⸝⸝ 𓂃 ࣪ ִ⠀ 𝐥𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐧 ! she / her 20. march pisces ˎˊ˗ hopeless romantic dance student dilf lover lace ocean air + lipstick stains, nostalgia 𓂃۶ৎ sebastian stan's #1 fan order me a tiramisu multi fandom blog „so tell me you love me,“ ˖ ݁♬
synopsis: leon comes home for the summer to find that this town had moved on.
he carries the same habits, the same ghosts, the same glass in his hand and you still look at him like you love him.
re2!leon would be trying to do everything by the book, assessing the situation before it escalates, but that was before you made that nearly impossible. He's right in the middle of talking into his radio, something practical—the kind a rookie clings to when everything else feels out of control, when you step close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm like it's nothing, like it wasn't completely intentional. It throws him off instantly, the words faltering on his tongue as his attention snaps to you without meaning to. You don't give him time to recover either, leaning in slightly, voice soft and sweet in a way that doesn't match the tension in the air.
He even glances toward the camera, already blushing like he'd combust at any second, as he hears the lyrics and your quiet giggles settle in, and for a second he just... stops. You can see it in his expression, the way it blanks like his brain is buffering; eyebrows lifting faintly at the words before pulling together in confusion, lips parting like he's about to respond and then failing to produce anything at all. Followed by a quick, embarrassed clearing of his throat, like he's trying to recover and pretend you didn't completely derail him.
He adjusts his posture after that, shoulders squaring as he tries to fall back on training, on procedure, on anything that feels safe. "Ma'am, I need you to maintain some distance," he says, and it almost works too—almost sounds firm, but the edge softens halfway through. The moment you flutter your eyes at him, it's over for him. His grip loosens slightly on his vest, the tips of his ears turning a deeper shade of pink when his gaze accidentally drops to your lips and lingers a second too long before snapping back up.
"You're...making it hard to focus," he admits before he can stop himself, and there's a flicker of realisation in his expression the second it lands. Like he knows exactly how that sounded, and so do you. Especially when you flash him that bright, teasing smile. And instead of shutting it down like he should, he just exhales and shakes his head slightly, like he's giving up pretending that this is still fully in his control.
Gathering whatever courage he can muster, even though he's clearly out of his depth, he looks at you again. "If you're such a good girl..." he starts slowly, careful like he's choosing every word instead of scrambling for them, the sentence hanging just long enough to make it intentional. "...then stay where I can see you." It's not smooth or practised, not anything close to confident—but it lands anyway. Simple. Direct. And just suggestive enough to make the space between you feel smaller than it already is. He holds your gaze for a second longer than he probably means to, breathing a little uneven now, before eventually forcing himself to turn back to his duties. It takes him an extra beat, like he has to physically pull himself away from the moment.
Afterwards, it doesn't let him off the hook. His coworkers notice immediately. The way he's a little too aware of where you are, the way he keeps glancing over like he's checking something he can't quite explain. The teasing starts almost instantly: a shoulder pat there, a low "rookie's got game," there, and it turns him a shade of red that somehow keeps getting worse every time someone brings it up.
When the shift finally ends, he catches up to you with a light jog, rubbing the back of his neck in an attempt at being casual, though it doesn't quite land as he offers you a ride home—but you say yes anyway. His shoulders soften slightly and he gives you a small tentative smile that you find unfairly adorable. In the car, it's comfortable in a slightly nervous way, with occasional glances and small pauses, him trying not to overthink what just happened. When he finally asks for your number, it comes out a little rushed, like he's afraid he'll lose the moment if he hesitates too long. But when you give it to him, he looks relieved, a little excited too.
The next morning your phone lights up with a message from Leon. It's simple and slightly awkward, clearly thought about it too much and rewritten at least once, but it settles into something warm as you read it. He's planned a date, suggesting a cute café down the road known for their latte art for later this afternoon. Nothing too fancy, just somewhere quieter where you can actually talk without radios or interruptions. He mentions wanting to make up for yesterday's chaos, a hesitant joke at the end that feels like him trying to be brave rather than funny, and signs it off with just his name. The date goes better than either of you expected, easy laughter over coffee and lingering glances that don't feel so accidental anymore—and the rest is history.
re4!leon would be aware of you before you ever properly step into his space, not in an obvious way, but in that quiet, practised attention of someone who's learned to read a room without making it look like he's trying. He's mid-task, focused enough to be functional but relaxed enough to notice when something changes in his surroundings, and that change is you. When you finally come closer and deliver it like it's nothing, like it's just a passing comment meant to test the air between you, he still doesn't react immediately. There's a pause. Not awkward or startled, just measured. Like he's giving the moment space to define itself before he decides what it is. His posture doesn't change, but his attention fully shifts now, quiet and deliberate, settling on you in a way that feels heavier than direct eye contact should.
He glances at you properly now, slow and unhurried, like he's deciding how seriously to take you, and then lets out a quiet exhale through his nose. "That right?" he says at last, voice calm, steady, almost casual, but there's a subtle weight to it that keeps it from being dismissive. He doesn't step back. If anything, he shifts just enough that the space between you feels intentionally maintained rather than accidental, like he's aware of it and choosing not to break it yet. You shamelessly check him out, a couple of small giggles slipping out, and he just throws a faint, knowing smirk—subtle enough to feel like it's meant for you, not for anyone watching, or the camera trained on them, even if the attention around you catches it anyway.
You stay close, anticipating some kind of reaction, but he doesn't give you the satisfaction of fluster or hesitation. Instead, he watches you a little longer than necessary, gaze steady, reading without rushing. "You say that like you've got something to prove," he adds, tone even, but there's a faint trace of amusement underneath it now, it's quieter and more controlled than teasing, like he's letting you think you're leading while still very much aware of the direction things are heading.
When you don't move away, he tilts his head slightly, expression softening just enough to shift the dynamic rather than break it. "Careful," he says, not like a warning, more like an observation, "people tend to take things at face value when they're said with enough confidence." His eyes flicker over you briefly again, unhurried, like he's confirming something he already suspected, then settle back on your face like he's made his assessment and isn't surprised by the result.
The silence that follows isn't heavy—it's controlled. Comfortable in a way that feels like it could tip either direction depending on who decides to move first. He lets it settle without interruption, not trying to define it or pull it forward. He lets it exist fully, understanding that the tension doesn't always need resolution to be meaningful. Then, almost casually, he shifts the weight of the moment. "You always talk to officers like this?" he asks, quieter now, still steady, but with a subtle edge of curiosity that feels more personal than procedural. There's a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, not quite teasing, but definitely aware of you in a way he wasn't a minute ago. And this time, when he looks at you, it lingers. Not because he's unsure, but because he isn't.
There's a shift after that moment as the streets calm, the energy of earlier fading into something slower as he walks you home. His protective instinct settles into something quieter, more natural in how he instinctively matches your steps instead of leading them. At one point, he steps just slightly closer—not enough to crowd you, but just enough to make it clear he's aware of you in a way that goes beyond simple escorting. When you reach your destination, he doesn't immediately step away. There's a pause again, measured and familiar, gaze settling on you like he's weighing something unspoken before giving a small, understated nod and easing back into space. Not that he wants distance, but because the moment calls for it. You acknowledge it with a light smile, slipping your number into his vest pocket, patting it before you turn inside.
Later, the message comes without ceremony. No overthinking, no hesitation, just something simple and direct as if it had already been settled earlier. He suggests a wine bar downtown, somewhere low-lit with mellow music that feels intimate, and dim reflections in the glass that make time feel stretched in a way that doesn't feel rushed. The details are specific but unforced, carrying an ease rather than instruction. And when you agree, his reply is brief, steady and calm with a quiet acknowledgment that doesn't linger, as if that's all that needed to be said.
The wine bar is exactly as suggested, tucked away from the louder streets. It's quiet, but not empty, comfortable in a way that lets conversation come easily and silence settle without feeling like anything is missing. He arrives on time, composed and steady, and eases into the evening without trying to shape anything more than what it already is. There's no performance, just presence in the way he listens without interrupting, the way his attention stays on you even when the world around you softens into background noise, like you've quietly become the centre of it. As the night goes on, it doesn't feel like something that started so much as something that naturally kept unfolding. Nothing pushed too hard, just an easy understanding neither of you disturbs. And when you part ways, it doesn't feel finished—just paused somewhere it can be picked back up later.
re9!leon would register it before you properly finish the sentence, the way you step into his space like you belong there, the teasing tilt of your voice as you drop the line like it's rehearsed just to see what kind of reaction you can pull out of him. His eyes flick up immediately, slow and assessing in that way that always makes people think they've been caught doing something wrong even when they haven't, but instead of the stern dismissal you're probably expecting, there's a faintest shift at the corner of his mouth like he's trying—poorly although, not to react. He's been through enough to know a setup when he hears one, especially something pulled straight from a trend he's only vaguely aware exists, but the confidence you're wearing it with is what gets him; not the line itself, but the fact you said it to him, like you were testing wether he'd play along or shut it down.
There's also the way you're looking at him while you say it, like you're not just delivering a joke, but evaluating him back. Your eyes don't exactly stay polite either; they drag in a way that makes it obvious you've noticed things you probably shouldn't be noticing about an officer in uniform. The set of his shoulders, the way his stance is relaxed but ready, the sleeves that don't do much to hide just how solid his arms are. You linger a little too long there, openly enough that it's unmistakable, and when your gaze comes back up to his face, it's with a flirty little smile like you're pleased with what you've found. It earns you a very subtle pause from him, barely there but enough to suggest he noticed you noticing.
He exhales through his nose, glances away for half a second like he's considering pretending he didn't hear you, and then he looks back with a quieter, more deliberate kind of attention that makes the air feel tight between you. "That so?" he says at first, controlled and simple like he's acknowledging the opening without giving you anything yet. The pause that follows is just long enough to make you feel it before he continues, voice dropping slightly, slower now as he actually engages. "Confident thing to say to someone you've just met," he repeats, like he's testing the shape of your words against you. He watches your reaction as he says it, not just your face but the small tells between, like he's cataloguing how far your confidence actually goes when it's reflected back at you instead of just thrown into the space. There's a faintest smirk that he doesn't fully commit to, tucked into the corner of his expression rather than shown outright.
A beat stretches between you again, quieter this time, less about hesitation and more about him deciding how much he wants to lean into this instead of shutting it down. His gaze doesn't break, but it does shift—tracking you more deliberately now, like he's aware of the distance in a way he wasn't a moment ago. The air feels smaller, contained, like the space between you had been deliberately reduced just by the fact neither of you is stepping out of it. When you step forward, close enough that the distance finally stops being neutral and starts feeling intentional, his posture doesn't retreat, and you're close enough that you have to tilt your chin up slightly to keep eye contact. He looks more composed up close, like he's used to occupying space without asking permission for it. "You usually this forward with people, or am I just the lucky exception?"
There's a brief stillness after he speaks, the kind that doesn't feel empty as much as deliberately held, like he's already said what he needed to and anything else would be excess. And then, just as quietly as he engaged, he steps back. Not away from you, exactly, but enough to return to what he was doing before you interrupted him. It's not long before whatever he was handling gets wrapped up without wasted movement or unnecessary conversation, his focus snapping back into place like it never left, if anything, it makes the earlier moment feel more intentional, not less, like he chose to entertain it rather than got pulled into it.
And he's back, no announcement or shift in tone to signal it, just there again like he never really left in the first place. His attention settles on you in that same measured way, except how there's less distance in it, less evaluation and more quiet certainty. He glances briefly down the street, then back at you, like he's already come to a conclusion. "You're not walking," he says, simple, not a question or a suggestion, just something decided now that it's late. You type in the address in his phone, thumb moving with practised ease as he orders the uber like it's already been settled.
You wait with him, the tension shifting into something quieter, occasional low, easy remarks passing between you—not quite small talk, or flirting, but close enough that it keeps the space warm instead of awkward. When the car pulls up, he steps in first only to open the door for you, one hand braced against the frame, attention flicking back to you longer than necessary. "Try not to flirt with anyone else on the way home," he says, almost offhand, like it's a joke he didn't think too hard about, but the look he gives you lingers just enough to make it land differently.
The ride itself is short, but the quiet that follows isn't. Your phone buzzes not long after you get in, his name lighting up the screen as he checks in on you. The conversation doesn't stretch unnecessarily, just a few messages that are steady and grounded, but enough to leave the door open—and he does. A day or two later, he sends an address you recognise immediately. It's a rooftop restaurant, exactly what it sounds like: high enough that the city softens into lights instead of noise, expensive in a way that doesn't need to prove itself, quiet enough that every word feels intentional. He's already there when you arrive, and this time there's no distance like before, just the same steady attention settling on you like it belongs there.
Conversation comes easily, less guarded, still measured but with a looseness that wasn't there that first night, like he's already decided you're worth the time. He doesn't overdo anything, doesn't try to impress you, and he doesn't need to. The choices speak for themselves: the place, the timing, the way he watches you when you're not looking directly at him. By the time the night winds down, it doesn't feel accidental anymore. Not the first meeting, not the text, not this. He pays the bill without argument, offers you his arm as he walks you out again, slower this time, no rush, and there's a quiet familiarity in it already—like whatever started with a throwaway line and a half-suppressed reaction settled into something a little more intentional, something neither of you is pretending just happened by chance.
