilts, a fraction of a degree.
Your pulse kicks, a single, hard thud against your ribs. "Leon," you breathe, the word a ghost against the rim of your champagne flute.
"I see him." His reply is immediate, a low current beneath the placid surface. His posture hasn't changed, but you feel the minute shift in the energy beside you, the coiling of a spring. "Don't look at him. Look at me."
But it's too late. The scientist’s eyes, cold, magnified behind thin glasses, flicker. Not with full recognition, but with the dawning, critical suspicion of it. I know you. From where? The unspoken question hangs in the charged space between you. The danger isn't here yet, but it's coming, a tide you have seconds to turn. Leon doesn't hesitate. He never does.
One moment you are two adjacent entities, sharing a cover story. The next, his arm bands around your waist, pulling you in with an irrevocable certainty. His other hand rises, fingers threading into the hair at your nape, his palm cradling the line of your jaw with a possession that steals the breath from your lungs.
And then his mouth is on yours.
It is not a kiss born of passion, but of pure, unadulterated necessity, a tactical strike executed with devastating precision. There is no cautious exploration, no soft inquiry. His lips meet yours with a firm, undeniable pressure, sealing the world out. It is immediate. Consuming. A forced intimacy that feels more like a claiming than a performance.
The shock of it is a lightning bolt to your system. Every thought, every alarm bell, is momentarily short-circuited by the sheer, overwhelming physicality of him. The warmth of his skin, the faint, clean scent of him cutting through the cloying perfume of the gala, the solid, unyielding wall of his chest against yours.
His mouth moves, and it is not the gentle persuasion of a lover. It is decisive. Convincing. He angles his head, deepening the contact just enough to be unquestionable, his thumb stroking a slow, deliberate arc along your jawline, a gesture of affection that feels, in its practiced perfection, like a weapon. He is building a shield with his body, blocking the scientist's view, rewriting the narrative in the space of a heartbeat: You are not a threat. You are distracted. You are mine.
And you respond. It is the true betrayal. Your body, trained for survival, obeys a different instinct. Your free hand, the one not clutching the forgotten champagne flute, comes to rest against his chest, not to push him away, but to steady yourself. A small, stifled sound catches in your throat. Your lips part beneath his, not in invitation, but in a gasp of pure, stunned reflex that he seamlessly incorporates into the act.
And then, as abruptly as it began, the pressure changes. Leon’s kiss softens, becomes a lingering press, a final punctuation mark. The immediate threat has passed; the scientist, presented with an indisputable picture of private passion, has turned away, dismissing his suspicion as irrelevant.
But Leon doesn't pull back. For three endless heartbeats, he remains there, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours in ragged sync. His eyes are closed, his expression a stark mask of concentration, as if he is listening for an echo of the danger, or perhaps for something else entirely. His thumb continues its slow sweep along your jaw, a soothing rhythm that feels anything but soothing.
You are the one who breaks. You wrench your head back, a shudder running through you. The cool air of the ballroom hits your damp lips, a shocking contrast. Your hand, still splayed on his chest, pushes, a weak, belated attempt to reinstate a boundary that has been utterly demolished.
"Don't," you manage, your voice a scraped-raw whisper. "Don't you dare read into that."
Leon's eyes open. They are dark, pupils blown wide, the usual icy blue swallowed by a storm you've never seen before. He looks at you and for a second, the professional facade is utterly absent. There is only a raw, unsettled intensity that mirrors the chaos in your own veins.
"Trust me," he says, his voice low and rough, stripped of its earlier polish. "I'm not." It is the most transparent lie either of you has told all night.
The silence that follows is louder than the music. He slowly, carefully, unwinds his arm from your waist, his fingers loosening from your hair as if disarming a live wire. The distance between you feels cavernous, charged with the aftershocks of what just happened. You can still feel the imprint of his body against yours, a phantom brand. Your lips are tender, buzzing with a sensation that has nothing to do with the champagne.
Leon clears his throat, the sound harsh in the quiet between you. His gaze darts away, reassembling his composure piece by piece. "He's moving toward the east corridor. The distraction worked."
"Right," you say, the word tasting like ash. You straighten your spine, a soldier coming to attention after a devastating blow. You smooth your dress, a futile gesture. The elegance feels like a costume now, hanging awkwardly on the raw, shaken thing you've become underneath.
He offers his arm again, a formality. You take it, your fingers trembling slightly as they settle on the fine wool of his sleeve. The contact is sterile, polite. A mockery of the intimacy that just fused you together.
You know now, with chilling clarity, that Leon's first instinct was not to create distance, not to signal a retreat, but to eliminate the threat to you by any means necessary. He didn't just sell a cover. He consumed it. He didn't hesitate. And in that breathless, stolen moment, neither did you.
The line has not just been crossed. It has been incinerated.
You keep your chin high, your smile in place, moving back into the glittering fray. But the gala has shifted. The colours are too bright, the music too shrill. Every nerve ending is alive, hyper-aware of the man beside you, of the memory of his mouth, his hands, the terrifying efficiency of his protection, and the even more terrifying echo of your own response.
The gala breathes around you, music swelling and receding, laughter rippling through the crowd, the illusion of safety pressed into every polished surface. But the clock is ticking louder now.
You feel it in the way security shifts positions too often. In the way conversations stall, restart. In the subtle tightening of the room’s rhythm as the night edges closer to whatever Umbrella has planned.
Leon’s hand rests lightly at your elbow as he steers you toward the edge of the ballroom, bodies angled just close enough to sell the cover. His touch is careful now, less possessive than before, more controlled. Like he’s consciously reining himself in. His voice reaches you through the comm, low and steady beneath the orchestra.
“Broker’s device is active. Signal spike just came online.”
Your gaze sweeps the room automatically, cataloguing exits, shadows, patterns. “VIP lounge,” you murmur.
“Yes,” Leon replies. “But there’s a secondary access corridor behind the east stairwell. Two choke points.” A pause. “If we go together, we bottleneck.”
You glance up at him, jaw tightening. “If we split, we lose eyes.”
“We gain speed.”
“And risk,” you counter quietly, lips barely moving as a couple passes too close. “Security’s tightening. They’re already clocking patterns.”
Leon slows just enough to turn toward you. Not fully. Not enough to draw attention. But enough that you feel the weight of his focus settle on you. The chandelier light catches his eyes, sharp, intent, stripped of the softness he’s been wearing for the room.
“Protocol says split,” he says. “Two access points. Redundancy.”
You scoff under your breath. “Protocol didn’t account for Umbrella improvising.”
“It accounts for us adapting.”
“It accounts for you adapting,” you snap back, the edge in your voice slipping through despite your control. “I’m the variable you’re pretending isn’t there.”
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps once, just beneath the skin.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” You lean in closer, the pretence of intimacy giving your words cover. Your pulse is loud now, insistent. “Because ever since that-” You stop yourself, breath hitching. “Since earlier, you’ve been playing it safe.” Leon’s breath stutters once. Barely perceptible. But you feel it.
“I’m playing it smart,” he says.
You shake your head. “Same thing. Different excuse.”
A server brushes past, tray wobbling dangerously close. Leon reacts instantly, his hand sliding to your waist, pulling you in as he murmurs something affectionate aloud. You force a smile, lean into him, sell it.
The server moves on. Leon’s hand doesn’t. His fingers remain splayed at your side, warm and grounding, the pressure unmistakable.
“Listen to me,” he says quietly now, close enough that his breath warms your ear. “The device will be gone in minutes. If we hesitate, we lose it.”
“And if something happens?” you whisper back. “If one of us gets boxed in-”
“We won’t,” he says too fast.
You pull back just enough to look at him. “You don’t know that.”
For a moment, the argument stalls. You don’t like being away from him. You hate that you know the cadence of his movements. That you can predict his choices before he makes them. That the thought of moving through hostile space without his presence at your back makes your chest feel tight and exposed. Leon looks away first. His hand slips from your waist, deliberately, like he’s forcing himself to let go.
“Two minutes,” he says, voice clipped. “If either of us hits resistance, we abort and regroup at point C.”
“And if comms drop?” you ask.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Then you trust me.”
The words land harder than they should. You swallow. “That’s a big ask.” Leon turns back to you, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes give him away. “You already do.”
You hate that he’s right. The realisation burns low and sharp in your chest.
“Fine,” you say, forcing steel into your voice. “East stairwell. I’ll take the service corridor.”
Leon nods once. No hesitation. No argument. Like this was always the plan.
You separate smoothly, drifting apart like any other couple momentarily distracted by different conversations. His presence fades from your side, and the absence of it is immediate, an ache you weren’t prepared for.
The service corridor is quieter, narrower. The music fades to a distant hum, replaced by the soft whir of ventilation and the echo of your own footsteps. The lighting here is dimmer, more utilitarian, less forgiving. You move with practiced ease, posture relaxed, pace unhurried. Just another donor who took a wrong turn.
A guard stands at the far end of the corridor, back partially turned. He glances up as you approach, eyes narrowing just a fraction too long.
You smile. “Sorry, restrooms?” He hesitates. Just long enough. “Down the hall,” he says eventually, gesturing.
You thank him and keep walking, heart thudding. You feel the weight of the distance now, the absence of Leon’s quiet presence through the comms, the way he usually covers angles you don’t have eyes on.
You reach the door marked AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY and slide the keycard from your clutch with steady fingers. The lock clicks open.
Inside, the air is cooler. Server racks hum softly, lights blinking in orderly patterns. The device should be here, hidden, discreet, temporary. You scan quickly. Nothing. Your pulse spikes.
“Leon,” you murmur into the comm. “Device isn’t here.”
A beat. “I’m seeing the same,” he replies. “They’ve moved it.”
“Where?”
“VIP lounge,” he says. “Security just doubled.”
Of course they did. You pivot toward the exit, and the door slams shut behind you. Your heart jumps. You spin, hand already moving toward the concealed weapon at your thigh. The lock engages with a sharp click.
“Leon,” you hiss.
“I hear it,” he says immediately. “Stay calm.”
“Working on it.”
Footsteps sound outside the door. Two sets. Guards murmuring. You scan the room, calculating. No windows. No alternate exit. The ventilation shaft is too small.
“You okay?” Leon asks, voice steady but tight.
“Yes,” you lie. “Just… boxed in.”
A pause. You can hear his breathing through the comm now, controlled but faster.
“I’m rerouting,” he says. “Hold.”
You close your eyes for half a second, forcing yourself to breathe. You trust him. The guards’ voices grow clearer. Keys jingle. Someone tests the door. Your hand tightens around your weapon.
“Leon,” you whisper. “If this goes loud-”
“It won’t,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
The certainty in his voice steadies you more than you want it to. Seconds stretch. Then, gunfire. Shouts. Chaos, distant but unmistakable. The lock disengages. The door bursts open and Leon is there. Breathing hard. Suit rumpled. Eyes sharp and furious and fixed entirely on you.
“Move,” he says.
You don’t argue. You slip past him, shoulder brushing his as you fall into step, moving together like you never separated at all. As you disappear down the corridor, adrenaline still singing in your veins, one thought cuts through the chaos, clear and undeniable.
You barely make it three turns before the building decides to turn hostile.
It starts as a low chime, soft, almost polite, like a warning meant for staff, not guests. Then the lights above you flicker, the bright warmth of the gala’s corridors stuttering into something colder.
Red emergency strips ignite along the ceiling.
A beat later, the sound hits, an alarm that rises in pitch until it becomes a physical pressure against your skull.
Leon’s head snaps up. “That’s not fire protocol,” he says into the comm, voice already shifting into command mode.
“It’s not us,” you reply, breathing hard as you jog. “We haven’t even touched the-”
“Doesn’t matter.” His tone turns razor-thin. “Umbrella emergency.”
As if the words themselves flip a switch, the corridor ahead explodes with movement. A door slams open. Men in black tactical uniforms pour out, armed, masked, efficient. Not event security. Not rent-a-cops.
These are Umbrella’s.
The sound of the orchestra fades behind the thick walls, replaced by the heavier music of boots and shouted commands. Guests scream in the ballroom somewhere distant, the party dissolving into panic on the other side of a carefully controlled barrier.
Leon grabs your wrist and yanks you down a side hall just as a round cracks past where your head had been. The bullet bites into marble, spitting stone dust into the air.
“Contact!” someone barks. “Target moving, east corridor!”
Your comms crackle with interference, the line spiking and dropping as systems overload. Leon’s grip tightens once, steadying you, not for comfort, you tell yourself, but for speed.
“You okay?” he asks, already moving.
“Fine,” you snap, then add, because honesty feels like weakness, “They’re faster than I expected.”
“They’ve been waiting,” Leon says. “We triggered something they wanted triggered.”
You hate that he’s right. Hate that it means this wasn’t just security tightening. It was a trap snapping shut.
A door ahead locks with a heavy clunk as magnetic seals engage. The hallway narrows into a dead-end stretch lined with service entrances. Red light pulses across steel panels, making everything look like it’s bleeding.
Leon slows just long enough to scan. “No exits.”
“Then we make one,” you say, already reaching for the weapon concealed beneath your dress.
Leon’s gaze flicks to your thigh holster, then to your face. No comment. No surprise. Just that quiet, grim acceptance that you’d both come prepared.
A burst of gunfire erupts behind you.
Leon pushes you forward. “Move.”
You sprint. He’s right beside you, close enough that you feel the air shift with him, matching your pace without effort. You round a corner and slam into a tight corridor that funnels you into a narrow kill zone.
Two Umbrella operatives are already there.
No time for thought.
You fire once, clean shot, shoulder. Leon fires in the same breath, headshot. The second operative tries to swing their weapon up. You’re already moving, stepping in, elbow driving into their throat. Leon catches their arm and twists, disarming with a practiced snap that looks almost casual.
The man drops.
Silence doesn’t follow. More footsteps. More coming.
Leon reloads without looking, hands moving fast and sure. You pivot, back hitting his for half a second as you take position.
Back-to-back.
It happens instinctively.
No discussion. No argument. No ego.
Just movement.
Leon’s voice is low, calm. “Three behind. Two ahead.”
You swallow the adrenaline and check your magazine. “Left side is mine.”
“Copy.”
You hear the click of his gun as he finishes his reload. You don’t need to see it. You know the sound now, the rhythm of him, how long it takes, when he needs cover, when he’s about to shift.
The first wave hits.
A door bursts open to your left. You pivot and fire, dropping one before his boots fully clear the threshold. Another lunges in right behind him, weapon raised. You duck, feeling the heat of a shot pass over you, then slam your shoulder into the wall and rebound forward, knife flashing out of your clutch like it’s always been there.
Leon’s gun cracks twice at your back, perfectly timed, covering you as you close distance.
The man goes down.
Another steps into the corridor ahead, weapon trained. Leon shifts his weight, shoulder pressing lightly to your back, a cue, not a shove. You understand instantly, stepping left as he steps right, breaking the enemy’s line of fire before it can settle.
You fire.
Leon fires.
Two bodies fall.
You’re breathing hard now, sweat slick against your skin beneath the elegance of the dress. The fabric pulls tighter across your ribs with every inhale, a reminder that you’re fighting in clothes meant for champagne and photo ops, not blood and bullets.
And Leon is still in his suit, jacket discarded somewhere behind you, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He looks like a man who stepped off a runway and straight into a warzone.
He moves like he belongs here.
So do you.
A sharp crack echoes, too close. Stone dust sprays across your cheek as a bullet hits the wall inches from your head. You flinch, just once, and Leon’s hand comes up immediately, palm to your shoulder, guiding you down behind a corner.
“Stay low,” he murmurs.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you hiss automatically.
Leon doesn’t take the bait. He leans out, fires twice, then pulls back, already reloading. “Cover me.”
You do, because you always do. Because your body already knows what to do when he says it.
You step out, firing controlled shots that force the operatives back. Leon’s reload finishes. He’s up and moving again, switching positions with you so smoothly it feels like choreography.
It hits you mid-fight, sudden and unwanted.
You fight the same way.
Not identical but the same mind. The same instincts. The same calculation running behind your eyes at the same speed. The same ruthless efficiency under pressure.
You both make decisions in fractions of a second.
You both adjust without needing to speak.
You both anticipate.
Mirrors.
The thought is so sharp it almost distracts you.
And suddenly the rivalry makes sense.
Because it was never really hate. It was recognition.
A loud mechanical whine cuts through the chaos, the sound of an internal security shutter descending. The corridor ahead begins to seal off, metal plates sliding down from the ceiling to block the route.
“We’re getting boxed,” you warn.
Leon’s eyes flick. “We go now.”
You don’t argue. You surge forward together, moving fast as the plates descend. A man steps into your path, too late to stop you. You slam into him like a force of nature, knee driving into his stomach. Leon’s elbow snaps into the side of his head, clean and brutal.
You clear him and keep moving.
The shutter slams down behind you with a heavy, final clang.
For half a heartbeat, there’s only your breathing and the distant muffled alarm.
Leon’s chest rises and falls hard. His hair is slightly out of place now, a thin sheen of sweat at his temple. His eyes are bright with adrenaline, sharp as a blade.
You’re too close, face to face in the tight corridor, bodies still buzzing from combat. You can feel the heat of him, the electricity of the movement that just happened between you without words.
He scans you quickly, your face, your arms, the exposed skin at your shoulder. “You hit?”
“No,” you say, then more softly, “You?”
He shakes his head once.
Your comms crackle again. A burst of static. Then the handler’s voice cuts in, strained: “Emergency protocol is fully active. Extraction compromised. Get that device and get out. Now.”
Leon’s gaze meets yours.
And for the first time all night, there’s no sarcasm in it. No rivalry. No distance.
Just certainty.
“We finish this,” he says.
You swallow, pulse still pounding.
“Yeah,” you reply. “We finish it.”
Then you move again together, like you’ve been doing this side by side for years.
Like you were always meant to.
You duck into the service room just as Leon slams the door shut behind you, shoving a metal cart into place with a sharp grunt. The barricade isn’t elegant, but it’s solid enough to buy you time. For now.
The alarms are muffled here, reduced to a distant, angry pulse. Red light seeps through the narrow window in the door, flashing in slow intervals that make the room feel like it’s breathing.
You lean forward, hands braced on your knees, dragging air into your lungs. Your heart is still racing, adrenaline buzzing so loud it drowns out everything else. Sweat clings to your skin, your dress ruined, hair pulled loose from its careful styling.
Leon turns toward you immediately.
“Stay still,” he says, already closing the distance.
“I am still,” you snap, even as you straighten reflexively.
His hands are on you before you can object—efficient, professional. He checks your arms first, fingers firm but careful as they skim for blood. Then your shoulder, where stone dust still clings to your skin. His touch lingers there a fraction longer than necessary, thumb brushing lightly as if confirming something he already knows.
You swat his hand away. “I said I’m fine.”
Leon’s jaw tightens. “Humour me.”
“I don’t recall that being part of the mission.”
His eyes flick up to meet yours, sharp, annoyed, but there’s something else there now too. “You flinched.”
“You were in my line of fire,” you fire back. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not,” he says quickly, hands dropping. “I’m checking my partner.”
The word lands heavier than either of you expect.
You scoff, turning away to pace the small room. “Don’t get sentimental now.”
Leon exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re the one snapping.”
You whirl back on him. “Because you nearly got yourself shot pulling that move back there.”
“And you nearly took a round to the head rushing that corner,” he shoots back without missing a beat.
There it is, the familiar bite. The clash. But it doesn’t sting the way it used to.
You hold his gaze, chest still heaving. “You didn’t have to cover me.”
Leon’s voice is steady, but quieter now. “Yes, I did.”
The certainty in it disarms you more than any argument ever has.
Silence stretches between you, thick with everything neither of you is saying. The room hums softly around you, vents rattling overhead, the smell of oil and metal grounding you in the aftermath.
Your pulse finally begins to slow.
You look at him properly then, not as a rival, not as an obstacle, but as the man who just fought back-to-back with you without hesitation. Who knew when you needed cover before you did. Who moved when you moved, adapted when you adapted, like your thoughts were running parallel tracks.
It clicks.
He never underestimated you.
Not once.
All those arguments. The clipped remarks. The way he never rose to your jabs, never reacted the way you wanted him to. You’d always read it as arrogance. Distance. Superiority.
But standing here now, suit scuffed and tie gone, breathing hard just like you, the truth settles uncomfortably into place.
He wasn’t looking down on you.
He was matching you.
Meeting you at the same level and refusing to drop below it. Treating you like an equal long before you were ready to believe it. Long before you’d stopped mistaking restraint for dismissal.
Leon shifts his weight, eyes still on you. “You good?” he asks again, softer this time.
You nod once. “Yeah.”
A beat passes.
“You fight like me,” you add, almost against your will.
His brow furrows slightly. “No. You fight like you.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” he says.
Another silence, but this one is different. Less sharp. Less hostile. Charged, but steadier.
Leon glances toward the barricaded door, listening. “We’ve got maybe ninety seconds before they reroute.”
You straighten, rolling your shoulders despite the ache settling into them. “Then we’d better move.”
He nods, and for the first time, there’s no tension in the agreement. No need to assert control or prove anything.
Just two agents, side by side, breathing in sync.
The safe room isn’t safe in any comforting way.
It’s a concrete box tucked behind an unmarked service door three levels below street access, the kind of place that doesn’t show up on public blueprints. The air smells faintly of dust and old metal. A single strip light hums above, casting pale, uneven illumination across gray walls and a scarred steel table. No windows. No softness. No distractions.
Just four walls and the aftertaste of adrenaline.
You shut the door behind you and twist the lock twice out of habit, even though the handler swore this location was clean. Leon stands a few feet away, chest rising and falling hard. His suit is ruined, dark smudges at the knee where he’d hit the floor, the white of his shirt stained with sweat and dust. His tie is gone. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms streaked with grime, knuckles raw.
He looks like a man who belongs in a fight, not a ballroom.
You look… less polished too. Your dress is torn at the hem, a thin snag running along your thigh where you’d caught it on something sharp while vaulting a barrier. Your hair has slipped free of its careful pins. There’s stone dust at your collarbone. The only thing that stayed flawless is the shape of your posture, trained, controlled, refusing to collapse.
You cross the room and drop the data device on the steel table. It makes a solid, satisfying clack that echoes in the small space.
Done.
For now.
Leon reaches up and removes the earpiece, rolling it between his fingers before setting it down beside the device. You do the same, tugging yours out with a little too much force. Without comms, the room gets quieter. The silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels loaded.
Weapons come next, unclipped, unloaded, set aside. You place your handgun on the table, then the spare magazine. The movement is efficient, practiced. Leon mirrors you without a word, laying his gear down in clean, ordered lines like he can impose control on chaos by arranging it neatly.
A tremor runs through your fingers when you reach for a chair. You close your hand into a fist before anyone can see.
Leon’s gaze flicks to you anyway.
You hate that he notices everything. Hate that you’re suddenly grateful he does.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
The adrenaline is still in your bloodstream, buzzing like a live wire under your skin. Your thoughts keep trying to sprint, to latch onto the next move, the next threat, the next exit.
But there is nothing to chase.
No alarms. No targets.
Just the hum of the strip light and the slow return of sensation: the ache in your ribs, the sting across your knuckles, the bruise blooming at your hip where you’d hit the wall harder than you meant to.
Your body is remembering you’re human.
It’s the worst part, the calm. In the fight, everything had been simple: move, shoot, breathe, survive. Now, with nothing pressing in, the silence forces everything else forward.
The kiss. The way Leon moved in front of you. The way your hands had lingered on his wrist. The way he’d said I’ve got you like it was an unshakable fact.
You take a slow breath and realise your lungs are still working like they expect to be chased.
Leon finally breaks the stillness, voice low. “We got it.”
“Yeah,” you answer too quickly. “We got it.”
He nods once, but his eyes don’t move away from you. There’s something in his expression, still controlled, still restrained, but the edges have softened, as if the adrenaline has melted some of the steel away and left the person underneath exposed in small, dangerous ways.
You don’t know what to do with that.
You turn toward the wall instead, stare at the blank concrete like it can offer you an instruction manual.
Your hands shake again, just slightly. You flex your fingers, forcing them steady. You refuse to let your body betray you, not after everything. Not in front of him.
“Sit,” Leon says.
It isn’t an order. Not really. It’s… practical. Almost gentle.
“I’m fine,” you snap automatically.
Leon’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t argue, he simply steps closer and reaches for the small first aid kit mounted on the wall. You hadn’t noticed it. Of course he did.
He sets it on the table with a quiet thud and flips it open, movements clean and efficient. Like tending wounds is just another protocol.
You watch him for half a second too long.
The light catches the lines of exhaustion in his face. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. A smudge of dried blood at the edge of his knuckles that isn’t his, you think. The muscles in his shoulders shift as he rolls them once, like the weight of the night is settling in.
A tremor runs through his hand as he pulls out antiseptic wipes.
He pauses, almost imperceptibly, then continues like it never happened.
So he’s not untouched either.
That realisation lands strangely. You’ve spent so long imagining him as something unbreakable—smooth, composed, always in control. Seeing the cracks should satisfy you.
It doesn’t.
It makes your throat tighten.
“Give me your hand,” Leon says, still not looking directly at you.
You laugh once, short and sharp. “That’s rich.”
He finally looks up. “Don’t start.”
The tone is familiar, dry, controlled, but it lacks its usual bite. It’s not a challenge. It’s tired.
You should refuse out of principle.
Instead you step forward and extend your hand, palm up, because the alternative, fighting him on this, feels suddenly exhausting.
Leon takes your hand.
His fingers are warm, steady, calloused. His grip is firm but careful, like he’s handling something that matters more than he wants to admit. He inspects your knuckles, the small splits in the skin, the smear of grime.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s blood.”
You roll your eyes. “Congratulations, Kennedy. You can identify bodily fluids.”
A flicker, almost a smile, touches his mouth. It’s gone before you can be sure it was real.
He cleans your knuckles anyway. The antiseptic stings. You hiss and try to pull away. Leon holds your hand a fraction tighter, not letting you retreat.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
Your pulse jumps at the softness of it.
You hate that.
“You’re enjoying this,” you mutter, trying to salvage something sharp.
Leon doesn’t look up. “I’m not.”
The honesty in his voice knocks the air out of your sarcasm. He sounds… genuine. Like he’s too worn out to pretend.
He finishes cleaning your hand, wraps it quickly, efficiently. The tape catches briefly on your skin, and his thumb brushes your wrist as he smooths it down.
You feel it like a spark.
You hate that you feel it.
Leon lets go, but his hand lingers for a half second too long, fingers resting against your pulse as if confirming it’s still there.
Then he pulls back, clearing his throat, gaze shifting away like he’s caught himself doing something he didn’t mean to.
The silence returns.
He starts tending to his own wounds next, wiping blood from his knuckles, wrapping tape with the same clinical focus. But his hands still shake faintly, the aftermath of adrenaline refusing to fade completely.
You don’t comment. He doesn’t either.
The strip light hums.
Your breathing finally slows to something normal. With it comes the weight of everything you’ve been avoiding since you first saw his name on that leaderboard.
The first time you tried to speak to him.
The way he ignored you.
The silence that followed you for years like a ghost.
It’s there now, in this room, louder than the alarms ever were.
You don’t plan to say anything. You don’t want to hand him another weapon.
But the words break loose anyway, scraped raw by exhaustion and adrenaline and the fact that he just held your hand like it mattered.
“Why,” you ask, voice quiet enough it barely exists, “did you ignore me back then?”
Leon freezes. The strip light hums. Somewhere in the building, pipes creak. The sound feels unbearably loud. His gaze lifts slowly. For once, there’s no immediate retort, no controlled reply. Just stillness.
You swallow, suddenly aware that you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. “You walked right past me,” you continue, the old anger flaring in your chest like it never left. “I said your name. You didn’t even look at me. Like I wasn’t-” Your voice catches. You force it steady. “Like I wasn’t worth the effort.”
Leon’s throat works as he swallows. He looks down at his hands for a moment, fingers flexing, then back up to you. His eyes are hard, not with anger, but with something else. Something that looks a lot like regret.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quietly.
You laugh, brittle. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s choosing each word with care. Like he can’t afford to get this wrong.
“I didn’t know what to say,” Leon admits. The words hang in the air, plain and stark.
You blink. “What?”
“I didn’t know what to say,” he repeats, more firmly this time, like he’s pushing through something stuck in his throat. “You… came up to me. Confident. Like you belonged here already. Like you weren’t scared of anyone.”
Your chest tightens, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to understanding.
Leon’s jaw flexes. “And I…” He hesitates. It’s subtle, but it’s there, the first real hesitation you’ve seen from him that isn’t tactical. “I didn’t want to screw it up.”
You stare at him, thrown off balance. “Screw what up?” you demand, too sharply.
Leon’s eyes meet yours, steady but exposed. “Whatever it was,” he says quietly. “I-” He exhales, a sound that almost turns into a laugh but doesn’t. “You intimidated me.”
The confession hits like a punch. You’re speechless for a beat, mouth opening and closing like you’re trying to find words that aren’t there.
“Me?” you echo finally, incredulous.
Leon nods once, almost reluctantly. “Yeah. You.”
He shifts his weight, restless, uncomfortable, like he’d rather be facing down a dozen armed guards than this conversation. “I’d just transferred. I was… trying to keep my head down. Trying to be the guy who didn’t make mistakes.”
His gaze drops again briefly, then lifts. “And you looked at me like you expected something. Like you wanted to talk. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”
The room feels smaller. You remember that hallway. Remember the way you’d felt, nervous but determined, trying to be friendly, trying to prove you weren’t just another ambitious agent. You’d thought it would be simple. You’d thought he’d smile. Instead he’d walked away and left you standing there with your pride bleeding out on the floor.
“And you decided ignoring me was the best option,” you say, voice tight.
Leon’s mouth twists. “I thought if I said the wrong thing, it’d be worse.”
“So you said nothing.”
“I said nothing,” he agrees, and there’s no defence in it. Just ownership. “And then you looked at me like you hated me, and…” He pauses, eyes flicking to yours. “It was easier to let you.”
Your throat tightens. Because it’s suddenly all too clear: the rivalry didn’t start because he thought he was better than you.
It started because he was scared, and you were hurt, and neither of you had ever been brave enough to admit it.
The strip light hums above you, the only witness to the truth finally surfacing between bare concrete walls.
You let out a slow breath, hands still, heart quieter now but heavier.
“Leon,” you say, voice low.
He looks at you, waiting. The silence after his confession is different from the ones that came before it. It doesn’t feel sharp or loaded with expectation. It feels… open. Exposed. Like something has finally been set down between you instead of hurled back and forth.
Leon doesn’t move. He doesn’t fill the space with explanations or excuses. He just stands there, shoulders tense, waiting. For you.
You stare at the concrete floor for a long moment, jaw tight, pulse steadying as the truth rearranges itself in your chest. All the years of irritation. The constant edge. The way every victory against him had tasted hollow, every loss unbearable. It clicks into place with an almost humiliating clarity.
“You know what the worst part is?” you say finally, voice quiet but steady.
Leon’s eyes lift to yours. He doesn’t speak.
“You made me better.” The words scrape on the way out. You let out a short, humourless breath. “Every time I saw your name above mine, or just one slot below, it pissed me off. And I worked harder. Smarter. I pushed myself because I refused to be second to you.”
Leon’s brow furrows slightly, but he stays silent.
“And I told myself it was hate,” you continue, forcing the words out before you can second-guess them. “That you were arrogant. Cold. That you thought you were better than me.”
Your laugh this time is quieter. Rougher. “It was easier to be angry than to admit the truth.”
Leon’s jaw tightens. “Which is?”
The room doesn’t collapse. He just watches you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
“I hated you,” you say, softer now, “because it was safer than wondering why your opinion of me mattered so much.”
The admission leaves you raw. Exposed in a way gunfire never could. Leon exhales slowly, like he’s been holding that breath for years.
“I noticed,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Noticed what?”
“That you were always pushing.” His voice is calm, but there’s something unguarded in it now. “That every time I thought I’d finally pulled ahead, you closed the gap. That when I messed up, you didn’t gloat, you got sharper.”
He shakes his head once, a small, almost self-deprecating motion. “I told myself I didn’t care. That it was just competition.”
You snort. “Let me guess. Lie.”
“Yes.” He meets your gaze fully now. “I measured everything against you. Missions. Scores. Decisions. I never wanted to be less in your eyes.”
The words land heavier than you expect.
Leon shifts his weight, restless. “I mistook the tension for hostility because that was easier than admitting I was… invested.”
“In what?” you ask quietly.
“In you,” he answers, just as quietly.
The air between you changes.
Not explosively. Not dramatically.
It settles.
You look at him finally, as someone standing on the same ground, stripped of armour and pretence.
Equals.
“I thought you ignored me because you didn’t respect me,” you say.
Leon’s mouth tightens. “I respected you too much.”
That shouldn’t undo you.
It does.
Your shoulders sag slightly, tension bleeding out of muscles you didn’t realise were still locked. “We’re idiots,” you mutter.
Leon huffs a quiet laugh. “We’re agents.”
“Same thing.”
For the first time, the humour doesn’t feel like a weapon. It feels shared.
You step closer without fully realising you’ve moved. The space between you narrows until you’re acutely aware of his presence again. You can hear his breathing. Feel the warmth radiating off him.
Leon doesn’t retreat.
His hand lifts slightly, then hesitates, hovering near your wrist like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to cross that line. The restraint is somehow worse than if he’d just touched you.
Your fingers twitch, an instinctive response.
The moment teeters.
It’s there in the closeness, the shared breath, the fragile understanding humming between you. One step closer. One hand reaching. One choice away from something that feels inevitable.
Leon’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth.
Your heart stutters.
Then -
A sharp crackle tears through the stillness.
Your discarded earpiece comes to life on the table, static bursting from it in an ugly rush of sound. You both jerk back instinctively, training snapping into place.
“-repeat, safe room compromised-” the handler’s voice cuts in, distorted and urgent. “Umbrella units inbound. You need to move. Now.”
The spell shatters.
Leon’s hand drops instantly, professionalism snapping back into place like a reflex. Your pulse spikes, adrenaline surging back through veins that had only just begun to calm.
You exchange one look.
Not rivals. Not enemies.
Partners.
“Guess we don’t get a quiet ending,” you mutter.
Leon’s mouth curves faintly, not a smirk, not yet. Something steadier. “We’ll finish this first.”
You nod, already moving toward your weapon. But as you pass him, your fingers brush his wrist, deliberate this time.
Just enough to promise. This isn’t over.
Then the door rattles under the first distant impact, and whatever comes next barrels toward you both at full speed, truth laid bare, denial gone, and something fragile and dangerous waiting on the other side of the fight.
The first impact hits the door like a warning.
Metal groans. The cart you shoved against it shudders, wheels squealing against concrete. Dust shakes loose from the ceiling in a fine gray drift.
Leon’s eyes snap to the lock. Yours snap to your weapon.
“Move,” he says at the same time you do.
The strip light overhead flickers once, then dies.
Darkness swallows the room.
For half a heartbeat, there’s nothing but the faint red pulse bleeding through the narrow window in the door and the sound of your own breathing.
Then the world explodes.
Gunfire tears through the door in a blistering spray. Splinters of metal and concrete burst inward, sparks flashing like violent stars in the dark. You drop instinctively, hitting the floor hard, shoulder slamming into the table leg as rounds chew the space where you’d been standing a second ago.
“Down!” Leon barks, unnecessary, because you’re already there.
Your ears ring. The air smells like hot metal and smoke. The darkness makes everything closer, sharper. You can’t see Leon, but you can hear him, his breath, controlled but quick, the scrape of his boots as he shifts.
Another impact slams into the door. The cart grinds forward an inch.
“They tracked us,” you spit, teeth clenched.
Leon’s voice is tight. “They wanted us to bring the device somewhere quiet.”
Personal, then.
Not a show of force. Not a random contingency.
A message.
A punishment.
You raise your pistol, steadying your aim toward the door’s window slit. Red light strobes across your hands in pulses. You can’t see targets, but you can predict movement by sound, boots, the clink of gear, the clipped rhythm of someone stacking up for entry.
Leon moves to your side, a shadow in the dark. You feel the brush of his shoulder against yours, close, grounding, real.
“On my mark,” you murmur.
“Always,” he whispers back, and the word lands heavier than it ever has.
The door buckles.
A wedge of light knifes through as the barricade gives. Someone rams it again, and the door bursts inward with a metallic shriek. Figures flood the gap, black armour, masked faces, rifles up.
You fire first.
A clean shot, then another. The muzzle flash briefly illuminates the room in harsh white bursts, enough to catch glints of visor, the sharp edge of a weapon, Leon’s face set and fierce beside you.
Leon moves in the same instant, firing over your shoulder, his shots precise, economical. An operative drops in the doorway, collapsing into the pile of debris. Another stumbles back with a curse.
“Push!” Leon barks.
You surge forward together, slipping through the smoke and chaos. Close quarters now, too tight for long-range. Your shoulder slams into one attacker, throwing him off balance. Leon’s elbow drives into another’s jaw, cracking hard enough that you feel it in your teeth.
You don’t think.
You move.
Someone grabs your arm from behind. You pivot, wrenching free, gun coming up, only to have Leon’s hand catch your wrist, redirecting your barrel a fraction.
“Left,” he snaps.
A shot cracks where your aim would’ve been wrong. A man drops behind you, silent and sudden.
Your pulse spikes, raw gratitude laced with terror.
You’re alive because Leon didn’t hesitate. Again.
More operatives spill into the corridor outside, attempting to funnel you back into the room. You back up instinctively until your spine hits the wall.
Leon shifts behind you.
Back-to-back, without discussion.
The old rhythm returns, but it’s different now. It’s sharpened by something you can’t pretend is just training.
A rifle butt swings toward Leon’s head. You hear it more than see it. You react—knife flashing up, slashing across the attacker’s forearm. Leon ducks and counters, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him crashing into the corridor wall.
“Leon!” you call, not as a warning, but as an anchor. A check-in. Still there?
“I’m here,” he answers, voice tight.
Gunfire erupts again, closer. A round clips the wall by your ear. Another slams into Leon’s side.
For a second, you don’t register what happened.
Then Leon makes a sound, sharp, involuntary, like his body betrayed him.
He staggers.
Your stomach drops through the floor.
“Leon!” you gasp, turning-
He catches himself against the wall, one hand pressing hard to his ribs. When he lifts it, his palm is dark in the strobing red light.
Blood. Too much.
His face tightens, not with fear, with frustration. With the shock of losing control for even a second.
“I’m fine,” he grits out.
“No,” you snap, voice cracking with something you can’t hide. “No, you’re not.”
Another operative charges, and instinct takes over before panic can swallow you whole. You fire, dropping him mid-step. You move closer to Leon without thinking, body angling to shield him from the corridor.
“Don’t-” Leon starts, but his breath catches, pain stealing the rest of the sentence.
You rip some fabric from your dress, and shove it against his side. “Hold pressure.”
Leon’s eyes flare. “We need to move.”
“We are moving,” you hiss. “But you are not dying in front of me.”
He tries to straighten. He’s breathing harder now, sweat slick at his brow, his usual control slipping at the edges. Disorientation flickers in his eyes for half a second, like his body is threatening to go down whether he wants it to or not.
The sight guts you.
The fear hits fully then, hot and absolute, stripping you of everything sharp and snarky and protected.
“I am going to be so mad if you die on me,” you say, voice raw, unfiltered.
Leon’s eyes rolled before his gaze locks on yours. You could’ve sworn you saw a smirk on his face.
Then his jaw tightens. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and for once, it isn’t a challenge. It’s a promise.
The corridor fills with footsteps again.
You pivot, planting yourself between Leon and the oncoming threat. Every muscle in your body tightens with purpose. Protective. Focused.
You fire in controlled bursts, forcing the operatives back. Leon pushes off the wall, gritting his teeth, raising his weapon despite the tremor in his arm. You hear the strain in his breath, the way his body fights him now.
“Stay with me,” you mutter, not a command, an insistence. “Match me.”
Leon’s voice is ragged but steady. “Always.”
You move together again, but now every decision is laced with instinctive concern. You take the riskier angles, so he doesn’t have to. You cover him longer than necessary. You bark directions closer, faster, because the thought of losing him makes your vision narrow into something dangerous.
An enemy lunges from the side. You catch him with your shoulder and slam him into the wall. Leon steps in to finish it, but his knees buckle for a heartbeat. Your hand shoots out, gripping his forearm, hauling him upright.
You clear the last attacker with brutal efficiency, and the corridor finally opens, an escape route just beyond the carnage.
Leon sways, teeth clenched. You hook your arm around his back, taking more of his weight than you should be able to, and he lets you.
That, more than anything, tells you how deep this has gone.
You stagger forward together into the dim service stairwell, alarms still wailing, red light flashing, the world still trying to tear you apart.
The extraction is quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after everything loud has already burned itself out.
You barely register the transition from stairwell to armoured transport. Leon’s weight leans heavy against you until medics swarm, voices overlapping, hands pulling you apart with practiced urgency. Someone eases you back while someone else lowers him onto a stretcher. The world narrows to flashes: gauze pressed to his side, blood-stained shirt cut away, a monitor chirping insistently.
You stand there uselessly for half a second too long before someone tells you to sit.
You don’t remember sitting.
You remember your hands shaking when you notice they’re covered in his blood. You scrub them together reflexively, like you can erase the image if you try hard enough. A medic hands you a bottle of water. You take it without drinking.
Leon is alive.
The knowledge settles slowly, like something too fragile to trust all at once. His chest rises and falls, uneven but steady. His eyes flutter open briefly when they stitch him up, unfocused but aware enough to find you where you stand.
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
Later, how much later you’re not sure, you’re in another room. Cleaner. Brighter. Too sterile to feel real. Leon is propped up on a narrow cot, bandaged and pale but breathing without effort now. The monitors have gone quiet, content to hum along instead of scream.
Your injuries are minor. Someone fussed over them anyway. You let them, numb and obedient, because the alternative was thinking.
Now it’s just the two of you again.
Silence settles between you like a blanket instead of a weapon.
You stand by the wall at first, arms folded, posture rigid out of habit more than necessity. Leon watches you from the cot, expression unreadable but soft around the edges in a way you’ve never seen before.
“You should sit,” he says quietly.
You shake your head and answer as you always do. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue but rolls his eyes as he always does.
The adrenaline has fully drained now, leaving behind a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. Your hands are still trembling slightly, even as you clench them into fists and force them still. You feel wrung out, scraped raw, like something vital has been stripped away, and something else left behind in its place.
Leon shifts, wincing faintly, then settles. His gaze never leaves you.
“I scared you,” he says.
It’s not an accusation. It’s not fishing for reassurance.
It’s a statement.
You swallow. “Yeah.”
Another silence. Thicker. More honest.
“I didn’t mean to,” he adds.
“I know.” You push off the wall before you can stop yourself, closing the distance until you’re standing beside him. You don’t look at the bandages. You look at his face. “But you did.”
Leon nods once. “I won’t apologise for getting hit.”
“Good,” you say immediately. “Because I’d never forgive you for it.”
That earns the faintest huff of a laugh, more breath than sound. It fades quickly, leaving the room quiet again.
You don’t sit. Instead, you reach out without fully deciding to, your fingers brushing the edge of the bed. Leon’s hand shifts instinctively, stopping just short of yours.
The hesitation is mutual.
“You don’t have to-” he starts.
“I want to,” you say softly.
The words feel different now. Steadier. Chosen.
Leon’s fingers close around yours, careful, deliberate. His grip is warm, grounding, real in a way that has nothing to do with cover stories or mission parameters. He doesn’t pull you closer. He just holds on, like he’s confirming you’re still here.
You breathe out slowly, the tension easing from your shoulders in a way you hadn’t realized was still there.
This isn’t the gala. There’s no music. No audience. No danger pressing in from all sides. No reason at all, except want.
You step closer, close enough that your knees brush the side of the cot. Leon tilts his head up slightly to look at you, eyes searching, open.
When you finally lean in, it’s slow. Unrushed. Intentional.
Your lips meet his with a softness that surprises you both.
It’s nothing like the kiss before.
There’s no urgency driving it this time. No desperation, no need to convince anyone watching. No sharp angles or calculated pressure. Just the quiet, deliberate meeting of mouths, slow, careful, unguarded in a way that feels far more dangerous.
Leon kisses you like he’s letting himself feel it.
His lips are warm, firm but unhurried, moving against yours with a patience that makes your breath stutter despite yourself. It’s not demanding. It’s exploratory. As if he’s memorising the shape of you instead of claiming it.
His hand lifts to your wrist, fingers closing there gently, thumb brushing over your pulse. You feel it jump beneath his touch, too fast, too loud, and the knowledge that he can feel it too sends a low, unwanted heat curling through your stomach.
He doesn’t comment.
He just deepens the kiss slightly, a subtle shift that draws a quiet sound from the back of your throat before you can stop it. His other hand hovers at your side, not quite touching, the restraint almost worse than contact.
When he finally does settle his palm against your waist, it’s careful. Grounding. Like he’s reminding both of you exactly where you are, and exactly how close you’re choosing to be.
You kiss him back without thinking, lips parting just enough to meet his, the world narrowing to breath and warmth and the steady strength of him in front of you. The orchestra fades. The room dissolves. There is only this, this shared, wordless understanding humming between you.
When you pull back, it’s slow.
Reluctant.
Your forehead rests against his, breaths mingling, close enough that you can feel the faint tremor he hasn’t quite managed to suppress. His thumb still strokes your pulse, absent-minded now, like he’s forgotten he’s doing it.
Neither of you speaks.
You don’t need to.
There’s no declaration. No promise shaped into words. Just the shared understanding humming between you, solid and undeniable.
When you finally straighten, Leon’s eyes are still on you, softer now. Lighter.
“Guess,” he murmurs, “that wasn’t part of the cover.”
You smile, a real one, unguarded. “Guess not.”
The silence returns again after that.
But this time, it doesn’t ask anything of you.
It simply lets you be.
The debrief room looks exactly the way it always does.
Gray walls. Steel table. A screen mounted at the far end displaying mission timestamps and sanitized summaries. The kind of room designed to strip events of their chaos and compress them into bullet points.
You sit side by side. Your shoulder almost brushes Leon’s, close enough to feel without touching. He’s back in clean clothes now, bandages hidden beneath a fresh shirt, posture straight despite the stiffness he hasn’t quite shaken.
The handler stands across from you, expression neutral as ever.
There’s no need to look at each other to confirm anything. You already know what the other is thinking. Where they’ll speak. When they’ll stay quiet. It’s effortless now, like the friction burned itself out and left something smooth behind.
The handler’s gaze flicks between you briefly. Assessing. Noting the absence of hostility.
“Good work,” they add. “Both of you.”
High praise, coming from them.
They dismiss you with a clipped nod and turn back to the screen. The door slides open with a soft hiss, and you stand at the same time, movements synchronized without thought.
Outside, the operations floor hums with its usual low-level chaos. Agents pass, analysts cluster around consoles, voices overlap in familiar rhythms. Nothing looks different.
But it feels different.
You walk together toward the leaderboard without speaking, the silence companionable instead of sharp. The board flickers as you approach, updating, recalculating, doing what it always does after a major operation.
For a split second, the screen goes dark.
Then the names appear.
You stop.
So does Leon.
#1 — YOU
#1 — LEON KENNEDY
Perfectly even.
Tied.
You stare at it longer than you expect to, waiting for something, satisfaction, irritation, the old flare of competitiveness.
It doesn’t come.
Leon exhales softly beside you, something between a laugh and a breath of disbelief. He tilts his head, eyes moving from the board to you.
That familiar smirk appears, not sharp, not challenging. Lighter. Easier.
“Guess we’ll have to settle this another way,” he says.
after living in the city for three years, you return to your hometown in the country. and while the love of your life insists upon discovering why you drifted away from him, you're hellbent on keeping it to yourself. that is, until your close friend reveals a truth that can't be ignored: your love is requited.
˚ ༘ ♡ ·˚ ꒰𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄
nsfw (smut), angst, sappy ending, heavy christianity themes, caleb is a whore, mentions of porn and threesomes, voyeurism (you're the voyeur), barn sex, graphic non-penetrative sex, implied penetrative sex, attempted love triangle and queer-baiting, you got bullied in high school (sorry if your name is jessica and you're reading this), caleb loves titties (convince me otherwise), swearing, 13k words
Independence, freedom, taxes—they’re all markers of adulthood. You always wanted to grow up, to get older, to have a taste of this blissful thing called ‘being able to do whatever you wanted to’. That’s exactly the reason why you were insistent upon moving out of your hometown at the ripe age of 18, much to your parents and friends dismay. You were hellbent on living in the city because… well, the city is cool, duh! The city brims with opportunities and shopping centres, and every kind of pollution you’ve ever imagined!
The idea of it all was juvenile. There was a veil across your eyes, soaping up the city to be a place of grandeur and wonder. So imagine your shock when you moved to the city and found that it wasn’t all you had expected it to be. Your former “I’ll figure it out” turned into “How can people live like this?”
Noise and noise and more noise, smoking, noise, people—how ghastly. And to make matters worse, you had begun your profession in the most cruel of industries: corporate. Yeah, that big bank you were working for churned you out real quick. Even relocating to smaller, less demanding firms didn’t help. In the end, all they cared about was your performance. Those businesses only saw you as a means to an end. Figures.
So here you are, driving home with your tail between your legs. Not that your parents mind. In fact, they’re thrilled to have you back.
“It’ll be good to have another pair of hands on deck,” your father said when you delivered the embarrassing good news over the phone.
Turning off the motorway, you follow the GPS through industrial areas which fade out into wheat fields. Your playlist blasts through the speakers, and you sing along (albeit off-key) to hype yourself up for deflecting every meddling question about the past three years of your life. You already feel like a failure; there’s no need to rub it in with how blatant it was from the start that your ‘city girl’ era was bound to collapse in on itself at a moment’s notice.
In your mind, you recite a few lines in response to the likely questions you’ll be asked:
Q: So why did you move back?
A: Well, I just really missed home.
Q: Any problems with living in the city?
A: No. Just not my scene.
Q: Why not?
A: Everyone has their personal preferences.
Q: So, what’s it like living so central to everything?
A: Very convenient. You have lots of options, and there’s a lot of diversity. Good nightlife, too.
Yeah, that should do it. Surely. The last thing you want is to spill your heart out to your parents. For sure, they’re your parents; you should be able to have deep and meaningful conversations with them and admit that you were wrong about everything. But no thanks. You’re not keen on hearing the classic “I told you so” or “I knew you’d be back soon”. Your ego is already fragile. Let’s not push it.
The roads become more familiar as you drive onwards. There’s a peace that washes over you as you catch sight of cattle grazing and chickens running about. While living on a farm isn’t as nice as it looks, at least it’s known. At least you know how to survive out here. At least you have a support network in these parts, as opposed to the barren wasteland of friendship and affordable prices in the city.
With a few more turns, you’re on the main street of town. You sincerely hope no one recognises your car. Because yeah, that’s what it’s like here. People know your make and model by heart and ask if you got into an accident if there’s a new scratch on your bumper.
Passing by the church, you can’t help but find yourself turning around in your seat once you’ve stopped at the roundabout to gaze at the ancient (18th-century) structure. Grey streaks run down the warm, dressed stone walls, a sign of how many thunderstorms this sacred place has endured. Long, sharp spires; magnificent stained glass windows; and a quiet car park. It is Tuesday, so that’s to be expected.
Your attention returns to the road, but your mind lingers at the church. A person comes to mind, someone you’ve known since you were four. You wonder how he is, what he’s up to, if he’s graduated from the diaconate to the priesthood yet.
The last time you saw Zayne, he handed you a bottle of red wine with a rosary around its neck.
“In case you need it,” he had said, as cold as ever. And indeed, you had ended up needing both. But at the time, you knew it was his way of wishing you good luck for the future. That was on the day you left home. He was there to see you off with…
You mustn’t! For the love of all things holy, you must not think of that man! That man who’s far too good for this world! Who’s been at your side since infancy! Who would do anything and everything you asked him to without a second thought?
Gripping the steering wheel tightly, you want to tear yourself in half as punishment for allowing your mind to head in that direction. But perhaps that man is a little like your hometown in that you can’t seem to escape him.
You two kept in touch after you left at first. You’d text one another every few days and call once a fortnight to check in. But as time went on, you both got busy… Okay, well, you got busy (not on purpose, of course), but he always made the time for you. And that was the problem!
When the reality came crashing down upon you that your dreams were being crushed before your very eyes, how could you admit that to the man you’ve loved since the beginning of time?! How could you say, “Oh, hey, Caleb. By the way, I kinda regret moving out because my job sucks, my housemates suck, and I hate the bustle and grind that I longed for during all of our teenage years.” You just couldn’t! So what did you do? You started making excuses and stopped replying to his messages.
Every couple of months, he still texts you some variation of “Hey pipsqueak, just wanna make sure you’re okay. Text me if you need anything :P”. And every time you read his text in your notifications centre (because God forbid you open up your chat and he sees that you’ve left him on read), your heart breaks a little more. You haven’t even told him you’d be returning today, despite knowing that you should have. I mean, clearly, he hasn’t stopped caring for you despite your silence. For not only was it your failure, but other wounds from bygone days that haunt you.
But with the passing of time and the one million lies you’ve wrapped yourself in, it’s not difficult to begin doubting his… affection would be too strong a word…how about his commitment to ensuring you’re alright? As a friend. If that wasn’t clear. Because it’s VERY clear that Caleb only views you as a friend and nothing more.
And that’s not you being humble or modest or playing coy, because how could a man who’s devoutly in love with you sleep around as much as he did in high school? It was—at one point—downright whore behaviour, you’re sorry to say. Every month, he’d have some new, pretty thing on his arm. And after every fling, you’d have to endure the new circulation of rumours about how good Caleb was in bed.
A giggle rises in your throat and quickly cascades into a laughing fit as you remember that time you told him to make an OnlyFans.
“Well, if you like fucking so much, you should just make an O.F,” you’d suddenly said during lunchtime. Caleb was slurping up his soup and immediately spat it back out at your words. Zayne had been there also. Ever the gentleman, the dark-haired boy held his hands up to cover Caleb’s face from your view as he composed himself.
“I’m sorry—” cough! “What, pips? I should what?” Caleb croaked out, his throat all scratchy and lumpy after the shock of his lifetime. Zayne passed him a bottle of water, which his watery-eyed friend took gratefully.
You repeated yourself, “I said that if you enjoy sleeping around so much and acting like a slut, then you should at least get paid for it. Probably every girl in this town would buy your membership.”
Furrowing his brows, Caleb had countered, “I’m not a slut, pipsqueak. I don’t—look… I’m not doing that, okay?”
Zayne weighed in, “She’s right, though. Considering your reputation, you could make a profit if you lean into it.” Caleb’s head snapped toward the dark-haired boy.
“I thought you were supposed to be the morality police? Aren’t you taking orders as soon as you graduate? Isn’t encouraging someone to…” Caleb (the whore) leaned in, as did you and Zayne reflexively— “to make ₚₒᵣₙ a sin?”
Zayne shrugged. “I know a good business opportunity when I see one. With your good looks and charm, you could be quite the star. Don’t you agree, aspirin?” Mentally, you groaned at the nickname. Zayne’s called you that ever since you were kids. He got the nickname from your lack of response to other pain medications, so you always asked for aspirin. And to this day, you still ask for aspirin.
You had offered, “Indeed. We could be your managers, Cay. We’ll handle all the behind-the-scenes stuff and take 40% of your profits.” Caleb chuckled, but it ran dry. Perhaps his throat remained a bit scratchy despite drinking water.
“I’ll pass,” he said sourly. But then a light came into his eyes. With a renewed, mischievous spark, he grinned. “Actually, I’ll consider it if you join me, snowballs. We could make a great team.” It was your turn to choke on your salad. And you did so with great vigour, much to your dismay. Zayne’s comforting hand had come to your back and rubbed it soothingly. In your coughing fit, you had missed the pinch in Caleb’s brow at the gesture.
After you calmed down, you spat out, “You mean, make videos together?!”
“Heaven’s no!”
“What? No!” They exclaimed in unison.
Gazing at each other for a moment, Caleb spoke up for the pair, “I simply meant that we could star together. With someone else. Maybe a willing participant.” Those playful eyes landed on you. You immediately shook your head while a few more coughs escaped past your lips.
Caleb sighed. “Well, I guess that’s the end of that then.” After a second passed, he added, “And hey, if my sex life bothers you that much, I’ll try to keep it away from you, ‘kay?” You nodded. At that moment, the lunch bell had rung, and some pop song started to play, signalling it was time to scamper off to class.
Things improved, but every now and then, you heard whispers of Caleb’s latest conquest. It was difficult not to when he had slept with almost every willing girl in the town (so basically, every girl but a select few). You cut your train of thought off before it can drift to a particularly distasteful memory involving his promiscuity.
As your parents’ farm comes into view, the three-hour drive out here suddenly feels like it began five minutes ago. Something you missed about living here was having your own bathroom; a necessity for the next time you move out.
All too soon, you’re pulling over onto the grass. You count one, two, three cars. But there should only be two. That pickup truck. You know who owns it, but for the love of God, you hope he sold it because he CANNOT be here right now! Not after all of your efforts to ignore him and not think of him (which you’ve miserably failed at). Breathing in, you ready yourself for all hell to break loose. You can do this.
But then the front door, and who steps out if not the one person you’ve been dreading to see. His honeyed skin glimmers in the afternoon sun, tanned from all of his hours out on the farm. He’s wearing the dark akubra you bought him for his 16th birthday, and if you had to guess, it probably looks as good as new. He cares for that thing like it’s his baby.
Even from this distance, you notice the way Caleb’s jeans strain against his meaty thighs as he descends the few stairs between your parents’ porch and the dirt ground. Gulping, you pop the car door open and step out. Shutting it, your childhood crush is right there with the biggest grin on his face. He goes in for the hug.
“Welcome back, honey.” You’re crushed against his chest, your cheek sticking to his sweaty skin. Caleb’s like a furnace, he’s so fucking hot. His touch sears your skin, pure muscle with a little give, squishing you all around. You melt into his touch before it’s ripped away from you.
Upon stepping back, he ruffles your hair, just like old times.
“Hey!” You grouch, your hands flying up to the mess he’s made. He laughs, the sound piercing straight through you and travelling to your innermost depths. It reverberates off the walls of your mind, so carefree and deep. God, you’ve missed him.
“Caleb, I…” You start. However, your speechlessness amuses him even more. After having a good chuckle while you stand there, malfunctioning, he comes in close and wraps a strong arm around your shoulders.
While leading you to the front steps, he utters, “Don’t you wanna see your parents?” You still haven’t returned to normal when he opens the door and guides you inside. Only when your mom bounds over to you does your system kick back in.
“Mom,” you mumble as she grasps you tightly.
You hear Caleb say, “Stay here. Let me get your bags.” You’re powerless to stop him, trapped in your mother's embrace like this was planned. Your dad makes his way over, and they both gush over how they haven’t seen you in ages. You never were one to visit.
At a lull in the one-sided exchange of words, you spin around and rush over to Caleb, who’s just barged into the house with nearly all of your bags dangling off him. Still a one-trip man, huh? Some things never change.
You’re taking your bags from his arms before he can protest. You know he wouldn’t want you to help him, but you just can’t stand there and let him do this for you. Especially not after how you ghosted him for over two years.
Smirking at you, Caleb teases, “What? You think I can’t handle a few bags, pipsqueak? I’m not that fragile.”
You reply quietly, “I know I just—”
“Won’t you tell us what the city was like, pumpkin?” Your mom cuts in. Caleb’s grin grows as he takes the bag you’re holding while you think of an answer. You went over this in the car! What did you—Oh, right!
“It’s very convenient. Good nightlife, too,” you regurgitate.
“Oh, yeah?” Your dad prompts.
But you deny them the satisfaction with, “Yep,” popping the ‘p’ as you do so. Before they can hound you anymore, you announce rather dramatically, “I’m really tired after driving all this way, you know? It’s been a very big day for me.” Whether your mom realises that you’re quietly asking them to withhold their questions or if she genuinely believes that you are very tired (which you are to an extent) is beyond your judgement.
But thankfully, she plays into it with, “Oh, yes, sweetheart. You must be very tired indeed. Your daddy and I are making a roast for tonight. It should be ready in a few hours. Why don’t you relax and settle in till then?”
You nod gratefully and keep up the act. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna take a nap or something.”
“You do that, angel,” your dad replies while leading your mom off to the living room. You’re left alone with Caleb. Fuck. You should have thought this through. The second last thing you wanted was to see him (period). But the last, last, last thing you wanted was for him to see you looking like a grot on the day you returned here.
Messy bun, no makeup, dark circles underneath your eyes, and this kind of flatness to your gaze; the look of a defeated woman. You grew up together! He was there during your hippie phase! Looking like a slop should be the least of your worries. But unfortunately, it’s the most significant one as you tug on your oversized tee and subconsciously shrink in on yourself.
“Hey,” Caleb murmurs, his voice gentle while he places a warm hand on your shoulder. Shyly, you gaze up at him. Okay, I'll take it back. The last, last last, last last last thing you want is to word vomit your sob story to the love of your life after not avoiding him for years. But that gooey, puppy-eyed look he gives you threatens to shatter your resolve.
“Everythin’ okay?”
Your lips press together before you smile awkwardly. “Yeah, everything’s all good. Um…” Gesturing to your bags, you continue, “I’m just gonna take those upstairs. Start unpacking and all that.”
Releasing your shoulder, Caleb says, “Alright. Well, why don’t you let me help you?”
“Oh, no, that’s okay, I can—” Too late, he’s already gathering up your bags. Reluctantly, he lets you carry the two lightest bags while you head upstairs to your old bedroom. It’s exactly as you left it. Bare with a staleness from years of disuse.
Setting down your bags, you immediately head to the window and open it wide. Fresh air floods in, filling your nostrils. Mhm, this is almost addicting. No blueberry cookie or watermelon fantasy (vape flavours) every time you wanna take a breath in. A joint of nature. A blunt of the wilderness. That’s your kinda nicotine.
Rustling from behind you pulls you from your daze. Whipping around, you see that Caleb has unzipped one of your bags and is emptying out its contents.
“Caleb!” You start and race over to him, taking the packets of ‘Super Extra Long Wing Pads’ from his hands.
“You still use this brand, huh?” He remarks, way too satisfied with his spoils. You glare at him. To which he meets with another anger-stealing laugh. It’s always been hard to stay mad at him for longer than a few seconds. There’s something so… lovable about him. You can’t help but—
“Caleb, get out!” You begin shoving him toward the door. But he doesn’t feel like enabling your games today. Your pushes don’t cause him to budge, because how can they when he’s this wall of well-built muscle and charm?
“Nah, I think I like it here, pipsqueak. I haven’t been in your room since you turned 17. You said that boys weren’t allowed anymore.” You groan at his recollection. “And you also said that we would keep in touch once you left.” That stops you in your tracks. Your hands fall by your sides, and you step back, resisting the orbit his eyes draw you into, like gravity itself demanding your obedience.
His arms fold across his chest, veins running up his forearms, which flex involuntarily. You eye them like the slut you accused Caleb of being (rightfully so) years ago.
“My eyes are up here,” he reminds you, but all traces of his usual teasing are missing. You’re in for it. Big time. As you should be. But still…
You try to defend yourself, unprompted, “I got busy—”
He interjects, “You got so busy that you couldn’t find ten seconds of your day in the past two years to text me back? Yeah, I don’t think so. Sounds like you were avoiding me.”
“No!” You exclaim. “No, I… I wasn’t avoiding you, I just—”
“Even now, you’re still shutting me out. Tell me, pips, what did I do to make you so upset with me?” He asks, likely assessing how fucking awful you look right now. It’s true, you do look downright awful (in your eyes). And yes, you could crumble beneath his scrutinising gaze, fall to the floor and cry about all of the wrongdoings you’ve suffered and the potentially more you’ve committed.
But you mustn’t. Not now, anyway. Not when your heart is beating faster than it has since your previous landlord terminated your lease at a moment’s notice and gave you a week to find a new property. Your heart is pounding in your chest just like the last time you saw Caleb.
“I…” You trail off. Again. Caleb huffs, irritated by your lack of a response. He glances off to the side and then back at you, his jaw clenched.
“Is that all you have to say? ‘I’ or ‘Caleb’? Why don’t you give me a real answer, pipsqueak? What exactly did I do to you that made you push me away?” You inhale, ready to attempt an answer when he continues, “And what can I do to fix things between us?” The sting of an old wound grabs your attention. While the pain has been dulled with time, numerous journaling sessions, and way too many rants to Zayne, the memory remains fresh in your mind, untainted by the years that have passed.
Caleb’s 19th birthday party. It happened a few days before you were to move out. And it was the night on which you intended to confess your undying love to him.
“Where’s Caleb?” You asked Zayne, who was holding a Sprite and sitting on the old leather sofa rigidly.
He glanced up at you and answered, “I saw him head upstairs.”
“Perfect.” You grinned. You’ve been practising your confession with Zayne for the past week, memorising it to the T. Everything was in place. Caleb was away from all of his exes and potential hookups ogling him. You had a little crochet apple keychain you made for him in the pocket of your dress. And you were feeling unusually bold. There couldn’t have been a better time.
Zayne’s cold hand around your wrist tugged you back. His eyes read like a warning.
“I wouldn’t go up there right now,” he muttered, giving you a look you knew all too well. He was with a girl. Caleb. At his 19th birthday party had taken a girl upstairs. A few days before you were to move to the city. You refused to believe it.
Tugging your wrist from his grasp, you fled upstairs, seeking confirmation of the truth you knew you’d find. In denial, you tiptoed and put your ear against Caleb’s bedroom. You didn’t need to be pressed against the solid wood to hear what was going down inside. At once, your eyes widened to the size of saucers, and your mouth fell open at the throaty groans and soft whimpers that emanated from within.
Tears sprang to your eyes. The sound of Caleb… It stirred something deep within you. Not just arousal but a sense of heartbreak unknown to you before. It was one thing for him to fuck other women behind your back. But it was entirely another to hear him doing it. To hear how delectable he sounds. But it’s not you beneath him. It’s not your efforts or your mere existence that has him moaning like that. You’re not the one his breathless, “Feel so good, baby”s are directed at.
No, they were directed at Jessica Johnson.
She was the cheer captain, and it’s not hard to understand why when you take a look at her: blond, big boobs, but skinny, conventionally very beautiful. But she had the ugliest heart and bullied you throughout high school. BUT in Caleb’s defence, he didn’t know that. He still doesn’t know that, or so you hope.
Jessica never did anything particularly malicious to you. Just gossiped about how you were a pick-me because your closest friends were both men. OH, and also made fun of your at-home haircuts, which led to you wearing a beanie for most of 9th grade. You told Caleb that you were really into hats, and then he told his mom, and she made one for you. How sweet.
Growing up, if anyone said a single bad thing about you around Caleb, they’d suffer the consequences for it. But the downside to his approach was that it didn’t stop people from talking badly about you. No, it only stopped them from talking badly about you in earshot of Caleb. And Jessica knew this and used it to her advantage.
Her moans were disgusting. Loud and vulgar, like she wanted the world to hear whose dick she was stuffed full of. Bile rose in your throat from their sex, and in your pocket, the apple keychain you spent a week learning how to make and then re-making for the next two blazed in your pocket.
Clasping a hand over your mouth, you were ready to run downstairs when you heard Caleb groan, “Fuck! I… I forgot a condom. Shit. Let me pull out.” You couldn’t bear it any longer.
Taking off downstairs, you ran back to the couch where Zayne remained and threw yourself into his unsuspecting arms. His sprite spilt everywhere. You didn’t care, nor did you clean it up. He took you home, tucked you into bed and promised you that he wouldn’t say anything to Caleb. Zayne promised you that he’d lie to Caleb—a sin. But one your confidant was willing to commit for your peace of mind.
Zayne’s always been a man of his word. Well, he’s always been a man of few words. But standing here now, you’re certain that he kept your promise from long ago. You always knew he would.
“So I did do something then? Care to share?” Caleb asks pointedly, tilting his head slightly. You grit your teeth. The scab lies beneath your fingertips. Blood seeps out of your old wound, scratched fresh.
“I’m sorry, Caleb. But now’s not the time,” you grit out, fighting to keep a lid on your barely contained anguish.
He argues, “It’s already been two years. If now’s not the time, then when?”
“Out.” You’re not playing anymore, and from that tone and the widening of his eyes, your childhood friend knows it. “Thank you for your help, Caleb. But get. Out.”
He sighs, his arms returning to his sides, “What? What did I do this time? What? It’s that bad that you can’t even talk to me about it. We talk about everything—”
“Cay-leb,” you interrupt sternly. “Get out. Now.” Don’t say ‘please’. He doesn’t deserve it. But he carried your bags up here—Shut up!
Seeing that fiery look in your eyes, he finally relents.
Raising his hands up, he says, “Fine. But you can’t avoid me forever. No matter what, we’re bound together and there’s nothing you can do to change that.”
“CALEB!”
“I’m going. I’m going. Sheesh.” Your bedroom door thuds shut. Final-fucking-ly. Gazing around your room, you decide that unpacking will be a job for future you and collapse on your bed. The strength in your limbs has been vanquished, and traitorous tears start to bubble and stream down your cheeks.
You’ve cried about this how many times?! But perhaps, it won’t ever be enough. For how can you ever stop mourning the loss of the one you love to the one you despise, without really losing them in the first place?
Despite how many times you’ve told yourself that Caleb will never return your feelings, you’re unable to release them. They’re woven into your DNA, sewn into your soul. You can’t rid yourself of your love for him without losing part of yourself in the process. To be human is to feel, no? Perhaps that’s why you’ve indulged your unrequited love for so long.
Thank the Lord you left sheets and blankets on your bed, because in your state, it wouldn’t be worth digging out what you brought. Curling up under the covers, you cry in silence as you’ve done countless times before. You thought you were past this. But deep inside, you’re still that 18-year-old girl clutching an apple keychain, wishing for the boy she loved to look at her as a woman and not as the whiny, crybaby he grew up with.
For the past three days, you’ve been on a mission to avoid Caleb. And thankfully, he’s made it relatively easy by keeping his distance, even when he was helping out with your family’s farm; you learnt after your nap that your long-time love picked up extra work with your parents when he wasn’t tending to his own family’s farm. Workaholic. Always was and likely always will be.
It’s finally Friday, and you know what that means… free pool at the local pub! While you ignored Caleb when you were living in the city, you certainly didn’t ignore your favourite holy man. Despite his complaints about joining you down at the ‘centre for spirits’ as you liked to call it, he turned up in a pair of black jeans and a too-tight polo. ‘Appropriate pub attire’, he dubbed it. You remember him wearing that polo when his dad forced him to play golf back in 9th grade. Same year you were on the beanie grind and exclusively wore flowy boho tops wherever you went.
Country music and cosy lights add a fun, flirty feel to the pub’s classic interior. Zayne eyes the merry drunkards sourly, detesting this way of spending one’s time. It’s sinful, really, to indulge oneself in so much alcohol that you can’t even walk straight. He flinches at a tug on his sleeve.
“Come on, Zaynie. It’s your go,” you whine, giving him your best puppy eyes and pouty lips. He sighs and stiffly maneuvers his cue, his angle aligning with a striped ball. You watch him curiously, hoping he’ll be able to hit the ball this time (he has yet to hit a single ball in the span of the three games you’ve played so far).
Zayne slides the cue back and forth a few more times before making his shot. The white ball barely moves.
“It’s okay, okay? How about you go again?” You suggest sympathetically, already standing next to him and restoring the white ball to its former position.
He brushes you off with, “I don’t need another go.”
You grumble, “Don’t be so stubborn, Zayne. I’m tryna help you get good at this. It’s no fun if I keep winning.” He sighs, his nostrils flaring with his exhale. Once he gets back into position, you offer him a few pointers, which he gladly accepts. And before you know it, he’s playing even better than you are.
“Zayne!” You cry out, fed up with losing yet another game to him. He merely flashes you a hint of a smirk. Cocky piece of sh—
“Hey.” You and Zayne both whip around at the entrance of a newcomer. Oh. It’s—
“I didn’t think this was your scene, snowballs,” Caleb utters, rough hands gesturing to your surroundings. Your heart rate spikes at his slightly wet hair, like he just took a shower and came down here to relax after a hard day of work.
Zayne replies coolly, “It’s not. But a certain someone thought I should get some exposure to… what did you call it? The ultimate ‘centre for spirits’.” Your head snaps up as you stare at the dark-haired man in disbelief. He did not just out your silly little nickname like that.
You laugh dryly. “I, um…”
“You two often hang out, or?” Caleb asks, shrugging and acting nonchalant.
Zayne chimes in before you can, “Very often, indeed. But it’s much easier now that our little anxiety-ridden freeloader has returned home.”
“I’m not a freel—”
“Oh, really? Is that why I can barely find you these days? I thought you were occupied with the church,” Caleb butts in.
A derisive chuckle slips past Zayne’s lips. “I am occupied with the church. But I always make time for those most important to me.” You release a quiet squeak as his arm snakes around your shoulders, his chilly fingertips grazing the edge of your exposed collarbone.
“Oh, I see how it is.” Caleb gazes sideways—his habit when searching for something to say. He comes up with, “Funny how we all grew up together, but I’m the outsider now, isn’t it?”
“Well, it’s perfectly natural for some to stray. Like a dog.”
“You—”
“Are we okay?” You ask firmly, silencing the two other men. With their attention on you, you continue, “Did I miss something? Is there something going on between you two?” You were used to their bickering. But there was a tension between them now that you’ve never seen, like a rubber band pulled taut and about to snap. Have you been blindsided all of these years? Had Zayne—who’s known your feelings for Caleb since the very beginning—developed feelings of his own for your friend?
They’re like chalk and cheese. But as history has repeatedly shown, opposites attract.
“Like what?” They ask at the same time, oblivious (or attempting to be) to the insinuation you’re making. Your eyes dart between them, hinting that—
“Of course, not!” Zayne’s the first to catch on. Caleb points at himself, his mouth half open like the cogs in his mind just started turning.
“You mean, like—” his finger dances between himself and the dark-haired man— “like snowballs and I.” You nod. “Ew, gross,” he recoils, visibly disgusted by the idea. Good to know he’s remained untouched by homosexual tendencies. That’s good for you, anyway… But is it really? He might as well swing the other way. Not like your complicated one-sided-ship could get much worse.
Caleb points his thumb over his shoulder while saying, “I’m gonna go, okay? Gids is waiting for me at the bar.” Gazing at you, he goes on, “Get home safe tonight and… enjoy your date.” That word: date. The way he spat it out as if it tasted foul in his mouth. With his long legs, Caleb’s already too far away before your brain catches up and is ready to deny this illusory ‘date’ you’re supposedly on with Zayne.
Speaking of which, you shrug his arm off and pivot to face him.
You whisper-yell, “Zayne, what was that?!”
He leans down to your height and murmurs, “Sometimes, a little jealousy is good for a man. Helps to move things along.”
“Jealousy?!” You echo. “What jealousy? He doesn’t even like me like that, and now, he thinks we’re dating!” Zayne straightens up, a light smile on his lips as if this situation is amusing, instead of mortifying.
“Don’t worry. I have my eye on someone else,” he reassures you while retrieving the sunken balls to set up for another game.
You freeze. He what?
“As in… a woman?” Now it’s Zayne’s turn to freeze. Slowly, he swivels to gaze at you, confusion in his brow.
“Yes,” he utters, like that was painfully obvious. Well, how were you supposed to know?!
“But I thought you couldn’t get married as a priest,” you offer, crouching down to help him with the balls.
He says through a barely contained grin, “Do you actually believe babies are delivered by storks?”
“’Course I don’t!”
With the beginning of a new game, you and Zayne remain fairly quiet until he asks abruptly, “I don’t mean to pry, but how are things between you two? They seem quite tense.” You groan and position your cue for a solid.
While testing the shot, you vent, “Honestly? They’re fucked. He was over at my parents' the day I came back, and asked me about why I was pushing him away. And then I made it even worse and told him to get out.” You make the shot, and the solid rolls close to the corner pocket. Zayne is in deep thought as he takes his turn.
He waits until after to make the observation, “That incident still haunts you.” You huff. His memory is immaculate.
“It’s been over three years.”
“I know! I know.” You grimace. Again, your shot fails to sink anything.
Walking around the table, your companion suggests, “You should come to confession after mass this Sunday. You might find it helpful.” Another score. He’s got two left, while you’ve got five. Great.
“I appreciate it, Zayne. But I’ll pass,” you respond. “I don’t really wanna tell your dad about my love life.”
“It could help. He’s quite wise… sometimes.” That brings a smile to your face. Ah, yes, good ol’ Priest Jace’s wisdom. His spiritual wisdom is impeccable. But his parenting skills… They aren’t bad, but he can be unnecessarily harsh on his son at times for committing ‘sins’, such as going to the pub or not addressing the Lord formally.
“Mhm, sometimes,” you agree.
Your pool sessions end with Zayne coming out on top as the reigning champion. By the time you’re ready to head off, Caleb is nowhere in sight. You wonder if he left after seeing you, or maybe he called it in early, as he has work tomorrow. Fair enough.
It’s dark outside when you step out onto the main strip. Zayne walks you to your car and wishes you a good night before setting off for the church; it’s close by.
You know it’s not a good idea to rekindle old memories, especially ones that cause you so much pain and perpetually feel like they happened yesterday. But you can’t stop yourself from getting on your knees and feeling around the bottom of your wardrobe for something soft.
Soon enough, your hand curls around a little plushie and retrieves it. Morning sunlight falls across the crochet apple keychain in your palm. It still looks the same as it did when you first made it, seeing as it’s been sitting in your closet since that fateful night. This keychain is not just a keychain. It’s the fruition of all your hopes and dreams, of your love and the realisation of that love, the chance that your love could be actualised.
Your mom calls you from downstairs. It’s time for mass. Without thinking, you shove the little thing into the pocket of your sundress before grabbing your bag and heading out.
The church is just as you remember it. Big and warm, comforting, but a little scary, too. You’re seated in the back while your parents sit closer up front to soak up all that holiness. On the other side of the walkway is Caleb. He’s a few rows in front of you and was already seated when you arrived. From the looks of it, he hasn’t seen you yet. Good.
The pew you’re sitting on creaks. You immediately search for the source of the sound and find Zayne settling in beside you.
His father is delivering a sermon up front, so you lean in and whisper to him, “Aren’t you supposed to be helping out?” Zayne shakes his head and puts his finger to his lips. You nod. You know you’re not supposed to talk during church, but there’s an itch in your brain that must be scratched.
“Zayne,” you say quietly. He side-eyes you, but doesn’t make an effort to tell you to stop. You go on, “I’m moving through it, you know? I think it’s time I get over him.” No response. Nothing, not even a peep, until Zayne releases a short sigh.
Leaning closer to you, he murmurs into your ear, “Y/n. Please forgive me for intervening in such personal matters. But Caleb loves you just as much as you love him. He’s simply too afraid to admit it to you.” Your heart pounds in your ears, louder than the preaching or Zayne’s breathing. There’s a tremor in your palms. A burning plushie in your pocket. What does he mean, ‘Caleb loves you’?
Your whisper comes out slightly too loud, drawing the attention of other church-goers, which Zayne waves off, “How do you know that?”
He answers, “Because he thought that you and I were together. And he challenged me to a duel to win your hand.”
“A duel?!—”
“SHHHH,” some elderly woman interrupts. You mouth ‘sorry’ to her before she turns back around.
“What is this, the 1800s?” You mutter to Zayne. He shrugs. A minute passes as you fight the urge to let your eyes wander over to—And fuck! He’s looking right at you. Your gazes lock. Did he just hear that?
Zayne leans in once more. “I suggest you two be honest with each other and admit your feelings. That way, the rest of us can stop suffering.” Your attention instantly returns to Zayne.
“Suffering?! I’m the one suffering, you—”
“Be quiet!” A ruddy man demands from the row in front of you. Cue more barely there apologies to soothe over the heat. You and Zayne exchange a ‘to be continued’ look. But in actual fact, is there anything to be continued? Don’t you know everything already? Don’t you know that the one possibility you hadn’t accounted for was the one steeped in reality?
Caleb. Loves you. Caleb loves you? Impossible. Because if he loved you, then—
You rise from your seat and dash out of the church, closing the door as quietly as you can on your exit. Luckily, the bus has just pulled up. Losing every aura point you’ve somehow managed to retain up until this point, you sprint to those open doors and slot a few loose coins into the box by the driver. That should do it.
The bus stops about a 10-minute walk from your house. But that’s fine. Actually, that’s more than fine. As your parents’ property comes into view, you set off into the grasslands instead of beelining for the door. You need some time in nature. You need to breathe in that sweet, unpolluted air and let it fill your lungs.
Aimlessly, you walk around, muttering to yourself at times while animatedly chattering to the cows at others. Because how? Howhowhowhowhowhow could this happen?! How could Caleb love you? He just can’t! If he loved you, then why would he go and sleep with all those other women?! Those women whom he has probably continued sleeping with! You never forgot that he was a whore. But you let yourself forget the likelihood that he still was one.
Why would a man like him, with all the charisma and sex appeal that he has, remain celibate? In a world where only women are punished for opening their legs, what would stop him from taking and taking until he’s satisfied? And even then, that satisfaction is short-lived. How many partners, you wonder, has he had while you were crying in the shared bathroom of your shoebox with your roomie banging on the door for you to hurry up?
Thick, grey clouds roll in, and there’s a moist sheen clinging to your skin that you began to notice, now that the sky has darkened. You don’t know where you’ve walked off to. Still on your parents’ farm, for sure. But… you haven’t ventured this way in many years. There’s not much out here, except for—
Thunder sounds, and heavy rain begins to batter the ground. The Heavens sob and wail as you run and run to the abandoned shack around here somewhere. The trees have grown taller and their roots thicker since you were a child. But their scars from previous fires never healed. And it is those scars that lead you to shelter, delicate branches pointing in the direction you had best take while some primal part of your mind takes over, overlaying memories with your present surroundings.
Throwing the doors open, you scamper inside. It used to be the old barn before it was abandoned in exchange for a nicer, more technologically advanced one. The stale scent of horses lingers behind, so you keep the doors wide open for ventilation.
Venturing deeper inside, you find some old blankets and bring one of them to the entrance. Setting it down on the dirt, out of reach of the rain, you sink down and make yourself comfortable to watch the storm.
You revel in the fresh, earthly scent the splattering kicks up, and giggle as naughty droplets hit your cheeks or sneakers. Pulling them off, you scooch back a bit and sigh. Would this be a good time to pray?
After making the sign of the cross, you begin, “Dear Lord… I… don’t know. I guess I just… I love this man. I do. But he drives me absolutely insane with his mixed signalling. Like, he’s always been there for me. And even now, he’s still tryna be there for me. But his lust is… crazy. Like. How can I? I mean… like I’m not opposed to it. Hang on, fuck! I probably shouldn’t be saying that.
“I just wish he hadn’t gone and fucked around, you know? Sorry. Sorry, Lord, for swearing. But it’s true, like, how can you go around and do all of that and still claim you love someone? And like, he didn’t even say that he loves me. Zayne said he loves me. Zayne said that he challenged him to a duel over me. But I don’t think he’d do something that crazy. Or maybe he would, I don’t know. I don’t-What do I know?”
At that moment, the sound of hooves beating the ground rapidly approaches. You shift to stand, but it’s too late. The stead pulls up, its rider dismounting at record speed. You know that build. It haunts you whether you’re awake or asleep.
“Caleb, what’re you—?”
“Why did you run off? What did Zayne say to you? Do I need to have a chat with him?” Caleb won’t give you a second to breathe. He’s closing in on you, his rough palms pressing into your upper arms while his fingers gently dig into your fat. He’s drenched from the rain, his half-done button-up clinging to his muscles in a way that makes you gulp from nerves. The storm even swallowed up his akubra, it would seem from his dripping locks.
Your possibly requited lover stares at you, waiting for an explanation you’re too tongue-tied to give. Instead, you simply mumble, “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?!” He repeats in disbelief. “Look, pips.” His grip tightens on your arms, firm but not causing you any pain. “I’m done with this, okay? I’m done with you hiding from me and avoiding me as if I’m your worst nightmare. This isn’t who you are. This isn’t us.
“So please, just talk to me. I wanna figure this out, yeah? If I’ve done something wrong, then tell me, please.” If he’s done something wrong. Does that mean he’s oblivious to the source of your anguish, or he’s committed too many wrongdoings to the point where he doesn’t remember which one could have upset you so dearly? You suppose you’re about to find out.
Shrugging him off, you sit back down on your blanket and pat the spot next to you. Caleb joins you immediately, soaking the fabric with his wet clothes. If he stays in them, he’ll catch a cold. But… now’s most certainly not the time to suggest he take them off.
Time elapses painstakingly slowly as you observe the outside world. Caleb’s stead has since trotted inside and neighs at the leftover hay in one of the stalls. Inhaling deeply, you prepare yourself to confess your undying love.
You start, “Do you remember your 19th birthday party, Cay?” He hums in agreement.
You continue, “It was after beer pong, about midnight, when I went to find you. I wanted to tell you that I was in love with you.” You let that sit for a minute, let the implications of your words sink in.
“But when I found you, upstairs, you were balls deep in Jessica Johnson. And the worst part is—” You chuckle sadly, “I stood there. At the door. And listened, to what I could never have.” The pitter-patter permeates the quiet between you.
“Pips, I—” Caleb utters, regretfully.
You cut him off, “She bullied me all throughout high school, you know?” You turn to look at him for a second. His eyes are all round and shocked, humiliated, perplexed. You keep going, “But I guess you wouldn’t know, huh? You were too busy fucking whoever to notice.”
“I—”
“Zayne took me home that night. And I cried. A lot. And when I moved to the city and realised that I hadn’t gotten everything I had wanted—that I had been wrong about everything from the start—of course, I didn’t wanna talk to you. And you can’t blame me for that.
“Maybe I should have been clearer and let you know that I wanted some space. But you’re like a fuckin’ leech or something, Caleb. Once you latch on, you don’t stop. If I told you that I needed space, then you’d ask why. And then you’d probably show up at my fucking apartment to ask me why when I didn’t reply to your message. I’m surprised you didn’t come visit me at all. But I’m glad you didn’t.”
Minutes tick by. The rain has momentarily eased up to a trickle. But it’ll be back in full force soon. It always is.
Finally, Caleb murmurs, “Pips. I’m so sorry, I… I really am. I’m sorry that I hurt you. And I’m sorry that I couldn’t protect you, and that I made you feel like you couldn’t open up to me.” You listen in silence, your gaze trained ahead as he continues, “And, and I know it doesn’t excuse my behaviour, but I promise you, I had no idea at the time that Jess was doing that to ya. And I swear I was drunk—”
You interject, “You’re a heavyweight, Caleb. We both know that.”
“I know, I know. But look, I promise you, I wasn’t in my right mind when I slept with her. I wasn’t thinking—”
“Is that why you forgot the condom?”
“Fuckin’ hell, pipsqueak,” he mutters under his breath. Even you feel a bit bad about that one. But also, he deserves it. He deserves it for all of the pain he’s put you through over the course of however many years, you reason.
As you shift to re-cross your legs, you feel a bulge in your pocket. The keychain! You pull it out and dangle it in front of you. Glancing at an open-mouthed, stunned Caleb, you say, “I was gonna give this to you after my confession. Here.” You set the plush down on his knee. “It’s yours.”
After a few seconds, he picks it up with the utmost care and handles the little apple like it’s a newborn. His eyes run over every intricacy—the black embroidery, seamless colour changes, and little hands and legs that took you far too many tries to get right. His gaze slowly shifts up and lands on you.
He gulps. “Did you make this for me?”
You shrug and look back at the scenery. “Yeah. It took me a few weeks or something. I left it here when I moved out. Only found it again today.”
He releases a sad, muffled, “Oh.”
Answering his question from before, “Zayne told me that you loved me. And he told me that you challenged him to a duel for me.”
“Zayne needs to stop airing out my secrets. A future priest like him shouldn’t sin,” Caleb utters, hints of annoyance slipping into his tone. But he’s not denying it. He’s not denying that he loves you.
Pushing those thoughts aside, you counter, “We all sin, Cay. Whether we want to or not.”
Once nature has spoken for a bit, Caleb starts slowly, “I want you to know that I haven’t… with anyone since. I-I couldn’t. Not after you left—”
“But you were happy to while I was here? Shove your sex life down my throat?” You’re still seething, still chomping at the bit to land some blows on him after all that he’s put you through. He deserves it, you remind yourself.
“Pipsqueak, it wasn’t like that, I swear. Look… you have to believe me when I say that I thought you and Zayne—”
“Zayne?!” You exclaim. Turning to face Caleb fully, you go off, “Zayne? You thought I was dating Zayne? Why the fuck would I be dating Zayne?!”
“I don’t know!” He blurts out. You notice that he’s hung the apple keychain on his belt loop. Aw, cute—Asshole. Prick. Slut. Former slut. Fucking—
Caleb continues in a quieter voice, “I don’t know, I just thought-I always thought that you two were… You know? I mean, you were always whispering to each other and having alone time—”
“Caleb,” you deadpan. “We live next to each other. We would see each other all the fucking time. We would play together almost every single day after school and every other weekend. You know how Zayne’s dad was. He couldn’t just go out and play and eat mud or-or fuckin’ I don’t know do what normal kids do! Of course, I was tryna make the most of the time we had together.
“And we didn’t even have that much ‘alone time’. It was nothing compared to how much time we’ve spent together, Cay. And I had to vent to someone—”
“Why couldn’t you vent to me?” He cuts in.
You reply, astounded and enraged, “How could I vent to you about you? How could I be like, ‘Oh, hey, Caleb. I feel like you’re being a fucking dick today because you stole my doll and wouldn’t give it back until I ate a bug.’ Or ‘Oh, hey, Caleb. I can’t believe the guy I like—also you, Caleb, by the way—has a new girlfriend who he—also you—just had to show off to us again. I wonder who will be his next conquest. Certainly not me.’”
He nitpicks, “I’ve never made you eat a bug before.”
You groan, “That’s not the fucking point, Caleb! The point is that you can’t possibly have thought that Zayne and I were together. Because if you did for countless years, then why would you challenge him to a duel?” Bingo. Caleb winces at how spot on you are.
Reluctantly, he mumbles, “I was scared, okay? I was scared that you would never think about me like that. That you’d always see me as the snotty-nosed kid you grew up with.”
“Caleb…” So he felt the same way that you did all this time. But how? How could he not see how much you loved him from the start? How could you have been so blind?
“And so—” sniffle. Oh fuck, was he crying sick? “And so I fucked around. I thought it would help me get over you. But it just made it so much worse. I was using them. I knew it, they knew it. But they were using me, too. Not at first, but once word got around about my, uh…”
“Skills,” you offer, your temper simmering down. He sniffles again and wipes his nose on his sleeve.
“Thanks. Yeah, um, they only wanted one thing. I just—” achoo!
“Caleb—”
“Let me finish.” You nod. He admits, “I just wish I had waited, you know? I wish I saved it for you. I wish I had just grown a fuckin’ pair and told you how I felt. Then we wouldn’t have had to go through this whole mess.” He sneezes again.
Before you realise what you’re doing, you shuffle over to him and start unbuttoning his soaking shirt, muttering about how he’s probably already caught a cold from staying in those clothes. Instead of helping you help him out of his shirt, his hand caresses your cheek. His touch is gentle and cautious, ready to pull back at a moment’s notice.
He utters low, “You said that you were in love with me. Are you still… in love with me?” His gaze flickers to your lips. You can feel it. But you both have more pressing matters right now.
You insist, “You need to get out of these clothes. It’s just gonna make your cold worse—”
“Do you still love me, pipsqueak? ‘Cause I love you. I love you so much it hurts. I’d do anything for you. I—”
“Then don’t just sit there and help me take care of you?” You snap.
Seeing your furrowed brow and the tightness to your jaw, he chuckles. “Yes, ma’am.” Caleb slips off his shirt and starts on his belt while you scurry to the back of the barn and grab the other blankets.
Spinning around, you’re met with wet, rippling contours rolling down into a small pair of briefs that don’t even attempt to conceal what lies beneath. You gasp and look up immediately. Caleb eyes you hungrily, the smirk on his face cocky as he takes one of the blankets from your hands. He wraps it around his shoulders and starts pulling off his briefs. You turn your chin up, hellbent on avoiding whatever is down there.
“What? Haven’t you seen a dick before? There’s no need to be shy, pipsqueak.” Something falls to the floor. “And besides,” Caleb continues in a more sultry voice. “It’s natural. Like body hair.”
You huff and smile, not a happy smile but a sort of peeved off, you can get fucked kinda smile. “You know what, Caleb? I don’t love you. I hate you. I hate you and your stupid ass for being so fucking annoying. And for your information, no, I haven’t seen a dick up close before because why would I?” He doesn’t respond for a little while, causing you to gaze back at him from strictly the waist up. Luckily, he has a shred of self-respect and has secured the blanket around his seductive hips.
When he speaks again, his voice is sincere. “You waited… for me?”
You roll your eyes and sass back, “Don’t gas yourself up so much, doofus. I waited because I wanted to. I don’t want your STI provider. You can keep it to yourself.” That brings his signature grin back to his face.
“Well, for your information, pipsqueak. I don’t have any STIs, so…” Caleb takes another blanket from you and drapes it over his shoulders for good this time. Droplets of water fall from his dark strands onto the exposed portions of his skin and trickle down. He really should dry his hair. But before you can reach up and do it for him, he grabs the final blanket from you and throws it around your figure.
Stepping even closer to you, he asks sweetly, “But you do love me, right? And this is okay? Or am I making you uncomfortable?”
You shake your head. “You’re not making me uncomfortable, I just…” He waits patiently for you to continue. “I just never thought I’d get the chance to see you like this, to be an option to you.”
“An option?” He clarifies, clearly dissatisfied with your word choice. “Baby. You are not an option to me. You are the woman I’d sacrifice everything for just to have a chance with.
“And, as I said earlier, I’m sorry if I came off too strong and scared you off. I just… get very worried about you, okay? I get protective and, obviously, I need to get better at protecting you because I’ve done an awful job up until now.”
You shake your head again, intent on reassuring him that he is reasonably good at protecting you when he murmurs, “Please. I wanna hear you say it. Please tell me that you love me.”
Without further ado, you oblige him. “I love you. I love you with everything I am, Caleb.”
“I love you,” he confesses, snaking his arms around you and embracing you tightly. “I love you fucking much, honey,” he says into your damp hair. “I love you, and I’ll never stop making up for my awful behaviour, if you’ll let me.”
You giggle into his chest, this giddy feeling settling in and sinking into your bones. “Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?” His nose nuzzles at your scalp and takes a whiff.
“Mhm,” he sighs contentedly. “No. I’m asking if you’ll let me be your boyfriend. I’d ask if you’d let me be your husband, but I think that’s a little too much right now, isn’t it?”
“Mhm.” You nod and kiss the toned muscle over his heart mindlessly.
“Soooo, what’s your answer?” Caleb anchors your head back with his hands cupping your face.
You beam up at him. “Mhm, ‘course you can be my boyfriend. But, you have to be good to me.”
“Always and forever, pips.” Your now-lover (at last) leans down and kisses your forehead, causing you to sigh in pleasure. How long have you been waiting for this moment? How long have you been thinking about how this would all play out? The answer is far, far too long.
But it was worth the wait. The tenderness with which Caleb holds you in the back of this rundown barn as the rain pounds against the roof is the result of years of pining and pain. And now that you’re finally here, wrapped up in his love, you know that it was well worth all of the hardship you’ve been through. Because those experiences brought you to this point. And without them, the relief of having this man to yourself wouldn’t feel so satiating.
His lips inch closer to yours, wanting, waiting. You can’t believe this is actually happening. The gap between you only becomes shorter until you kiss. It’s light and sweet, a million emotions swelling and threatening to pour forth. But as his thumb traces over your jaw and comes to rest just beneath your ear, you let your years of pent-up frustration and yearning spill out.
Caleb meets your eagerness with a barely contained grin. You clutch at his shoulders and tug him closer by the blanket, desperate for every inch of his feverish skin to rest against yours. A gasp slips out from you as he nips on your lower lip, sending shocks jolting through your system.
Each little bite has your body becoming more pliant, open to your boyfriend’s wandering hands. They slide down your back, feeling every contour before settling on your waist. The pressure of his fingertips, the way his tongue teases the tip of yours, has your head spinning.
Your grasp on him tightens as you seek to find yourself within the tangle of your desire. But with a dribble of saliva down your chin comes the idea that perhaps, you don’t need to hold onto yourself. Perhaps, it’s okay to let go and just relish in whatever’s being offered to you.
When Caleb pulls away, you’re both left breathless. Your chests rise and fall together, and deliriously happy smiles splay on your lips. He wipes up the drool on your chin and the spit lining your lips tenderly. So tenderly that you could melt in his hands.
His voice is slightly raspy as he teases, “You’re feeling a little damp, honey. I think we oughta get you out of those clothes before you catch a cold.” You giggle, nervous beneath his confident gaze. For Caleb, he’s done this countless times. But for you, you’ve never laid yourself bare to any partner before.
Instead of keeping your fears to yourself, you try a new approach and air them out. “But then, you’ll see me.”
He chuckles. “That’s kinda the point, baby.” His hands find your hips and sway you back and forth affectionately, encouraging a laugh from you. This is Caleb. This is the man you grew up with. The man you’ve shared almost everything (but your feelings up until now) with. What do you have to be afraid of? He plants another kiss on your hairline before gazing out at the blackening, storming sky.
“And besides, it looks like we’ll have to stay the night here,” he observes.
“Mhm.”
Facing you once more, he murmurs, “That okay?” You nod, corner of your lip between your teeth as you feel the weight of what he’s implying.
Sensing your hesitation, he reminds you that, “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. But, I do think you need to get out of those clothes before you get sick.”
“Mhm, I know,” you unintentionally whisper. Your words were supposed to come out at your usual volume, but there’s sweat gathering in your palms and a tingling sensation crawling up your limbs.
“Close your eyes, take a deep breath, m’kay? Let’s do it together,” Caleb says. That makes you smile.
“I don’t need to do breathing exercises, Cay.” He gives you that ‘Oh, really?’ look.
“Ugh, fine,” you groan, surrendering and shutting your lids. Your lungs and belly fill with air as Caleb counts. You’ve done this together every time you’ve had a big assignment due or an exam starting in a few minutes. Whenever you’re feeling anxious or jittery, Caleb’s always reminded you to breathe. And it works. Once light floods your vision and your love comes into focus, you feel much better.
Removing the blanket from your shoulders, you pass it to him. Caleb holds it up and looks away, giving you some privacy while you undress. Thank the Lord you shaved last night. Tossing your clothes next to Caleb’s, you take the blanket from him and wrap yourself up. It smells pretty musty, but at least it’s warm.
Playfully, your boyfriend ruffles your hair just like he’s always done. But this time, he fixes it for you afterwards and tucks any stray strands behind your ears. You gaze up at him gleefully, nerves turning into excitement at the prospects of what’s to come.
He raises his brow at your ecstatic grin. “What?” You shake your head and inch closer to him, leaning against him like a little burrito. Laughing, he slips his arms around you and walks you over to the nearest stall. You trip on the hay (inevitably) and squeal as you pull Caleb down with you. He cushions your blow and clutches you firmly while fussing over you.
“Are you okay, pips? That was my bad, I didn’t warn you. You didn’t get hurt, did you?” His questions are only answered by your carefree guffaws. He stares at you quizzically as you curl in on yourself, your tummy cramping.
“Did you hit your head?” He asks cheekily.
“Mhmmm, no.” You smile and grab his cheeks, kissing him silly. Your bodies slot together, flush, like you were made for one another. Or rather, you were made as one and then carved into two. That seems more like it as your tongue swirls with Caleb, spit going everywhere without a single care.
Your face is red by the time your lover starts getting more curious and bold. His mouth travels down to your jawbone and further yet to your neck. It tickles a bit, but you hold it together until Caleb becomes rather determined to pull a sound from you. And it’s not difficult. One light nibble to your collarbone, and you’re moaning, your back arching and pressing yourself harder against him.
Your pleasure sparks his, quiet whimpers falling from Caleb’s lips as he sucks an unethical number of hickies all over your neck and décolletage. When he reaches your breasts, he pulls back to catch a glimpse of your face. That lustful look in your eyes outdoes every sinful fantasy he’s ever had about you.
“Honey,” he breathes out. After flipping you both over, he lowers himself on top of you and kneads your tits like they’re dough, squeezing and squishing until he can feel your heartbeat. His fingers then wander to your nipples and pinch them delightfully, sending you writhing beneath him. The gesture has carnal need pooling in your pussy, arousal beginning to slide out as your hips buck. You grasp Caleb’s damp locks and pull him closer; you need his mouth on you now.
“Eager, are we?” He teases, gazing up at you like you’re his saving grace. You pout.
“Don’t worry,” he reassures you. “I’ll give you what you want. But I want us to take it slow. I wanna savour every last part of you, baby.” His head dips down, and he peppers your breasts with light kisses. You scratch at his scalp, drawing small sighs from him before his swelteringly hot mouth closes around one of your nipples.
“Fuck,” you whisper, your hands sliding to his nape and shoulders. Instinctively, your legs slip around his hips, and you press your sex against his. Only the blanket keeps you from feeling his skin, but it fails to conceal the outline of his cock.
Releasing your nipple from the onslaught of his tongue, Caleb utters, “Pipsqueak.” His brows knit together as he mentally pleads for his willpower to kick in. But something as simple as your hips rocking against his makes it terribly difficult for him to restrain himself.
Darker than intended, he mutters, “You keep doin’ that, and I won’t last long, pips. S’that what chu want?” You shake your head, but your movements don’t stop. You can’t stop them. You can’t deny yourself the sparks of ecstasy that accompany friction. But your enthusiasm dislodges the blanket that was around his pelvis. It falls onto you and maintains that barrier. But in your goal-driven mind, you don’t know whether that’s a good or a bad thing.
Whimpering, Caleb begins sucking on your other nipple while his arms slide around your upper back and hold you like you could slip away at any second. Sweet sounds escape your lips as your lover matches your rhythm. Naturally, the blanket falls away, and you cry out as his cock slips perfectly between your folds. Pre-cum and slick mix in this delirious quest for release.
“Caleb,” you mewl, finger digging into his muscular shoulders. He groans and pulls off your nipple, his head resting between your breasts and those bright eyes staring up at you. He looks so pretty like this, cheeks and ears all pink, while spit soaks his swollen lips.
“I love you, baby,” he blurts out. “I love you so much. I…” He continues babbling without a thought, saying things neither of your register as the knot in your stomach coils and loosens. It’s an addictive feeling, coming so close only to remain so far away somehow. But as Caleb shifts forward and captures you in a deep kiss, his cock grazes against your clit at the perfect angle.
“Oh, fuck,” you moan between kisses. “Right there, Cay. Right there. Yeah, mhmm.”
“Pips,” he rasps out. “I’m gonna—” His pitch rises as does the pleasure in your gut. “’M gonna cum, baby. Cum with me, please.” His voice breaks. You cry out as your orgasm crashes through you, half-aware of Caleb’s cum spurting all over you. Never before have you felt pleasure like this. It ripples throughout your entire body, causing you to tremble and moan beyond your control. And then suddenly, everything is too much. Your nerves are standing on edge, begging for reprieve.
“Cay, it hurts!”
“Sorry. ‘M sorry, baby, I…” He trails off, slumping on top of you with little regard for how heavy he is. His weight sinks you both into one of the blankets and hay beneath, which holds you as you both come down from your highs. Cum sticks your bodies together, and there’s a drippy mess between your thighs. But you can’t move. Tears prick at your waterline from how overwhelmed you feel. But it’s the good kind of overwhelmed—the result of the most satisfying climax.
Hearing you sniffle, Caleb returns from his blissed-out daze. The tip of his nose drags along your cheekbone before he moves back and takes in your glassy eyes. Concern flares.
“You okay, baby? You okay? Did I… Did I do somethin’ wrong?”
“No!” You exclaim. “No, not at all. Just felt really good,” you insist.
“You’re okay?” He confirms.
You nod energetically. “’M okay. ‘M feeling better than okay.”
Kissing you tenderly, Caleb sighs, “Good.” He wipes your tears away and pulls you into his side, cradling you until you’re feeling more grounded. After pressing his lips to your brow, Caleb lies you on your back once more and sits back. His cum coats his chest, as it does your stomach and breasts.
“S’even in your hair. Sorry, pips,” he apologises, running his fingers over a seed-covered lock of your hair.
You chortle. “It’s okay.”
As Caleb cleans you up, he reveals, “’M not usually like this, I swear. I… just can’t believe this is happening. It’s like a dream.”
“I know the feeling,” you offer. At that, he smiles ruefully.
“How ‘bout we take a little break?” He suggests. “We’ve got the whole night after all to indulge in each other.”
“Mhm, I’d like that.” A lazy grin spreads on your lips as he comes to rest by your side again. The rain has died off for the moment, making way for a gentle quiet to envelop you both. Sighing, you relax further into Caleb’s embrace.
Regardless of whether you can walk tomorrow, you’ll have to thank Zayne for his intervention. Perhaps a little jealousy does help move things along.
“…And when we woke up the next morning, oh my god. I was so sore. I’m not even kidding. Like I was literally bedridden till Tuesday. And it looked like there was a bird’s nest in my hair with all of the hay. Cay tried to pick it out, but—”
“Seems like you two had a good time. I’m glad,” Zayne interrupts, his tone never straying from his usual coldness. But he looks softer like this, in a flowy button-up and blue jeans beneath the cosy pub lights. It’s Friday, and you’re back at it again, playing pool. But this time, it’s not just you and Zayne.
“Here’s your schooner, honey.” Caleb places the glass down on the little table nearby before coming over and giving you a quick peck. Zayne looks away.
“Oh, how I love being the third wheel,” he comments dryly. You giggle while Caleb tucks his hand into your back pocket.
“You know, Zaynie, this could be a double date. Tell us, how’s things going with your crush?” You ask excitedly.
“Oh?” Caleb chimes in. “You didn’t tell me you had a crush, snowballs.”
Zayne shakes his head lightly, seemingly exhausted by this sudden turn in conversation. “I don’t have a crush. And even if I did, I was too busy playing matchmaker to mention it to you.”
You groan, “Oh, come on. We were getting there.”
That makes the dark-haired man nearly grin. “Oh, I’m sure you were. But my little push deserves a ‘thank you’, no?” Caleb stalks over to him and claps him on the back, causing the deacon to grunt quietly.
“You’re right, snow. You’re an incredible friend for getting us together at your own expense. How should we ever repay you?”
“Oh! I know!” You pipe up, a mischievous grin worming its way onto your face. “Why don’t we return the favour?” You suggest. Caleb returns your smile with one of his own.
“I think that’s a great idea, Pipsqueak,” he concurs.
Squeezing poor Zaynie into his side, Caleb says to him, “So, tell us who the lucky lady is and we’ll handle the rest.”
The deacon shakes him off and steps back, a cruel kind of smirk forming on his lips. “You can’t help me even if you wanted to.”
You frown. “And why not?” Again, Zayne shakes his head, dismissing the subject altogether. But you’re not so keen to let it go yet.
“Zaynie,” you coo, skipping over to him goofily in a way that has you trying to choke back your laughter.
He side eyes you mercilessly before sighing, “She’s a novice.”
“A novice?” You echo, confused as to what that’s supposed to mean. “Like a novice? Like she’s new to something or—”
“There are several stages to becoming a nun, and the novitiate is one of the more serious ones. She’ll take temporary vows next year if she chooses to.” A weighty silence settles between the three of you momentarily. So that’s why he said you couldn’t help him. Why must the heart want what it can’t have?
“Shit, snow,” Caleb mutters. “She’s gonna be a nun?”
Avoiding your stares, Zayne explains, “A novice can still choose to leave the community if she wants to. But once she’s taken vows, things become more complicated.”
“Zayne.” You place your hand on his arm. “Should we pray for you?”
After a few seconds, he glances down at you. “I suppose it’s not a bad idea.” Your hand falls and soon finds Caleb’s. You rest your head against him. Guess everyone’s love lives are complicated, huh?
“Let’s not dwell on it for any longer,” Zayne utters. Turning around, he gestures to the pool table. “I still need to beat both of you for that ridiculous win last round.”
“Oh, you’re on.” Your boyfriend smirks. He gently nudges you up before readying himself to break. While the game distracts you, it’s hard to forget Zayne’s conundrum. As a deacon, he wouldn’t want to be the reason why his ‘not’ crush strays from the path of God. But as a man, it’s natural that he should want to intervene… You suppose that all he can do is leave it in the Lord’s hands. How unfortunate.
elle's notes: yes! this is inspired by the church scene from pride & prejudice (2005)! really good film btw, i recommend. it was my first time seeing it less than a week ago, and then, this idea was born! also lmk if you wanna see a sequel for zayne??? i think i might write one regardless haha.
gn reader, early relationship, hurt/comfort, cuddling. tw: mental illness themes
wc: 1.5k
You can't take it anymore. You have been isolated and spiraling while fighting your way through a mountain of work, and you're afraid that if you stay this way, you'll end up doing something you will later regret. Staring blankly down at your phone, you have no idea who to contact. You don't know anyone well enough to randomly ask to hang out, let alone for emotional support.
However, there is one man whom you've been yearning for ever since you first met him. You can't seem to get him out of your head. And he had impressed upon you multiple times that if you needed anything, anything, you could call him. You've never asked him for any sort of favor before. Still, given how he previously reacted with tasteful, subtle eagerness when given the opportunity to see you again, you figured he wouldn't mind.
Too nervous to call, you open your messages app and pull up your texts with Sylus Qin. Your message history is sparse but still present, as he often checks in to ask how you're doing. The one time you told him you weren't doing well, he sent you a slightly blurry picture of his bird, which you saved as your lock screen. It still makes you laugh when you see it.
You: hey, sylus! i just wanted to ask if i could
come over? or if you wanted to come to my
apartment? i know it's a bit of a commute,
and i understand if you aren't available or
are asleep! i just don't feel too well and i
really don't want to be alone right now.
After reading and rereading the message to make sure it's satisfactory, and once you've taken a deep, steadying breath, you hit send. It's pretty early in the morning, since you're pulling an all-nighter, so you don't expect him to reply quickly.
He responds in less than a minute.
Sylus: Of course. which would you prefer?
You: thank you so much! either is fine!! whichever
is easiest for you!
Sylus: Where would you be most comfortable, sweetie?
You: my place, maybe? it's a little messy but i
wouldn't need to change out of my pajamas or
pack things up to take over. if that's ok!
Sylus: Its more than okay. Ill be there soon.
Sylus: Thank you for trusting me.
Your cheeks quickly heat after reading his last message, and you bury your face in your hands. You hope you didn't wake him up or interrupt something important. But surely, since he replied to your message so quickly, he must be free? Sylus never fails to leave you guessing.
You should clean, you know you should clean, but you just can't bring yourself to. You're incredibly drained, and even the thrum of anxiety over knowing Sylus will see your space like this isn't enough to motivate you to get up and fix it.
Maybe this was a bad idea. But it's too late, he's coming all the way here just because you asked him to on a selfish whim. You don't know how you'll look to him when he inevitably opens the door, but you don't have the energy or coherence of thought to put together your usual mask. You just have to hope you won't make him uncomfortable.
---
In much less time than you expect, you hear a gentle knock at your door. Getting up from your desk on wobbly legs, you manage to walk the short distance there without tripping over your own feet, and you turn the knob, your heartbeat speeding up as you do.
Your breath catches in your throat as you look up at him, his pretty red eyes and signature smirk softening upon seeing your expression. You always forget how tall he is, and it hits you again every time you see him. He's wearing a long wool coat and a turtleneck neatly tucked into his slacks, and holding a couple of plastic bags. From the scent of one of them, you can tell it's takeout from your favorite restaurant.
You can't even focus on your self-consciousness any longer upon seeing him, as the dizziness of relief from your extended period of yearning hits you like a truck. The scent of his subtle cologne is so much better when it's him wearing it, not just the clothes you last wore while seeing him, still holding the ghost of his scent. You can't fight the sting of tears beginning to form in your eyes. God, you missed him so much.
With tender worry in his expression, Sylus used his Evol to set the bags onto your counter before opening his arms, inviting you into his embrace. You practically collapse into his arms, burying your face in his chest and taking in a shuddering breath, your hands finding their way beneath his thick coat as you cling to him, gripping tightly to his turtleneck.
Taken aback, Sylus freezes for a second, but quickly adjusts, wrapping his arms around you in return. His comforting warmth engulfs you as you feel the warm press of his lips to your forehead. You let go, losing yourself in the solace of his body against yours, the strength rippling beneath his skin, the solid arms and large hands which only ever handle you with the most delicate touch.
You don't startle as he reaches an arm beneath you to lift you easily with one hand beneath your thigh. He carries you back inside, away from the chill of the outside air, closing the door behind him and toeing off his shoes. His movements are smooth and graceful as he makes his way through your space, navigates to your small couch, and takes a seat, resting you securely in his lap.
You only pull your face from his chest once he cups your cheek in his palm, his thumb gently wiping away the moisture he finds there. You didn't realize you had been crying. You meet his gaze, his ruby-red eyes saturated with a level of concern you don't think you've seen in them before.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice quiet and tender, as if he's worried about jostling you merely by being too loud or speaking too harshly. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"
You tearfully shake your head no, and he hums contemplatively, stroking beneath your eye with his thumb. He takes in a breath to speak again, but you beat him to it, your voice thick in your throat. "I was really lonely,"
"Yeah?" he moves his hand from your cheek to gently scratch at your scalp instead, guiding you back into the crook of his neck. "You should've told me sooner. I can't leave my kitten feeling alone and uncared for."
Sensing a protest coming before you even utter a word, he presses soft kisses up your jawline, preventing you from overthinking by stalling your thoughts altogether. "Shh. You know well enough that I don't spend time on things that bore me." His voice is soothing as it rumbles through his chest into your body. His breath brushes your neck, warm and smelling slightly of mint. "I value my time with you over anything else. Having more of it would be a gift I greatly treasure."
You nod, your tears soaking into his shirt. You believe him. You have an irreplaceable place in his life, and he won't let you suffer alone.
He holds you for a long while, alleviating the chill that had set deep in your bones with the heat of his body. Your head rests pillowed on his chest as you float in a peaceful daze. The hurt you had felt earlier is absent, and in its place is a warm sense of comfort brought by the solidity of Sylus's body against your own. The tangible movement of his chest rising and falling as he breathes, his palm slowly stroking up and down your back, his lips pressing occasional, affectionate kisses wherever they can reach, the dulcet tones of his voice as he hums to you. He's big enough that you feel enveloped in him completely, and you haven't felt this content in days.
You're not sure how much time has passed, but you're brought back to a hazy awareness by his curled finger gently tilting your head up, your eyes refocusing as they meet his. "Are you hungry?" He coos, smiling at your sleepy nod. "You want me to heat up the takeout?" You nod again, and he kisses the tip of your nose, his gaze incredibly fond.
"It won't take long, I promise. I'll just be a few minutes."
And a few minutes later, comforted by the taste of your favorite food and the company of your favorite person, you're incredibly glad you asked for his help.
a/n: urm this one's totally not bc i nearly passed out yesterday while doing the dishes :( all bc i forgot to take meds... i hate period pain ahhh
The day had started quietly, too quiet in fact. You’d woken up to grey light filtering through the curtains, the faint hum of the shields outside the base, and sylus’s voice calling softly from the kitchen.
“You coming? We leave in twenty.”
You’d meant to grab your meds from the nightstand. You really had, but then he had called out for you, and you’d gotten distracted pulling your gear together. One thing led to another, and the little white bottle stayed behind on the table. The mission was simple; a quick exchange with a local informant at an abandoned corridor. “No combat, no strain,” Sylus had said, just in and out.
By the time you reached Linkon, the cramps had already started. Dull at first, but manageable for now. You told yourself you could push through, just a few hours, and besides, you’d done worse.
“You all right?”
“Fine,” you lied, forcing a smile as you scanned the perimeter.
He believed you, and why wouldn’t he? You’d stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him through worse storms than this.
But as the afternoon stretched, your stomach twisted tighter, every breath pulling at an invisible knot. The world started to dim at the edges, sounds muffling like you were underwater. When you bent down to check the tablet’s readings, the ground seemed to sway. That’s when you realised, the meds. You hadn’t taken them, not a single dose.
Not now, you thought. Please, not here. You tried to breathe through it, hands trembling as you typed the coordinates. Sylus was only a few feet away, talking to the contact. You didn’t want to distract him, not when this was finally going smoothly. But then the tablet slipped from your hand, and the world folded in on itself.
“-love? Hey. Hey, stay with me.”
You blinked into the blur of his face, his eyes wide in a way you’d never seen before. His gloves were already off, one hand against your cheek, the other checking your pulse.
“She’s burning up,” Sylus barked into his earpiece. “Now. We need to get back now.”
You could hear Luke’s startled reply, Kieran shouting something about a med team being on standby, but all of it felt far away.
“I’m fine,” you tried to say, but it came out like a breath.
“Don’t,” Sylus cut in sharply. “Don’t do that. Don’t tell me you’re fine.”
The last thing you felt before darkness took over again was him lifting you in his strong arms, the sharp scent of oak and metal, his voice a low, desperate murmur against your hair.
“Hold on for me, my love. Please.”
When you woke, it was to the quiet hum of the N109. Your head felt heavy, your limbs aching, and there was a familiar warmth around your hand.
Sylus.
He was sitting at your bedside, still in his half-unbuttoned shirt, eyes ringed with exhaustion. His fingers were wrapped around yours, thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles on your skin.
“You scared me,” he said quietly when your eyes fluttered open.
You tried to smile. “You worry too much.”
“Not enough, apparently.” His tone was softer than usual, but the tension underneath it didn’t fade. “Why didn’t you tell me you were unwell?”
“I forgot my meds,” you admitted, voice small. “This morning was… rushed.”
“You could’ve told me.” He leaned forward, eyes flicking up to yours, stern but pleading. “You think I’d make you run intel if I knew you were in pain? You’re the one thing in this god-forsaken world I can’t replace.”
That made you stop. The words hung there, raw and unpolished.
“Sylus…”
“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “Listen to me, missions can wait. Reports can wait, but you can’t.” A pause. “Next time, tell me. Please.”
The guilt softened into a small smile. “Okay,” you whispered. “I will.”
He exhaled then, tension draining from his shoulders as he brushed his thumb across your cheek. “Good. Because the next time you pass out on me, I might actually lose my mind.”
“You kind of already did,” you teased weakly.
“Mm.” His lips quirked. “Don’t remind me.”
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead slowly, lingering, full of everything he couldn’t quite put into words. You melted into the warmth of it, breathing in the familiar.
SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you.
PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend
PROLOGUE
“There is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath...” -Herman Melville
Sadly Rafayel doesn't have many poses that lend themselves well to a more serious set, but the ones he does have are incredibly beautiful. I'll never get over how much I love that one with his palm over his face, especially with the paint on his hand 😩 ♡ As usual, feel free to use for icons, headers, banners, or whatever else! Credits not necessary but are appreciated 💜 and an extra special thank you to my dear darling @seaofgoldensand for helping me with some feedback on these!
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