After surviving the horrors of Raccoon City, Leon S. Kennedy is recruited by the U.S. government to begin training as a special agent. You're one of the elite agents assigned to oversee his development. He reports to you, follows your orders but he canāt seem to stop his interest towards you.
ā¤ Two Ghosts
Rural Spain was the last place you expected to see Leon Kennedy. He isnāt the rookie you left in Raccoon City, heās colder, sharper, and harder to walk away from a second time.
ā¤ Stay Close, Rookie
Youāre the no-nonsense top officer at Raccon Police Department who swore off training rookies, right up until Leon Scott āgolden retrieverā Kennedy gets assigned to your hip.
ā¤ Strictly Professional
You had no idea that being hired as the personal assistant to the most powerful executive, Leon Kennedy, would pull you into a world this intense. What starts as a job quickly blurs into something far more personal, forcing you to question where professionalism ends, and whether itās worth the risk.
ā¤ Equal Ground
Rivals turned undercover partners, you and Leon Kennedy fake a relationship during an Umbrella operation. Only to realise the hardest mission isnāt survival, but choosing each other.
Steve Harrington
ā¤ For Your Own Good
Tutoring Steve Harrington was supposed to be simple. It wasnāt supposed to involve late nights, soft confessions, or his protectiveness turning sharp when Billy Hargrove starts paying you the wrong kind of attention.
ā¤ Undefined
What starts as lingering touches and unspoken promises slowly turns into something real, or so you think. When Steve finally says he wants to take things seriously, you let yourself believe him. But one misunderstood moment in an empty classroom is all it takes to unravel everything.
Josh Washington
ā¤ The Wrong Target
Josh and you have always been too shy to recognize the connection between you. He invites you and his friends back to the old lodge to relive the past and maybe, this time, youāll find the courage to finally confess your feelings for Josh.
Clark Kent
ā¤ The Critic & The Crusader
Youāve made a name for yourself at the Daily Planet as the sharp-tongued columnist. Clark Kent continues to write the puff pieces that counter your every word. When Perry forces the two of you to co-author the front-page anniversary feature, sparring turns to late nights.
Jimmy Olsen
ā¤ Front Page Hearts
Youāre a journalist at The Daily Planet, assigned to investigate a high-profile case involving a corrupt tech mogul. To get the inside scoop, you need to go undercover, and Jimmy Olsen, eager and secretly smitten, volunteers to pose as your partner.
Ethan Landry
ā¤ run run run
You have been noticing Ethanās eyes on you whenever you are with him and your friends. As the college semester progresses, and ghost faceās murder count goes up you canāt help but notice Ethanās strange demeanour and his interest in becoming closer to you.
Carmy Berzatto
ā¤ situationship
Carmy admits heās falling for you, the vulnerability between you both becomes undeniable. Faced with the possibility of something more, you wrestle with the fear that it might pull you both apart
Arthur Morgan
ā¤ When Thieves and Cowboys Meet
In the bustling streets of Saint Denis, youāre a skilled pickpocket, always looking for your next mark. When you spot a quiet, distracted man scribbling in his notebook, you seize the chance to steal his prized pocket watch.
Thank you so much, im so happy you enjoyed it!! i really wanted to make sure the pacing was slow to match leon's re9 personality. also im very inspired by the kdrama tropes!!
I absolutely love your works and how you buildup each of the characters in them. Your descriptions and dialogue are incredible and I hope you know that your outputs and effort and time are greatly appreciated and enjoyed. I hope you have a good day ā¤ļø
omg thank you so much!! Your words are so thoughtful and kind. its warms my heart to hear you enjoy my writing! sending you love <3
Warnings: MDNI, smut (click keep reading to see tags), Leon is cold af at the start.Ā
Synopsis: When Leon returns home from his mission, relief surged over you to see that he is still alive. However, as time progresses, Leon starts acting differently, almost malevolentā¦Ā
Word count: 9kĀ
Tags: Established Relationship, infected leon, porn with plot, dom/sub, cunnilingus, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dry humping, dirty talk, teasing, rough, vaginal sex, size difference, aftercare.Ā
A/N: two posts in one month who is she?? I feel like Iāve read this trope like a dozen times, but I am so obsessed with it, and I feel like I havenāt written smut in a minute, so enjoy! btw this can be read as re4 or re9 leon as both kind of work for this story!Ā
The knock at the door came at 4:47 AM.
You knew the time because you'd been staring at the clock on the wall for the past three hours, counting the minutes since Leon's estimated return window had closed. Each tick had carved a little deeper into the lining of your stomach.
The clock was an ugly thing, plain white face, black numbers, no personality to speak of. Leon had bought it at a gas station outside Raccoon City during his first week as a cop, back when he was twenty-one and still believed the worst thing he'd ever see was a drunk driver on a Tuesday night. He'd hung it in the apartment you'd just moved into together with a handful of pushpins and a grin that was all boyish charm and barely concealed nerves. When you'd asked why he didn't buy something nicer, he'd said, "Clocks don't need to be nice. They just need to work."
You'd been together for six months at that point. Long enough to know that Leon Kennedy said things like that when he was trying to be profound and deflecting at the same time. Long enough to know that the grin was armour. Long enough to know that the rookie cop who showed up at your door with cheap wine and a chip on his shoulder was carrying more damage than any twenty-one-year-old should have been allowed to hold.
You'd loved him anyway.
Seven years later, you still loved him. That was the constant, the unmoving center of a life that had become defined by movement, by departures, by the terror of watching him walk out the door and not knowing if the man who came back would be the same one who left. The clock had followed you through three apartments and two states, its white face yellowing with age, its second hand still ticking with the same mechanical indifference.
Tonight, it was working too well.
1:47 AM had been the cutoff. That was the time Hunnigan had given you during her last check-in. Her voice tight and professional but with an undercurrent of something that sounded suspiciously like worry, when she'd said, "He should be home by 0200 at the latest. If he's not, call me."
You hadn't called. You should have. You knew you should have. But calling Hunnigan meant making it official, meant putting wheels in motion that you couldn't stop, and if there was one thing seven years with Leon had taught you, it was that the government's idea of "help" and your idea of "help" rarely overlapped.
So you'd sat on the couch, and you'd stared at the clock, and you'd counted.
1:47. He's just running late. Traffic, maybe. Or debriefing.
2:15. Something went wrong with extraction. It happens. He's fine.
2:47. He's fine. He's fine. He's fine.
3:22. If he were dead, someone would have told you. They would have called. They wouldn't justā
3:58. Unless there's no one left to make the call.
4:31. Stop it. Stop it. You're doing this to yourself.
4:47.
The knock.
Not the doorbell, he'd disabled it years ago because the sound triggered something in his hindbrain that made him reach for a gun that wasn't always there. Just a knock. Three short raps. Spaced evenly. Almost military in their precision.
You were off the couch before the second knock finished, your legs numb and prickly from hours of sitting, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard you could feel it in your teeth. You crossed the living room in four steps and threw the door open so fast the handle cracked against the wall behind it.
And there he was.
Standing in the harsh yellow glow of the porch light, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, hair damp with what you prayed was rain. He was facing you directly, which was unusual. Leon typically approached the door at a slight angle, a habit from his first year in the field that he'd never been able to shake, always positioning himself to see what was coming from more than one direction. Now he stood perfectly perpendicular, shoulders squared, weight evenly distributed, like a soldier awaiting inspection.
"Leon."
Your voice cracked on his name. Three syllables, and you couldn't even get through them without breaking.
He didn't smile.
That was your first clue.
Leon always smiled when he came home to you. It was always small and tight and tired around the edges, a barely-there upward twitch of the mouth that most people would miss entirely. But you weren't most people. You'd spent seven years learning the shape of that smile. There was the relieved smile, which reached his eyes and made the lines around them crinkle. There was the exhausted smile, which was really just the absence of a frown. There was the I did something I'm not proud of smile, which was the smallest of all, there and gone so fast you had to be watching for it.
There was no smile now. His face was completely blank. Not tense, not guarded, blank. Like someone had erased the expression and forgotten to draw a new one. Almost clinical in its stillness.
"Sorry." He said the word without inflection, like it had been pulled from a predetermined list of appropriate responses. His voice sounded like it had been dragged across gravel, raw, scraped, stripped of the warm baritone that had whispered your name a thousand times in the dark. "Took longer than expected."
You didn't care about longer. You didn't care about explanations or debriefs or the specifics of whatever nightmare he'd just crawled out of. You cared about alive, and he was standing right in front of you. Solid and breathing and present in a way that your anxious, spiralling brain had spent the last three hours convincing you he wouldn't be.
So you threw your arms around his neck and held on.
You buried your face in the curve of his shoulder, right where his neck met his collarbone, and you breathed him in. He smelled wrong, like rain and copper and something faintly chemical beneath it all, something antiseptic that didn't belong on human skin. But underneath that, underneath the wrongness, there was the faintest trace of him. The sandalwood soap he'd been using since his rookie days because it was the kind the precinct provided and he'd never bothered to switch. The faint, permanent undertone of gunpowder that no amount of washing could fully strip away.
For a terrible, suspended moment, he didn't hug you back.
His arms hung at his sides. His body was rigid beneath yours, a wall of hard muscle and cold skin that didn't yield, didn't soften, didn't do any of the things it always did when you touched him. He stood still, like something wearing Leon's shape but not occupying it, and the one second that his lack of response lasted felt like an hour.
Then his arms came up.
Slowly. Mechanically. Like he was following a set of instructions he'd memorized rather than acting on instinct. They settled around your waist, and his hands pressed flat against your lower back, and even through the cotton of your sleep shirt, his palms felt strangely cold. Not cool the way skin gets on a chilly evening cold. Like he'd been standing in a freezer. Like the warmth had been drained out of him and replaced with something that merely resembled a human temperature.
"You're freezing," you murmured against his neck. Your fingers tightened on the back of his jacket, and you felt the damp fabric beneath your hands. It had to be rain, please let it be rain. "Leon, you're freezing."
"Had to walk a ways." His voice vibrated against your cheek, and the resonance felt off, deeper than it should have been. "Dropped my ride a few miles out."
You pulled back just enough to study his face. The porch light wasn't kind, it threw every shadow into sharp relief, turned skin to wax and eyes to hollows, and right now Leon looked like he'd been through hell. Dark circles carved deep hollows beneath his eyes, so pronounced they looked like bruises. His skin had a grayish tint that made the blue of his irises look almost luminous by comparison. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his temples and the bridge of his nose, beading in places that sweat didn't normally bead, and the sight of it made your stomach clench.
"When was the last time you slept?"
The question came out softer than you intended, careful, the way you'd learned to ask things over the years. There was an art to talking to Leon after a mission, a delicate balance between showing concern and not cornering him, between reaching out and not making him feel like a specimen under glass. Too much pushing and he'd retreat into himself, building walls so high and so thick that even you couldn't scale them. Too little and he'd convince himself he was fine, bury the damage somewhere deep, and let it fester until it exploded at the worst possible moment.
"Doesn't matter." He stepped past you into the house, and the motion was fluid but wrong somehow, like his center of gravity had shifted in a way that didn't match his frame. His duffel bag dropped from his shoulder and hit the floor with a heavy, metallic clank that told you it wasn't full of clothes. "I'm fine."
You're not fine.
The thought was so loud it might as well have been shouted. But you bit it back, because Leon never admitted to being fine when he actually was, and pushing him when he'd just walked through the door would only make him retreat further.
So you locked the door behind him, three locks, a habit Leon had drilled into you during year two that you used to think was paranoid and now recognized as the only reason you slept at night.
He walked ahead of you, and you watched his back the way you always did when he came home. Checking for injuries. Checking for blood. Checking for the set of his shoulders that told you whether the mission had been bad or bad, whether he'd killed people or worse, whether he was carrying something that would leak out in nightmares for the next six weeks.
His walk was different.
Leon walked like a fighter. Always had. Even in his rookie days, before the training and the missions and the things that had reshaped him, there'd been a coiled readiness to the way he carried himself. Weight on the balls of his feet, shoulders loose, hands positioned to react. It was the walk of someone who'd learned early that danger didn't announce itself with a soundtrack.
Now, his stride was longer. More fluid. The coiled readiness was gone, replaced by something that looked almost lethargic. Like his body had been recalibrated to move with a different kind of efficiency. And there was a weight to his footsteps that hadn't been there before, a heaviness, a groundedness, as if his bones had become denser.
You filed it away with the cold skin and the gray pastiness and the missing smile, adding it to the growing catalog of wrong that your brain was assembling against your will.
In the bedroom, he set his duffel bag on the chair in the corner, the only piece of furniture in the room that had a designated "Leon spot" and began unzipping his jacket with movements that were precise and unhurried. You sat on the edge of the bed and watched him, pulling your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them.
"You hungry?" you asked.
"No."
"Thirsty?"
"No."
"Tired?"
He paused. His jacket hung open, revealing the black shirt beneath it, and in the dim light of the bedroom, you could see the dark lines again, the ones you'd glimpsed on the porch, barely visible at the edge of his collar. They traced up from beneath the fabric, delicate and branching, like the veins of a leaf or the roots of a tree. They were darker than veins should be, with a faint quality to them that you couldn't quite name, almost luminescent, but not quite. Like they were lit from within.
"Tired," he said finally, and the word came out flat and distant, like he was agreeing to a statement he didn't really understand.
"Then sleep." You patted the mattress beside you. "I'll be right here."
He looked at the bed. Then at you. And for a moment, there and gone so fast you almost missed it, something flickered across his face. Something raw and frightened and desperately human.
Then it was gone, and he was pulling his shirt over his head, and you saw the marks.
They covered his left side.
Starting at his ribs and spreading outward like a web, the dark lines branched beneath his skin in patterns that followed no anatomical logic you could recognize. They weren't veins, too deliberate. They looked like something growing. Something spreading. Something that had started small and was working its way through him with a patience that was more terrifying than any violence.
Your breath caught. It was a small sound, a tiny, involuntary hitch in your breathing, but Leon heard it. Of course he heard it. Leon heard everything. He always had.
His hand moved to cover the marks, casual and deliberate, like he was just rubbing his side.
"Got scraped up," he said, not looking at you.
The lie was so transparent, so flimsy, so utterly un-Leon that it almost made you laugh. Leon was many things, a terrible liar not being one of them. The man had sat across from you at dinner and told you he hadn't been injured on a mission while literally holding a bandage to his bleeding forearm, and he'd been so smooth, that you'd almost believed him until you saw the blood seep through.
Got scraped up? A five-year-old with a skinned knee could come up with a better cover story.
But you looked at his face, the blankness of it, the hollow eyes, the set of his jaw, and you understood. He wasn't lying because he thought you were stupid. He was lying because the truth was something he couldn't say yet. Something he was still processing, still fighting, still trying to contain within the walls of his own body.
So you didn't push. You didn't gasp or cry or demand answers. You just looked at him with every ounce of love and steadiness you had and said, "Come to bed."
He did.
He lay on his back, rigid as a board, staring at the ceiling with those pale eyes that reflected the faint glow of the alarm clock on the nightstand. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths. Slower than a resting heart rate should produce. You curled against his side, pressing your ear to his chest, and the heartbeat you heard was a deep, thudding bass note that seemed to come from somewhere lower than his chest, spaced further apart than any healthy pulse you'd ever felt.
His arm came around you. Automatically. Mechanically. Like a reflex rather than a choice.
You lay there for a long time, listening to his too-slow heart, feeling his too-cold skin, watching the dark lines on his side pulse faintly in the darkness with a rhythm that didn't match his breathing.
And you thought about the first time you'd seen Leon Kennedy.
He'd been twenty-one, gangly and green and trying so hard to look tough that it was almost endearing. You'd been working the counter at the coffee shop two blocks from the Raccoon City Police Department, and he'd come in every morning for a black coffee and a blueberry muffin, and he'd always sat in the same corner booth with his back to the wall and his eyes on the door. You'd thought he was paranoid. You'd thought he was cute. You'd thought, that poor kid looks like he hasn't slept in a week, and you'd started slipping an extra muffin into his bag on the days he looked worst, which was most of them.
It took him three weeks to notice. When he did, he'd looked at the muffin like it might be a threat, then looked at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle, then looked at the floor and said, very quietly, "You don't have to do that."
"I know," you'd said. "I want to."
He'd come back the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. And eventually, the muffins had turned into conversations, and the conversations had turned into late nights, and the late nights had turned into him showing up at your apartment at two in the morning with a split lip and a look in his eyes that told you the world was much darker than you'd ever imagined, and you'd let him in because that was what you did, you let him in.
Seven years later, you were still letting him in.
But tonight, lying next to a body that felt like a stranger's, listening to a heart that didn't beat right, watching marks pulse beneath skin that was too cold and too pale, you wondered for the first time if letting him in meant letting something else in too.
Leon's hand moved in his sleep, and his fingers found your hair. They stroked slowly, absently, and the gesture was so tender, so him, that tears pricked at your eyes.
Whatever was happening to him, whatever was growing beneath his skin, Leon was still in there. You could feel it in the way his fingers moved through your hair. Careful. Gentle. The hands of a man who had done terrible things but had never, not once, been terrible to you.
"I'm here," you whispered into the darkness. So quiet he couldn't possibly hear it. "I'm right here."
His fingers stilled. Then tightened. Just for a moment. Just enough to let you know that he'd heard you.
The clock on the wall ticked on.
5:23 AM.
6:01 AM.
6:44 AM.
And the dark lines pulsed.
And Leon's heart beat its slow, strange beat.
And you didn't sleep. Not for a single second. You just lay there, holding onto the man you loved, and watched the darkness beneath his skin spread like ink in water, and wondered what morning would bring.
You tried to make the morning normal.
That was the thing about seven years, you developed a repertoire. A script. A sequence of ordinary rituals that functioned as proof of life, evidence that the world was still turning. Coffee. Breakfast. The Sunday crossword he never finished. The way he always forgot to close the cereal box and you always pretended to be annoyed about it.
Today, the script fell apart before the first line.
He didn't drink his coffee. Just wrapped both hands around the mug and stared into it like the answer to something was floating in the dark liquid. He didn't eat. You'd made eggs, scrambled, the way he liked, and set the plate in front of him, and he looked at it the way he might look at evidence from a crime scene. Analytical. Detached. Like it was an object unrelated to him.
"Eat something. Please."
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since-"
"I'm not hungry."
The sharpness of it made you pull your hand back from the counter. He didn't apologize. Didn't soften. Just sat there with his cold hands around his untouched coffee and his hollow eyes fixed on some point beyond the kitchen wall.
You ate your eggs standing up. They tasted like cardboard.
By early afternoon, the gray skin had deepened. The sweat had returned, a persistent sheen that no amount of air conditioning could touch, and the fine tremor in his muscles had graduated from barely visible to noticeable, the slight shake in his fingers when he picked up a glass of water, the faint vibration in his jaw when he clenched it. He'd migrated from the kitchen to the couch. He sat there with his forearms braced on his knees and his head bowed.
You sat beside him. Not touching. Just close enough that your knee was a centimeter from his, a sliver of warmth reaching toward the cold that radiated off him in waves.
"Leon."
"Hmm."
"Talk to me."
"About what?"
The flatness of his voice was worse than anger. Anger you could work with. Anger meant feeling and engagement. This was nothing. This was static
"About the marks." You said it carefully, precisely, the way you'd learned to say difficult things. "About the fact that you haven't eaten, haven't slept, haven't done anything except sit there for the past four hours. About the fact that your skin is cold enough to give me goosebumps from a foot away. About-"
"The marks are nothing."
"Leon, they've spread since last night."
Silence. Long and heavy and suffocating.
Then, very quietly: "I know."
The two words landed like stones in still water, and the ripples they sent through your chest made it hard to breathe. I know. Not they haven't, not you're imagining things, not any of the deflections you'd steeled yourself for. He knew. He was watching it happen. He was tracking his own body in real time, and he was sitting on your couch in the middle of the afternoon pretending everything was fine because that was what Leon Kennedy did. Carried the weight alone, swallowed the damage whole, died a little at a time where no one could see.
"Tell me what happened on the mission."
"I can't."
"Leon, you need to go to a hospital. A real one. Not a-"
"There is no hospital for this." He turned his head and looked at you, and the look in his eyes was so exhausted, so defeated, that it stole the breath from your lungs. "You think I haven't thought about it?
The room felt smaller. The air felt thinner. You were aware, suddenly and acutely, of how alone you were. No neighbors close enough to hear a scream, no weapon in the house because Leon had never needed one at home, nothing between you and whatever was sitting next to you on your couch except seven years of love and a rapidly deteriorating certainty that love was enough.
"What does it feel like?" you asked, because you couldn't not ask, because the silence was worse than any answer.
He was quiet for a long time. Then: "Like I'm being rewritten. Like something's going through all my files and changing the entries one by one. My temperature's wrong. My heart rate's wrong. My-" He stopped. His eyes dropped to your knee, the one that was almost touching his. "My instincts are wrong."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean-" His voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. "I look at you, and part of me wants to hold you and tell you it's going to be okay. And another part of me wants to-" He didn't finish. He didn't have to. The hunger in his eyes said it for him.
You should have been afraid. You should have been reaching for your phone, calling Hunnigan, locking yourself in the bathroom, running. Every survival instinct you had was lighting up like a Christmas tree, screaming at you to put distance between yourself and the thing your boyfriend was becoming.
But you didn't move. Because beneath the hunger, beneath the wrongness, beneath the cold and the paleness and the marks that pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath his skin, you could still see him. Trapped behind his own eyes. Fighting. Losing.
So instead of moving away, you closed the last centimeter between your knee and his, and you leaned into his side, and you felt his whole body go rigid at the contact.
"It's okay," you said.
"It's not." His voice was fractured. "It's really, really not."
"I know. But I'm here anyway."
His arm came around your shoulders. Hesitantly, like he wasn't sure he could trust himself to touch you gently. The cold of his hand seeped through your shirt immediately, but you didn't pull away.
For a while, you just sat like that. Two people on a couch in the middle of the afternoon, holding onto each other while something dark and patient and alive spread its roots beneath the surface of one of them.
Then his thumb started moving against your shoulder. Slow, deliberate circles that pressed hard enough to dimple your skin. Not quite a massage. Not quite something else. Somewhere in between, in a space that made your breath catch for reasons you couldn't fully identify.
"You're tense," he murmured. The vibration of his voice traveled through his chest and into yours. "Let me help."
Before you could respond, his hand slid from your shoulder to the back of your neck, and his fingers curled into the hair at your nape. Not pulling. Just gripping. Holding you in place with a certainty that made your stomach flip.
"Leon-"
"Shh." His other hand came up to your chin, tilting your face toward his. Those pale eyes searched yours, and this close, you could see things you'd been trying not to notice. The way the blue had turned almost translucent at the edges. The way his pupils had contracted to pinpoints despite the dim room. The way the veins at his temples were darker than they should be, tracing delicate patterns beneath his skin.
"Tell me to stop," he said. His voice had dropped an octave, rough and low, and it skittered down your spine like a physical touch. "Tell me to stop and I will."
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Because here was the thing, beneath the wrongness, this was still Leon. Still the man you loved. Still the hands that had held you through nightmares, the voice that had whispered your name like a prayer, the body that knew every curve and dip and sensitive spot you had.
But there was something else riding shotgun now. Something that turned his familiar touch into something sharper, something that walked the line between devotion and danger.
"I don't want you to stop," you whispered.
The sound he made wasn't quite human. It rumbled up from somewhere deep in his chest, a low, resonant vibration that you felt in your bones more than heard with your ears. And then his mouth was on yours, and any coherent thought you had left scattered like startled birds.
He kissed like a man starving. Not gentle, not careful, consuming. His teeth caught your bottom lip, pulling until you gasped, and then his tongue was in your mouth, tasting every corner like he was trying to memorize you from the inside out. The hand in your hair tightened, tilting your head back to change the angle, and the hand on your chin slid down to your throat.
His fingers wrapped around the column of your neck. Not squeezing. A constant, weighted presence that said I could without ever following through.
You whimpered into his mouth, and the sound seemed to short-circuit something in him.
He pulled back, just far enough that you could see the way his chest heaved with breaths that didn't seem to do anything for him, and his eyes were wrong. Not the color, not the pupils, but the expression behind them. Possessive. Ravenous. The look of something that had found what it wanted and had no intention of letting go.
Then he dropped to his knees.
Not slowly. Not with the controlled grace he usually moved with, the kind that said I'm doing this because I want to watch you fall apart from below. This was different. This was urgency. This was a man who'd been drowning and had just broken the surface, and the only air he wanted was between your thighs.
"Leon, wait-"
He didn't wait.
His hands hooked under your knees and yanked you forward on the couch so hard that your back hit the cushions and your legs fell open around his shoulders. The motion was so fast, so effortless, that it barely registered before his mouth was on you, through the thin cotton of your sleep shorts, hot and open and hungry, and the shock of it made your hips buck off the cushion.
"Fuck-" Your hands flew to his hair, not pushing, just holding on, because there was nothing graceful about what he was doing. He was mouthing at you through the fabric like he was trying to taste you through it, his jaw working, his breath scorching hot against fabric that was already dampening faster than it should have been.
"These need to go." He said it against you, the words muffled and vibrating through the cotton, and then his fingers were in the waistband and he was pulling them down your thighs with a single, ruthless tug. He didn't bother taking them all the way off, just shoved them past your knees and spread your legs wider with hands that gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise.
And then he stopped. Just stopped. Stared.
Leon had always been an eater. From the very first time, he'd approached going down on you with a focus and enthusiasm that had ruined you for anyone else. He'd spend hours between your thighs if you let him, lazy and thorough, building you up and pulling you back and whispering filthy things against your skin until you were begging so prettily he couldn't deny you anymore.
This was not that.
This was assessment. His eyes, those pale, wrong, beautiful eyes, tracked over every inch of you with a focus so intense it felt physical, like he was committing you to memory at a cellular level. His nostrils flared, and you realized with a jolt of something between arousal and alarm that he was smelling you. Not in the casual way lovers do, deeply, deliberately, like your scent was the only thing keeping him anchored to the planet.
"You have no idea," he said, and his voice was wrecked, barely holding together, "how long I thought about this. On the way home. In the shower. Every second since I walked through that door."
"You were gone for sixteen hours-"
"Sixteen hours of thinking about you." He said it plainly, the way he'd say the sky is blue or I need coffee, and the bluntness of it made heat flood your face and your chest and the place between your legs where he was still staring. "Sixteen hours of wondering if I'd make it back in time to put my mouth on you one more time before-"
He stopped himself. His jaw clenched. The veins at his temples pulsed.
"Before what?" you breathed.
"Doesn't matter." His thumb pressed against the crease where your thigh met your hip, and your body jerked like you'd been electrocuted. "Nothing matters except this."
He leaned in and dragged his tongue flat up your center in one long, slow, devastating stroke.
The sound that came out of your mouth was embarrassing, loud and broken and completely beyond your control. Your thighs clamped around his head on instinct, but his hands were there immediately, forcing them back open, pinning them apart with a grip that said try me.
"No." The word was a growl against your slick skin. "You don't get to close these. Not until I'm done. And I am nowhere near done."
He went back in, and any hope you had of composure evaporated.
This wasn't the Leon who teased and drew things out with agonizing patience. This was something that had been denied a meal for too long and had finally been seated at the table. His mouth was everywhere, your clit, your entrance, the sensitive skin on either side, places he'd never paid this much attention to before, like he was mapping new territory in a country he thought he knew.
And his tongue. God, his tongue. It moved differently. Not the deliberate, controlled strokes you were used to. This was faster, more fluid, almost greedy in the way it curled and flicked and pressed, finding angles that made your spine arch and your toes curl and nonsense syllables spill from your lips.
"Leon, oh fuck, Leon."
He hummed against you, and the vibration travelled straight through your clit and into your pelvic bone, and your hands tightened in his hair so hard you felt strands pull free between your fingers. He didn't wince. If anything, the mild pain seemed to spur him on, his mouth sealed around your clit and he sucked, hard, relentless, and the pressure built so fast it made your vision swim.
"You taste-" He pulled back just long enough to speak, his chin wet, his lips swollen, his eyes black from edge to edge. "You taste like the only thing that's ever felt real. You taste like home. It's better than I remembered, it's always better than I remember-"
His mouth returned before you could form a response, and this time two fingers slid inside you, and the combination of his tongue and his fingers and the filthy stream of words he was muttering into your flesh was so overwhelming that you could feel the orgasm building already, coiling tight and low in your belly.
"Wait, slow down, I'm gonna-"
"No." He curled his fingers upward and pressed against the spot that made you see stars, and his tongue flattened against your clit in rapid, firm strokes that matched the rhythm of his hand. "I want you to come. I want to feel it. I want to feel you squeeze my fingers while I'm inside you, I want your taste to flood my mouth, I want it so bad I can't think-"
"Leon, please-"
"Please what? Please stop?" His fingers withdrew almost completely, and the emptiness was so dire it made you whine. "Tell me to stop and I will."
"Don't you dare-"
He shoved his fingers back in, three now, a stretch that burned in the best possible way. His mouth found your clit again with a precision that felt almost predatory, and the orgasm hit you like a car crash.
Your whole body seized. Your thighs slammed against his hands, and this time he let them, let you squeeze and shake and fall apart while his mouth and fingers worked you through it with a stamina that shouldn't have been possible. You came with his name on your lips, once, twice, a third time that blurred into the second because he didn't stop, didn't even slow down, just kept going while your body convulsed and tears leaked from the corners of your eyes and your hands in his hair went from pulling to pushing to just holding because you had nothing left.
"Good," he growled against you, and you could feel your own wetness smeared across his chin and jaw, could hear how wet you were every time his fingers moved. "That's good. Give me another one."
"I can't-" Your voice was shredded, barely recognizable. "I can't, I can't, it's too much-"
"You can." He pressed a kiss to your clit, gentle, almost sweet, a jarring contrast to the savagery of moments ago. "I know your body better than you do. I know exactly how much you can take." Another kiss, lower, right where his fingers were still buried inside you. "And I know you have at least one more in you."
He wasn't wrong. You could feel it, that faint, trembling tremor beneath the overstimulation, the coil that hadn't fully unwound. Your body was already responding to him, already rebuilding despite the protests from your brain.
"You're so fucking wet." He twisted his fingers slowly, deliberately, and the obscene sound it made should have mortified you but instead just sent another pulse of heat straight to your core. "Dripping down my hand. Making a mess all over this couch. You're always so wet for me, but this-" He withdrew his fingers and held them up, and in the dim light of the living room, you could see the slick coating them, could see the way the strands connected and broke when he spread his fingers apart. "This is something else."
He put his fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean, and the sight of it, Leon on his knees, eyes black, tasting you off his own fingers with a reverence that bordered on worship, made your clench around nothing.
"Leon."
"Hmm." He released his fingers with a wet pop. "You say my name like that again and I'll put my tongue back inside you."
"I-I need-"
"I know what you need." He crawled up your body, dragging his cold chest against your overheated skin, and when his face was level with yours, you could see the full extent of what you'd done to him. His mouth was swollen and glistening. His cheeks were flushed, a startling slash of colour on that pale, gray skin. His eyes were still dark but there were cracks of blue bleeding through the edges, like Leon was fighting his way to the surface.
"I need to be inside you," he said. "But not yet. Because I'm not done eating."
He kissed you, open-mouthed and filthy, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, salt and musk and something darker, and then he slid back down your body with a speed that made your head spin, resettled between your thighs, and started again.
This time was slower. Almost lazy. The desperation of before had been temporarily sated by your orgasm, and now he settled into a rhythm that was somehow worse, because slow meant you could feel everything. Every stroke of his tongue, every curl of his fingers, every time he paused to press a kiss somewhere new and murmur something that made your face burn.
"You have the prettiest cunt I've ever seen." Said it like a confession, quiet and reverent, his breath ghosting over your entrance. "I used to think about it when I was in the field. In those shitty safe houses, in the dark, with nothing but the sound of my own breathing for company. I'd think about how you taste when you're close, all sharp and sweet at the same time, and I'd get so hard it hurt."
His tongue pressed inside you, just the tip, just barely, and your hips rocked forward trying to take more.
"Ah-ah." He pulled back, and the loss was devastating. "Patience. I'll give you what you want. I'll give you everything you want. But you're going to let me take my time."
"Your version of taking your time is torture," you managed, your voice thin and reedy.
A smile. The first real smile you'd seen from him since he walked through the door. It was crooked and dark and so Leon that it made your chest ache even as heat pooled low in your belly.
"Baby, I haven't even started."
He built you up slowly this time, alternating between broad, flat strokes that covered everything and pinpoint focus on your clit that had you mewling and writhing. His fingers stayed inside you the whole time, two of them, moving in slow, deep thrusts that matched the rhythm of his tongue.
"Look at me." The command came from between your legs, muffled but unmistakable. "I want to watch your face when you fall apart."
You forced your eyes open and looked down. The sight hit you like a freight train. Leon, on his knees, your legs draped over his shoulders, his face buried between your thighs, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that bordered on hypnotic. His jaw was working, his cheekbones sharp and hollow as he sucked, and the dark lines beneath his skin were pulsing with that faint bioluminescent glow, casting him in an eerie blue light that made him look like something from a fever dream.
Monster. The word surfaced unbidden in your mind. Beautiful monster.
"I can feel you getting close," he said against your clit, and the words vibrated through you. "You're squeezing my fingers. Your thighs are shaking. You're trying so hard to hold on."
"I'm not-"
"Don't lie to me." His free hand pressed flat against your lower belly, holding you down against the couch, and the added pressure shifted everything, made his fingers inside you feel deeper, bigger.
"I can feel every tiny movement you make. Every flutter, every clench. Your body doesn't lie to me the way your mouth does."
He curled his fingers in a slow, deliberate come here motion and simultaneously took your clit between his lips and sucked, and the combination shattered whatever fragile control you'd been clinging to.
The second orgasm was different from the first, deeper, slower, rolling through you like a tide rather than crashing like a wave. Your mouth opened in a silent scream and your back bowed off the cushions and your hands found his hair again, pulling so hard you heard him grunt against you but he didn't stop, just kept going through it while your body trembled and shook and tears tracked down your temples into your hair.
He worked you through every aftershock, his tongue slowing but never stopping, his fingers gentling but never withdrawing, until the pleasure crested and receded and left you limp and gasping on the couch, your chest heaving, your legs trembling.
Only then did he pull back.
He sat back on his heels and looked at you, and the picture he made was devastating. His hair was wrecked from your hands, sticking up in every direction. His mouth and chin were soaked, slick and shiny with you. The dark lines on his skin pulsed steadily, and his chest rose and fell with those slow, too-deep breaths.
He sat back on his heels and looked at you, and the picture he made was devastating. His hair was wrecked from your hands, sticking up in every direction. His mouth and chin were soaked, slick and shiny with you. The dark lines on his skin pulsed steadily, and his chest rose and fell with those slow, too-deep breaths.
Then he stood up.
It shouldn't have been as intimidating as it was. Leon had always been taller than you, broader, built like a weapon wrapped in a leather jacket. But standing over you now, with those pulsing black lines mapping his chest and his sweatpants doing nothing to hide the massive, straining erection tenting the fabric, he looked like something else entirely. He looked like a predator who had just finished the appetizer and was ready for the main course.
Before you could catch your breath, he bent down, hooked his arms under your knees, and hoisted you up.
A sharp gasp tore from your throat as your back left the cushions. The strength it took to lift you was staggering, there was no strain in his arms, no hesitation, just a terrifying, effortless display of power as he pulled your legs around his waist. Your bare, oversensitive center pressed directly against the rough cotton of his sweatpants, and the friction against your swollen clit made you jolt in his grip.
"Leon-"
He was already moving. He carried you out of the living room like you weighed absolutely nothing, his hands gripping the underside of your thighs, his pace hurried and purposeful. He didn't take you to the bedroom so much as deliver you there, kicking the door open and crossing the room in three long strides before dropping you onto the mattress.
The impact knocked the wind out of you, but before you could even process the bounce of the springs, Leon was crawling over you, caging you beneath the sheer mass of him.
He didn't take his sweatpants off. Instead, he settled his hips between your thighs and ground down.
A broken, ragged sob ripped from your throat. The rough, damp fabric dragged agonizingly over your hypersensitive clit. It was too much, the friction too harsh, but your body betrayed you, your hips tilting up to meet his as he began a slow, torturous rhythm of dry humping against you. He dragged the thick length of his clothed cock through your slick, coating the fabric, grinding the hard ridge of it right against your aching flesh.
"Feel that?" he growled, his mouth dropping to your ear. His hips rolled in a heavy, deliberate circle, pressing you deep into the mattress. "Feel how hard you make me? I've been hard since I walked through the fucking door. I missed you so much. The only thing keeping me sane was the thought of dragging my cock through this wet little cunt."
"Please," you whimpered, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders. The size of him was overwhelming like this, all that weight, all that muscle pinning you down. "Leon, please, I need-"
"I know what you need." He pulled back just enough to hook his thumbs into his waistband, shoving the sweatpants down his thighs. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed dark, the tip slick and weeping. He wrapped a hand around the base, giving himself one long, tight stroke.
He shifted lower, aligning the thick, hot head of his cock with your clit, and tapped it against you. Once. Twice. The wet, heavy smack of his flesh against yours was obscenely loud in the quiet bedroom.
You flinched, a jolt of pure electricity shooting through your nervous system. "Ah, fuck!"
"So pretty," he breathed, his eyes locked on where he was tapping his cock against your swollen bud. "Look at this pretty little clit. All swollen for me." He dragged the blunt head down, slipping it through your soaking folds, teasing your entrance without pushing inside. "You're making such a mess. You want it inside, don't you? Want me to fill you up?"
"Yes," you gasped, trying to roll your hips up to take him in, but his free hand clamped down on your hip, pinning you effortlessly to the bed. The size difference had never felt this pronounced, his hand nearly spanning the entire side of your hip, his thighs bracketing yours so wide you felt entirely consumed by him.
"Beg me."
"Leon, please-"
"Say it." He slapped the head of his cock against your clit again, harder this time, and you saw stars. "Tell me you want this cock."
"I want it," you sobped, your nails digging into his forearms, trying to find purchase on his cold skin. "I want your cock, please, please fuck me-"
With a dark, guttural sound, he lined himself up and pushed inside.
It was a slow, relentless slide, and the stretch was immediate and immense. He was thicker than usual, the infection seeming to alter even this part of him, and your body had to open up to accommodate him inch by agonizing inch. You threw your head back into the pillows, your mouth falling open in a silent scream as he split you open.
"Fuck, you're tight." He dropped his forehead to your shoulder, a violent shudder running through his entire frame. "Always so fucking tight, but this, Christ, it's like you're milking me already."
He bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, and for a second, he just held himself there, letting you feel the full, impossible depth of him. His hands were everywhere now, one sliding up your side to pinch your nipple, the other tangling in your hair to pull your head to the side so he could bite down on the curve of your neck. The sharp sting of his teeth grounded you in the storm of sensation.
Then, he started to move.
There was no gentle buildup. No slow, loving rhythm. Leon pulled back until just the tip was inside you and slammed forward, driving the air from your lungs. The bed frame slammed against the wall with a thunderous crack.
"Oh my God-" you choked out, but he was already setting a brutal, relentless pace.
He fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin. Every thrust was deep, hard, and punishing, his hips snapping forward with a terrifying, inhuman stamina. The wet, slapping sound of his skin meeting yours filled the room, echoing off the walls in a rhythm that matched the frantic pounding of your heart.
"You're mine." The words were snarled against your throat, vibrating through your pulse point. His hand left your hair and wrapped around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your head swim. "Say it."
"I'm yours," you gasped, your eyes rolling back as he hit a spot so deep it hurt. "Leon-"
"You're mine." He emphasized the word with a particularly vicious thrust that shoved you up the mattress. "This cunt is mine. This body is mine. No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to feel you squeeze them like this. Do you hear me?"
You couldnāt speak. All you could do was nod as you felt the tears prick from your eyes. You couldnāt help but notice the wicked smirk on Leonās lips as he fucked you senseless.
"I know," He cooed as you sobbed, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper even though it was too much, even though you were sure you would break. "I know. I know baby."
A ragged, broken sound tore from his chest, half-growl, half-sob, and his hips stuttered for just a fraction of a second before he doubled his efforts.
His hand left your throat to grab your thigh, hooking your leg higher over his shoulder and bending you nearly in half. The new angle allowed him to sink impossibly deeper, and the new wave of pleasure that crashed over you was so blinding you screamed.
"So pretty," he panted, his black eyes roaming wildly over your tear-streaked face, your heaving chest, the way your breasts bounced with every merciless thrust. "Look at you. Taking it so good. Taking everything I give you. You were fucking made for this. Made for me."
"Leon, I'm gonna-I can't-"
"You can." His thumb found your clit, rubbing harsh, tight circles over the swollen bundle of nerves in perfect time with his pounding hips. The dual sensation was sensory overload. "Come on my cock. Give it to me. Let me feel it."
Your body obeyed without your permission. The orgasm ripped through you like a shockwave, tearing a hoarse, silent scream from your throat. Your walls clamped down on him like a vice, fluttering and spasming around his thick length, and Leon groaned, a deep, resonant, inhuman sound that shook the windows.
He didn't stop fucking you through it. If anything, he went faster, chasing his own release with a single-minded desperation. His thrusts grew erratic, losing their perfect rhythm, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps that sounded like they were being torn from his lungs.
"Inside," he gasped, his fingers digging bruises into your hips. "I need to-I have to-"
"Do it," you whispered, your hands weakly clutching his face, pulling him down to look at you. "Come inside me, Leon. Please."
His eyes met yours. For one brief, terrifying second, those beautiful, tired blue eyes stared back at you, full of so much love and agony it made your heart physically break.
Then his hips slammed forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and he shattered.
His whole body went rigid, a low, guttural moan spilling from his lips as he came. You could feel it, hot, thick pulses of him filling you, marking you from the inside out. The dark lines beneath his skin flared with that eerie, bioluminescent blue light, pulsing in time with his climax, making him look like a dying star collapsing in on itself.
He collapsed on top of you, his full weight crushing you into the mattress. You didn't care. You wrapped your arms around his sweat-slicked back and held him tight, feeling his heart hammering against your ribs.
The room was destroyed. Sheets tangled on the floor, pillows scattered, the headboard cracked where it had slammed against the wall one too many times. The picture frames that had somehow survived the first assault had finally fallen, their glass faces shattered on the nightstand. The air was thick, sweat and sex and something else, something faintly metallic that clung to the back of your throat.
But beneath you, Leon's chest rose and fell. In and out. In and out. The rhythm was stuttering, uneven, like a engine trying to find its idle, but it was there. He was breathing. He was alive. He was here.
Light.
Soft, warm, golden morning light filtering through the curtains. That was the first thing you registered.
The second was warmth. Real warmth, not the feverish heat or the corpse-cold from before, but the familiar, lived-in temperature of a human body that had been sleeping beside you for seven years. It radiated from the arm draped over your waist, from the chest pressed against your back.
You turned your head slowly.
Leon was behind you. Eyes closed. Face slack and peaceful in a way it hadn't been since before the mission. The gray pallor had visibly faded. The dark circles were still there, but they looked like exhaustion now. Illness you could handle. Illness you understood.
You pressed the backs of your fingers to his cheek.
Warm.
His eyes opened.
Blue. The blue from the coffee shop, from the apartment with the pushpin clock, from a thousand ordinary mornings that felt like miracles in retrospect.
Confusion. Recognition. Horror. All three flickered across his face in rapid succession.
"Oh God." His voice was rough but his. The baritone and the immediate warmth. "Oh God, last night, I-did I hurt you?"
His eyes dropped to your throat, to the fingerprint bruises and the bite mark darkened to purple overnight, and the color drained from his face.
"Leon. Look at me."
He looked. His eyes were wet.
"You didn't hurt me. I'm right here, and I'm okay."
"I don't remember all of it. I remember enough." His jaw clenched. "Something else was doing this, and I-"
"Then we find out what it is." You said it simply. "We find someone who knows what this is, and we fix it."
"You don't know that it can be fixed."
"No. But I know you've survived things that should have killed you. And I know that whatever is inside you picked the wrong host."
A wet, broken laugh escaped him. Barely a laugh at all, but it was his.
His hand came up to your face, slowly, carefully, and his thumb traced your jaw with a tenderness that made your eyes burn. Warm. Completely, perfectly warm.
"We'll fix this," he said. Quiet but certain. The voice of a man who had stared into the abyss so many times it had stopped scaring him.
Synopsis: You had no idea that being hired as the personal assistant to the most powerful executive, Leon Kennedy, would pull you into a world this intense. What starts as a job quickly blurs into something far more personal, forcing you to question where professionalism ends, and whether itās worth the risk.
Tags: CEO!Leon, alternative universe, boss x employee, workplace relationship, close proximity, elevator, mutual pining, slow burn, power imbalance.
Warnings: a job
Words: 16k~
The lobby feels too polished to belong to real people. Everything gleams, glass, chrome, marble, reflecting movement in softened fragments as if even the building itself has decided nothing abrupt should happen here. You pause just inside the entrance, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, smoothing a hand over the front of your blazer more out of habit than necessity. This is it. First day. Biggest bank in the city, maybe the country, and youāve somehow landed at the very top of it. You take a breath, square your shoulders, and walk toward reception.
The woman behind the desk looks up when you give your name. Her eyes flick down, then up again, slow and deliberate, taking in your outfit, your posture, the folder tucked under your arm. It isnāt overtly rude. Thereās even a polite smile attached to it. But thereās something else underneath, something measured and quietly assessing. When you add, āIām here for Mr Kennedy. Iām his new personal assistant,ā the look shifts, just slightly. Not surprise. Not quite skepticism. Something closer to recognition, like sheās seen this before.
āI see,ā she says, tone smooth. She types something into her computer, then gestures toward the elevators. āTop floor.ā
Thereās a beat where it feels like she might say something else. A warning, maybe. Advice. Instead, she just smiles again, the same polite curve of her lips that doesnāt quite reach her eyes. You thank her anyway and turn toward the elevators, trying not to read into it more than you should.
The ride up is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you aware of every small movement, every shift of fabric as you adjust your sleeves again, tugging them into place. Your reflection looks back at you from the mirrored walls, composed but not quite settled. You glance down at your portfolio, flipping it open with your thumb, scanning the pages youāve already memorised. Previous clients, project management experience, glowing references. Itās solid. More than solid. You know youāre good at what you do.
It just doesnāt feel like enough here.
The numbers climb steadily. Each floor feels like a step further away from anything familiar. By the time the doors open, youāve already closed the portfolio again, tucking it back under your arm as if that might make you look more certain.
The top floor is quieter than the rest of the building. Fewer people. Less movement. The kind of controlled environment where everything feels intentional. You step out, taking in the layout briefly before heading toward the nearest desk. The woman seated behind it glances up as you approach, her glasses slipping slightly down her nose as she studies you.
āYes?ā
āIām here for Mr Kennedy. Iām his new-ā
āI know who you are,ā she says, not unkindly, just efficient. Her gaze lingers for a second, not unlike the receptionist downstairs, then she nods toward the double doors behind her. āMr Kennedy will see you now.ā
Thereās no small talk. No attempt to ease you in. Just a direct line from arrival to confrontation.
You nod, offering a quick smile that she doesnāt return, and walk toward the doors. Your hand pauses briefly on the handle, just long enough for you to steady yourself, then you push them open and step inside.
He doesnāt look up.
For a moment, you wonder if heās even aware youāve entered, but that feels unlikely. The room is too still, too controlled for anything to go unnoticed. Heās seated behind a wide desk, papers arranged in precise stacks, a laptop open in front of him. His focus is absolute, attention fixed on whatever heās reading, pen moving occasionally in short, deliberate strokes.
You step further into the room and wait.
Five seconds. Ten.
You donāt interrupt. You donāt introduce yourself. If this is a test, youāre not going to fail it by speaking too soon.
Fifteen seconds. Twenty.
Your awareness sharpens, every small detail registering, the faint hum of the air conditioning, the way the light falls across the desk, the exact angle of his posture as he leans slightly forward, entirely absorbed in his work.
Thirty seconds pass before he looks up.
The movement is unhurried. Controlled. His gaze lands on you with a precision that feels almost physical, sweeping over you from head to toe in a single, assessing glance. It isnāt leering. It isnāt inappropriate. Itās clinical. Like heās evaluating something and has already decided what itās worth before confirming it.
Heās sharper up close than you expected. Not just in appearance, though thatās undeniable, the tailored suit, the clean lines of it, the kind of presence that doesnāt need to announce itself, but in the way he holds himself. Thereās a stillness to him that feels intentional, like every movement has been pared down to only whatās necessary. His eyes are tired in a way that suggests it isnāt from lack of sleep but from something more constant, something ingrained.
āYouāre the new assistant,ā he says.
Not a question.
āYes,ā you reply, keeping your tone steady, offering a small, polite smile that he doesnāt acknowledge.
He sets his pen down, leaning back just slightly, enough to create space without losing any of the control he seems to carry naturally. āSit.ā
You do.
He doesnāt waste time. Thereās no introduction, no attempt at conversation that isnāt directly tied to the role youāre here to fill. A phone is placed in front of you first, then a laptop, each set down with the same precise motion. āThese are yours. They are not optional. You are expected to be reachable at all times during working hours.ā
You nod once. āOf course.ā
āYour desk is outside this office,ā he continues. āYou will manage my schedule, my communications, and any additional tasks as required. If something is unclear, you clarify it. If something is wrong, you fix it.ā
No softness in it. No room for interpretation.
āThe hours will be long,ā he adds, voice even, detached. āYou will be compensated accordingly.ā
Thereās a pause, brief but noticeable, like heās waiting for something. A reaction, maybe. Hesitation.
Instead, you smile. āThatās alright. I like staying busy. Keeps things interesting.ā
It slips out easily, the kind of light, optimistic response that has carried you through every other role youāve had. For a second, you almost expect it to land the same way here.
It doesnāt.
āI would like to remind you, Miss ____,ā he says, tone unchanged, āthat you are my third assistant in five months.ā
The words settle between you without emphasis, but they donāt need it. Thereās no threat in them. No raised voice. Just a statement of fact that carries more weight than anything louder would.
You hold his gaze, the smile still there, though smaller now, more controlled. āThen Iāll do my best to improve that statistic.ā
Thereās a beat where nothing moves. His expression doesnāt change, not in any obvious way. If thereās a reaction, itās too subtle to catch, buried under the same composure heās maintained since you walked in.
āSee that you do,ā he says.
Thatās it. No encouragement. No dismissal. Just an expectation placed where you canāt ignore it.
You nod, gathering the phone and laptop, standing when itās clear the meeting is over. Heās already looking back down at his work by the time you reach the door, your presence dismissed as efficiently as it was acknowledged.
Outside, the air feels different. Not lighter. Just less concentrated. You move to your desk, setting your things down, taking a moment to orient yourself before the day properly begins.
You feel it then, the weight of what youāve stepped into. Not overwhelming, not enough to shake you, but present. Heās not difficult in the way you expected. Controlled in a way that leaves no room for anything unnecessary.
You straighten slightly, pushing that thought aside as you power on the laptop, already preparing yourself for what comes next.
The first few days blur into something relentless. The work doesnāt come in waves; it arrives as a steady stream that never quite slows, each task folding into the next before youāve fully finished the last. Paperwork stacks on your desk faster than you can clear it, documents that need reviewing, revising, sending, resending. Emails come in at a pace that demands immediate triage, each one flagged, prioritised, redirected. You donāt get the luxury of easing into it. You either keep up, or you fall behind.
The phones donāt help. Your work phone vibrates almost constantly, sharp bursts against the surface of your desk that pull your attention away from whatever youāre focused on. The desk phone joins in, ringing at intervals that never quite line up, forcing you to juggle both at once while still tracking everything else. And then thereās the intercom. Always the intercom. It never knocks. It never waits. A short buzz, your name, and then instructions delivered in the same clipped, efficient tone every time. No greeting. No filler. Just what needs to be done and when.
āReschedule the eleven.ā
āCancel this afternoonās meeting.ā
āI need you to review this document.ā
You stop expecting context. You learn to fill it in yourself.
The calendar becomes its own kind of battlefield. Meetings overlap, priorities shift without warning, entire blocks of time collapse into each other and have to be rebuilt on the fly. You move things, adjust things, call people back, apologise without apologising, all while keeping his schedule intact in a way that feels less like organisation and more like constant correction. Double bookings become puzzles you solve in real time, rearranging everything around a single fixed point; you.
He doesnāt comment when you get it right. Youāre starting to understand that he wonāt.
The car rides are quieter. The first time you step into the back seat beside him, the door closing with a soft, final sound, you expect something, conversation, instruction, acknowledgment of your presence beyond the work itself. Instead, thereās nothing. The windows are tinted, cutting the city off into a muted blur, movement reduced to shadows and passing light. He sits beside you, posture unchanged from the office, attention on his phone or the tablet in his hand. You sit the same way, back straight, hands folded loosely in your lap when youāre not checking something, the silence stretching without invitation.
You try once, early on. A simple comment about traffic, something neutral, something easy to respond to.
He doesnāt look up. āFocus on the afternoon schedule,ā he says, not unkindly, just firm.
You donāt try again.
Meetings are another adjustment. Youāre present in all of them, seated slightly behind or beside him, laptop open, notes ready, documents organised before theyāre needed. You donāt speak unless youāre addressed directly. Not by him, not by anyone else in the room. You become part of the background, an extension of his workflow rather than a participant in it. When he does look to you, itās brief, purposeful.
āAvailability next week.ā
āSend that through.ā
You answer quickly, clearly, and then you disappear again into the edges of the room. Invisible, but necessary.
Itās a strange position to hold. To be both overlooked and relied on at the same time.
His behaviour doesnāt change. Cold isnāt the right word, it suggests something emotional, something reactive. This is more precise than that. Controlled. Efficient. He doesnāt raise his voice. Doesnāt show frustration in any obvious way. He just expects. And when something doesnāt meet that expectation, it comes back to you corrected without commentary, the adjustments made in a way that assumes youāll understand them without explanation.
Thereās no praise. No acknowledgment beyond the absence of correction.
You adjust anyway.
Somehow, you manage to keep your personality intact through it. It surprises you a little. Youād expected the environment to wear it down, to force you into something sharper, more guarded. Instead, you find small ways to hold onto it, brief smiles at people in the hallway, light comments when the moment allows for it, a tone that stays warmer than his without crossing into unprofessional. Itās a balance youāre learning in real time.
The kitchen becomes one of the few places where the pressure eases, even if only slightly. Itās quieter, tucked away from the main flow of the office, the kind of space where people allow themselves to relax for a few minutes before stepping back into the controlled environment outside. You step into it mid-morning, more out of necessity than anything else, your focus still half on the emails waiting for you at your desk.
The coffee is not good. You knew that already, but you make it anyway, watching as the machine produces something that looks right but smells slightly off. You take a sip, wince faintly, and lean back against the counter.
āHowās the new job?ā
You glance over. Another admin staff member, someone youāve seen around but havenāt properly spoken to yet, steps in, grabbing a mug from the cupboard.
āFine,ā you say, offering a small smile.
She raises an eyebrow, like she doesnāt quite believe that. āFine,ā she repeats. āThatās it?ā
You shrug lightly. āItās busy.ā
āHeās kind of scary, isnāt he?ā she says, lowering her voice slightly, leaning in just enough to suggest this is something shared rather than stated outright.
You let out a small laugh, more reflex than anything. āHe is a great boss,ā you say, careful with your wording, even as you feel the need to soften it. āHe puts a lot of hours in.ā
She studies you for a second, then nods slowly, like sheās deciding whether to accept that or not. āYou know he isnāt married, right?ā
You blink, caught off guard by the shift in topic. It hadnāt crossed your mind. Between the constant work, the structure of his days, the complete absence of anything personal in the way he operates, it simply hadnāt come up.
āOh,ā you say. āIs that so?ā
She leans in a little closer, the tone shifting into something unmistakably conspiratorial. āYeah. No wife. No kids. Nothing.ā
You nod, filing that away without really knowing what to do with it. It feels like information you shouldnāt have, even if itās harmless.
āAnd heās like-ā she pauses, searching for the right phrasing, then grins, āreally hot, right?ā
You snort before you can stop yourself, the sound sharper than you intended. It pulls you out of the rhythm of the morning in a way that feels almost inappropriate. āI guess,ā you say, a little more flustered than youād like to admit, shaking your head. āHe is kind of handsome.ā
It feels ridiculous as soon as you say it. Like youāve stepped into something you shouldnāt have. You both laugh, the moment light, almost normal.
Then the sound of footsteps cuts through it.
You turn your head instinctively, the movement immediate, and your stomach drops.
Leon Kennedy stands in the doorway.
For a second, your brain doesnāt catch up. This isnāt where he should be. Not here, not in the kitchen, not in a space thatās this casual, this exposed. He doesnāt belong in this part of the office.
He steps in anyway.
The atmosphere shifts instantly. The easy warmth of the conversation collapses into something tighter, more controlled. Your coworker straightens, stepping back slightly, her earlier tone gone completely.
He doesnāt look at either of you immediately. Moves past with the same measured precision he carries everywhere else, reaching for a mug like this is something he does all the time. It isnāt.
Your face feels warm. Youāre suddenly very aware of everything you just said.
He heard you. He had to have.
He fills the mug, the sound of the machine louder now in the silence, then turns slightly, his gaze landing on you with the same calm, unreadable focus as always.
ā____,ā he says, your name precise, uninflected. āI need those files reviewed before the end of the day.ā
āYes,ā you say quickly, the word coming out a little tighter than you intended. āRight away.ā
You donāt meet his eyes again. Your attention drops to your shoes, to anything that isnāt him, as you set your cup down and move toward the door. The moment stretches just long enough to feel like it might break, then youāre past him, back into the hallway, the cooler air doing nothing to settle the flush in your face.
You donāt look back.
Thereās too much work waiting for you anyway.
The day starts early and never really lets up. By the time you sit down at your desk, there are already three changes waiting in your inbox, two marked urgent, one flagged directly from him. You work through them quickly, adjusting schedules, confirming availability, replying where needed, your attention splitting across screens and devices in a way that feels automatic now. The rhythm is familiar, constant, demanding, manageable as long as you stay ahead of it.
You almost do.
The interruptions donāt stop. Your work phone vibrates in sharp bursts against the desk, your office line rings just as often, and the intercom cuts through both with its usual precision. It never knocks. Never waits. It just expects.
āMove the eleven.ā
āPush that draft to legal.ā
āCancel the afternoon meeting. Something else has come up.ā
You handle it all without hesitation. Calendar shifts, calls made, apologies delivered smoothly, solutions found before problems fully form. It works.
Somewhere in the middle of it, your personal phone lights up. A reminder. Dinner tonight. Something you agreed to weeks ago, before your time stopped being your own. You glance at it briefly, just enough to feel the pull of it, normal, easy, yours.
The intercom buzzes.
āChange of schedule,ā he says. āDinner meeting tonight. Seven.ā
Of course.
You donāt hesitate. āUnderstood.ā
You send the text under your desk. Canāt make it. Work thing. Rain check? The replies come in quickly. Mock outrage, light teasing, promises to reschedule, but you donāt linger on them. You canāt. You flip your phone over and get back to work.
By the time evening rolls in, youāve been moving non-stop for hours. The meeting itself is controlled, sharp, exactly what you expect. You sit just behind him, notes organised, tracking every shift in conversation, every figure mentioned, every implication that isnāt said outright. At one point, the client references a revised projection, something newer than what youād been sent earlier that afternoon, and you feel it immediately, that small disconnect. You check your notes again. Nothing. No updated document. No revision in your inbox. Just the original file Leon forwarded to you with a single line: Prepare summary.
You adjust anyway. You always do.
You build the summary based on whatās said in the room, aligning it as closely as possible with the numbers you were given earlier. Itās not perfect, but itās cohesive. It works.
You send it through when youāre back at the office.
It comes back quickly.
This is wrong.
No explanation. Just that.
Your jaw tightens slightly as you open the document again, scanning for the issue. It takes a second, but when you find it, your stomach drops, not because you made a mistake, but because you didnāt.
The figures are different.
Not slightly. Not rounding errors or formatting issues. Entire projections shifted, percentages adjusted, timelines altered, margins tightened in a way that changes the entire tone of the summary. You scroll back to the original file he sent you earlier. The numbers donāt match.
He sent you the wrong document.
You check the meeting notes again, replay the conversation in your head. The client had been referencing the updated version, the one you were never given. Youād built your summary off outdated information because thatās what you had. Because thatās what he sent you.
And now: This is wrong.
The frustration hits sharp and immediate, cutting through the exhaustion youāve been carrying all day. Itās not just the mistake. Itās everything around it. The hours. The constant pressure. The expectation that you get everything right without being given what you need to do it. Youāve adjusted to it, worked around it, filled in gaps that shouldnāt have been yours to fill.
You fix it anyway. Pull the updated numbers from the fragments you remember, cross-reference what you can from the meeting, rebuild the section properly. It takes time. Time you shouldnāt have to spend. Time you already donāt have.
The intercom buzzes.
Your name.
Of course.
You stand, tablet in hand, and walk into his office without hesitation. Heās behind his desk, posture unchanged, attention already on you before you fully step inside.
āYou saw the issue,ā he says.
āYes.ā
āAnd?ā
āItās been corrected.ā
A pause.
āIt shouldnāt have needed correcting.ā
Thatās it.
Flat. Controlled. Final.
And something in you snaps.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a clean break in the restraint youāve been holding onto for weeks.
You hold his gaze.
āMaybe if you actually gave me the right information,ā you say, voice steady, precise, sharpened just enough to make it land exactly where it should, āthat wouldnāt have happened.ā
The silence is immediate.
Outside, through the glass, movement stops. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. You donāt need to look to know people are listening.
Inside, nothing shifts.
Leon doesnāt react the way you expect.
No irritation. No raised voice. No immediate correction.
He just looks at you.
A long, unbroken look that feels heavier than anything heās given you before. Not dismissive. Not clinical.
Focused.
Thereās something there this time, something clearer than before. Not anger.
Interest.
It flickers behind his eyes, brief but unmistakable, like youāve just done something he didnāt anticipate, and did it well.
āIs that all?ā he says.
The tone is unchanged. It could be any other moment, any other instruction.
āYes,ā you reply.
Another beat.
You donāt wait. You turn and walk out, pace even, posture steady, not giving anything else away. The outer office is too quiet, the attention too obvious even when people pretend otherwise. You reach your desk, grab your bag, and head straight for the elevators.
The doors close.
You stare at your reflection in the mirrored wall, the adrenaline hitting all at once now that youāre alone. Your heart is beating faster than it should. Your hands are steady.
You replay it. The words. The tone. You didnāt soften it. You didnāt apologise.
Three assistants in five months.
You exhale slowly.
Youāre fired.
Not now. Not like this. Tomorrow. Clean. Efficient. Final.
āFuck you, Leon Kennedyā, you whispered to yourself, walking out of the building.
The next morning feels sharper than usual. You arrive on time, earlier than you need to, settling into your desk with a quiet kind of resolve that sits somewhere between preparation and acceptance. If itās going to happen, itāll happen today. Clean. Efficient. The way everything here works.
Your inbox is already full.
You pause for half a second, fingers hovering over the keyboard, then open it anyway.
No termination notice. No meeting request from HR. No carefully worded message about ānext steps.ā Just work. More of it than usual flagged, prioritised, layered in a way that immediately demands your attention. You scan through the first few items, then the next, your focus narrowing as the content settles in.
These arenāt routine.
The documents are heavier, more detailed, tied to ongoing deals rather than surface-level scheduling or coordination. Draft agreements. Internal projections. Communication chains that require context you havenāt been formally given, but can follow anyway. Itās not less work. Itās more. And more importantly, itās different.
You straighten slightly in your chair.
The intercom buzzes.
You donāt hesitate this time. āYes?ā
āCome in.ā
His office looks the same. He looks the same. Composed, controlled, already working before youāve fully stepped inside. Thereās no pause for tension, no acknowledgment of what happened yesterday. He doesnāt mention it. Doesnāt even look up immediately.
āClose the door.ā
You do.
He slides a file across the desk toward you, precise, deliberate. āYouāll handle this.ā
You pick it up, scanning the first page quickly. Itās not something youāve dealt with before. Not directly. The kind of task that requires more than coordination, analysis, discretion, independent judgement.
You look up.
Heās watching you now.
Not waiting for you to speak. Just watching.
āIāll need access to the full correspondence thread,ā you say, tone steady, professional. āAnd the updated projections from yesterdayās meeting.ā
A beat.
Then, a single nod. āYouāll have them.ā
Thatās it. No explanation. No acknowledgment of the shift.
You nod once in return. āUnderstood.ā
When you step back out into the outer office, the air feels different. You sit down, open the file again, and start working through it piece by piece. It takes more concentration than your usual tasks, more attention to detail, but you settle into it quickly. The pressure is still there. It just feels directed now.
The morning passes faster than you expect.
Youāre halfway through cross-referencing a set of figures when you hear footsteps approach. Measured. Familiar. You donāt look up immediately. You donāt need to.
He stops beside your desk.
āI have double checked the document I have sent to you,ā he says.
Thereās the faintest lift of his brow. Subtle. Controlled.
It takes you a second to process it.
Itās not quite a joke. Not in any conventional sense. Thereās no change in tone, no shift in expression. But itās there. Intentional. A reference. Acknowledgment without saying the words.
You glance up at him.
āGood,ā you reply, just as evenly. āThat should help.ā
Another beat.
Something flickers at the edge of his expression not quite amusement, but close enough that you notice it. A smirk
He moves on without another word, continuing down the hallway like nothing happened.
The car ride over is quieter than most, but not empty. The city moves past in blurred streaks beyond the tinted windows, softened into something distant and irrelevant, like it exists on a different timeline to the one youāre in. You sit beside him in the back seat, tablet open on your lap, running through the meeting notes again even though you already know them. You always do this, check, recheck, tighten what doesnāt need tightening. It gives your hands something to do.
Leon doesnāt look at you when he speaks.
āThis is a high-profile client,ā he says, tone even, like heās stating a fact you should already understand. āWe want this to go well.ā
You glance up briefly, then nod once. āUnderstood.ā
Itās not new information. You knew that the moment the meeting landed in your calendar, flagged, reshuffled, given priority over everything else. Still, thereās something about the way he says it, measured, deliberate, that sharpens your focus just a little more.
He doesnāt elaborate. Doesnāt need to. The expectation sits clearly between you.
The car slows, then stops smoothly outside another glass-fronted building, just as polished as your own, just as controlled. The driver steps out to open the door, but Leon is already moving, stepping out with the same unhurried precision he carries everywhere. You follow a second later, adjusting your grip on your folder as you fall into step beside him.
Inside, the building feels different but familiar in structure, clean lines, quiet conversations, people moving with purpose. You check in, confirm the meeting room, handle the small logistical details without needing direction, and then youāre moving toward the elevators.
Theyāre already busy.
People cluster in front of them, waiting, conversations overlapping in low, contained tones. When the doors open, the space fills quickly, bodies shifting inward, everyone making room without quite acknowledging each other. You step in with them, adjusting your position instinctively, angling yourself just enough to avoid contact while still holding your ground.
The doors start to close.
A hand stops them.
Leon steps in behind you.
The space tightens immediately. Thereās nowhere to move now, nowhere to shift without making it obvious. You keep your posture steady, shoulders back, gaze forward, professional in a way that feels almost automatic at this point.
Heās right behind you.
Not touching. Not quite. But close enough that you feel it anyway, the presence of him, solid and unyielding, the faint shift of air when he settles into place. Someone brushes past your side as the elevator lurches upward, but itās him youāre aware of. The space, or lack of it, between you.
Your fingers tighten slightly around your tablet.
āThis is nothing,ā you tell yourself, focusing on the numbers lighting up above the door, tracking each floor as it passes.
It should be nothing.
His arm lifts slightly at one point, bracing against the wall just above your shoulder as the elevator slows again, and for a second youāre caught between him and the polished metal, not trapped, not quite, but aware in a way that feels sharper than it should. You donāt move. Neither does he. Thereās no adjustment for comfort, no unnecessary shift to create space that doesnāt exist.
His breathing is steady behind you. Controlled. Measured.
You donāt turn your head, but you can feel the angle of his attention, the quiet awareness that mirrors your own. It passes quickly. Or maybe it just feels like it should.
The doors open.
Air returns. Space expands. You step forward immediately, out of it, the moment dissolving as quickly as it formed, but it lingers anyway, settling somewhere under your skin.
The meeting itself runs smoothly, at first. You take your usual position slightly behind and to the side of Leon, laptop open, notes aligned, every document already pulled up in the order you anticipate theyāll be needed. The room is all glass and polished wood, the kind of place designed to reflect control back at the people sitting in it. You register faces quickly, titles even quicker, mapping who matters, who speaks first, who waits. Leon doesnāt rush into anything. He lets the room settle around him, lets the other side open with their projections, their expectations, their carefully rehearsed confidence.
You track everything. Numbers, phrasing, pauses. When figures are mentioned, youāre already pulling them up. When timelines are questioned, you have the corresponding documents ready before Leon even needs to ask. Itās seamless in a way that feels almost invisible, the kind of efficiency that only works when no one notices it happening.
You only speak when necessary. When Leon glances back at you for confirmation, you give it, clear, concise. When someone across the table directs a question your way about availability or scheduling, you answer without hesitation, then fall back into silence just as quickly. You exist at the edge of the conversation, but youāre holding half of it together.
Itās routine. Until it isnāt.
The shift is small at first. A slight change in tone from one of the executives across the table. Heās the kind of man who fills space even when heās sitting still, expensive suit, practiced ease, the sort of confidence that leans just a little too far into assumption. He watches you when you speak the second time, longer than necessary, eyes narrowing slightly like heās reassessing something.
You donāt react. You keep your focus on the screen, fingers still moving, notes still updating.
The conversation continues. Terms are discussed. Adjustments proposed. Thereās a moment where Leon asks for a specific figure and you pass it to him without looking up, already knowing what he needs. He takes it without comment, integrates it into his response like it was always part of the plan.
It should stay there. Professional. Controlled.
The executive leans back slightly in his chair, fingers tapping once against the table before he speaks again, tone lighter now, almost conversational.
āI trust your assistant has everything under control this time,ā he says, glancing at you briefly before returning his attention to Leon. āWe wouldnāt want any oversights.ā
It lands softly. Polite enough that no one immediately calls it out. But thereās something underneath it, something deliberate in the way he doesnāt quite address you directly, like youāre not worth the full attention.
You feel it. Of course you do.
But you donāt react. Youāve learned not to. You keep your posture steady, your expression neutral, your attention on the screen like it didnāt land at all. You donāt need to defend yourself here. Not like this.
Leon doesnāt give you the chance to decide.
āIf you have an issue with my assistant,ā he says, voice quiet, even, cutting cleanly through the room without raising even slightly, āyou bring it to me. Otherwise, donāt waste my time.ā
The shift is immediate.
The room stills in a way thatās almost physical, like the air itself has tightened. Conversations donāt stop entirely, but they pause, just for a second, enough for the weight of what he said to settle properly.
Thereās no anger in his tone. No visible irritation. That would be easier to dismiss. This is something else entirely, controlled, deliberate, absolute. The kind of authority that doesnāt need to repeat itself.
The executiveās expression flickers. Just slightly. A recalibration. His posture adjusts, the ease slipping just enough to reveal something sharper underneath. He nods once, the movement tighter than before.
āOf course,ā he says. āNo offence intended.ā
Leon doesnāt respond to that. Doesnāt acknowledge it. He simply continues, picking up the thread of the conversation exactly where it left off, as if nothing happened.
But something did.
The rest of the meeting moves forward, but the tone has shifted. Subtly, but unmistakably. The executive is more measured now, his comments cleaner, his attention more focused. The balance of the room has tilted, just enough that itās noticeable if youāre paying attention.
By the time it ends, everything is back on track, agreements outlined, next steps confirmed, hands shaken in that firm, practiced way that signals professionalism even when something underneath it has changed. You gather your things, closing your laptop, organising your notes with the same efficiency youāve maintained throughout.
The car ride is quieter than before. Not uncomfortable, just still. The city moves past outside, blurred by the tinted windows, the same as it always does, but youāre more aware of the space inside the car now. Of him sitting beside you, of the way he doesnāt fill silence unnecessarily.
You sit the same way you always do, posture straight, hands resting lightly in your lap, but your thoughts are still on the meeting.
You didnāt need him to step in. You could have handled it.
āI can handle myself,ā you say.
It comes out calm. Not defensive. Just factual.
He turns his head slightly, his attention settling on you without urgency.
āI know,ā he says.
It should be enough.
It isnāt.
You let out a small breath, your gaze flicking briefly toward the window before returning forward. āDo you realise you just lost a client?ā
Thereās a short pause, just enough to register the question.
āI donāt care,ā he says, āThat guy was being an asshole to you.ā
You glance at him then, just briefly, trying to read something in his expression, but itās the same as always. Controlled. Unreadable. He looks forward again a second later, attention already elsewhere.
The rest of the ride passes without either of you saying anything else.
The call comes just as you're starting to unwind.
You've barely been home an hour. Your bag is somewhere near the door where you dropped it without caring, your blazer draped over the back of a chair with none of the usual consideration you give to things that cost money to dry-clean. The rest followed quickly, heels by the sofa, work trousers exchanged for something soft, something you never wear where anyone can see you. An old university hoodie. Leggings. Socks that don't match because you'd stopped caring about that particular detail somewhere around the second month of this job.
You are standing in your kitchen in mismatched socks, watching something uninspiring rotate slowly in the microwave, when the work phone starts vibrating against the counter.
You look at it.
Leon.
You pick it up on the second buzz.
"There's been a leak." His voice is exactly the same as it is at nine in the morning, controlled, economical, each word placed where it needs to be and nowhere else. No preamble. No apology for the hour.
That's all it takes.
The microwave beeps. You ignore it. Your mind is already moving, assembling the shape of the problem from those four words, internal, sensitive, moving fast, containment window closing, and you're reaching for your bag before he's even finished the outline.
"I'm on my way," you say.
You don't change. There isn't time.
The city is different at this hour. The aggressive daytime energy settling into something more ambient, more honest. You move through it efficiently, your mind already in the office, already pulling at threads.
The lobby is reduced to a skeleton of itself. Low lighting, one security desk, your footsteps louder than they should be across the marble. The elevator arrives immediately, which only happens after hours, and you ride it to the top in silence, watching the numbers climb.
The fortieth floor is nearly empty.
Most of the lights are off. The open-plan desks sit dark and unoccupied, monitors sleeping, the usual ambient noise of the place, keyboards, phones, low voices, completely absent. Just the clean hum of the building doing what buildings do when the people inside them have gone home.
His office light is on.
You don't knock. In three months you have never knocked, because by the time you reach his door you have always been expected, and tonight is no different. You push it open and he's at the desk, already working, jacket gone, sleeves pushed to his forearms, his tie loosened to a degree that on anyone else would read as barely notable.
On him it reads like a significant concession.
He doesn't look up immediately. "What do we have."
"Internal document." You set your bag down, pull out your laptop, your voice already in work mode. "Preliminary projections for Q3. It's circulating out of context, someone in compliance thinks it went through a personal account."
His jaw tightens. Not anger. Calculation. You know the difference now.
"Containment?"
"PR's been looped in. Their draft is soft. It needs to be harder."
"Then we fix it."
"Already started."
He looks up then. And it's not the usual look, the quick, functional glance that clocks your presence and moves on. This one lands differently. Takes a second. His gaze moves from your face down, briefly, just once, registering the hoodie, the complete absence of anything resembling work attire, the socks, probably, before coming back up with the neutrality of a man who has decided not to make it a thing.
He doesn't look away.
"I've never seen you like this," he says.
It isn't a criticism. It isn't anything, just an observation, delivered with the same straightforward precision he gives everything. But there's something underneath it, something in the way his gaze had made that unhurried trip and come back to your face and stayed there, that makes the words land differently than a neutral statement should.
Heat climbs the back of your neck anyway.
"I didn't have time to change," you say, and you're aware of how you sound, slightly defensive, slightly flustered, neither of which are things you particularly want to be in front of this man at eleven o'clock on a weeknight in your university hoodie. "I came straight from home, I would have but you said it was urgent so I justā¦ I'm sorry, I know it's not-"
"No."
You stop.
He says it simply, without particular emphasis, but it cuts cleanly through the rambling in the way his voice tends to cut through things.
"It looks good on you," he says.
"Right," you say.
Your voice comes out remarkably even. You're proud of that.
You pull up a chair and get to work.
Time stops behaving normally after that.
It always does when the work is urgent enough. The hours compress into a series of immediate problems, each one demanding your full attention before it dissolves and the next takes its place. Emails drafted, rewritten, stripped back. Phone calls made and concluded. The PR statement reconstructed from the soft, hedging thing it had started as into something clean and precise and deliberately unremarkable, the kind of language designed not to draw further attention by the very fact of its steadiness.
You work in tandem. There's less friction in it now than there was in the beginning, less of that slight resistance that comes from two people not yet calibrated to each other. Somewhere in the last few months the calibration happened without you particularly noticing, you anticipate what he needs before he asks for it, and when he does ask, the requests have gotten shorter, because he no longer has to explain the context.
You both already have it.
By midnight the urgency has ebbed. Not resolved, not fully, but stabilised enough that the immediate crisis has a shape now, contained rather than spreading. The work slows. The silences between tasks get longer.
At some point, food appeared on the corner of the desk. A paper bag, handles twisted, bearing the logo of the Thai place two blocks over that you'd mentioned in passing approximately six weeks ago when he had asked, because he asked, sometimes, in the way that people asked who were gathering logistical information rather than making conversation, what was within walking distance worth knowing about. You hadn't thought he'd retained it.
You pull the bag toward you without comment, start unpacking. He reaches over without looking, takes one of the containers, opens it. No commentary from either of you about the fact that someone ordered for two, that the order was correct, that this is objectively a small and somewhat significant thing.
You eat in a silence that is not uncomfortable.
He's different like this. You've thought it before, on late calls, in cars, in brief unguarded moments that close over again almost before they're fully open, but tonight it's clearer. Without an audience the performance of it drops. Not the competence, not the precision, those are just who he is. But the particular quality of control he maintains in rooms with other people, the authority projected rather than simply held, that's quieter now. He's just working. Just a person in a room, solving a problem.
It's dangerously easier to be around.
"Do you ever stop?" you ask, after a stretch of quiet that has gotten comfortable enough to speak into.
He doesn't look up. "Stop what."
"Working." You gesture loosely at the desk, the screens, the general atmosphere of sustained professional output at midnight. "Like, in general. As a concept."
A pause.
"Do you?" he says.
"Sometimes," you say. "I like having a life."
Another pause. He turns a page. "Sounds inefficient."
You laugh, a real one, quiet, surprised out of you, and shake your head. "You should try it. Genuinely."
He doesn't answer right away. His attention stays on the document in front of him, but something shifts, just slightly, in the set of his shoulders.
"People are unreliable," he says. Tone even. Flat, the way it gets when something is being stated rather than shared. "Work isn't."
It's not an explanation. It's not intended to be one. But it's more than he normally gives, and you're aware of that, and you let it sit for a moment before you answer.
"That sounds miserable," you say, and you mean it without cruelty.
"It's accurate."
You look at him. He doesn't look back, but he knows you're looking, you've learned to tell. "Someone prove you wrong at some point?"
The pause this time is different. Longer. Something tightens beneath the surface of him, just briefly, the way it does when a question lands closer than expected.
"Something like that," he says.
That's all.
You nod, and look back at your screen, and don't push. That's the thing about him you've learned gradually, without meaning to, he offers things at the edge of his own comfort, small and oblique, and if you reach for them too quickly he closes over and you lose the moment entirely. So you've started leaving them where he puts them. Letting them exist without being examined.
It seems to be working.
You end up at the same document.
It happens practically, the final version of the PR statement, both of you reviewing it simultaneously, heads angled toward the same screen. You don't register the proximity until it's already there: your shoulder an inch from his arm, close enough that you can see the faint reflection of the screen in his eyes. His sleeves are still rolled. He smells like the kind of cologne that's simple and expensive in the way that simple, expensive things tend to be.
You are being extremely professional about all of this.
"That line," he says, low, indicating near the middle of the page with one finger. "Change significant concern to notable development. Concern implies reaction. We're not reacting."
"We're responding," you say, already typing.
"Correct."
The correction runs three words and takes approximately four seconds and he says, quietly, without looking away from the screen, "Good."
You have received his approval before. Concise and functional, that works, send it, this is correct, but it has never landed quite like this, at this hour, in this specific proximity, with the particular quietness of a building that has mostly gone to sleep around you.
You look up to ask about the closing line.
He's already looking at you.
Not the assessing look. Not the professional one. Something else, briefly present, that you don't have a name for and don't try to find one for either, because the moment you name it you'll have to do something with it and right now it's easier, so much easier, to let it exist as just a quality of the light, a trick of the late hour, the ordinary disorientation of working past midnight with someone.
"The closing line is fine," he says.
"I was going to ask about the closing line."
"I know."
You hold for exactly one second too long. Then you look back at the screen. "Right."
He straightens. Steps back. The distance returns between you, natural as breathing, and with it the familiar shape of things.
You finish what's left. Tie the loose ends, confirm the statement is queued, close the windows down one by one. The crisis is as contained as it can be tonight. It'll hold till morning.
You gather your things slower than you normally would, the exhaustion arriving now that the urgency has cleared, filling in the space behind it. He's already moving toward the door, jacket retrieved from the back of his chair, a quality of efficiency in it that makes you aware of how little the late hour costs him.
It costs him something. You can see that now, if you look. The tiredness he keeps too tightly held to call tiredness.
The elevator is quiet on the way down.
Not the same quiet as before. Not the kind that's neutral and unremarkable. The kind that has something in it, an awareness, a slightly altered weight, that neither of you is going to be the first to name.
The doors open.
You cross the lobby. The night security guard nods. The door doesn't move when you reach it, and you realise a half-beat later that he's behind you, one hand on the handle, holding it open with the unhurried ease of someone who simply noticed it needed doing.
You step through.
"Thank you."
He nods once.
Outside the air is cooler than you expected, the city at this hour doing its own quiet thing all around you. You adjust the strap of your bag, and you're aware, walking away, of the particular feeling of an evening that has shifted something without declaring what.
You don't examine it on the walk home.
You examine it later, in the dark, in your flat, in the specific silence of a question you haven't asked yourself out loud yet. The answer doesn't come.
The next time it happens, it isnāt a crisis, itās scheduled, structured, and meant to go exactly to plan. Youāve had it in your calendar for days, flagged, prioritised, built around with the same precision youāve learned to apply to everything that involves him. It took longer than it should have to secure the reservation, a careful sequence of calls and confirmations to get a table at a place that doesnāt usually make room for last-minute requests. You donāt mention that part when you confirm it to him earlier in the week. He simply nods once, like it was inevitable.
By the time evening arrives, youāve shifted back into something more formal again, the ease of your flat replaced with structure, posture straightening as you step into the lobby and find him already waiting. He looks exactly the way he always does in public, sharp suit, controlled presence, nothing out of place, but thereās a moment, brief and unguarded, where his eyes flick over you as you approach. Not clinical this time. Not entirely. Something quieter sits underneath it, gone almost as quickly as it appears.
āReady?ā he asks.
You nod once. āAlways.ā
The car ride is quiet, but not empty. You run through the key points, the clientās expectations, the direction the conversation is likely to take, and he listens, adding a correction here, a clarification there, his tone steady but less clipped than it would have been a few weeks ago. Thereās a rhythm to it now, something that feels less like instruction and more like alignment.
The restaurant is exactly what you expected, dim lighting, low conversation, polished surfaces that reflect everything back just slightly softened. You step inside together, the host greeting you with practiced ease. You give the name, already reaching for the confirmation in your email out of habit.
The host disappears briefly.
Returns.
āIām very sorry,ā he says, the apology already prepared. āYour party has cancelled.ā
You blink once, the words taking a second to land. āCancelled?ā
āTen minutes ago.ā
Of course they did.
You glance at Leon, already expecting the shift, leave, reschedule, move on. Efficient. Controlled.
He doesnāt react. Not outwardly. His expression doesnāt change, but thereās a flicker of something in his eyes, brief and unreadable, before it settles again.
āYour table is still available,ā the host adds carefully. āIf youād like to keep it.ā
Thereās a short pause.
āWeāll take it,ā Leon says.
You look at him, just slightly, not enough to be obvious. He doesnāt return it. Just gestures for you to follow as the host leads you through the restaurant.
You sit across from each other, menus placed in front of you, water poured with quiet efficiency. It should feel like a misstep, like something slightly off balance, but it doesnāt. Not really.
You glance down at the menu, then back up at him, a small smile pulling at your mouth. āI guess it did take me two weeks to get a reservation for you in this restaurant.ā
His gaze lifts, settling on you properly this time. Thereās a faint shift in his expression, something almost amused.
āThen it would be inefficient not to use it.ā
You huff a quiet laugh. āExactly.ā
His gaze lifts to yours, steady, intent in a way that feels different from the office. āIād hate to waste your effort.ā
āOh?ā you say lightly. āNot the reservation?ā
āThat too,ā he replies, but thereās something deliberate in the way he says it.
You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary before looking back at the menu. āGood answer.ā
The waiter returns, you order, and when the conversation resumes, it doesnāt quite return to what it was before.
āSo,ā you say, resting your chin lightly on your hand, ādo you always stay when plans fall through, or is this a rare moment of spontaneity?ā
He leans back slightly in his chair, studying you. āDo I seem spontaneous to you?ā
āNot even a little.ā
āThen you have your answer.ā He looks at you again, holding it for a second longer than necessary. āDonāt read into it.ā
You tilt your head slightly. āI will anyway.ā
That earns you something, small, controlled, but there. Not quite a smile, but close enough that you catch it.
The first drink goes down easily. The second follows with less thought than youād usually allow. It softens the edges of the evening, loosens something in the way you both sit across from each other. You talk more than you normally would in his presence, small things, light things, the warmth in your tone coming through without you checking it every second.
He doesnāt shut it down. He listens. Responds.
Still brief, still measured, but thereās less distance in it now, less of that deliberate wall he usually keeps in place. At one point you say something, half teasing, half observational, and he exhales through his nose in a way thatās just slightly off his usual rhythm.
You notice immediately. āYou almost laughed.ā
āI didnāt.ā
āYou did.ā
āI didnāt,ā he repeats, but thereās a fraction of hesitation now that wasnāt there before.
You grin, leaning back slightly. āIām counting it.ā
He doesnāt argue again, just takes another sip of his drink, but his gaze lingers on you a second longer than it should before he looks away. Itās subtle. You wouldnāt notice if you werenāt already paying attention.
āYouāre not as bad as everyone says, you know,ā you add, the words coming easier now, softened slightly by the warmth of the evening.
āHigh praise,ā he says, dry as ever.
āIām serious,ā you insist, a quiet laugh slipping through. āThey make you sound terrifying. Like people avoid eye contact in the hallway and pray you donāt say their name.ā
āThey should,ā he replies without missing a beat.
You smile, shaking your head. āThatās exactly what I mean.ā
āItās efficient,ā he says, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. āPeople work faster when theyāre nervous.ā
āOr they make more mistakes,ā you counter lightly. āHard to think clearly when youāre convinced your boss is about to end your career over a calendar clash.ā
He glances at you then, something sharper flickering briefly behind his eyes. āYou werenāt convinced of that?ā
āOh, I was,ā you admit easily. āElevator ride and everything. Very dramatic internal monologue.ā
āAnd yet youāre still here.ā
āIām stubborn,ā you say with a small shrug. āAnd I like proving people wrong.ā
āIs that what this is?ā he asks, tilting his head slightly, studying you in a way that feels more curious than critical now. āYou proving me wrong?ā
āPartly,ā you admit. āThe rest is just me doing my job.ā
āThatās not all youāre doing.ā
The comment is quiet, but it lands differently. You pause for a second, searching his expression, but heās already taken another sip of his drink like he didnāt just say something that felt pointed.
āYou still havenāt convinced me youāre terrifying,ā you say after a beat, lighter again, though your tone has softened.
āI havenāt tried,ā he replies.
āReally?ā You raise an eyebrow. āCouldāve fooled me.ā
āThat wasnāt me trying,ā he says, and thereās the faintest edge of something almost amused in it now. āThat was me being efficient.ā
You laugh softly, leaning back slightly in your chair. āThatās concerning.ā
āIt should be.ā
You study him for a moment, head tilting just slightly, your expression thoughtful rather than challenging. āI donāt think so.ā
Thereās a pause.
His gaze settles on you again, slower this time, like heās not just assessing anymore. Like heās actually considering what you said.
āNo?ā he asks.
You shake your head lightly. āNo. I think youāre very good at acting like you are.ā
That earns you a reaction, not immediate, not obvious, but there. A small shift in his posture, the slightest narrowing of his eyes like youāve landed closer to something real than he expected.
āAnd what exactly am I acting like?ā he asks.
āUnapproachable,ā you say simply. āCold. Like you donāt have time for anything that isnāt work.ā
āAnd you think thatās not true?ā
āI think itās convenient,ā you reply, holding his gaze. āFor you.ā
Another pause.
This one stretches just a fraction longer.
He doesnāt look away.
āYouāre making a lot of assumptions,ā he says finally, but thereās less resistance in it now, less certainty.
You smile faintly. āI work for you. Itās kind of part of the job.ā
āIs it?ā
āMm,ā you hum. āReading between the lines. Figuring out what youāre not saying.ā
āAnd you think youāve figured me out?ā
You take a slow sip of your drink, buying yourself a second, then meet his gaze again. āNot completely.ā
āGood,ā he says, and thereās something quieter in his tone now, something that doesnāt quite match the words. āIād be disappointed if you had.ā
You huff a soft laugh. āYouāre impossible.ā
āIāve been told.ā
āFrequently, I imagine.ā
āOnly by people who donāt last,ā he says, but the edge of it is softer than it should be.
You tilt your head again, studying him like youāre trying to decide something. āI think people just donāt stay long enough to understand you.ā
āAnd you do?ā he asks, a slight lift of his brow.
āNot yet,ā you admit. āBut Iām getting there.ā
Something shifts in his expression again. Subtle. Controlled. But unmistakable if youāre looking for it.
āI donāt make that easy,ā he says.
āI know.ā
āThen why try?ā
You donāt answer immediately. You could give him something light, something easy to deflect with. Instead, you shrug slightly, the movement small, honest. āBecause I think itās worth it.ā
The words settle between you.
He goes still for just a second.
Then he leans back slightly, exhaling quietly through his nose, like youāve just said something he wasnāt entirely prepared for.
āThatās a dangerous assumption,ā he says.
You smile, softer now. āIāve made worse.ā
His gaze lingers on you again, longer this time, like heās trying to decide whether to challenge that or let it stand.
He lets it stand.
āCareful,ā he says instead, voice quieter now, almost undercut with something that sounds like a warning but doesnāt quite feel like one. āYou might be right.ā
The restaurant empties slowly around you without either of you noticing.
That's the thing you register first when you finally look up from the conversation, the tables around you have thinned, the low hum of the room quieter than it was an hour ago, the staff moving with the particular patience of people waiting for the last guests to decide they're done. The couple two tables over have gone. The larger group near the window that had been loud in an expensive, self-congratulatory way have settled their bill and filtered out. Even the ambient music feels quieter, turned down by some imperceptible degree, the restaurant gently, politely suggesting that the evening has reached its natural end.
Outside, the air is cool and immediate in the way evening air always is after the warmth of a restaurant, like stepping from one world into another. The city is doing its late Friday thing, taxis threading through traffic, the low spill of light from restaurants and bars still open further down the street, the kind of noise that isn't loud but is constant, the city just breathing. You stop on the pavement and breathe it in, and feel the wine warm in your chest, and the edges of everything are softened just enough that the city looks like something you want to stand still and look at for a minute.
Leon stops beside you.
Not a step ahead, the way he usually positions himself when you're moving somewhere with purpose. Not half-turned toward the next thing, already calculating the route. Beside you. Still. Like he's doing the same thing you are, standing in the evening and just letting it be an evening.
"The car's-" you start, reaching for your phone, the instinct to be useful arriving even now, even here. You find the notification you're looking for and then immediately lose the thread of what it said.
"Two minutes," Leon says.
"Right." You lock the screen. "Two minutes."
You're both quiet for a moment. Somewhere between the table and the door you'd been laughing about something, you're reconstructing it now, the shape of it assembling slowly, something about the host, the particular way he'd arranged his expression when Leon had looked at him directly while you were thanking him on the way out. A very specific kind of expression. The kind that meant someone was trying to appear professionally neutral while internally questioning their career choices. You'd done an impression on the pavement, just briefly, not cruel but accurate, and Leon had -
You glance at him.
He's still slightly loose around the edges. Not drunk, you don't think this man is capable of drunk, not in any visible way, you think he'd simply decide not to be and his body would comply out of sheer professional obligation. But something in the controlled precision of him has settled. Like a tension that he carries so constantly he's forgotten it's there has, over the course of the evening, quietly released. He's looking down the street, jaw relaxed, hands in his coat pockets, and the streetlight falls across the side of his face and he looks like a person. Just a person standing on a pavement at the end of an evening, with nowhere pressing to be.
You find this version of him extraordinarily dangerous and file that thought away for later.
"You actually laughed in there," you say, picking the thread back up. "Twice."
He doesn't look at you. "Once."
"Leon. Twice."
"The second one wasn't -"
"It was laughter," you say, with the calm certainty of someone delivering a verdict. "Audible. With sound and everything."
"It was an exhale."
"An exhale," you repeat.
"Yes."
"With your mouth open."
He turns his head to look at you then, and you were ready for the expression, the flat, controlled, I'm not having this conversation look, but that's not what's there. What's there is something completely unguarded, a flicker of genuine exasperation lit up underneath with something much warmer, something with no business being this visible, this readable. He looks almost caught out. Like you've gotten somewhere he didn't entirely plan to let you.
You laugh. Actually laugh, the sound coming out louder than you mean it to in the relative quiet of the street, and you don't bother reining it in.
And then he does it again.
A real one. Short, low, surprised out of him, the laugh of a person who forgot, briefly, to manage themselves, and it sounds slightly rusty, like something that hasn't been used at its full capacity in a while, which somehow makes it better.
"There," you say immediately, pointing at him, delighted. "Sound. And I'm fairly certain I saw teeth."
"You didn't -"
"Top row. Briefly. But present."
"You are -" he starts.
"Correct," you say pleasantly.
He shakes his head, and the smile, the real one, the one that changes his whole face into something warmer and younger and far less manageable, lingers longer than it usually would. He looks back down the street, and it stays. You watch it in your peripheral vision and feel something in your chest move in a way that has nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with the particular, inconvenient fact of him.
The laughter settles the way good laughter does. You stand side by side on the pavement in the quiet that follows, and it's a different quality of quiet to the ones you've shared before. Not the car silence, purposeful and contained. Not the office silence, functional and bounded. Something looser than that. Something that doesn't need anything from either of you.
The city moves around you, indifferent and continuous.
Your arm is close to his. Not touching, there's still a narrow inch of space between you, but close in the way proximity gets when guards have come down and no one has consciously put them back up yet. You're aware of it without looking at it directly, the way you're aware of the warmth still sitting in your chest, the way you're aware that the evening has become something neither of you planned for and neither of you seems to be in a hurry to end.
"It's been a while," he says.
His voice is quieter than usual. Not directed at the street anymore.
You glance up at him. "Since?"
He doesn't answer right away. He's looking at something in the middle distance, somewhere down the street where the lights blur slightly, and you recognise the quality of his silence, the kind that means he's deciding whether to say the thing he's already thinking. Whether the thing is worth the saying. Whether, tonight, the answer to that question might be different to what it usually is.
"Since an evening felt like that," he says.
You don't say anything. You've learned, over months of this, when not to.
The traffic moves. Someone somewhere down the block is laughing at something, the sound carrying briefly before the city swallows it.
"Easy," he adds, after a moment. Quiet. Like the word costs something small but he's decided to spend it anyway.
You look at him properly then, turning slightly, and he turns his head at the same time, and the distance between you is closer than you realised, or maybe you've just become more aware of it in a way that makes it feel different. His gaze settles on your face with a quality of attention that stopped being clinical a long time ago and hasn't found its way back. It moves, just slightly, eyes, expression, the particular unhurried way he takes things in when he isn't performing anything for anyone, and something in his expression has opened, just fractionally, in a way you recognise because you've been watching for it for months without letting yourself admit that's what you were doing.
"You do that," he says, and his voice has dropped just slightly, not deliberate, just a natural product of the hour and the quiet and the particular stillness of the space between you. "Make things easy."
You open your mouth, something light was right there, something warm and deflecting and safe, the instinct is so practiced by now it was already forming -
He speaks first.
"You're beautiful."
Just that.
No preamble. No careful construction. No qualifier tucked in before or after to soften it or make it manageable. Said the way he says things when he's decided they're true and has run out of reasons to keep them to himself, straightforward, almost matter-of-fact, like it's a piece of information he's been holding for a while that has simply, tonight, found its way out.
The street keeps going. A taxi passes, close enough that you feel the displaced air. Somewhere further down the block a door opens and closes, spilling music briefly into the night before it's gone again. The city does not pause. It does not acknowledge that something just shifted on this particular pavement outside this particular restaurant on this particular Tuesday.
You look at him.
He's looking back at you with that steadiness he carries everywhere, but there's something underneath it now that you've never seen quite this clearly before. Something open. He's not performing composure. He's just standing there, coat collar turned up against the cold, looking at you like he meant it, because he did.
He doesn't take it back.
Doesn't glance away and smooth the moment over with something professional. Doesn't reach for the distance he usually keeps between himself and anything that isn't work. Just holds your gaze, steady and unhurried, and waits.
Your voice, when it finally comes, is quieter than you meant it to be. Just his name. "Leon."
"I know," he says.
And that's the part that gets you.
Not the words themselves, though those have settled somewhere in your chest where they're going to be very difficult to dislodge. It's the I know after them. The quiet acknowledgment of everything they mean, everything they open, everything they make true that was already true and now can't be unfiled. He knows what he said. He knows what it costs. He said it anyway.
You look at him for a long moment in the amber light of the street, the city moving around you like a current around two fixed points, and you feel something you've been carefully not naming for weeks become suddenly, undeniably named.
The car pulls up to the kerb.
You both stand there for one more second before he steps forward and opens the door for you. Not the driver. Him. The same easy, unannounced way he'd done it the night of the crisis, like it's simply something that needed doing and he was closest.
You get in.
He follows. The door closes. The city seals itself off beyond the tinted windows, softened into shadow and passing light, the familiar shape of it reduced to something distant and irrelevant.
Inside is quiet.
Not the working quiet of the car rides before, the purposeful silence with phones and tablets and schedules, the kind of quiet that has a function. This one is different. Warmer. Full of something that neither of you is going to name out loud tonight, because tonight it doesn't need naming. Tonight, it just needs to exist, which it does, easily, in the space between you.
You sit the way you always sit. Back straight, hands resting in your lap. Posture that has become automatic by now, the shape of professionalism so ingrained it persists even here, even now, even after you're beautiful said quietly on a Tuesday pavement in the amber light.
The difference is that you're not maintaining the posture to be professional anymore.
You're maintaining it because if you let it go you're not entirely sure what happens next, and the wine and the evening and the look on his face have made you less certain of yourself than you usually allow.
You look forward. He looks forward. The car moves through the city, the route splitting into yours and his somewhere ahead, the logistics of the evening reasserting themselves quietly in the background.
His arm is an inch from yours on the seat between you.
Neither of you moves.
You watch the lights of the city go past outside, blurred and amber through the glass, and you carry the warmth of the evening inside you like something you don't want to put down just yet, his laugh on the pavement, real and slightly rusty. The way easy had cost him something small and he'd spent it. The steadiness of his gaze when he didn't take it back.
I know.
You exhale slowly, quietly, and feel the specific, terrifying warmth of something that is no longer avoidable.
The car slows. Your street.
You gather your bag, and your coat, and the remnants of your composure, and you turn to say goodnight the way you always do, brief, professional, clean.
He's already looking at you.
"Goodnight," you say.
Something in his expression shifts, just slightly, at the edges. "Goodnight," he says.
Nothing else. No addition. No qualifier.
But the way he says it, like it's not entirely finished, like it's the end of this evening and not the end of something larger that has only just begun. It makes you feel it all the way to the door of your building, up the stairs, into the quiet of your flat.
You set your bag down.
You stand in the dark for a moment, coat still on, the city a low hum outside the window.
And you let yourself think it. Fully. Without deflecting, without filing it away, without reaching for something lighter or easier or safer to hold instead.
You're beautiful.
You sit down on the sofa in your coat. You're not going to sleep for a while.
Monday arrives the way Mondays always do. Early, indifferent, already full before you've had time to prepare for it. You get in earlier than usual, which is something you've started doing without acknowledging why, the habit forming quietly over the past few weeks. Coffee on your desk, laptop open, the morning's first round of emails already sorted by the time most people are stepping out of the elevator.
You feel good, actually. Just enough that Monday morning had a different quality to it. A quiet anticipation that you hadn't let yourself name but could feel at the edges of everything, a warmth sitting underneath the routine of coffee and emails and the familiar shape of the day starting.
You're halfway through your second email when the intercom buzzes.
You reach for it automatically. "Good morning -"
"The Rhodes file." His voice is exactly what it always is. Clipped. Precise. Each word placed and nothing else. "I need the revised figures before nine."
You pause for just a fraction of a second.
"Of course," you say. "I'll have it to you in twenty minutes."
The intercom clicks off. You sit with that for a moment. Then you open the Rhodes file and get to work.
It's nothing, you tell yourself.
It's a busy morning. He's focused. This is what focused looks like on him, you know that, you've known it for months, the clipped efficiency that isn't coldness so much as the absence of anything that isn't necessary. You've sat across from that version of him in meetings, in cars, in his office at midnight, and you know how to read it.
You send the Rhodes file at eight fifty-three and go back to your emails.
By mid-morning you've handled four intercom calls, two of which were corrections delivered without context, one of which was a reschedule that collapsed half your carefully arranged afternoon calendar, and one that was simply your name followed by a request for a document you already had waiting because you'd anticipated it an hour earlier. You deliver it. He takes it. The door closes.
No acknowledgment. No pause. Nothing.
You go back to your desk.
He's busy, you think. It's a busy week. This is what busy looks like.
You are very good at explaining things away.
By Tuesday you've started to notice the shape of it. Not loudly. Not in any way that announces itself. It's in the texture of small things. The quality of the silence when you enter his office, the angle of his attention when you speak and the way conversations that two weeks ago had developed a certain ease now end a beat earlier than they should, clipped off cleanly.
He doesn't look at you the way he looked at you on the pavement. He barely looks at you at all.
Wednesday the intercom buzzes four times before ten. Each one the same. Clipped, functional, stripped back to its barest components, a task, a deadline, an expectation. No filler. No deviation. You complete each request without hesitation, without variation. You are excellent at your job and you do it excellently, and somewhere underneath the professional surface of that you are quietly, steadily, trying to work out what happened.
The dinner. The restaurant. Two weeks and a reservation and a conversation that went places neither of you had planned for it to go. You make things easy. Standing on the pavement in the cool evening air. The laugh, real, unguarded, slightly rusty, the most human you'd ever seen him. You're beautiful. The car ride home and the inch of space between your arms on the seat and the weight of something present and undeniable sitting in the quiet between you.
And then this.
You stare at the intercom for a second after it clicks off.
Then you pick up the document he requested and go back to work.
By Thursday you've stopped expecting anything different and that's almost worse. You feel it in the small things, which is where you've always felt everything with him. You sit at your desk that afternoon and look at your screen and think, with a clarity that arrives quietly and stays: he regrets it.
It's not a dramatic conclusion. It doesn't announce itself. It simply settles in with the weight of something that has been assembling for days and has now finished assembling and is just sitting there, complete, waiting to be acknowledged.
Friday afternoon is when it solidifies into something you can't reason away.
You've been in his office twice already today, both times brief, both times businesslike to a degree that leaves no room for anything else. You've done everything right. Anticipated what he needed before he asked. Delivered it cleanly. Answered questions directly, concisely, professionally. Given him the version of you that exists purely in relation to the work, because that version is safe and familiar and apparently the only one that's welcome now.
You're at your desk, coat already on, running five minutes past the point where you'd normally have left, finishing a thread of emails that needs closing before the weekend. The office has emptied out around you, the floor down to its end-of-week skeleton, a few lights on, low hum of the building, the particular quiet of a place winding down.
The intercom buzzes. You stare at it for a second. Then you lean over and press the button. "Yes?"
"Before you leave." His voice, exactly as it's been all week. Clipped. Even. A task incoming.
"Of course," you say.
You take your coat off. Hang it back over your chair. Pick up your tablet and walk to his office and open the door with the same professional composure you've maintained all week, the same composure you intend to maintain until you are on the other side of the revolving door downstairs and can do whatever you need to do with the quiet, persistent ache that has been sitting in your chest since Monday morning.
He's at his desk. Jacket still on, late in the day, which is unusual. Papers in front of him, pen in hand, his attention lifting to you as you enter.
You stand just inside the door.
"The Wrenwood correspondence," he says. "Check the draft I've forwarded. Make sure the tone is right before it goes out Monday."
That's it.
No preamble. No acknowledgment of the week, of the distance, of the particular quality of the last five days. No flicker of anything behind the professionalism that might suggest he's aware of any of it.
You look at him for just a moment. Just one.
"I'll review it over the weekend," you say.
He nods once. Looks back down at his papers.
You turn to leave.
And underneath the professionalism, underneath the composure you've held perfectly all week without letting it slip once, something quiet and honest moves through you.
You were wrong, you tell yourself, hand on the door. You read it wrong. You built something out of an evening that was just an evening, out of words that were just words. He's your boss. This is your job. That's all this is. That's all it was.
You believe most of that.
The part you don't believe you fold up very small and put somewhere you don't intend to look at.
"Have a good weekend," you say, without turning back.
He doesn't reply.
You close the door.
Outside in the cooler air of the empty office, you stand for a second, hand still resting on the door handle, not thinking anything in particular. Just existing for a moment in the space between one thing and whatever comes next.
Then you take your coat from the back of your chair, pick up your bag, and walk to the elevator without looking back. The doors close.
Your reflection looks back at you from the mirrored wall, composed and steady, the same as it always is. The numbers count down. You look fine.
The weekend passes the way weekends do when your mind has already decided it isn't going to rest.
You go through the motions of it , the Saturday errands, the coffee with a friend you'd been cancelling on for weeks, the long walk you took on Sunday afternoon more out of restlessness than any desire for fresh air. You smile at the right moments and answer questions and laugh at things that are funny and from the outside it probably looks like a normal weekend belonging to a normal person who is perfectly fine.
Underneath that, you are assembling something.
Not dramatically. Not with tears or catastrophising or the kind of spiralling that demands witnesses. Just quietly, over the course of two days, the way you tend to handle things that matter, turning it over, looking at it from different angles, setting it down and coming back to it, until the shape of it becomes clear enough that you can't argue with it anymore.
The shape of it is this: you cannot go back in there and pretend.
Sunday night finds you at your kitchen table with your laptop open and a cup of tea that has gone cold without you touching it.
The resignation letter takes less time than you expect.
That's the part that sits uncomfortably, how easily it comes. A page, maybe a little less. Professional, measured, appropriate. You thank him for the opportunity. You cite personal reasons, which is vague enough to be unarguable. You offer two weeks notice, standard, the kind of clean exit that doesn't create problems for anyone.
You read it back twice.
It's good. It's exactly right. It sounds like someone who has made a calm, considered decision for entirely reasonable and professional reasons.
You press print before you can talk yourself out of it.
The printer hums. The page emerges. You pick it up, read it one more time in hard copy, and then fold it into thirds and slide it into an envelope and set it on top of your bag.
You sit with it for a while after that.
Not reconsidering. Just sitting with it the way you sit with things that are already decided, letting the weight of the decision exist without trying to change it. It's the right thing. You know it's the right thing. The alternative is going back in there indefinitely, managing the gap between what you'd thought was real and what actually is, feeling that specific shame every time his eyes move past you with professional indifference, every time the intercom buzzes and his voice arrives clipped and impersonal and you remember standing on a pavement thinking I think it's worth it.
It isn't sustainable. You know yourself well enough to know that.
You pick up your cold tea, take it to the sink, and go to bed.
You don't sleep particularly well, but you didn't expect to.
Monday morning is grey and certain.
You dress with the particular care of someone who needs their armour on properly. Everything pressed, everything right. The blazer you'd worn on your first day, which you haven't thought about in months but reached for this morning without quite knowing why. Some instinct about endings and beginnings and the way certain things ask to be marked.
You look at yourself in the mirror.
You're fine, you tell yourself.
You believe it, mostly.
The envelope goes into your bag. You leave earlier than usual, moving through the morning city with a quiet focus that has nothing underneath it now, no warmth, no anticipation, just the clean straight line of a decision already made.
The lobby is exactly as it always is. Polished, gleaming, the world softened in its own reflection. You cross it without pausing. The elevator arrives immediately. You ride it to the top in the mirrored quiet, watching the numbers climb, and you don't think about the first time you did this, you don't think about the portfolio under your arm and the composure that wasn't quite settled and the entire unknown weight of what was waiting at the top.
You think: I'm good at this job.
You think: I'll be good at the next one.
The doors open.
The top floor is its usual early-morning self, the quiet before the day properly starts, a few people at desks, the low hum of the building. You walk to your desk. Set your bag down. Take out the envelope and hold it for a second, just briefly, and then you set it on the desk in front of you.
You don't sit down.
There's no point delaying it. That's not who you are, you don't build things up, you don't circle, you don't let difficult things sit longer than they need to. You do them and then they're done. It's one of the better things about yourself, you think, one of the ones you've always been quietly grateful for.
You pick up the envelope.
You walk to his office door.
You knock. Something you've never done, you have genuinely never knocked, in months of walking into that office you have always been expected and always known it and gone straight in, and the knock feels like its own kind of punctuation. A small, deliberate signal. This is different. This is the last time.
"Come in."
You push the door open.
He's at his desk, exactly where he always is, exactly how he always looks, composed, controlled, already working, the morning already fully his. He glances up when you enter, the brief functional look, and then something shifts in it slightly as he takes in your expression. Nothing obvious. Just a fractional change, there and gone.
You cross the room.
You set the envelope on his desk.
You step back.
"My resignation," you say. Your voice is steady. You're proud of that, quietly, in the part of you that notices things. "Two weeks notice, as per my contract. I've outlined everything in the letter."
Silence.
He looks at the envelope.
He doesn't pick it up.
A second passes. Then another. The silence in the room has a quality to it you don't entirely recognise, heavier than the usual kind, weighted in a way that presses against the composure you've arrived here wearing.
You keep your eyes just above his eyeline. Not quite meeting it. You've learned that his gaze has a way of getting into things you haven't given it permission to get into, and today you can't afford that.
"I want to be professional about this," you add, because the silence is stretching and you need somewhere to put your voice.
"What?" he says.
The confusion in it catches you off guard. You'd expected the composure, the controlled nod, the clean efficient acceptance of a situation being resolved. Not that. Not his eyes doing that, blinking, just once, like the words haven't landed in the right order.
"I'll make sure the handover is thorough," you continue, because you started this and you're going to finish it, that's who you are, you finish things. "Whoever comes next will have everything they need. The calendar system, the contacts, the filing structure, I'll document all of it. It won't take long to -"
"What are you doing?"
His voice is different. Not clipped. Not controlled. Almost breathless. Like the words came out ahead of the composure that usually accompanies everything he says.
You keep going.
Because if you stop you won't start again.
"I should have -" you begin, and there it is, the thing sitting in your throat that you hadn't planned for, the thing that arrived somewhere in the walk across this room and hasn't left. You push past it. "I want to say it was a good experience. Genuinely. I learned a lot and I -"
"Don't."
Quiet. Immediate. Like a reflex.
You stop.
The room is very still. You make the mistake of looking at him.
He's already looking at you. Not the professional look, not the clipped, functional assessment that you catalogued in the first weeks and learned to read like a language. The other one. The one from the pavement outside the restaurant, amber light and cool air and the city going past like it had somewhere better to be. The one from the dinner, across the table, when he'd said I know and meant something wider than the words. The one you'd spent a week convincing yourself you'd imagined.
You hadn't imagined it.
It's right there. Open, and direct, and more than you're equipped to handle in this particular moment when you came in here with an envelope and a decision and the clean straight line of something already finished.
Your chest does something complicated and unhelpful.
"Sit down," he says.
"I'd rather -"
"Please."
You turn toward the door.
It's not a decision exactly, more like your body making a choice before your mind catches up, the animal instinct of something that has been holding itself together very carefully suddenly understanding that it cannot hold if you stay in this room one more minute. You take one step and then another and the door is right there and you reach for it -
His hand closes around your wrist.
Gentle. That's the thing that stops you more than the contact itself, the gentleness of it. Leon Kennedy, who moves through the world with precision and efficiency and the complete absence of anything unnecessary, holding your wrist like it's something he's afraid of breaking.
"Please talk to me."
You stop walking. You don't turn around.
His hand moves, both of them now, finding the sides of your arms, turning you with a care so deliberate it almost undoes you on the spot. With his hands, because apparently this is a man who has run out of ways to ask with anything else.
You shake your head.
You're looking at the middle of his chest because it's the only safe place and even that isn't particularly safe right now.
"____."
Your name. Not the way it sounds through the intercom, not the brisk professional syllables of it. The other way. The way it had sounded on the pavement. Like it means something specific in his mouth.
"I can't," you say. Your voice comes out quieter than you intended. "I can't do this, Leon. I came in here to - I have a letter, it's right there, it's done, I just need you to let me -"
"I'm not letting you resign."
"That's not -" you shake your head again, something tightening in your throat. "That's not your decision."
"No," he agrees. "It isn't."
His hands are still on your arms. You're still not looking at his face.
"Then let me go," you say.
He doesn't.
"Look at me," he says instead.
"Leon."
"Please." Again. That word, in that register, that keeps arriving like something he's had to learn to say, like it costs him every single time. "Just look at me."
You look up.
And whatever you were going to say next dissolves completely, because his face, this controlled, composed, unreachable face that you have been trying to read for months, is doing something you have never seen it do. Something unguarded in a way that goes all the way down, no layer of professionalism underneath it to catch on. He looks, for the first time since you've known him, like someone who is afraid.
Not of you. For you. For this. For the envelope on his desk and the coat you're still wearing and the door you were about to walk through.
"I've been avoiding you," he says.
The honesty of it, just that plainly stated, without preamble or qualification, hits you somewhere undefended.
"I know," you say, and your voice comes out smaller than you want it to.
"Not because I wanted to." His jaw tightens slightly, the way it does when he's working through something, when he's finding the shape of words for something that doesn't usually get words. "Because I didn't know what to do with it."
You wait.
"The dinner," he says. "The things I said."
"You don't have to explain -"
"I do." Not harsh. Just certain. "I need you to let me explain."
You close your mouth.
He exhales slowly. His hands are still on your arms, anchoring. You're not sure which of you he's anchoring, you or himself.
"I meant it," he says. "Everything I said. I meant all of it."
The thing in your chest that you'd spent a week dismantling very carefully reassembles itself in approximately four seconds.
"Then why?"
"Because I woke up Monday morning," he says, "and I understood exactly what I'd done. What I'd said. And I looked at it and I -" he stops. The pause is brief, but it's real, the kind that comes from a person choosing their words with genuine care rather than efficiency. "I've done this before. Got it wrong before. And it cost -" another pause, shorter. "I wasn't going to do that to you."
You stare at him.
"So you just went cold," you say slowly. "You thought you were protecting me."
Something in his expression confirms it without him saying a word.
"Leon." You breathe out through your nose, something between disbelief and a feeling you can't name. "I was about to quit."
"I know." His voice drops. "I know. I saw you come in this morning and I knew, before you even crossed the room, what you were holding." Something moves behind his eyes. "I've spent the last week telling myself it was better this way. That you'd be fine. That you didn't -" he stops again. "And then you walked in here and I couldn't."
"Couldn't what?"
"Let you believe that what happened didn't matter to me."
The room is very quiet.
Outside his office, through the glass, the floor is starting to fill with the ordinary noise of morning. Phones, keyboards, low voices, the unremarkable machinery of the day beginning. In here there is just this, his hands on your arms and his face open in a way you've never seen it and the envelope on the desk and everything that has been sitting between you for weeks, finally taking up the space it was always going to take up eventually.
"I'm not easy to be around," he says. It's not self-pity. It's just factual, delivered with the same directness he gives everything. "I know that. I know what it costs people. I know what it costs -" something tightens in his voice, just briefly. "I've spent a long time making sure nothing outside work gets close enough to go wrong."
"That sounds lonely," you say softly.
"It's been fine."
"That's not the same thing."
He looks at you. A long, steady look.
"No," he says. "It isn't."
The space between you has narrowed without either of you deciding to narrow it. His hands have shifted slightly on your arms, less anchoring now. Present. His thumb moves once, a small unconscious motion against your sleeve, and you don't think he knows he's doing it.
"That evening," he says, quieter now, "was the first time in a long time that something felt -" he searches for it, and you watch him search, watch the usually effortless precision of him work harder than usual for the right word. "Worth it," he says finally.
Your breath catches.
He'd used your word. Knowingly, deliberately, his gaze steady on yours in a way that makes it absolutely clear he knows exactly what he's doing.
"You said that to me," he says. "At dinner. I think it's worth it. And I thought -" the corner of his mouth moves, barely, a ghost of the thing on the pavement, the one that had teeth and sound and had been slightly rusty. "I thought you had absolutely no idea what you were talking about."
"And now?" you say.
He looks at you for a moment.
Then one of his hands moves from your arm, slowly, and his fingers brush your jaw, just barely, just the edge of it, the most careful thing you've ever felt. Tilting your face up the fraction it doesn't need to be tilted because you're already looking at him, have been looking at him, are going to keep looking at him.
"Now," he says, very quietly, "I think you might have been the only one who did."
And then he closes the distance.
It's careful, the way he does everything, deliberate, unhurried, certain without being forceful. His mouth against yours is a question asked in the specific language of a man who doesn't ask questions lightly, who has considered this one from every angle and arrived at it as the only answer that makes sense.
You answer it.
Your hand finds the lapel of his jacket, not pulling, just holding, and the envelope on the desk behind you ceases to exist, and the morning noise filters in from outside like something from another world entirely.
He pulls back after a moment, just enough. His forehead drops to yours, a gesture so unguarded, so unlike every version of him you've catalogued, that it makes your chest ache quietly.
"Don't resign," he says.
You let out a breath that's almost a laugh. "You can't just kiss me and then make employment decisions."
"I'm not." His voice is still low, still close. "I'm asking."
You lean back just enough to look at him properly. His hands are at your waist now, light, like he's still not entirely sure he's allowed, like he's waiting for you to tell him he's wrong.
You look at his face, open, careful, still faintly afraid in that way you've never seen before and suspect very few people ever have.
And you close the distance.
His breath catches and then his hand comes up to your jaw, slow and careful, the way he does everything when it matters, tilting your face up the fraction it doesn't need to be tilted because you're already there, you're already looking at him, you have been looking at him for a long time now.
His mouth meets yours.
It's careful at first. Of course it is. This is Leon, measured, deliberate, a man who does not do anything without first being certain, and the certainty is right there in the way he kisses you, like he's thought about this, like he's been thinking about this, like he's finally just decided to stop thinking about it and do it instead. Quiet and unhurried and so focused it makes everything else in the room go distant, the Monday morning bleeding out at the edges until there's just this, just here, just his hand at your jaw and yours at his lapel and the particular stillness of something finally arriving after a very long journey.
Then something shifts.
His other hand finds your waist and draws you in, just slightly, just enough, and the carefulness of it deepens into something warmer, something that has been waiting underneath the control for longer than either of you has been willing to admit. You feel it in the way his fingers press gently at your waist like he's making sure you're real. In the way your hand has moved from his lapel to his chest without you deciding to move it. In the way neither of you is in any hurry for this to end.
He pulls back after a long moment.
Not far. His forehead drops to yours, resting there, and the gesture is so unguarded, so completely unlike every composed and controlled version of him you've catalogued over months, that it knocks something loose in your chest quietly and completely.
His eyes are closed.
Just for a second. Just long enough for you to see it, the specific expression of a person who has been carrying something heavy for a very long time and has just, finally, been allowed to set it down.
You stay like that for a moment. Foreheads together, the room quiet around you, the morning doing its ordinary thing just outside the glass like the world hasn't just tilted very slightly on its axis.
Then you lean back just enough to look at him properly.
"I'm still mad at you," you say. "For this week."
"I know."
"That was genuinely awful."
"I know."
"You went full robot. It was like the first week all over again but somehow worse."
Something pulls at the corner of his mouth. "I know."
"You're going to have to do significantly better than that."
"I intend to," he says, and the simplicity of it, the complete absence of deflection in it, makes everything around you both dissolve.
"We have work to do," he says eventually, quietly, not moving.
Synopsis: Youāre the newest ER resident, fighting to prove yourself under the relentless scrutiny of Doctor Langdon, brilliant, distant, and impossible to read. When a fellow residentās unwanted attention starts crossing lines, Dr. Langdon begins to take notice.Ā
Tags: Workplace Tension, Jealousy, Forced Proximity, Protective Langdon, Power Imbalance, Sharp Banter, Mutual Pining, Emotional Confrontation, Eventual Kissing
Warnings: **Unwanted Advances**, Workplace Stress, Cold calling, Power Dynamics, Emotional Distress, Medical Setting
Words: 10k~
A/N: I am not American and have the barely any knowledge of how US medical school works so please ignore any inaccuracies!!
You're a new resident in the ER, the bottom of the food chain, badge still shiny under fluorescent lights, white coat not yet saturated with antiseptic and exhaustion. Your handwriting is still neat, your pockets still organized: penlight, trauma shears, folded index cards with drug doses written in careful ink.
You don't report to him directly. Technically. But in the way gravity technically doesn't report to the sun, you still orbit Dr. Langdon. You work with him. Somewhat under him. He doesn't sign your evaluations, but he signs off on your decisions with a look. Working relationship? None in sight. In fact, there is no relationship at all.
Your first week, you were bright-faced and buzzing with nervous energy, practically vibrating with inexperience and caffeine. You came early, stayed late, introduced yourself to everyone, nurses, techs, environmental services, even the attending who barely glanced up. You practiced your greeting before approaching Langdon. Professional. Confident. Approachable. You found him at a workstation, scrolling through labs like they personally offended him, jaw set, blue-gray eyes moving fast over the screen. You stepped forward anyway.
"Hi, my name is-"
"I need an ECG for room 5."
It wasn't loud. It wasn't rude. It was simply... final. He brushed past you mid-sentence, shoulder almost clipping yours, eyes already locked on another screen. No smile. No acknowledgment. Not even a nod. Just a task.
You stood there half a second too long, blinking at the empty air where he'd been, your prepared words shriveling in your mouth. Okay. Maybe not the best first impression. But you've had ego-driven seniors before, surgeons who bark, residents who talk over you, fellows who treat interns like background noise. You told yourself it wouldn't get to you. Some doctors treat interns like walking clipboards. It's nothing personal
Except with Langdonā¦ it feels personal.
Not because he snaps or belittles you, he doesn't. He simply erases you. He moves around you like you're part of the furniture, like the crash cart or the supply cabinet. You'll present a patient and he'll redirect his gaze to the monitor before you finish your second sentence. You'll stand beside him in a trauma and he'll hand instruments past you like you're a gap in space. He never mispronounces your name because he never says it. The only acknowledgment comes when he orders scans or assigns the tedious exams no one else wants: "Full neuro exam. Rectal. Document everything." No inflection. No praise. No irritation. Just efficiency.
You begin to wonder if you've offended him somehow, if you said something wrong in that half-finished introduction, if he's already decided you're incompetent.
And worse is when he decides to quiz you. In front of everyone. It happens without warning. You'll be mid-sentence presenting, heart pounding but voice steady, and suddenly: "What's the mechanism of action? What's the dose adjustment in renal impairment? Why are we not worried about this potassium?" The entire workstation goes quiet. Monitors beep, keyboards click somewhere distant, but around you there's silence. You can feel everyone watching, feel the heat climbing your neck before the question's even finished. And he stands there, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, not cruel, not mocking, but unrelenting. Observing you like a case study, like pressure applied to see where the structure cracks.
Sometimes you get it right. Relief flickers through your chest. Sometimes you stumble, your brain scrambling because under his gaze the information feels locked behind a door you can't open. And when you stumble, he doesn't rescue you. He waits. Eyes steady. Clinical. Almost like he gets off on watching your ears slowly turn red.
You hate that your body betrays you like that, heat creeping up your neck, settling in your cheeks. You hate that your pulse pounds so loud you're convinced he can hear it. You hate that he notices. Because he notices everything: your hesitations, your second guesses, the way you grip your pen too tight, the way your breathing changes when you're unsure. He doesn't smile when you're right, just a short nod and a quiet "Good," as if competence is the baseline and approval unnecessary. But when you miss something, his correction is precise and sharp: "You're thinking too small. Don't anchor. You're not listening." Not cruel. Just exact.
You go home some nights replaying his voice in your head more than your patients. You'll be brushing your teeth and suddenly hear, āDiagnosis?ā You'll lie in bed thinking about the way he narrowed his eyes when you hesitated. You tell yourself it's educational, that this is how you get better. And the worst part? You can't even say you dislike him.
He's brilliant.
You've watched him drop central lines like it's muscle memory, smooth, controlled, no wasted movement. Watched him read an EKG in three seconds and call a cath lab activation before anyone else saw it. You've seen attendings defer to him without realizing they're doing it. He moves through the ER with sharp assurance, diving into cases with quick, bold moves. He thrives here. The chaos seems to hum in tune with him, like he's tuned to the same frequency as crashing vitals and overhead pages. He requires little to no supervision. He makes sound judgment calls. He is a natural. Patients stabilize under his hands. Nurses trust his orders. Other residents watch him the way you do, carefully.
And you? You are just trying not to drown. You're triple-checking doses, replaying histories in your head, second-guessing your differentials, trying to look composed while your insides buzz with constant self-evaluation.
You tell yourself it doesn't matter that he's never asked where you're from. Never asked how you're settling in. Never once used your name unless it's attached to a task. You tell yourself you don't care that when other attendings laugh at something you say, he doesn't even glance up. That when you stay late to finish notes, he leaves without looking back. You tell yourself it's better this way. Clean. Professional. Unattached.
Except safe is a lie you tell yourself when you don't want to admit you're lonely.
By the end of that first week, your throat is raw from swallowing questions. Your feet ache in a way that makes you feel older than you are. Youāve learned the geography of the department, where the crash carts hide, which nurses will teach you without making you beg, which attendings like bullet points instead of paragraphs. Youāve learned how to move quickly without looking like youāre running.
What you havenāt learned is how to exist here as a person.
Because Langdon doesnāt leave room for personhood. Around him, you become a set of tasks. A pair of hands. A voice delivering data. And when he erases you, you start erasing yourself too, tightening your smile, shrinking your presence, making yourself smaller so you can be overlooked on purpose instead of by accident.
So when someone finally looks at you like youāre not just another intern-shaped obstacle in the hallway it hits harder than it should.
The other intern starts paying you attention in a way that feels deliberate.
It begins so small you almost convince yourself you imagined it.
His chair nudges closer when youāre both charting. Not close-close, not touching, but enough that the wheels squeak and the gap between your elbows becomes a suggestion instead of a fact. He angles his screen a fraction toward you like youāre a team. He asks questions he could absolutely look up himself.
āHey,ā he says one night shift, voice pitched low over the constant chorus of monitors and overhead paging, āwhat did you put for your differential on the syncope in 12?ā
You blink at him. āUh. Orthostatic, arrhythmia, anemiaā¦ dehydrationā¦ PE because sheās on oral contraceptives and -ā
He grins. āSee, that. Your brain. I like it.ā
You stare at the note youāre writing, suddenly unable to remember how to spell dehydration.
Dating is the last of your worries. Youāve got exams that sit like bricks in your stomach, the kind you canāt chew through or swallow, just carry. Youāve got skills checklists. Youāve got a list of procedures youāre terrified youāll never get smooth at. Youāve got attendings with eyes like scalpels and nurses who have seen every brand-new intern fall apart at least once.
You do not have time for any of it.
āYouāre doing fine,ā he adds, as if he can read the thought scrawled across your forehead. He swivels his chair another inch closer. āSeriously. First week is brutal. I nearly cried in the supply closet.ā
You snort despite yourself. āYou?ā
āYeah,ā he says, leaning in like heās telling you a secret. āBecause I couldnāt find the right size IV catheter and a trauma rolled in and I thought Iād end up on the news as āintern who killed a man with incompetence.āā
Your laugh escapes you before you can trap it. It feels warm in your chest. Dangerous.
He keeps talking. About normal things. Safe things. The cafeteria coffee that tastes like someone tried to brew despair. The bizarre number of adults who come in convinced theyāre dying because they ate a gummy vitamin on an empty stomach. The way the overhead voice always sounds slightly disappointed in everyone.
You find yourself relaxing around him in the same way you relax when you finally take off shoes that have been pinching you all day. Itās not romantic, you tell yourself. Itās not like that.
It canāt be like that.
Because the ER is a world that eats softness for breakfast.
And because Dr. Langdon is still moving through it like a blade.
Dr. Langdon notices.
You donāt see it at first, because youāve trained yourself not to look at him unless you absolutely have to. Not because youāre terrified, though thereās a small, humiliating part of you that is, but because attention from him has never meant anything good.
Attention from Langdon means scrutiny.
It means: Why didnāt you order that? Why is this missing? Whatās your plan?
It means: Say it. Out loud. In front of everyone.
It means the slow, creeping heat up your neck while the other interns suddenly become very interested in their keyboards.
So you adapt.
You keep your eyes on your work. On your patients. On the numbers. On the tiny order sets and lab trends and checkbox decisions that feel like they weigh a thousand pounds when youāre new and everything could be a mistake.
You make yourself smaller around him.
Efficient. Neutral. Unremarkable.
You do not look at him.
But you feel him anyway.
You feel him the way you feel a storm building, pressure shifting, air charged, something metallic under your tongue. The sense that if you glance up, youāll find his eyes already there.
Itās subtle at first.
Youāre at the central station, charting. The department hums in the background, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms, a stretcher rattling past, the overhead pager clearing its throat before announcing another consult.
Evan slides his chair closer.
Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just enough that the wheels squeak softly against the floor.
His knee bumps yours under the desk.
āSorry,ā he murmurs.
He doesnāt move away.
āMm,ā you reply, eyes fixed stubbornly on the screen like the sodium level in room twelve is the most fascinating thing youāve ever seen.
Evan leans slightly toward you, pointing at your note. āYouāre writing likeā¦ a lot.ā
āItās thorough,ā you say defensively.
āItās pretty,ā he says, too earnest.
You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you and tilts upward. āThatās not a word anyoneās ever used for my documentation.ā
He shrugs, smiling. āFirst time for everything.ā
You both laugh, quiet, contained, like youāre not sure laughter is allowed here.
Itās small. Harmless. Normal. And thatās why it stands out.
Because normal doesnāt live here very long.
Across the department, someone calls, "Trauma to bay two!" The world shifts instantly, chairs scrape, nurses move, someone swears, a monitor alarm spikes. You and Evan stand in tandem, chairs skittering back. Your pulse jumps ahead of you, already in trauma mode. You grab your stethoscope, brain switching gears so fast it almost hurts.
You jog toward the bay and nearly collide with Dr. Langdon.
He's moving in the opposite direction, purposeful and fast, like the chaos parts around him by instinct. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't slow. You misjudge the distance. Your shoulder clips his chest, solid, unyielding, and the impact sends a sharp jolt through you. Your balance tips backward, stomach dropping as your heels slide against the polished floor.
And then his hands are on you. Both of them. Firm and strong. One gripping your upper arm, the other catching your opposite shoulder, fingers spreading instinctively to steady you before you can tumble. The contact is automatic, reflexive, controlled, but solid enough that you feel it everywhere. Through the thin cotton of your scrubs, straight to your pulse. His grip is steady, grounding, decisive. For a breath, you're chest to chest, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that your brain blanks entirely.
You look up. He's already looking down at you. Not annoyed, not amused. Focused. His jaw tightens slightly, eyes scanning your face as if confirming you're upright, intact.
"You need to watch where you're going," he says, voice low and even. But there's something under it, sharper than irritation.
Your hands are still half-raised from the impact, fingers curled against the front of his scrub top. You hadn't realized you'd grabbed him.
"I- sorry," you breathe.
He doesnāt release you immediately. His hands remain at your arms a fraction longer than necessary, like he's making sure you're steady, like he's reluctant to let go before he's certain you won't fall. Then, slowly, his grip loosens. His fingers slide away from your sleeves. The absence of his touch feels abrupt.
"Room five's ECG?" he asks.
Back to business. Back to clinical tone. But your skin is still buzzing where he held you. And you're suddenly very aware that in a department full of motion and noise, he was the only thing that didn't move. This time he's not looking past you. He's looking at you. Really looking.
"I ordered it," you say quickly, throat tight. "It should be-"
"It should be done," he cuts in. Same tone, same efficiency. Except his fingers don't leave your elbow right away. You become acutely aware of everything, how close he's standing, how steady his gaze is, how your skin feels too tight.
"Go," he says.
You nod, stepping out of his grip. The loss of contact is almost as noticeable as the touch itself.
Behind you, Evan says, "Hey-" and then stops, like he's just realized he shouldn't have spoken. You risk a glance back. Evan is staring at Langdon the way you stare at a dog that hasn't decided whether to bite. Langdon doesn't look at him at first. Then he does. Brief. A glance. But it's cold and direct and unmistakably territorial. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.
He turns away, already moving toward trauma bay two with that confident, clipped stride, quick, bold, certain. Gloves snapping onto his hands as he walks. Voice cutting cleanly through the noise as he calls for airway equipment.
But as he passes the central station, his gaze sweeps the desk where you and Evan had been sitting. Where the chairs were too close. Where your knees had touched.
He slows. Just a fraction. Barely perceptible.
And then he's moving again.
The thing about Langdon is that he exists in two speeds, with no comfortable middle ground. One is absolute stillness, standing at the foot of a bed, hands in his pockets, watching monitors like they're about to confess something. The other is sudden, decisive action: gloves snapping on, voice cutting through chaos, ordering the room into obedience without ever raising it. You've seen him drop a central line like it was nothing, intubate like breathing, read an EKG and decide someone's fate in seconds. You've also seen him stare blankly when a patient cries, like he's waiting for the crying to finish so the real conversation can continue.
You don't know what he is right now, stillness or action. He's leaning against the nurse's station, coffee in hand, pretending to read a chart. But you know he saw. He saw Evan's chair close to yours. He saw Evan leaning in. He saw you laughing. It shouldn't matter. It's ridiculous that it does. But you feel the weight of his attention anyway, heavy and wordless, pressing against the back of your neck like a hand you can't brush away.
That night, you find yourself in the supply room, restocking IV kits. Itās a small, quiet way of being helpful, trying to be useful, trying to be the kind of intern people donāt regret letting into the room. The space is narrow and overbright, shelves stacked to the ceiling with gauze, syringes, saline flushes, and IV start kits in plastic-wrapped bundles that crinkle when you touch them. It smells faintly of antiseptic and cardboard, and the fluorescent light hums overhead like itās tired too. You count under your breath as you stack the kits, one, two, three, because if your hands are busy, your brain doesnāt spiral.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, the sound too loud in the small room. You hesitate before pulling it out, as if you already know who it is. You coming to grab coffee after? ā Evan. You stare at the message like itās a trick question, like thereās a correct answer and youāre about to choose wrong. You want to say no. You want to say you donāt have time, that you have to go home and study and sleep and prepare for tomorrow like youāre about to climb a mountain barefoot. You want to be disciplined, focused, untouchable. But you also want to say yes. Because youāre lonely. Because the ER is loud and relentless, and youāre new and trying so hard not to make mistakes that youāve stopped breathing properly. Because every interaction with Langdon feels like a test you didnāt know you were taking, while Evanās attention feels easy. Dr. Langdonās attention, on the other hand, feels like a spotlight you canāt escape.
You type: Maybe. Iām still on shift. The three dots appear almost immediately. Iāll wait. Your heart does something annoying and fluttery at that, something you donāt have time for. You tuck the phone away quickly, as if someone might see it and confiscate it, and grab another box of saline flushes.
You step sideways to reach the upper shelf, and nearly walk right into Dr. Langdon. Heās standing in the doorway, blocking most of the light like a cutout, like heās been there long enough to watch you but not long enough for you to notice. Your pulse spikes. Heās in navy scrubs, sleeves pushed up slightly, forearms bare. He looks less like a physician and more like something carved sharp and deliberate out of the chaos. His face is the same calm mask youāve come to resent, composed, impassive, unreadable, but his eyes flick briefly to your pocket, then back to your face.
āBusy?ā he asks. You blink. āUhā¦ no. Just restocking.ā Your voice sounds thinner than youād like. A pause stretches between you. He steps inside, and the room feels smaller instantly, the shelves feel closer. Youāre suddenly hyperaware of how narrow the space is, how thereās nowhere to step without brushing against him. Your brain tries to supply a reason for him to be here and comes up empty. āI need a 20-gauge,ā he says. You nod too quickly and point toward the upper drawer. āTop left.ā
He doesnāt move. Not immediately. Instead, he looks at you, not through you, but at you like heās trying to read a label you forgot to attach.
āYouāre doing a lot of socializing,ā he says. The words land hard. Not loud or angry, just extremely personal. It hits you like a slap, not because itās cruel but because it means he noticed.
Your mouth opens and nothing comes out for a second. āIām- what?ā you manage. His gaze doesnāt waver. āAt the station.ā
Heat floods your face, immediate and humiliating. āWe were charting,ā you say, defensive before you can stop yourself. āAnd talking. Itās not, I mean, itās not like Iām neglecting patients.ā
āI didnāt say you were,ā he replies. Thereās a faint, dry edge to his tone, not mocking, not quite, but more like something sharpened and carefully controlled. āThough I can see why youād jump to that conclusion.ā Your nails dig into your palm. āWhy are you even-ā
He moves then. Steps closer. Close enough that you have to shift backward slightly to avoid bumping into the shelving behind you. He reaches up past you to grab the 20-gauge catheter. Itās on the top shelf, which means he has to lean in, one arm braced lightly against the metal shelving beside your head, the other reaching over your shoulder. His chest is inches from yours. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint brush of fabric as his scrubs shift, the subtle scent of antiseptic and coffee and something clean and sharp that is just him.
Youāre in his bubble. Or maybe heās in yours. Either way, itās too close. Your breath catches. His fingers close around the catheter, but he doesnāt rush to pull away. For a second, his arm is still braced beside you, his head angled slightly downward, close enough that if you tilted your chin up, youādā¦
You swallow hard. He straightens slowly, stepping back just enough to create space again. He slips the catheter into his pocket.
āYouāre new,ā he says, voice quieter now, controlled. āDistractions donāt help.ā You stare at him.
āSo youāre what,ā you say, pulse still unsteady. āGiving me advice?ā
āIām telling you to keep up,ā he replies. There it is, the familiar tone. Cold. Professional. Precise.
He turns to leave, then stops in the doorway, like something invisible caught him by the collar. Without looking back, he adds, āEvanās not as helpful as he looks.ā You blink, thrown. āWhat does that mean?ā His shoulders tense, just slightly, a small, betraying movement.
āIt means,ā he says, voice flatter now, tighter, āthat not everyone who smiles at you is doing it for you.ā The words hang in the air, heavy, layered. And then heās gone. Just like that. You stand there among the saline flushes and IV kits and fluorescent hum, staring at the doorway like it might explain itself. Your pulse is still racing, your skin still buzzing where he leaned too close.
Your phone buzzes again. You almost drop it. Still alive? ā Evan. You swallow. Your fingers hover over the screen longer than they should. Yeah. Just busy. You hit send. And you donāt know why your hands are still shaking.
When you step back onto the floor from the supply room, the noise hits you all at once. Monitors chirp in uneven rhythms, someone argues with radiology over a delayed scan, a stretcher rattles past with a patient clutching an emesis bag. It should feel grounding, familiar chaos, something you can disappear into, but your skin still hums where Langdon leaned in, where his arm braced beside your head, where his voice dropped just enough to make his warning feel less like professional advice and more like something else entirely.
You tell yourself to shake it off. You adjust your badge, smooth the front of your coat, force your shoulders back into something resembling composure. You are fine. You are not a first-year med student flustered by proximity. You are a resident. You have patients waiting.
Evan is at the central station exactly where you left him, perched sideways in his chair with one elbow hooked over the back. He looks up immediately when you approach. His expression changes in a way thatās almost imperceptible but unmistakable, his smile softens, his brows knit slightly.
āHey,ā he says quietly. āYou look like you saw a ghost.ā
You busy yourself with logging back into the computer, grateful for the barrier of the screen. āJust inventory,ā you reply. āThrilling stuff.ā
He doesnāt laugh. He studies you instead. āWas he in there?ā
You glance at him before you can stop yourself. āWho?ā
Evanās mouth tilts knowingly. āCome on.ā
You donāt answer, which is answer enough.
He swivels his chair closer, lowering his voice. āDid he say something?ā
Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You could tell him. You could repeat Langdonās line about distractions, about not everyone smiling at you for the right reasons. You could admit that it rattled you more than it should have. Instead, you shrug.
āIt was nothing,ā you say. āHe needed a catheter.ā
Evanās jaw tightens just slightly. āOf course he did.ā
Thereās a beat of silence before he nudges a paper cup toward you across the counter. You hadnāt noticed it sitting there.
āCoffee,ā he says. āI grabbed you one earlier. Figured youād say yes eventually.ā
You stare at it. You hadnāt agreed. Youād said maybe. Thereās something about that, about him assuming, that makes you hesitate.
āI donāt know if Iāll be able to,ā you say carefully. āAfter shift. I have notes. And I should probablyāā
āStudy,ā he finishes for you, smiling gently. āYou always say that.ā
You do hesitate. You feel it, how easy it would be to say no and retreat into the safe, disciplined version of yourself. But youāre tired. Your throat still feels tight from swallowing everything Langdon didnāt quite say.
āMaybe,ā you repeat, softer this time.
Evanās smile widens. He takes it as encouragement, as progress. āIāll walk you to your car at least,ā he says. āYou donāt have to decide about coffee yet.ā
Before you can respond, a voice cuts across the station.
āRoom twelveās repeat labs?ā
You recognize his voice before you register the words. It cuts cleanly through the background noise of the department, steady, level, impossible to ignore. You hadnāt seen him approach. One second it was just you and Evan and the low murmur of shared conversation, and the next Langdon is there at the opposite end of the counter, close enough that his presence shifts the space.
He rests one hand lightly against the workstation, long fingers spread against the surface as he studies the patient board. He doesnāt look at Evan. He doesnāt even look at you at first. His gaze moves quickly over the columns of names and times and pending labs, absorbing everything in a way that makes you feel like the board itself is reporting to him.
āTheyāre pending,ā you answer immediately, your voice sharper than you intend. You are suddenly very aware of how close Evanās chair is to yours, how the paper coffee cup sits near your elbow like evidence.
Langdonās eyes lift then.
Not the familiar quizzing look that pins you in place and demands an answer. Not the dissecting one that strips your plan down to bone. This is different. Quieter. Slower. His gaze settles on you with a kind of measured consideration that makes your stomach tighten.
āCall the lab,ā he says. āTheyāve been slow all night.ā
Thereās nothing in his tone to object to. Itās practical. Sensible. You nod and reach for the phone without argument, grateful for something concrete to do.
Beside you, Evan shifts. āI can callāā
āI asked her,ā Langdon replies.
He doesnāt raise his voice. He doesnāt sharpen it. The words are delivered evenly, almost mildly, but they land with the weight of a closed door. Controlled. Clean. Final.
Evan stills.
You feel the change in atmosphere immediately, a subtle tightening that hums between them. Itās the kind of shift that might go unnoticed by anyone not standing inside it, but you are standing inside it, and it makes your pulse stutter.
Langdonās gaze drops briefly, and for a moment you think heās returned to the board. He hasnāt. His eyes flick downward, not to your face, but to the space between you and Evan. To the angle of your chairs. To the proximity that had felt harmless a minute ago. To the coffee cup by your hand.
Then his eyes return to you.
āRoom eight needs reassessment,ā he says. āNow.ā
You almost tell him you were about to go. The words rise instinctively to defend yourself, to prove youāre not distracted, not careless. But something in his expression holds you back. It isnāt irritation. It isnāt disappointment. Itās something more tightly drawn, something that feels less like critique and more like containment.
āYes,ā you say instead.
You push your chair back and stand. Evan stands too, instinctively falling into step with you. āIāll come withāā
āNo,ā Langdon interjects smoothly. He shifts his attention to Evan for the first time, though he doesnāt fully face him. āYouāre with me in bay three.ā
Evan hesitates. āI thought I wasāā
āYouāre with me,ā Langdon repeats, already turning away as if the matter is settled.
He doesnāt look back at Evan again. He doesnāt need to. The authority in his tone is enough.
You walk toward room eight with your heartbeat drumming faintly in your ears, acutely aware that Langdon didnāt accuse you of anything. He didnāt comment on the coffee. He didnāt mention Evan by name. He didnāt need to.
He simply rearranged the room.
And in doing so, he separated you.
Through the glass panels, you catch a glimpse of him in bay three. He stands beside Evan now, posture relaxed, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other gestures lightly toward the monitor. His voice carries in low, measured tones, the same voice he uses when heās instructing, when heās teaching without humiliation. Anyone watching would see nothing unusual. Just a senior resident guiding a junior.
But thereās a tightness in his jaw that wasnāt there before. A slight tension at the edge of his mouth.
Evan listens, nodding stiffly.
For a brief moment, Langdonās eyes lift from the monitor and travel across the department.
They find you. It isnāt accidental. It isnāt wandering. Itās deliberate.
His expression doesnāt change, but thereās no clinical distance in that look. No impersonal assessment. It feels direct in a way that makes your breath catch, as if heās measuring something that has nothing to do with lab values or vital signs.
You look away first.
You tell yourself itās because you have a patient waiting.
For the rest of the shift, the undercurrent remains. It isnāt loud or explosive. Thereās no confrontation. No raised voices. Just presence.
Langdon appears at your shoulder more often than strictly necessary, leaning in to review your notes and correcting details that are technically fine. He redirects you to different rooms whenever Evan drifts too close, assigning you tasks in that calm, unarguable tone. When he asks you questions, they sound casual to anyone listening, but thereās weight beneath them, a focus that feels personal.
He doesnāt touch you again. He doesnāt mention Evan. But he watches.
And you can feel it, steady and unrelenting, like a hand hovering just at the small of your back.
Over the next few shifts, the changes are subtle enough that you can almost pretend they arenāt happening.
Evanās chair ends up beside yours more often than not. If thereās an open workstation further down the counter, he ignores it. If someone else sits near you, he finds a reason to hover. It starts with proximity and the easy comfort youād already let yourself accept. His knee brushes yours under the desk during charting, and at first you assume itās accidental. The second time, he murmurs a soft apology without moving away. By the third time, you realize heās angling his body toward you deliberately, his thigh resting just close enough that youāre aware of the contact even when youāre trying not to be.
When you pass charts back and forth, his fingers graze yours. The touch lingers half a second longer than necessary. He smiles each time, casual, like thereās nothing loaded in the gesture at all. It would be easy to dismiss it as friendliness if you werenāt starting to feel the pattern.
He compliments your work constantly, and at first itās harmless. āYour notes are always the clearest.ā āYou think through things better than most of us.ā Itās validating in a way that feels almost dangerous after the steady pressure of Langdonās scrutiny. Where Langdon finds gaps, Evan highlights strengths. Where Langdon pushes, Evan reassures.
But then the compliments shift.
āYou know,ā Evan says one night as youāre both reviewing labs, āyouāre wasted trying to get his approval.ā
You glance at him. āWhat?ā
He nods subtly toward the far end of the station where Langdon stands with a nurse, reviewing imaging. āYou work harder than anyone here. And he acts like youāre just barely keeping up.ā
Your jaw tightens. āHe doesnāt act like that.ā
Evan raises an eyebrow. āHe doesnāt even look at you unless heās quizzing you.ā
The words hit closer than you want them to.
You turn back to your screen. āHe looks at everyone like that.ā
āNot like he looks at you,ā Evan says quietly.
You donāt respond, but you feel it settle somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.
Langdon does look at you differently. Youāve felt that shift. The attention that lingers a second too long. The quiet assessments that feel less clinical lately. The way he rearranges assignments without explanation.
You tell yourself itās professional.
Evan doesnāt seem to think so.
āYou deserve someone who actually sees you,ā he continues, softer now. āNot someone who treats you like a project.ā
The comment is too personal. It crosses a line you hadnāt agreed to draw. You let out a short laugh to deflect. āIām not looking for someone.ā
āI know,ā he says. āBut still.ā
Thereās something in his tone that makes your skin prickle.
Across the department, Langdon shifts position. You donāt mean to look, but you do. Heās no longer focused on the imaging. His posture has changed slightly, weight angled toward the station. His gaze isnāt openly fixed on you, but it isnāt random either. It passes over the counter, over the cluster of residents, and lands briefly on Evanās hand where it rests too close to yours.
He doesnāt say anything.
He doesnāt have to.
The escalation continues in increments small enough that no one else would notice.
When youāre presenting a patient, Evan steps closer than necessary, shoulder brushing yours as he leans in to āadd context.ā When Langdon moves into the space to ask a question, Evan shifts just slightly to remain between you and him, like itās instinctive. Itās subtle positioning, but you feel it every time.
One afternoon in the hallway outside radiology, Evan reaches for your elbow to steer you toward a case. His grip is light, but itās firm enough that you stop walking. āYou donāt have to impress him,ā he murmurs. āYou know that, right?ā
You pull your arm back gently. āIām not trying to impress anyone.ā
āYou always tense up when heās around,ā Evan says. āYou donāt do that with me.ā
Thereās a reason for that. Being around Evan feels easy because thereās no risk of humiliation. No sudden questions. No razor-sharp corrections. With Evan, youāre not constantly bracing.
With Langdon, you are always aware.
And lately, Langdon seems just as aware of you.
He appears beside you mid-conversation more frequently. He asks for updates directly from you, even when Evan has just spoken. When you and Evan are reviewing imaging together, Langdon inserts himself with quiet authority, leaning over your shoulder to point out a finding. His arm doesnāt touch you, but the space between you shrinks until youāre hyperaware of the heat of him.
āYour interpretation?ā he asks you, ignoring Evan entirely.
You answer. He listens. The intensity of his focus feels different now. Less about exposing flaws. More about pulling something from you specifically.
Evan notices.
You can see it in the way his jaw tightens when Langdon interrupts. In the way he lingers afterward, stepping back into your space the second Langdon walks away.
It becomes a pattern.
If Evan leans in, Langdon appears.
If Evan touches your wrist while handing you a pen, Langdon assigns you to a different room.
If Evan positions himself at your side during a trauma, Langdon directs him elsewhere with a calm, unarguable instruction.
āBay four,ā heāll say, not looking at Evan. āYouāre needed.ā
He never references you. He never mentions what heās doing.
He just rearranges the board.
And every time, his gaze flicks to you afterward, measuring something.
The tension builds in layers. Easy warmth on one side. Controlled intensity on the other.
Evan grows more confident in his closeness. He stands a little nearer. Lets his hand rest at the small of your back when guiding you through a crowded hallway. Compliments your appearance once, casually, like itās nothing. āYou look good today,ā he says, eyes lingering just long enough to make it clear he means more than your documentation.
You laugh it off. You tell yourself itās harmless. But youāre aware of the way Langdonās attention sharpens when it happens.
He doesnāt confront Evan. He doesnāt confront you. He simply watches. And that might be worse than if he did.
Because thereās no explosion. No scene. Just a steady tightening of something unspoken. His presence becomes heavier, his proximity more deliberate. When he stands beside you now, it feels intentional. When he corrects you, it feels personal.
Langdon offers pressure. Focus. A gaze that feels like it sees straight through you.
And the more Evan pushes, the more Langdonās silence grows charged.
The shift is nearing its end when it happens. The waiting room has thinned, the chaos dulled into a tired hum. Itās that strange hour where the ER exhales but never fully sleeps. The overhead lights feel harsher somehow, casting everything in pale fluorescence. You tell yourself you just need to get through the last few tasks, med reconciliation in room nine, discharge paperwork in twelve, restock the airway cart because no one else will.
You duck into the medication room to grab antiemetics for a patient who hasnāt stopped vomiting since triage. The space is narrow and poorly ventilated, shelves packed with labeled drawers and locked cabinets. The lighting is softer in here, slightly dimmer than the hallway, giving everything a muted edge. The door swings shut behind you with a quiet click.
Youāre reaching for the ondansetron when you hear it open again.
You donāt have to turn around to know who it is.
āHey,ā Evan says quietly.
You glance over your shoulder. He closes the door more firmly this time, not aggressively, but enough that the latch catches.
āI just needed to grab something,ā you say, gesturing vaguely at the shelves.
āYeah,ā he replies, stepping inside. āI figured.ā
Thereās less space now. The room was small before. With him in it, it feels close.
You turn back to the cabinet, trying to keep it normal. āDid you need something?ā
āActually,ā he says, and his voice is different. Softer. Intentional. āI wanted to talk to you.ā
You feel your shoulders tighten. āAbout?ā
He exhales slowly, leaning back against the counter behind him. āAbout us.ā
Your stomach drops.
āThere isnāt an us,ā you say lightly, trying to defuse whatever Ethan thinks is going on.
He smiles, but it doesnāt quite reach his eyes. āCome on. Youāve been giving me a chance.ā
You hesitate. That word. Chance. You remember the coffee. The maybe. The way you didnāt shut him down cleanly because you didnāt want to be harsh.
āI said maybe to coffee,ā you reply carefully. āThatās notāā
āItās not nothing,ā he interrupts gently. āYou didnāt say no.ā
He pushes off the counter and steps closer. Not abruptly. Not threateningly. Just closing the distance inch by inch.
āYouāve been leaning in,ā he continues. āLaughing. Staying. You couldāve walked away.ā
Your back brushes lightly against the shelving. You hadnāt realized youād stepped backward.
āI was just being friendly,ā you say.
āAnd I was being more than that,ā he says.
Thereās something in his tone now that makes your pulse spike. Confidence. Assumption.
āYou deserve someone who actually sees you,ā he adds quietly. āNot someone who only talks to you when he wants to correct you.ā
Your chest tightens. You know who he means. The comparison feels like a hook under your skin.
āThatās not fair,ā you say, though youāre not entirely sure who youāre defending.
āI see you,ā Evan says. āI see how hard you work. I see how he looks at you like youāre a problem to solve.ā
You donāt answer. He steps closer again. This time, thereās no pretending itās accidental.
Your brain blanks for half a second. Itās not violent. Itās not forceful. But itās not invited either. The shock of it steals your breath. You freeze, muscles locked, trying to catch up with whatās happening.
āYou donāt have to impress him,ā he murmurs. āYou donāt have to prove anything.ā
He leans in. You see it coming. You know what heās about to do.
And still, you hesitate. Because you donāt want to make a scene. Because you donāt want to hurt him. Because you hate confrontation more than almost anything.
His other hand comes up to your shoulder, fingers curling gently but possessively. His face is inches from yours now.
And then he kisses you.
Itās not rough. Not aggressive. But itās claiming.
Your body doesnāt respond. Thereās no spark. No pull. No answering shift. Thereās only heat flooding your face and the sudden, sharp realization that this is wrong.
In a spilt second you shove him back.
Itās not dramatic. Itās not a slap. Just a firm push against his chest that creates space between you.
āIām sorry,ā you blurt immediately, the words tumbling out on instinct. āI didnāt meanāIām sorry.ā
He stares at you, stunned.
āWhy are you apologizing?ā he asks.
āBecause I didnātāI didnāt mean to give you the wrong idea.ā
āYou didnāt,ā he insists. āYou were into it.ā
Your stomach twists.
āI wasnāt,ā you say, stepping sideways so youāre no longer pinned against the shelving. Your voice is quieter now, but steadier. āI wasnāt.ā
His expression hardens slightly, confusion edging toward defensiveness.
āI was tired,ā you say, the embarrassment burning up your neck. āAnd I thought we were justāā
āJust what?ā
āColleagues,ā you finish.
Silence stretches between you.
You feel foolish. Guilty. Like youāve somehow created this misunderstanding even though you know you didnāt ask for his hand on your waist.
āIām sorry,ā you repeat, because it feels easier than standing firm.
Evan exhales sharply. āI thought you wanted this.ā
āI donāt,ā you say. The words land heavier than you expect.
He studies your face for a moment, searching for something, doubt, regret, invitation. Whatever heās looking for, he doesnāt find it.
āIs it him?ā he asks quietly.
Your heart stumbles.
āWhat?ā
āIs it because of him?ā
You donāt answer. The door handle rattles suddenly from the outside. Both of you look toward it instinctively.
And when it opens, it isnāt a nurse who steps inside.
Itās Langdon.
His gaze moves once, slow and deliberate.
He takes in Evanās position first. The way Evan is standing too close to you. The way your back is angled toward the shelving instead of toward him. The small but unmistakable distance youāve created since pushing him away. The tension still held tight in your shoulders.
Then his eyes lift to your face. There is no surprise in them. No visible anger. No flare of temper. Only calculation.
For a moment, the three of you exist in a suspended pocket of silence. The ventilation hums softly overhead. The fluorescent light flickers faintly. Your pulse is loud in your own ears.
Langdon doesnāt ask whatās going on.
He doesnāt look at Evan again immediately.
He looks at you.
āRoom nine is asking for you,ā he says evenly.
His voice is steady, measured, perfectly professional. Anyone overhearing it would hear nothing but routine workflow. But you know the board. You know no one paged you for nine. The lie is clean enough that no one else would question it.
You swallow. āI was justāā
āI know,ā he says.
The words are quiet, but they land with weight. Not accusatory. Not sympathetic. Just certain.
Evan shifts beside you. āSheās with me.ā
Langdonās head tilts slightly, though he still hasnāt fully turned toward him. Thereās a faint tightening at the edge of his mouth, so small it would be easy to miss if you werenāt watching him.
āYouāre needed in CT,ā Langdon replies.
Itās the same tone he uses when ordering imaging or redirecting a consult. Calm. Unimpeachable.
Evan frowns. āWe were in the middle of something.ā
Now Langdon looks at him.
Itās not a glare. Itās not heated. Itās colder than that. The kind of look that strips away assumption and leaves nothing but hierarchy.
āSheās needed,ā he repeats, and then his gaze shifts back to you.
āNow.ā
He says it to you, not to Evan.
The emphasis is subtle, but unmistakable. His eyes hold yours when he says it, steady and unwavering, as if waiting to see which direction youāll move.
You donāt hesitate this time. āOkay.ā
The word feels small in your mouth, but you step forward anyway. As you move past him, youāre acutely aware of his presence in the doorway. He shifts slightly, not enough to block anyone outright, but enough that Evan would have to brush past him to follow.
Evan doesnāt try.
Thereās a flicker of irritation in his expression as he steps back. āFine,ā he mutters.
Langdon doesnāt acknowledge the tone. He doesnāt need to. He simply turns and walks into the hallway, assuming you will follow.
You do.
The ER noise crashes back in around you, bright and unrelenting. A nurse near the station glances up as you and Langdon emerge from the med room together. Her eyes linger half a second too long, curiosity sparking. Another resident pauses mid-sentence, gaze shifting between the three of you.
No one says anything out loud.
But the shift is felt.
Langdon moves through it as if nothing is unusual. His posture is relaxed, shoulders loose, one hand slipping casually into the pocket of his scrubs. If someone were watching from a distance, they would see only a senior resident redirecting a junior. Efficient. Ordinary.
Except you were just inside that room.
You know it wasnāt ordinary.
āRoom nine,ā he says again, as if reinforcing the fiction. āTheyāve been waiting on reassessment.ā
His tone leaves no space for debate.
You nod and move ahead, but he doesnāt immediately peel away to another task. Instead, he remains within a few steps of you, close enough that you feel the steadiness of him at your back.
Evan reappears near the central station, jaw tight, watching. Langdon doesnāt look at him. He doesnāt address him again. The dismissal is complete.
As you reach the workstation to pull up room nineās chart, Langdon stops beside you. He leans one hand on the counter, close but not touching, his gaze fixed on the screen.
āYou okay?ā he asks quietly.
The question is almost clinical in delivery, but thereās nothing clinical about the way his eyes flick over your face.
Itās the first time heās asked something like that.
You nod automatically. āIām fine.ā
His jaw shifts slightly, as if heās weighing the truth of that statement.
āIf I wanted to embarrass you,ā he says, voice low enough that it doesnāt carry beyond the two of you, āI would have asked what was happening in there.ā
Your breath catches.
āI didnāt,ā he continues. āThat was intentional.ā
Thereās no triumph in his tone. No self-congratulation. Just fact.
Heat spreads up your neck, but this time it isnāt humiliation. Itās something more complicated.
āI didnāt need rescuing,ā you reply, the defensiveness rising before you can stop it.
His gaze sharpens slightly at that.
āI know,ā he says.
The simplicity of the answer unsettles you more than any argument would have.
āEthan mustāve missed the importance of the consent talk in medical school,ā he says quietly, almost under his breath.
He saw enough. Not the kiss but enough to step in. And he did it without raising his voice, without making a scene, without staking a claim in words.
A nurse calls his name from across the station. āDr. Langdon, they need you upstairs. A helicopterās arriving.ā
His expression shifts instantly, smoothing back into its usual controlled neutrality, the personal sealed away behind professional focus. He nods once toward the nurse, already recalibrating.
Then his eyes return to you.
āWalk with me,ā he says.
It isnāt a request.
He doesnāt wait to see if you hesitate. He turns, already moving toward the elevators, long strides confident and unhurried. For half a second you consider staying where you are, consider letting the moment dissolve back into workflow. But something in the way he said it, quiet, direct, deliberate, pulls you forward.
You follow.
The department parts around him as it always does. Nurses step aside without being asked. A tech moves a stretcher just enough to clear his path. You trail half a step behind at first, then fall into stride beside him. He doesnāt look at you as you walk, but you are acutely aware of his presence. Of the contained energy in his movements, the tension held just beneath the surface.
When you reach the elevators, he presses the call button once. The doors open almost immediately.
He steps inside and turns, holding the door with one hand as it begins to slide closed.
āInside,ā he says, his gaze locking onto yours.
You step in. The elevator doors slide shut with a muted thud, sealing you into a narrow metal box that suddenly feels far too small for both of you. The noise of the ER is cut off mid-breath. No monitors. No overhead paging. No nurses moving past with charts. Just the low mechanical hum as the car begins to descend.
Langdon stands opposite you at first, hands loosely at his sides, posture composed as ever. The fluorescent light overhead casts sharp lines across his face, emphasizing the hard set of his jaw. He doesnāt look at you immediately. He presses the button for the lower floor with the same calm precision he uses to order imaging or start a procedure.
āYou canāt let people corner you like that,ā he says, tone level, controlled.
It sounds clinical. Detached. As if heās discussing airway management.
You stare at the brushed steel wall instead of at him. āI wasnāt cornered.ā
He shifts his weight slightly, and you feel the movement even without looking. āYou were,ā he replies. āAnd you didnāt shut it down fast enough.ā
Heat flares in your chest. āI handled it.ā
āYou froze.ā
The word lands hard.
You turn to face him fully. āYou donāt get to dissect that.ā
His eyes meet yours then. Steady. Assessing. Thereās no mockery in them, no satisfaction at catching you off balance. If anything, thereās tension threaded beneath the surface.
āYouāre here to work,ā he continues. āNot to manage other peopleās feelings.ā
Something in you snaps.
āWhy do you care?ā The question comes out sharper than you intended, but you donāt pull it back.
His expression doesnāt change. āI donāt.ā
Itās automatic. Defensive. Too quick.
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. āRight.ā
The elevator hums as it moves downward. You can feel the faint vibration through the soles of your shoes.
āIf you donāt care,ā you press, stepping closer despite yourself, āthen why do you always target me?ā
That hits. You see it. The smallest tightening at the edge of his mouth. The brief flicker in his eyes that suggests youāve struck something real.
āI donāt target you,ā he says, but the certainty in his voice isnāt as solid as it was a moment ago.
āYou quiz me in front of everyone. You call on me when you could call on anyone else. You make me feel like Iām constantly one mistake away from being exposed.ā Your voice is rising, not loud, but intense. āYou humiliate me in front of the entire station and then act like itās teaching.ā
The elevator jolts slightly as it slows, then continues moving. Neither of you look at the floor indicator.
āI push you because you can take it,ā he says quietly.
āThatās not an answer.ā
āYou want an answer?ā His composure fractures just enough for you to see the strain beneath it. āYouāre capable. More than you think. And you waste time trying to make people comfortable instead of being right.ā
āYou think I care about making people comfortable?ā
āI think you apologize when someone crosses a line instead of setting one.ā
Your breath catches.
He steps closer.
Not abruptly. Not aggressively. Just enough that the space between you narrows from several feet to a breath and a half.
The elevator lurches and comes to a temporary halt between floors. The lights flicker once, then steady. The mechanical hum shifts into a strained whir.
You both feel it.
Neither of you mention it.
āYou warned me about him,ā you say, your voice lower now, more deliberate. āWhy?ā
His gaze sharpens. āBecause he doesnāt see you.ā
The answer is immediate.
You swallow. āHe does.ā
āHe sees attention,ā Langdon corrects. āHe sees access. He doesnāt understand what you are.ā
āAnd what am I?ā you challenge.
He hesitates for the first time.
The pause is small but seismic.
āYouāre not naive,ā he says finally. āBut you donāt always recognize when someone is positioning themselves to own a piece of you.ā
The words hang heavy between you.
āYou donāt get to decide who gets me,ā you reply, heart pounding so loudly youāre sure he can hear it.
His jaw tightens.
āI know.ā
The admission is quieter than anything heās said so far.
The elevator remains stalled, suspended in that strange mechanical limbo. The air feels warmer. Thicker.
You take another step forward before you can stop yourself. Now thereās barely space between you. You can feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
āYou act like Iām incompetent,ā you continue, but your voice has lost some of its edge. It sounds almost unsteady now. āLike Iām a liability youāre constantly monitoring.ā
His eyes darken slightly.
āIf you were incompetent,ā he says, āI wouldnāt waste my time.ā
Itās blunt. Unvarnished. Entirely him.
āThatās not reassuring.ā
āItās not meant to be.ā
Your breathing shifts. Youāre aware of it. A little faster. A little shallower.
He notices. Of course he does.
āI donāt humiliate you,ā he says, voice lower now. āI refuse to let you hide behind being new.ā
āAnd what does that have to do with him?ā you press.
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes.
āI donāt trust him with you.ā
The honesty of it knocks the air from your lungs.
The elevator hum deepens as it prepares to move again, but the car remains suspended for a few more seconds that feel longer than they should.
āYou donāt trust him,ā you repeat slowly. āOr you donāt trust yourself?ā
The question lands harder than you expected.
His hand flexes slightly at his side.
āYou think this is about me?ā he asks, but thereās no heat in it. Only tension.
āI think you care,ā you say. āAnd you donāt know what to do with that.ā
Silence fills the space between you. Dense. Charged.
The elevator jolts back into motion, but neither of you break eye contact.
āYou donāt get to claim me because you noticed first,ā you continue, voice barely above a whisper now. āYou donāt get to decide who gets close.ā
He inhales slowly.
āIām not claiming you.ā
The lie is softer this time.
The elevator slows as it approaches the next floor. The subtle deceleration shifts your balance forward slightly. Instinctively, his hand lifts, hovering near your waist as if to steady you, though he doesnāt quite touch.
Your eyes drop to the space between you.
Then back up.
āYou stepped in,ā you say. āYou redirected him. You separated us.ā
āYes.ā
No denial.
āAnd youāre telling me that wasnāt personal?ā
His jaw tightens again.
āIt was necessary.ā
āFor what?ā you demand.
His gaze burns into yours.
āFor you.ā
The word lands in your chest like a weight.
Your breathing falters. The space between you shrinks further without either of you consciously deciding to close it. The elevator hum is the only sound now, mechanical and distant.
āI donāt need protecting,ā you whisper.
āI know.ā
āBut you did it anyway.ā
āYes.ā
The silence between you stretches so tight it feels like it might snap.
The elevator hums as it descends, but the sound is distant, mechanical, nothing compared to the sound of your own breathing. You're standing too close now. You don't remember stepping forward, and yet there's barely an inch of space between your bodies. The fluorescent light above flickers faintly, washing his face in pale sharpness, jaw clenched, eyes darker than they were moments ago.
"You don't get to decide who gets me," you say again, but the edge in your voice has thinned into something more fragile. More honest.
His chest rises slowly, deliberately. "I know."
He says it like it costs him something.
You hold his gaze, refusing to look away this time. "Then stop acting like you do."
Something shifts in his expression then. Not anger. Not control. Something far more dangerous.
"You think I don't know that?" he asks quietly. His voice is lower now, rougher around the edges. "You think I don't know I don't get toā"
He cuts himself off.
The elevator jolts slightly as it slows, the mechanical tension mirroring the strain in the air between you. You feel the deceleration pull you forward a fraction. His hand comes up instinctively to steady you, fingers wrapping around your waist before he can stop himself.
The contact is firm. Unthinking. You both freeze. His grip tightens.
For a split second, neither of you move. Your hands are hovering near his chest, your breath caught halfway between inhale and exhale. His thumb presses into the small of your back, anchoring you there.
His eyes drop to your mouth.
And something in him snaps.
His hand leaves your waist only to slide upward, fingers curling around your jaw. Not gentle. Not tentative. His palm is warm and solid against your skin as he tilts your face up toward his.
The kiss is sudden.
It isn't careful. It isn't sweet.
It crashes into you.
His mouth finds yours with a force that steals the air from your lungs. There's no soft lead-in, no hesitant brush. It's hunger and frustration and restraint breaking all at once. His grip on your jaw tightens just enough to hold you in place, to keep you there.
For half a second, you freeze.
Shock flares through you, bright and blinding.
And then you kiss him back.
Your hands fist into the front of his scrubs, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. The world narrows to heat and breath and the solid line of his body pressed against yours. The kiss deepens, not slow but desperate, like something long denied finally breaking free.
He makes a low sound against your mouth, almost angry, almost undone.
"Tell me to stop," he breathes, the words rough against your lips. But his mouth doesn't leave yours, can't leave yours, and his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. "Tell me you don't want this."
You don't tell him anything. You can't. Your brain has stopped functioning entirely, reduced to nothing but sensation, the heat of his palm against your skin, the press of his body, the way his breath hitches when you tug him closer.
His other hand slides back to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the tension in him, the battle between control and want playing out in the way his fingers flex against your side. He kisses you again, harder this time, deeper, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he's been thinking about this far longer than he'll ever admit.
"You have no idea," he murmurs between kisses, voice frayed, "what it's been like. Watching you. Every single day."
His lips trail to the corner of your mouth, then to your jaw, hot and insistent.
"Watching him touch you."
His teeth graze your pulse point, just enough to make you gasp.
"Smile at you."
His hand presses harder against your lower back, arching you into him.
"While I stood there. Pretending I didn't notice."
You can barely breathe. Your fingers twist tighter into his scrubs, knuckles brushing the warm skin of his chest where the V-neck gaps.
"Dr Langdonā"
The kiss slows then, just slightly. Just enough to feel every point of contact, every slide of tongue, every shared breath. His thumb traces slow circles against your hip, grounding you both.
It is not gentle. It is not careful. It is everything you both tried not to let happen.
The elevator dings.
The sharp chime slices through the heat between you, dragging reality back into the small metal box.
Langdon pulls away first.
Not gently. Not reluctantly.
Abruptly.
His hand drops from your face as if the contact has burned him. He steps back, putting a fraction more distance between you, though the air still feels charged and thin. His chest rises and falls harder than youāve ever seen outside of a code, breath controlled but not steady. His jaw is set tight, a muscle ticking faintly near his temple. His eyes are bright, too bright, and thereās something raw there, something unguarded that he would hate anyone else seeing.
āThis is a mistake,ā he says, voice rougher than usual, like the words have scraped their way out of him.
You donāt trust yourself to speak. You nod, staring at the closed doors in front of you, trying to slow your breathing, trying to gather whatever professionalism you have left and stitch it back into place.
The doors slide open.
Noise floods in, voices overlapping, monitors chiming, the distant whir of a stretcher being rushed past.
You step out first.
He follows.
For a few steps, you walk side by side without touching, without speaking. He has already rebuilt the mask, shoulders squared, expression composed, the efficient senior resident returning to his post as if nothing has happened. If anyone were watching, they would see nothing but hierarchy restored.
You make it halfway down the corridor before curiosity gets the better of you.
You glance back. Just for a second. You expect to find him cold again. Distant. Regretful.
Instead, you catch him watching you.
And he is trying, very clearly trying, not to smile.
Itās subtle at first. The faintest curve threatening the corner of his mouth. The tightness in his jaw isnāt anger anymore; itās restraint. Not of temper. Of amusement. Of satisfaction.
Your heart stumbles painfully in your chest.
For all his talk of mistakes, he doesnāt look like a man who regrets what he just did.He looks like a man who has finally stopped pretending.
The sight cracks something in you. You feel it before you can stop it, the answering lift at the corner of your own mouth. You try to suppress it. You fail.
Your eyes meet fully this time and something unspoken passes between you. The tension breaks.
A quiet, breathless laugh escapes him first, low, almost disbelieving. It pulls a matching sound from you, soft and incredulous and a little wild. You both turn your faces slightly away as if that will make it less obvious, less dangerous, but the laughter lingers in your eyes.
No one around you notices.
To everyone else, this is just another shift. Another trauma incoming. Another page overhead.
But the axis has shifted.
He straightens, composure sliding back into place, though the ghost of that almost-smile remains.
āHelicopterās landing in two,ā he says, voice steady again, but warmer somehow.
You nod, pulse still racing.
Everything has changed.
And as you fall into step beside him, the chaos of the hospital helipad rushing up to meet you, one thought threads clean and undeniable through the noise.
Synopsis: Rivals turned undercover partners, you and Leon Kennedy fake a relationship during an Umbrella operation. Only to realise the hardest mission isnāt 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.Ā
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 werenāt waiting. Like you didnāt already know exactly who youād be fighting for space with.
The board flickered.
For a split second, everything went dark.
Then the names snapped into place.
#1 ā YOU
#2 ā LEON KENNEDY
The reaction was immediate.
A low whistle cut through the room. Someone muttered, āJesus, again.ā Another agent laughed softly, like theyād just lost a bet.
You didnāt smile.
Smiling wouldāve 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 didnāt react. No sigh. No curse. No flicker of irritation that wouldāve 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.
āCongrats.ā
The word was clean. Controlled. Devoid of warmth. Not a compliment, an obligation. You turned on him immediately.
āWow,ā you said, voice light in a way that wasnāt. āThat sounded painful. You okay?ā
A few agents nearby froze, suddenly very interested in anything that wasnāt the two of you. Someone cleared their throat. Loudly.
Leonās eyes slid to you thenāreally looked. Blue, steady, unreadable. Like he was cataloguing you, the way he always did, as if you were a problem he hadnāt solved yet.
āIāll survive,ā he said. āI usually do.ā
There it was. The implication. The reminder. That he didnāt need the board. Didnāt need the validation.
You scoffed. āRight. Keep telling yourself that.ā
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 didnāt make your blood boil. Metrics didnāt make you remember every mission where heād overridden your call. Every briefing where heād questioned your judgment with that infuriating calm. Every time heād 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 hadnāt mattered.
As if you hadnāt mattered.
Your fingers curled before you could stop them. You remembered the first time youād tried to talk to him. Fresh out of training, adrenaline high, stupid enough to think camaraderie was a given. Youād said his name.
Heād walked straight past you. Youād 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 didnāt care. You absolutely did.
The mission briefing chime cut through the operations floor with surgical precision.
āConference Room A. Five minutes.ā
The reaction was immediate and universal.
Groans rippled through agents who hadnāt 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 wasnāt 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 handlerās podium. Perfect posture. Perfectly composed. Like heād 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 didnāt 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 didnāt look at you. Didnāt 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.
āUmbrella-affiliated assets have increased activity along the European biotech circuit,ā the handler said, laser pointer gliding across the map. āHigh-profile events. Private funding galas. A lot of noise. Very little traceable movement.ā
Leon leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table.
āWhich means the actual exchange wonāt happen on-site,ā he said. Calm. Certain. āItāll be routed through a secondary node. Off-grid. Clean.ā
You didnāt look at him.
āOr,ā you cut in, eyes still fixed on the screen, āthey keep it local because no one expects them to risk exposure in a room full of donors and diplomats.ā
The room stilled. You felt the shift before you saw it, attention pivoting, subtle but undeniable. Leon turned his head slowly. Deliberately.
āThat would be sloppy,ā he said. No heat. No edge. āUmbrella isnāt sloppy.ā
You let out a soft, humourless breath. āNeither are shell corporations hiding in plain sight,ā you replied. āEspecially when theyāre backed by people who think money makes them invisible.ā
A pause. Leonās mouth twitched. Not irritation. Amusement.
āThatās an assumption,ā he said. āArrogance isnāt a reliable variable.ā
You turned then, meeting his gaze head-on. āIt is when arrogance is the only reason theyāve survived this long.ā
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 didnāt intervene, never did. Not when it was the two of you. Theyād learned better. From somewhere across the room, barely under someoneās breath, came a muttered, āGod help whoever has to work with them.ā
It wasnāt cruel. It wasnāt annoyed. It was resigned.
You saw Leonās 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 wasnāt 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 didnāt 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 wasnāt 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.
āEnough,ā they said. Calm. Firm. āBoth of you.ā
You leaned back in your chair, jaw tight, eyes still forward.
Leon didnāt move at all.
Except for that damn smirk that hadnāt quite faded.
The briefing ended the way most did.
Not with resolution but with an abrupt cutoff and a roomful of people pretending they hadnāt 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 couldnāt.
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 werenāt careful, wrap around your ankle and drag you down with it.
You were halfway to the door when the handlerās voice cut through the noise.
āYou. Kennedy. Stay.ā
Your spine stiffened.
Of course.
Leon stopped beside you without looking at you, like heād been expecting it. Like this was just another outcome heād 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 didnāt 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.
āYouāre going to hate this assignment,ā they said evenly. āSo Iām going to give it to you quickly.ā
Leonās 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.
āUmbrella-adjacent shell companies have been laundering research funding through three different foundations,ā the handler continued. āOne of them is sponsoring this gala. Donors, executives, foreign ambassadors. Wealth. Influence. Enough plausible deniability to make a prosecutor cry.ā
Another click.
A timeline appeared. Then a guest list, names blurred, titles redacted, power implied without explanation.
āTonight,ā the handler said, ātheir data broker makes a handoff. We believe it includes proprietary files and field logs. Evidence of illegal trials. Off-book transport routes. Personnel rosters.ā
Your focus sharpened despite yourself.
āWhereās the handoff happening?ā you asked.
Leon beat you by half a second.
āAnd how do we extract it without tipping the room?ā
You felt irritation spark immediately. Predictable. Of course heād jump straight to logistics, like this was just another clean operation and not a nest of vipers in tuxedos.
The handlerās eyes flicked between you again, cataloguing the tension like it was another asset to manage.
āThe handoff is digital,ā they said. āEncrypted 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.ā
Too clean.
You frowned. āSo we infiltrate. Grab the device. Disappear.ā
āCorrect,ā the handler said. āWhich is why this is an on-site operation. No drones. No external breach. Umbrellaās countermeasures are tight.ā
Leonās jaw flexed once. Barely noticeable. You caught it anyway.
āThen weāll need invitations,ā he said.
āAlready handled.ā
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. āNo.ā
The handler didnāt blink. āYes.ā
You let out a short laugh, sharp, humourless. āAbsolutely not.ā
Leon still hadnāt 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 wouldāve looked exactly like this.
āThe guest list is exclusive,ā the handler continued. āCouples only. Itās not charity, itās a filter. Singles draw scrutiny. Couples imply stability.ā
You leaned forward, palms slamming onto the table. āSend literally anyone else.ā
āThere is no anyone else,ā the handler replied calmly. āNot for this.ā
Your temper flared hot and fast. āWhy? Because weāre top-ranked?ā
āBecause your skill overlap is ideal,ā they said. āOne of you excels in social manipulation and close-quarters infiltration. The other excels in threat assessment and extraction under pressure.ā
You opened your mouth.
āDonāt,ā the handler said sharply. āYouāre both excellent. Together, youāre efficient.ā
Leon finally spoke.
āAnd if we refuse?ā
Low. Controlled. Dangerous in its restraint.
The handler didnāt soften. āThen we miss the handoff. Umbrella keeps their data. People die later because we didnāt do our jobs now.ā
Cold. Final.
You clenched your jaw. āSo your plan is to shove us into a ballroom and hope we donāt kill each other.ā
āMy plan,ā the handler said, āis to send two professionals into a controlled environment with a clear objective. Your personal feelings are irrelevant.ā
āTheyāre not irrelevant if they compromise the mission,ā you snapped.
Leon glanced at you then.
Brief. Sharp.
Unreadable.
He didnāt defend you. Didnāt agree. Didnāt 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 theyād already charted.
āIf you canāt play nice for one night,ā they said evenly, āyou donāt deserve that leaderboard.ā
The words landed hard. Because they were true.
Because the leaderboard wasnāt just numbers. It was proof. Of every sacrifice. Every cut corner. Every fight youād survived to get here. You felt the hook sink deep.
Leon didnāt 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.
āYouāll attend as Dr. and Dr.,ā they said, sliding dossiers across the table. āLong-term couple. Convincing. You will touch. You will smile. You will sell it.ā
You stared at the dossiers like they were weapons. Leon picked his up with careful precision. Of course he did.
āThis is not optional,ā the handler said. āGet the device. Get the data. Come back.ā
They looked at you both.
āTry not to embarrass me.ā
The door unlocked with a hiss.
You didnāt move.
Neither did Leon.
The truth settled ugly and heavy in your chest.
You werenāt 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 didnāt do cozy. It did functional. It did survive.
A door slid open at the handlerās badge swipe, revealing a smaller room tucked off the main mat space. It was laid out like an interrogation room that had triedāand failedāto 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.
āSit,ā 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.
āYouāll fill these out together,ā they said. āYour cover is long-term. Married. High-value donors with private ties to the foundation. Security will look for inconsistencies: names, habits, timelines. If you donāt align, youāll set off alarms before you hit the champagne.ā
They pushed a third folder toward Leon. āApartment layout. Memorise it. If someone asks where the bathroom is in your home, you answer without thinking.ā
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.
āIāll be outside,ā the handler added. āYou have forty minutes. Try not to kill each other.ā
The door shut.
Click.
You and Leon were left alone with the lie. For a moment, neither of you moved. Leonās 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.
āThis is ridiculous.ā
Leon finally lifted his gaze. āItās standard.ā
You scoffed. āStandard. Right. Because nothing says āauthentic marriageā like a fill-in-the-blank worksheet.ā
He picked up his pen. āHow did we meet?ā
The bluntness threw you for a second. āWow. No warm-up? No foreplay?ā
Leon didnāt blink. āFocus.ā
You rolled your eyes. āFine. Prague.ā
His pen paused midair. āVienna.ā
You stared. āIām sorry, did you just veto my city?ā
āVienna makes more sense,ā he said evenly. āDiplomatic circuit. Donors. Embassy galas.ā
āPrague is beautiful,ā you shot back. āHistoric. Romantic. Exactly the kind of place two rich idiots would pretend to fall in love over overpriced wine.ā
He exhaled slowly, like he was counting to ten. āWe need a story that holds up under scrutiny.ā
āAnd we need one that doesnāt sound like it was written by a man who alphabetises his spices.ā
A flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes. āI donāt alphabetise my spices.ā
āWow. Growth.ā
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 wasnāt all fake anyway.
Leon tapped the page. āVienna. We met at a benefit dinner. You spilled a drink on me.ā
You barked a laugh. āOf course I did.ā
āItās memorable.ā
āIt makes me clumsy.ā
āIt explains why we talked.ā
You bristled. āOr you bumped into me.ā
Leon raised an eyebrow. āThat makes you the victim.ā
āAnd?ā
āIt makes me the asshole.ā
You smiled sweetly. āFinally. Something accurate.ā
For a second, his mouth twitched. Barely. Gone as fast as it appeared.
āAnniversary date,ā you said quickly, flipping the page.
āNovember,ā Leon said without hesitation.
āWhy November?ā
āForgettable.ā
āWow. Romantic.ā
He didnāt react. āThe fifteenth.ā
You paused. āThatās weirdly specific.ā
His gaze flicked away. Just for a fraction of a second. āItās fine.ā
You narrowed your eyes. āYou absolutely have something on the fifteenth.ā
āNo.ā
āUh-huh.ā
You wrote it down anyway.
Pet peeves.
You read the line and looked up. āThis is where you put āpeople who talk too much,ā isnāt it?ā
Leon folded his arms. āItās where we put things we can answer quickly.ā
āOh. Then write āemotion.āā
āWhatās yours?ā he countered.
āMen who think silence counts as depth.ā
His pen stilled. āYou hum when youāre thinking.ā
āI do not.ā
āYou do.ā
āThatās not a pet peeve.ā
āIt is when itās constant.ā
Heat crept up your neck. āYouāre creepy.ā
āObservant.ā
Next line.
Pet names used in public.
You stared at it like it might explode.
āNo.ā
āWe need something.ā
āSomething neutral.ā
āBabe.ā
You physically recoiled. āAbsolutely not.ā
āSweetheart.ā
āTry again.ā
āWhat do you suggest?ā
āHoney.ā
Leon grimaced. āThatās worse.ā
āItās normal.ā
āIt sounds like a threat when you say it.ā
You gasped. āRude.ā
āPick one.ā
You exhaled hard. āLove.ā
He froze.
āWhat?ā you snapped.
āItāsā¦ British.ā
āWeāre in London half the year. Write it down.ā
He did.
Your stomach did something annoying.
You shoved the clipboard away. āDone?ā
Leon flipped to the apartment layout. āNo.ā
He started listing details like a man preparing for war. Door directions. Furniture placement. Appliance locations.
āYouāre insane,ā you muttered.
āItās my job.ā
The way he said it stopped your next insult cold. Before you could unpack that, the door hissed open.
āTime,ā the handler said. āTraining.ā
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 didnāt look at you. He didnāt 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.
āClose-quarters,ā the handlerās voice cut through the din from the edge of the mat. āNo distance. No weapons. Youāre going to be in each otherās space until one of you breaks or the clock does.ā
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.
āTry to keep up,ā 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. āShow me.ā
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.
āYield.ā A single, quiet word, dropped into the scant space between your mouths.
You bared your teeth, a soundless snarl. āDream on, Kennedy.ā
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. Leonās 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.
āNot so perfect,ā 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. āYouāre fast.ā
It wasnāt 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.
āAgain,ā 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.
āYou fight angry,ā he muttered, the words a low vibration in the scant space between your bodies as you circled again, panting.
āYou fight like a robot,ā you shot back, your voice raw.
āYouāre predictable.ā
āOnly to someone arrogant enough to think theyāre smarter.ā
āI think youāre reckless.ā 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, Leonās 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.
āLive-fire simulation,ā the handler called, gesturing to the adjacent door. āNow.ā
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 couldnāt 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 wasnāt 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.
āReset!ā the handlerās 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 hadnāt 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 didnāt 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 wasnāt 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 didnāt 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. Justā¦ present. Men and women with immaculate posture and smiles that didnāt 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 werenāt 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. Youād be lying if you said you hadnāt 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 lookedā¦ safe. Predictable. It was the most effective disguise heād 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.
Leonās 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. āThey didnāt mention the dress.ā
You kept your eyes forward, scanning the crowd. āItās not in the briefing notes, Kennedy. Itās called a uniform.ā
āItās a distraction,ā 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 wasnāt tentative. It wasnāt 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. āEasy,ā he murmured, his voice a velvety counterfeit of intimacy. āSmile.ā
You did, a perfect, glazed curve of the lips. Under your breath, barely moving them, you hissed, āIf you leave your hand there any longer, Iām billing the DSO for emotional damages and a dry-cleaning bill. Your palm is sweating.ā
Leon didnāt look at you. His hand didnāt move. If anything, his fingers pressed more firmly, pulling you a millimetre closer into the orbit of his body. āRelax, sweetheart,ā he said aloud, his tone soft, affectionate, convincingly doting. āYou look breathtaking.ā The endearment was a bullet wrapped in velvet.
A nearby couple glanced over, their smiles fond and approving.
Your jaw ached from clenching. āYou sound disturbingly natural. I think I might throw up.ā
His mouth curved, a private, dangerous flicker. āThatās because youāre holding your breath. Theyāll notice the lack of oxygen before they notice the lie.ā
āMaybe if you werenāt manhandling me.ā
āMy handās not moving,ā he replied, his calm an infuriating counterpoint to your tension. āYouāre just hyper-aware of it. Mission focus, remember?ā
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.
Leonās 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. āThis is ridiculous,ā you muttered, your own gaze locked on the executive.
āFocus,ā Leon murmured, his voice a low vibration you felt in your bones. āHeās not just looking. Heās calculating. Smile at him. Like you find him tedious.ā
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 manās gaze lingered, then moved on, satisfied you were no one of consequence.
Leon exhaled, a soft sound that feathered against your skin. āSee? Thatās the point.ā
You glanced up at him, your cheek nearly brushing his jaw. āDonāt get smug.ā
āIām not smug,ā he said, raising a hand to effortlessly snag two champagne flutes from a passing server. He handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours. āIām effective.ā
āYou remembered the champagne,ā you noted flatly, taking the glass.
āI remember things,ā he replied, his eyes scanning the room over the rim of his flute. āDrink with your left hand. Your ringās on the right. It flashes under the lights.ā
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. āStop paying attention to irrelevant details about me.ā
āCanāt,ā Leon said, his voice dropping back into that confidential murmur as he guided you away from the bar. āThatās the job tonight. Every detail is relevant.ā
The orchestra swelled as the evening deepened. The air grew thick with perfume and false camaraderie. Leonās 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 wasnāt 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.
āForgive me,ā he said pleasantly, inclining his head. āI donāt believe weāve been introduced.ā Leon smiled before you could respond, warm and unhurried. āOf course. This is my wife.ā The word still sent a strange jolt through you.
āAnd you are?ā the man asked, turning his attention to you. āInvolved in the foundation as well?ā
You opened your mouth to speak. To think of something fast before you started spilling word vomit.
āShe is,ā Leon answered smoothly, his hand settling at your back again. āShe 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.ā
You stilled. Just for a fraction of a second. The manās brows lifted, impressed.
āShe has a talent for finding inefficiencies people prefer not to admit are there,ā Leon continued, tone light, almost fond. āSheās very good at seeing patterns others miss.ā
Your heart stumbled. The guest chuckled. āDangerous skill.ā
Leonās thumb brushed your spine once, subtly. Familiar. āOnly if youāre hiding something.ā
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.
āHow did you know that?ā you asked quietly, once you were certain no one was listening.
Leon didnāt look at you. āYou did it during the Marseille op,ā he said simply. āFlagged the discrepancy in the shipping logs. Everyone else missed it.ā
āThat was years ago,ā you said. āI remember,ā 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. āTheyāre eating this up. Itās almost pathetic.ā
āYes,ā Leon replied, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder. His breath was warm on your neck. āThey are.ā
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 roomās 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. āYou step on my feet,ā you whispered, āand Iāll make a scene theyāll talk about for years.ā
A ghost of a real smile touched his lips. āNoted.ā
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.
āYou dance like you fight,ā you accused as he led you into the first steps.
āPrecisely?ā he murmured, his eyes holding yours.
āStiffly. Like youāre waiting for an attack.ā
āYouāre leading.ā
āI am not.ā
āYouāre anticipating my lead and resisting it. Itās the same thing.ā He adjusted his grip, his hand on your back firming, guiding your turn. āStop fighting the rhythm. Let it happen.ā
You bristled. āI donāt just let things happen.ā
He leaned in, his lips a breath from your ear. His voice dropped, losing its polished edge, revealing the rougher truth beneath. āYou do. You always have. You anticipate the strike. You brace for the impact. Youāre doing it now.ā
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. Leonās 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.
Leonās voice was a raw scrape against your ear, all pretence of gentleness gone. āTheyāre locking the perimeter. Brokerās in the east wing. We need to move.ā
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 didnāt 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.
āNext time,ā you said, your voice strangely thin, āwarn me before you decide to be competent at something.ā
He looked at you, his blue eyes stripped of their usual ice, something darker and more complicated swirling in their depths. āYou didnāt need a warning. You kept up.ā
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 scientistās 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. Leonās 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 roomās rhythm as the night edges closer to whatever Umbrella has planned.
Leonās 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 heās consciously reining himself in. His voice reaches you through the comm, low and steady beneath the orchestra.
āBrokerās device is active. Signal spike just came online.ā
Your gaze sweeps the room automatically, cataloguing exits, shadows, patterns. āVIP lounge,ā you murmur.
āYes,ā Leon replies. āBut thereās a secondary access corridor behind the east stairwell. Two choke points.ā A pause. āIf we go together, we bottleneck.ā
You glance up at him, jaw tightening. āIf we split, we lose eyes.ā
āWe gain speed.ā
āAnd risk,ā you counter quietly, lips barely moving as a couple passes too close. āSecurityās tightening. Theyāre already clocking patterns.ā
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 heās been wearing for the room.
āProtocol says split,ā he says. āTwo access points. Redundancy.ā
You scoff under your breath. āProtocol didnāt account for Umbrella improvising.ā
āIt accounts for us adapting.ā
āIt accounts for you adapting,ā you snap back, the edge in your voice slipping through despite your control. āIām the variable youāre pretending isnāt there.ā
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps once, just beneath the skin.
āThatās not what Iām doing.ā
āIsnāt it?ā You lean in closer, the pretence of intimacy giving your words cover. Your pulse is loud now, insistent. āBecause ever since that-ā You stop yourself, breath hitching. āSince earlier, youāve been playing it safe.ā Leonās breath stutters once. Barely perceptible. But you feel it.
āIām playing it smart,ā he says.
You shake your head. āSame thing. Different excuse.ā
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. Leonās hand doesnāt. His fingers remain splayed at your side, warm and grounding, the pressure unmistakable.
āListen to me,ā he says quietly now, close enough that his breath warms your ear. āThe device will be gone in minutes. If we hesitate, we lose it.ā
āAnd if something happens?ā you whisper back. āIf one of us gets boxed in-ā
āWe wonāt,ā he says too fast.
You pull back just enough to look at him. āYou donāt know that.ā
For a moment, the argument stalls. You donāt 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 heās forcing himself to let go.
āTwo minutes,ā he says, voice clipped. āIf either of us hits resistance, we abort and regroup at point C.ā
āAnd if comms drop?ā you ask.
He doesnāt hesitate. āThen you trust me.ā
The words land harder than they should. You swallow. āThatās a big ask.ā Leon turns back to you, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes give him away. āYou already do.ā
You hate that heās right. The realisation burns low and sharp in your chest.
āFine,ā you say, forcing steel into your voice. āEast stairwell. Iāll take the service corridor.ā
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 werenāt 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. āSorry, restrooms?ā He hesitates. Just long enough. āDown the hall,ā he says eventually, gesturing.
You thank him and keep walking, heart thudding. You feel the weight of the distance now, the absence of Leonās quiet presence through the comms, the way he usually covers angles you donāt 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.
āLeon,ā you murmur into the comm. āDevice isnāt here.ā
A beat. āIām seeing the same,ā he replies. āTheyāve moved it.ā
āWhere?ā
āVIP lounge,ā he says. āSecurity just doubled.ā
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.
āLeon,ā you hiss.
āI hear it,ā he says immediately. āStay calm.ā
āWorking on it.ā
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.
āYou okay?ā Leon asks, voice steady but tight.
āYes,ā you lie. āJustā¦ boxed in.ā
A pause. You can hear his breathing through the comm now, controlled but faster.
āIām rerouting,ā he says. āHold.ā
You close your eyes for half a second, forcing yourself to breathe. You trust him. The guardsā voices grow clearer. Keys jingle. Someone tests the door. Your hand tightens around your weapon.
āLeon,ā you whisper. āIf this goes loud-ā
āIt wonāt,ā he says. āIāve got you.ā
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.
āMove,ā he says.
You donāt 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 galaās 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.
Leonās head snaps up. āThatās not fire protocol,ā he says into the comm, voice already shifting into command mode.
āItās not us,ā you reply, breathing hard as you jog. āWe havenāt even touched the-ā
āDoesnāt matter.ā His tone turns razor-thin. āUmbrella emergency.ā
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 Umbrellaās.
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.
āContact!ā someone barks. āTarget moving, east corridor!ā
Your comms crackle with interference, the line spiking and dropping as systems overload. Leonās grip tightens once, steadying you, not for comfort, you tell yourself, but for speed.
āYou okay?ā he asks, already moving.
āFine,ā you snap, then add, because honesty feels like weakness, āTheyāre faster than I expected.ā
āTheyāve been waiting,ā Leon says. āWe triggered something they wanted triggered.ā
You hate that heās right. Hate that it means this wasnāt 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 itās bleeding.
Leon slows just long enough to scan. āNo exits.ā
āThen we make one,ā you say, already reaching for the weapon concealed beneath your dress.
Leonās gaze flicks to your thigh holster, then to your face. No comment. No surprise. Just that quiet, grim acceptance that youād both come prepared.
A burst of gunfire erupts behind you.
Leon pushes you forward. āMove.ā
You sprint. Heās 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. Youāre 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 doesnāt 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.
Leonās voice is low, calm. āThree behind. Two ahead.ā
You swallow the adrenaline and check your magazine. āLeft side is mine.ā
āCopy.ā
You hear the click of his gun as he finishes his reload. You donāt need to see it. You know the sound now, the rhythm of him, how long it takes, when he needs cover, when heās 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 itās always been there.
Leonās 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 enemyās line of fire before it can settle.
You fire.
Leon fires.
Two bodies fall.
Youāre 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 youāre 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 Leonās hand comes up immediately, palm to your shoulder, guiding you down behind a corner.
āStay low,ā he murmurs.
āDonāt tell me what to do,ā you hiss automatically.
Leon doesnāt take the bait. He leans out, fires twice, then pulls back, already reloading. āCover me.ā
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. Leonās reload finishes. Heās 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.
āWeāre getting boxed,ā you warn.
Leonās eyes flick. āWe go now.ā
You donāt 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. Leonās 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, thereās only your breathing and the distant muffled alarm.
Leonās 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.
Youāre 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. āYou hit?ā
āNo,ā you say, then more softly, āYou?ā
He shakes his head once.
Your comms crackle again. A burst of static. Then the handlerās voice cuts in, strained: āEmergency protocol is fully active. Extraction compromised. Get that device and get out. Now.ā
Leonās gaze meets yours.
And for the first time all night, thereās no sarcasm in it. No rivalry. No distance.
Just certainty.
āWe finish this,ā he says.
You swallow, pulse still pounding.
āYeah,ā you reply. āWe finish it.ā
Then you move again together, like youāve 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 isnāt elegant, but itās 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 itās 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.
āStay still,ā he says, already closing the distance.
āI am still,ā you snap, even as you straighten reflexively.
His hands are on you before you can objectāefficient, 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. āI said Iām fine.ā
Leonās jaw tightens. āHumour me.ā
āI donāt recall that being part of the mission.ā
His eyes flick up to meet yours, sharp, annoyed, but thereās something else there now too. āYou flinched.ā
āYou were in my line of fire,ā you fire back. āDonāt make it weird.ā
āIām not,ā he says quickly, hands dropping. āIām checking my partner.ā
The word lands heavier than either of you expect.
You scoff, turning away to pace the small room. āDonāt get sentimental now.ā
Leon exhales slowly through his nose. āYouāre the one snapping.ā
You whirl back on him. āBecause you nearly got yourself shot pulling that move back there.ā
āAnd you nearly took a round to the head rushing that corner,ā he shoots back without missing a beat.
There it is, the familiar bite. The clash. But it doesnāt sting the way it used to.
You hold his gaze, chest still heaving. āYou didnāt have to cover me.ā
Leonās voice is steady, but quieter now. āYes, I did.ā
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. Youād 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 wasnāt 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 youād stopped mistaking restraint for dismissal.
Leon shifts his weight, eyes still on you. āYou good?ā he asks again, softer this time.
You nod once. āYeah.ā
A beat passes.
āYou fight like me,ā you add, almost against your will.
His brow furrows slightly. āNo. You fight like you.ā
You huff a quiet laugh. āThatās not what I meant.ā
āI know,ā he says.
Another silence, but this one is different. Less sharp. Less hostile. Charged, but steadier.
Leon glances toward the barricaded door, listening. āWeāve got maybe ninety seconds before they reroute.ā
You straighten, rolling your shoulders despite the ache settling into them. āThen weād better move.ā
He nods, and for the first time, thereās 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 isnāt safe in any comforting way.
Itās a concrete box tucked behind an unmarked service door three levels below street access, the kind of place that doesnāt 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 heād 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 lookā¦ less polished too. Your dress is torn at the hem, a thin snag running along your thigh where youād caught it on something sharp while vaulting a barrier. Your hair has slipped free of its careful pins. Thereās 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 doesnāt 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.
Leonās gaze flicks to you anyway.
You hate that he notices everything. Hate that youāre 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 youād hit the wall harder than you meant to.
Your body is remembering youāre human.
Itās 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 heād said Iāve 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. āWe got it.ā
āYeah,ā you answer too quickly. āWe got it.ā
He nods once, but his eyes donāt move away from you. Thereās 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 donāt 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.
āSit,ā Leon says.
It isnāt an order. Not really. Itāsā¦ practical. Almost gentle.
āIām fine,ā you snap automatically.
Leonās jaw tightens. He doesnāt argue, he simply steps closer and reaches for the small first aid kit mounted on the wall. You hadnāt 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 isnāt 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 heās not untouched either.
That realisation lands strangely. Youāve spent so long imagining him as something unbreakableāsmooth, composed, always in control. Seeing the cracks should satisfy you.
It doesnāt.
It makes your throat tighten.
āGive me your hand,ā Leon says, still not looking directly at you.
You laugh once, short and sharp. āThatās rich.ā
He finally looks up. āDonāt start.ā
The tone is familiar, dry, controlled, but it lacks its usual bite. Itās not a challenge. Itās 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 heās handling something that matters more than he wants to admit. He inspects your knuckles, the small splits in the skin, the smear of grime.
āYouāre bleeding,ā he says.
āItās nothing.ā
āItās blood.ā
You roll your eyes. āCongratulations, Kennedy. You can identify bodily fluids.ā
A flicker, almost a smile, touches his mouth. Itās 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.
āHold still,ā he murmurs.
Your pulse jumps at the softness of it.
You hate that.
āYouāre enjoying this,ā you mutter, trying to salvage something sharp.
Leon doesnāt look up. āIām not.ā
The honesty in his voice knocks the air out of your sarcasm. He soundsā¦ genuine. Like heās 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 itās still there.
Then he pulls back, clearing his throat, gaze shifting away like heās caught himself doing something he didnāt 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 donāt comment. He doesnāt either.
The strip light hums.
Your breathing finally slows to something normal. With it comes the weight of everything youāve 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.
Itās there now, in this room, louder than the alarms ever were.
You donāt plan to say anything. You donāt 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.
āWhy,ā you ask, voice quiet enough it barely exists, ādid you ignore me back then?ā
Leon freezes. The strip light hums. Somewhere in the building, pipes creak. The sound feels unbearably loud. His gaze lifts slowly. For once, thereās no immediate retort, no controlled reply. Just stillness.
You swallow, suddenly aware that youāve crossed a line you canāt uncross. āYou walked right past me,ā you continue, the old anger flaring in your chest like it never left. āI said your name. You didnāt even look at me. Like I wasnāt-ā Your voice catches. You force it steady. āLike I wasnāt worth the effort.ā
Leonās 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.
āI didnāt mean it like that,ā he says quietly.
You laugh, brittle. āCouldāve fooled me.ā
He exhales slowly, like heās choosing each word with care. Like he canāt afford to get this wrong.
āI didnāt know what to say,ā Leon admits. The words hang in the air, plain and stark.
You blink. āWhat?ā
āI didnāt know what to say,ā he repeats, more firmly this time, like heās pushing through something stuck in his throat. āYouā¦ came up to me. Confident. Like you belonged here already. Like you werenāt scared of anyone.ā
Your chest tightens, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to understanding.
Leonās jaw flexes. āAnd Iā¦ā He hesitates. Itās subtle, but itās there, the first real hesitation youāve seen from him that isnāt tactical. āI didnāt want to screw it up.ā
You stare at him, thrown off balance. āScrew what up?ā you demand, too sharply.
Leonās eyes meet yours, steady but exposed. āWhatever it was,ā he says quietly. āI-ā He exhales, a sound that almost turns into a laugh but doesnāt. āYou intimidated me.ā
The confession hits like a punch. Youāre speechless for a beat, mouth opening and closing like youāre trying to find words that arenāt there.
āMe?ā you echo finally, incredulous.
Leon nods once, almost reluctantly. āYeah. You.ā
He shifts his weight, restless, uncomfortable, like heād rather be facing down a dozen armed guards than this conversation. āIād just transferred. I wasā¦ trying to keep my head down. Trying to be the guy who didnāt make mistakes.ā
His gaze drops again briefly, then lifts. āAnd you looked at me like you expected something. Like you wanted to talk. And I didnāt know what to do with that.ā
The room feels smaller. You remember that hallway. Remember the way youād felt, nervous but determined, trying to be friendly, trying to prove you werenāt just another ambitious agent. Youād thought it would be simple. Youād thought heād smile. Instead heād walked away and left you standing there with your pride bleeding out on the floor.
āAnd you decided ignoring me was the best option,ā you say, voice tight.
Leonās mouth twists. āI thought if I said the wrong thing, itād be worse.ā
āSo you said nothing.ā
āI said nothing,ā he agrees, and thereās no defence in it. Just ownership. āAnd then you looked at me like you hated me, andā¦ā He pauses, eyes flicking to yours. āIt was easier to let you.ā
Your throat tightens. Because itās suddenly all too clear: the rivalry didnāt 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.
āLeon,ā you say, voice low.
He looks at you, waiting. The silence after his confession is different from the ones that came before it. It doesnāt feel sharp or loaded with expectation. It feelsā¦ open. Exposed. Like something has finally been set down between you instead of hurled back and forth.
Leon doesnāt move. He doesnāt 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.
āYou know what the worst part is?ā you say finally, voice quiet but steady.
Leonās eyes lift to yours. He doesnāt speak.
āYou made me better.ā The words scrape on the way out. You let out a short, humourless breath. āEvery 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.ā
Leonās brow furrows slightly, but he stays silent.
āAnd I told myself it was hate,ā you continue, forcing the words out before you can second-guess them. āThat you were arrogant. Cold. That you thought you were better than me.ā
Your laugh this time is quieter. Rougher. āIt was easier to be angry than to admit the truth.ā
Leonās jaw tightens. āWhich is?ā
The room doesnāt collapse. He just watches you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
āI hated you,ā you say, softer now, ābecause it was safer than wondering why your opinion of me mattered so much.ā
The admission leaves you raw. Exposed in a way gunfire never could. Leon exhales slowly, like heās been holding that breath for years.
āI noticed,ā he says quietly.
You blink. āNoticed what?ā
āThat you were always pushing.ā His voice is calm, but thereās something unguarded in it now. āThat every time I thought Iād finally pulled ahead, you closed the gap. That when I messed up, you didnāt gloat, you got sharper.ā
He shakes his head once, a small, almost self-deprecating motion. āI told myself I didnāt care. That it was just competition.ā
You snort. āLet me guess. Lie.ā
āYes.ā He meets your gaze fully now. āI measured everything against you. Missions. Scores. Decisions. I never wanted to be less in your eyes.ā
The words land heavier than you expect.
Leon shifts his weight, restless. āI mistook the tension for hostility because that was easier than admitting I wasā¦ invested.ā
āIn what?ā you ask quietly.
āIn you,ā 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.
āI thought you ignored me because you didnāt respect me,ā you say.
Leonās mouth tightens. āI respected you too much.ā
That shouldnāt undo you.
It does.
Your shoulders sag slightly, tension bleeding out of muscles you didnāt realise were still locked. āWeāre idiots,ā you mutter.
Leon huffs a quiet laugh. āWeāre agents.ā
āSame thing.ā
For the first time, the humour doesnāt feel like a weapon. It feels shared.
You step closer without fully realising youāve moved. The space between you narrows until youāre acutely aware of his presence again.Ā You can hear his breathing. Feel the warmth radiating off him.
Leon doesnāt retreat.
His hand lifts slightly, then hesitates, hovering near your wrist like heās unsure whether heās allowed to cross that line. The restraint is somehow worse than if heād just touched you.
Your fingers twitch, an instinctive response.
The moment teeters.
Itās 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.
Leonās 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.
ā-repeat, safe room compromised-ā the handlerās voice cuts in, distorted and urgent. āUmbrella units inbound. You need to move. Now.ā
The spell shatters.
Leonās 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.
āGuess we donāt get a quiet ending,ā you mutter.
Leonās mouth curves faintly, not a smirk, not yet. Something steadier. āWeāll finish this first.ā
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 isnāt 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.
Leonās eyes snap to the lock. Yours snap to your weapon.
āMove,ā he says at the same time you do.
The strip light overhead flickers once, then dies.
Darkness swallows the room.
For half a heartbeat, thereās 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 youād been standing a second ago.
āDown!ā Leon barks, unnecessary, because youāre already there.
Your ears ring. The air smells like hot metal and smoke. The darkness makes everything closer, sharper. You canāt 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.
āThey tracked us,ā you spit, teeth clenched.
Leonās voice is tight. āThey wanted us to bring the device somewhere quiet.ā
Personal, then.
Not a show of force. Not a random contingency.
A message.
A punishment.
You raise your pistol, steadying your aim toward the doorās window slit. Red light strobes across your hands in pulses. You canāt 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.
āOn my mark,ā you murmur.
āAlways,ā 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, Leonās 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.
āPush!ā 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. Leonās elbow drives into anotherās jaw, cracking hard enough that you feel it in your teeth.
You donāt think.
You move.
Someone grabs your arm from behind. You pivot, wrenching free, gun coming up, only to have Leonās hand catch your wrist, redirecting your barrel a fraction.
āLeft,ā he snaps.
A shot cracks where your aim wouldāve been wrong. A man drops behind you, silent and sudden.
Your pulse spikes, raw gratitude laced with terror.
Youāre alive because Leon didnāt 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 itās different now. Itās sharpened by something you canāt pretend is just training.
A rifle butt swings toward Leonās head. You hear it more than see it. You reactāknife flashing up, slashing across the attackerās forearm. Leon ducks and counters, driving his shoulder into the manās chest, sending him crashing into the corridor wall.
āLeon!ā you call, not as a warning, but as an anchor. A check-in. Still there?
āIām here,ā he answers, voice tight.
Gunfire erupts again, closer. A round clips the wall by your ear. Another slams into Leonās side.
For a second, you donāt register what happened.
Then Leon makes a sound, sharp, involuntary, like his body betrayed him.
He staggers.
Your stomach drops through the floor.
āLeon!ā 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.
āIām fine,ā he grits out.
āNo,ā you snap, voice cracking with something you canāt hide. āNo, youāre not.ā
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.
āDonāt-ā 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. āHold pressure.ā
Leonās eyes flare. āWe need to move.ā
āWe are moving,ā you hiss. āBut you are not dying in front of me.ā
He tries to straighten. Heās 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.
āI am going to be so mad if you die on me,ā you say, voice raw, unfiltered.
Leonās eyes rolled before his gaze locks on yours. You couldāve sworn you saw a smirk on his face.
Then his jaw tightens. āIām not going anywhere,ā he says, and for once, it isnāt a challenge. Itās 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.
āStay with me,ā you mutter, not a command, an insistence. āMatch me.ā
Leonās voice is ragged but steady. āAlways.ā
You move together again, but now every decision is laced with instinctive concern. You take the riskier angles, so he doesnāt 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. Leonās 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 donāt remember sitting.
You remember your hands shaking when you notice theyāre 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 doesnāt say anything.
Neither do you.
Later, how much later youāre not sure, youāre 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 itās 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 youāve never seen before.
āYou should sit,ā he says quietly.
You shake your head and answer as you always do. āIām fine.ā
He doesnāt 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.
āI scared you,ā he says.
Itās not an accusation. Itās not fishing for reassurance.
Itās a statement.
You swallow. āYeah.ā
Another silence. Thicker. More honest.
āI didnāt mean to,ā he adds.
āI know.ā You push off the wall before you can stop yourself, closing the distance until youāre standing beside him. You donāt look at the bandages. You look at his face. āBut you did.ā
Leon nods once. āI wonāt apologise for getting hit.ā
āGood,ā you say immediately. āBecause Iād never forgive you for it.ā
That earns the faintest huff of a laugh, more breath than sound. It fades quickly, leaving the room quiet again.
You donāt sit. Instead, you reach out without fully deciding to, your fingers brushing the edge of the bed. Leonās hand shifts instinctively, stopping just short of yours.
The hesitation is mutual.
āYou donāt have to-ā he starts.
āI want to,ā you say softly.
The words feel different now. Steadier. Chosen.
Leonās 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 doesnāt pull you closer. He just holds on, like heās confirming youāre still here.
You breathe out slowly, the tension easing from your shoulders in a way you hadnāt realized was still there.
This isnāt the gala. Thereās 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, itās slow. Unrushed. Intentional.
Your lips meet his with a softness that surprises you both.
Itās nothing like the kiss before.
Thereās 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 heās letting himself feel it.
His lips are warm, firm but unhurried, moving against yours with a patience that makes your breath stutter despite yourself. Itās not demanding. Itās exploratory. As if heās 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 doesnāt 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, itās careful. Grounding. Like heās reminding both of you exactly where you are, and exactly how close youāre 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, itās slow.
Reluctant.
Your forehead rests against his, breaths mingling, close enough that you can feel the faint tremor he hasnāt quite managed to suppress. His thumb still strokes your pulse, absent-minded now, like heās forgotten heās doing it.
Neither of you speaks.
You donāt need to.
Thereās no declaration. No promise shaped into words. Just the shared understanding humming between you, solid and undeniable.
When you finally straighten, Leonās eyes are still on you, softer now. Lighter.
āGuess,ā he murmurs, āthat wasnāt part of the cover.ā
You smile, a real one, unguarded. āGuess not.ā
The silence returns again after that.
But this time, it doesnāt 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 Leonās, close enough to feel without touching. Heās back in clean clothes now, bandages hidden beneath a fresh shirt, posture straight despite the stiffness he hasnāt quite shaken.
The handler stands across from you, expression neutral as ever.
Thereās no need to look at each other to confirm anything. You already know what the other is thinking. Where theyāll speak. When theyāll stay quiet. Itās effortless now, like the friction burned itself out and left something smooth behind.
The handlerās gaze flicks between you briefly. Assessing. Noting the absence of hostility.
āGood work,ā they add. āBoth of you.ā
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 ā YOU
#1 ā 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 doesnāt 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.
āGuess weāll have to settle this another way,ā he says.
Your version of rookie!Leon is SOso very near & dear to me<3 <3 like im actually so sick i want to chew him yet keep him in my jugular for safekeeping. I am not normal about him at all !
-@/anony-muse
omg same. i just want to keep him in my pocket aghhh!! i would die for that man. thank you so much!!
Synopsis: Set during the year John Marston disappears from the gang, a chance meeting on a lonely road leads to one night shared by firelight and silence. You know heās running from something, even if he never says what.
Tags: Smut with a hell of a lot of angst, Emotional Intimacy, One Night Stand, Strangers, Self-Loathing John Marston, Reader Has a Past, Open Ending, Bittersweet.Ā
Warnings: MDNI, Emotional Distress, Abandonment Themes, Cheating, Gun Violence, Unresolved Feelings
Words: 11k~
a/n:Ā lizzy mcalpine help me :ā) also guess what game i just replayed!!
The road has been empty too long. That is the first and heaviest truth, a stone of unease settling deep in your chest as the sun bleeds its final, desperate colors across the sky.
The silence here is not peaceful; it is a presence, a weight that has grown with each solitary mile since morning. Maybe longer. Time loses its shape, stretching and thinning like the shadows now pooling in the ruts of the forgotten path. The only proof of your passage is the dust, a fine, persistent powder that clings to your trousers, coats your worn boots, and grits beneath your fingernails, each step stirring a hazy cloud that smells of baked clay and forgotten years.
You have to stop soon. The decision is less a thought and more a physical necessity. The desert heat abandons the land with a shocking swiftness, replaced by a cold that doesnāt just arrive but infiltrates. It slips under your collar and runs a skeletal finger down your spine. Night out here doesnāt fall; it emerges, deliberate and patient, from the seams of the earth, and it brings teeth with it. The idea of wolves is not an abstraction but a calculation, a variable in the grim arithmetic of survival. Your hand finds the familiar strap of your rifle, its weight a cold comfort. You know the rules: donāt travel in the dark, but never camp without a fire. Itās a perilous balance, warmth versus attention, and tonight, the deepening chill tips the scale. You begin to scan the scrub for a sheltered clearing, your mind already on the kindling in your pack.
Thatās when you hear it. A footstep. Not the light skitter of a rodent or the whisper of wind-tossed brush. This is heavy, deliberate, the compact crunch of weight placed with intention. Your body reacts before your mind can form the wordĀ danger. You turn, rifle coming up in one fluid motion, heart a frantic drum against your ribs, and you freeze.
He is already there. A man, standing maybe three paces away, half-consumed by the long shadows of the dying day. His own weapon is raised, a revolver held with a steady, practiced grip, its barrel a dark O aimed squarely at the center of your being. He looks as startled as you feel, though he masks it beneath a layer of grim control, his eyes wide in the fading light. For a suspended heartbeat, neither of you moves. The world narrows to the dusty space between your two bodies, holding its breath. Dust motes drift lazily in the slanted, amber light. A lone bird cries out from a great distance, then cuts itself short, as if remembering the silence. The sun makes its final descent, leaching the color from the land, rendering everything in sharp, unreal shades of grey and indigo.
Then he speaks. āMaāam.ā A single word, careful and measured, respect woven into its single syllable. It carries a soft, Southern lean, worn smooth like a river stone.
You swallow, forcing your own voice into a flat, even plane. āSir.ā
His eyes, pale in the gloom, flick over you with a swift, brutal efficiency: assessing your weapon, your stance, the profound solitude that surrounds you. You do the same, an involuntary inventory. He is not menacing in posture, but weary. Profoundly, bone-deep weary. His clothes are travel-stained and creased, bearing the imprint of countless rough sleeps. A tension lives in the set of his shoulders, the line of his jaw, as if he is perpetually braced against a blow that has yet to land. Neither of you lowers your gun.
āYou tryna cause trouble?ā you ask, the calmness in your voice a stark contrast to the adrenaline singing in your veins.
The corner of his mouth twitches, a phantom of a smile that never touches his eyes. He pauses, considering his words as if each one has consequence. āI am not the kind of man that would harm a lady, maāam.ā
Something in his tone makes you believe him. It isnāt chivalry; it sounds heavier, like a core fact of a worn-out identity, stated with a quiet resignation. You hold his gaze for another second, then another, the charged silence stretching. Then, slowly, deliberately, you lower the barrel of your rifle toward the hard earth. He watches you for a beat longer before mirroring the movement, his revolver easing down to his side. The immediate danger dissipates, but the tension doesnāt vanish, it merely transforms, settling into something quieter, thicker, more complicated.
āYouāre alone,ā he observes, his voice not accusatory, merely noting a fact in the ledger of this desolate place.
āSo are you.ā
He exhales, a soft, weary sound through his nose. āSeems that way.ā
The last of the light is leaching from the world now, purple shadows swallowing the road whole. The cold sharpens its teeth, prompting an involuntary shiver. You glance toward the gathering dark beneath the trees. āI was about to make camp. Before the wolves come out.ā
His gaze follows yours briefly. A single, tacit nod. āSmart.ā
Another pause hangs, fragile and immense. Neither of you makes a move to leave the other behind.
āYou mind sharinā a fire?ā he asks eventually, the question stripped of all charm, leaving only raw practicality. āJust for the night.ā
You consider him again: the gun at his hip, the guarded solitude in his posture, the sense that he is a man already half-gone, standing on borrowed time and haunted ground. āLong as we keep our distance,ā you say.
āThatās fine by me.ā
You choose a spot a short way off the road, open enough to see an approach, sheltered enough to offer some illusion of security. He helps gather wood without being asked, maintaining a respectful orbit around you. When the flames finally catch, snapping at the dry kindling, the warmth feels like a minor miracle, a tiny, defiant circle of light in the vast dark. You settle on opposite sides of the flames, the fire dancing between you like a living boundary.
He never offers his name. You do not offer yours. The fire crackles, spitting embers that spiral up to meet the first, brave stars. Then, from the deep black of the wilderness, a howl rises, long, low, and lonesome. Your breath catches, your eyes darting to the impenetrable tree line, only to find his gaze already fixed there. His hand rests near his sidearm, alert but not anxious, a man intimately familiar with the protocols of danger.
Not cruel, you think, watching the firelight play across his somber, closed-off features.Ā Just sealed tight.
The fire settles into itself, a companionable, breathing thing now that the full weight of the night has descended. It doesnāt roar or rage; it just burns, steady and low and patient, the way a fire does when it knows it must last until dawn. Its heat reaches you in palpable waves, a gentle force that thaws your hands, your cheeks, the hard, unconscious knot of tension between your shoulders youād been carrying since sunrise. You shift closer to its glow without thinking, drawn by the primal comfort.
He notices the small movement anyway. You sense it in the almost imperceptible flick of his eyes, a brief, upward glance that takes you in before returning to the hypnotic dance of the flames. Itās the habit of a man who catalogues changes, who files away movements because inattention, once, cost him more than he cares to remember.
"So," you say, the word cutting the silence more to fill it than to seek an answer. "You always travel this road?"
He gives a quiet, breathy huff, not quite a laugh. "Wouldn't say always."
"That wasn't an answer."
"No," he agrees, his voice a low rumble. "But it's the one you're gettin'."
You snort softly, rubbing your palms together as if to scrub the chill from them. "You're not much for conversation."
"I talk plenty," he says, still watching the fire. "Just not about myself."
You let your gaze travel over him. He's leaning back on his hands, his worn boots stretched toward the coals, his head tipped at a slight angle as if listening to a conversation happening just beyond the ring of firelight. The flames trace the stark lines of his face. The set of his jaw, the ridge of his brow, illuminating without softening any of them.
"Fair enough," you concede. "I'll do the talking, then."
"Seems like you already are."
So you talk. You speak of the road, its endless, dusty sameness. You mention the miles behind you and the vague town ahead, painting with broad strokes, careful to blur the details, to keep the picture impressionistic and safe. You tell him your destination without ever touching theĀ whyĀ of it. He doesn't press. He just listens, his eyes steady on you, his attention a tangible thing in the space between you, as if your ordinary words carry a weight heās chosen to honor. Every so often, he offers a quiet sound of acknowledgement, a low hum, a murmured "Mm." Once, when you complain about the dust finding its way into places dust has no right to be, he lets out a short, genuine laugh, a dry, cracking sound.
"That road'll do that," he says, a flicker of something like camaraderie in his tone. "Got a way of makin' you miserable slow enough you don't notice 'til it's too late."
You smile, despite yourself, despite everything.
You ask him where he's from.
He tilts his head, the firelight catching the weary contemplation in his eyes. "Couple places."
"That's not very specific."
"Guess not," he replies, and the finality in his voice is a door gently closed.
You let it go. Instead, you ask about his gun, a practical topic, neutral territory. He relaxes a fraction, the guarded set of his shoulders easing as he explains its make, its balance, where he acquired it. He speaks of weapons the way a carpenter speaks of a good saw: with familiarity, respect, and a complete lack of romance. It is a tool, necessary and understood.
Itās when heās talking that you notice his hands.
In motion, they are supremely steady adjusting a log with the toe of his boot, passing the canteen, brushing ash from his knee. Purpose grants them certainty.
But in stillness, resting on his thighs or dangling between his knees, they betray a faint, persistent tremor. A subtle quiver, as if something vital inside him is perpetually unsettled, a tuning fork struck by some old, unforgotten blow.
You pretend not to see it.
"You ever stay anywhere long?" you ask eventually, your voice softer now.
He doesn't answer right away. The fire pops, sending a lone spark spiraling upward, a tiny star that winers out before it touches the darkness.
"No," he says finally, the word simple and absolute. "I ain't good at stayin' put."
There's no bitterness in the admission, no hint of self-pity. It is merely a fact of his existence, delivered with the same plain truth as noting the temperature or the phase of the moon.
You nod, staring into the coals. "Some people aren't."
He glances at you then, a look that lasts a second too long, his eyes searching yours as if to decipher whether you speak from shared understanding or mere kindness.
"Yeah," he murmurs, the word barely more than an exhale. "Some folks ain't meant to be around long."
The statement hangs in the air between you, dense and heavy, a truth so stark it feels like a physical object. You don't argue. You don't offer hollow consolation. You just let the silence absorb it, letting it settle into the space around the fire, accepting its weight.
The quiet that follows isn't empty or awkward. It's gentle. It is full of the crackling wood, the sigh of the wind in the distant pines, the shared, unspoken acknowledgment of two solitary creatures pausing in their separate journeys. You shift again, subtly closer, still not toward him, but no longer rigidly away. Your shoulder feels the expanded warmth. The vast, pressing dark of the wilderness is held at bay by this fragile, flickering circle, the world reduced to this pocket of light, this temporary truce.
You feel his presence beside you, a steady, silent fact. Not intrusive. JustĀ there.
"You always this quiet?" you ask, your voice barely disturbing the night.
"Only when I got company."
That earns a quiet, surprised laugh from you. "That doesn't make any sense."
"It does to me," he says, and you can hear the faint, almost-smile in his words.
Another comfortable pause stretches, woven through with the night sounds.
"You got people waitin' for you?" he asks, the question careful, as if he's handling something fragile.
You hesitate, the truth a complicated shape in your throat. "Not exactly."
He nods once, a slow dip of his chin. He accepts the answer as complete, asking for no more, offering no judgment.
When the fire dips low, burning down to a bed of pulsating coals, he leans forward to add another piece of wood. For a moment, the flames surge, and in that sudden, bright flare, you see him clearly: the tension etched into the line of his jaw, the fleeting, unguarded softness in his eyes that is instantly, deliberately shuttered away.
Lonely, you think. Not in the wailing, dramatic sense, but in the quiet, enduring way of a mountain or a deep canyon, a solitude that has become intrinsic to the landscape of the self.
The fire doesnāt die all at once. It sinks, slow and stubborn, like the pulse of something wounded but determined. Itās been fed just enough to keep a heartbeat of warmth alive, even as the void of the night tightens its grip. The flames shorten, receding into a bed of embers that glow with a deep, pulsating red. That faint, bloody light paints only the underside of his face, leaving the hollows of his eyes and the set of his brow in profound shadow. The rest of him is swallowed by the dark, a silhouette against a deeper black.
Your breath begins to fog in the air between you, a pale, transient ghost.
From the absolute black beyond your fragile circle, a sound. Not a howl, but a presence: the rustle of brush, the definitive snap of a twig underfoot. Small, perhaps distant, but unmistakably deliberate. Johnās head lifts not with a jerk, but with a fluid, immediate sharpness. His attention becomes a blade, honed in an instant. His hand drifts, almost casually, to rest near the worn grip of his revolver. It isnāt a threat, not a show, it is pure, ingrained instinct, as natural as breathing.
The sound does not repeat.
Only after a long, suspended moment does he allow his shoulders to loosen a fraction, exhaling a slow stream of air through his nose. You watch him, this man who carries expectation like a second skeleton, bracing for impact even in the stillness.
āI donāt think Iāve seen you relax once,ā you say, the words quiet, not quite an accusation.
He gives a short, humourless puff of air. āAināt much point.ā
āSeems like there is,ā you offer, though the argument feels frail.
He doesnāt look at you. His gaze is fixed on the embers as if they are coals in a different fire, long ago, holding secrets or condemnations in their glow.
The silence stretches, becoming a tangible thing. You assume the conversation has ended, that the wall has been silently rebuilt. Then his voice comes, low and rough, scraping against the quiet.
āYou ever feel likeā¦ you donāt belong anywhere?ā
The question doesnāt land casually. It is a carefully extracted stone, heavy and personal, placed between you with deliberate weight.
āSometimes,ā you admit, the truth simple and insufficient.
He nods, a slow, grave motion. It is the nod of a man who had hoped, perhaps, for that very answer, as if your understanding might briefly share the burden, make the solitude less absolute.
He reaches for the battered tin cup beside his knee. In the motion, the faint tremor in his hand is visible. It steadies as he brings the cup to his lips, the act of drinking providing a temporary anchor. When he sets it down again, the subtle shaking returns, a ceaseless vibration in his stillness.
You do not acknowledge it.
Instead, you say, āYou make it sound like youāve tried.ā
A pause hangs, filled only by the soft hiss of a dying ember.
He shifts his weight, the worn leather of his coat whispering in protest. His gaze flicks up, meets yours for a fleeting, electric second before dropping back to the dirt. āI had a place once.ā
The statement is quiet, small. He speaks the words as if trying them on, surprised they still fit his mouth, unsure if they still describe a man he recognizes.
You do not speak. You do not rush to suture the silence he has opened. You wait, a patient witness.
He scrapes a line in the hard dirt with the toe of his boot, his expression tense, closed off. The fading firelight catches the ragged edge of a scar near the corner of his mouthāa pale seam that speaks of a life lived too close to sudden, violent conclusions.
āI left,ā he says.
Two words. Flat, emptied of inflection. But beneath them, like water under ice, runs a current of something raw and aching, held back by sheer force of will.
You swallow, the night air suddenly colder in your throat. āWhy?ā
Johnās jaw tightens, a knot of muscle forming and releasing. For a long moment, you believe he will offer nothing more, that the door has slammed shut.
Then he releases a breath so slow it seems to drain him. āCouldnāt tell you.ā
āThatās not true.ā
His head tilts slightly, a flash of annoyanceāor is it vulnerability?āat being seen through so easily.
āIt is,ā he insists, sharper now. Then, softer, as if regretting the edge: āItās complicated.ā
Everything about you is complicated, you think.
You shift your hands closer to the fading heat, a gesture more for occupation than comfort. Your fingers feel stiff, carved from cold wood.
āYou donāt seem like a man who does things for no reason,ā you venture.
The ghost of something crosses his mouth. āYou donāt know me.ā
āNo,ā you agree. āBut Iāve met men who run. They always think theyāre saving someone.ā
The effect is immediate. He goes utterly still.
The stillness is so complete that the night sounds rush back in.
His hands, resting on his knees, curl slowly into fists, the knuckles standing out pale against his skin. When he speaks, the words are so low they seem to come from the ground itself. āI thought theyād be better off.ā
There it is. Not a full confession, but a crack in the fortification, a single stone dislodged.
āPeople?ā you ask, your voice careful, gentle.
He doesnāt answer immediately. The struggle is visible on his face, in the tight line of his lips. Finally, a single, weighted syllable. āYeah.ā
You study him in the dim, pulsing light. The defensive hunch of his shoulders, the taut cord of his throat as he swallows, the way he seems to be holding himself against a memory that threatens to pull him under.
āYou miss them,ā you say. It is not a question.
His laugh is a brief, hollow thing. āAināt got the right to.ā
āYou donāt get to decide what you feel.ā
This earns you another swift glance. His eyes hold a complex mixture, irritation, yes, but also a sliver of profound relief, as if you have trespassed a boundary only to land precisely in the truth.
He opens his mouth, a thought forming behind his eyes. Then he stops, visibly arresting the words. You can see the process: the impulse to speak, the rise of panic, the conscious, disciplined retreat.
He shakes his head once, a sharp, definitive motion. Enough.
But it isnāt.
Because a minute later, voice barely a whisper, he says, āSheāā
The word catches. Snags. A single thread pulled from a tapestry, threatening to unravel the whole.
You do not move. You barely breathe. You become part of the waiting dark.
Johnās lips press into a bloodless line. The muscle in his jaw jumps. His eyes fix on a point in the infinite black beyond the fire, seeing something you cannot.
āShe what?ā you prompt, gentle as a touch.
His shoulders draw inward, a protective curl. āNothinā. Forget it.ā
You watch his hands. They twitch, fingers flexing as if yearning to grasp something just out of reach. His thumb rubs over the calloused edge of his palm, over and over, a self-soothing ritual worn smooth by anxiety.
āShe sounds important,ā you say.
His gaze snaps to you, sharp, almost dangerous. A warning.
āDonāt,ā he says.
The word holds no cruelty. Only fear. A deep, abiding terror of what naming her might unleash.
You nod slowly. āOkay.ā
The quiet that reclaims the space is denser, heavier. He is no longer merely closed off; he is braced, a man awaiting an assault, expecting you to pry, to demand the story he has buried.
You do not.
You look into the dying embers and address the night instead. āI donāt think leaving makes you a monster. But it can still be wrong.ā
Johnās breath hitches, a nearly imperceptible sound.
āAnd sometimes,ā you continue, your voice measured, steady, āpeople donāt leave because they donāt care. They leave because they care too much, in the wrong way.ā
He stares at you as if youāve recited a secret he thought was his alone.
āYou talk like you know,ā he mutters, a challenge and a curiosity.
āMaybe I do.ā
His eyes narrow, not in suspicion, but in a deep, weary assessment. He is trying to read you now with the same focused attention he has given the surrounding darkness.
Then he looks away, and when he speaks again, it is the quietest he has been all night. āYou think someone can ever be forgiven for runninā?ā
The question is not philosophical. It is not abstract. It is him, standing at the precipice of his own life, asking if the ground beneath him is still capable of bearing weight.
You do not answer immediately.
The easy answers line up in your mind: the blanket of false comfort, the harsh verdict he likely already believes. But looking at him, the clenched defeat in his hands, the way he stares into the embers as if seeking a judgment from the very earth, you know neither would be true.
So you offer the only honest thing.
āDepends.ā
John releases a slow, shaky breath. It is the sound of frustration, of a man hoping for simplicity and being denied it.
āOn what?ā he asks, his voice strained.
āOn why you ran,ā you say, each word deliberate. āOn what you did after. On whether you ever stop.ā
The embers pulse, a slow, rhythmic glow like a dying star.
Johnās throat works as he swallows. He is staring at you now, truly seeing you, his eyes dark pools of exhaustion and a desperate, searching hope. āNot leavinā,ā he corrects, his voice softer, the distinction clearly vital. āRunninā.ā
A sharp twist of understanding catches in your chest.
Leaving is an act. Running is a state of being.
Running is the man before you, whose hands will not be still.
You nod, the motion slow with the weight of it. āThenā¦ forgiveness isnāt something you get to ask for once and walk away with.ā
His brow furrows in confusion or pain.
āItās something you earn,ā you continue, choosing each syllable with care. āNot by punishing yourself. Not by disappearing. But by facing what you did. By going backāif you can. Or by staying put long enough to stop making the same choice.ā
Johnās lips part slightly. He looks as if he wants to argue, to list all the reasons it is too late, why he is beyond redemption, why it would change nothing.
Instead, he just sits, shoulders hunched against the cold and the truth, staring at you as if you have handed him not an absolution, but a shard of glass.
A mirror.
The fire is nearly gone now. The night has solidified around you, a cold, pressing entity. The air bites, yet the space between your two silent figures feels charged, thick with all that has been said and all that remains trapped in the silence.
John looks down at his own hands. This time, he does not try to hide the tremor. He observes it with a kind of detached contempt, as if watching a betrayal by his own flesh.
Then, so quietly it seems spoken not to you, but to the forgotten man he once was, he says, āI donāt know how to beā¦ any better than this.ā
It is the closest thing to a plea you have ever heard from him.
And in that moment, you understand with a profound and aching certainty: he is not asking you for forgiveness.
He is asking if, after all the running, he is still permitted to be a person at all.
The cold seeps in quietly. It begins at the extremities, a sharp, crystalline bite at your fingertips, a deep, dull ache in your feet, then climbs, seeking the vulnerable hollows of your body. It finds the space between your shoulder blades, where warmth is always hardest to keep, and settles there like a leaden weight. You shift closer to the fireās fading heart, an instinctual movement, drawing your coat tight as if you could stitch yourself into a shell of warmth. John notices. Of course he does; his awareness is a constant, low hum. āYouāre shiverinā,ā he observes, his voice a gravelly rumble in the dark.
āIāll live.ā
He exhales through his nose, a sound that could be mistaken for amusement if it werenāt so thoroughly lined with exhaustion. Without another word, he reaches behind him to the bedroll strapped to his pack. His fingers work free a spare blanket, worn thin, softened by time and use, patched in places with neat, utilitarian stitches. It is clean, though, holding the scent of sun and dust. He hesitates, the blanket held in both hands. You can see the calculation in the pause, the invisible line he is measuring between offering comfort and riskingā¦ something. Then he holds it out toward you, arm extended, not touching you, his gaze fixed on a point just past your shoulder.
āHere,ā he says, the word simple. āGets colder āfore it gets warmer.ā
āThank you.ā
Your fingers brush his as you take the wool. It is nothing. A fleeting, accidental contact. And yet, his hand stills as if heās felt a static shock, a jolt of simple human touch after a long drought. You notice. You pretend you donāt.
Wrapping the blanket around your shoulders, you settle back, its rough weave a welcome barrier. The world is reduced to the fireās final, defiant palette: deep reds, smoldering golds, and pools of impenetrable shadow. For a long while, the only sounds are the settling embers and the vast, humming quiet of the wilderness.
Then, unexpectedly, a quiet laugh escapes you. Itās born from a memory, a trivial, frustrating moment from the dayās walk, a spilled canteen or a stubborn knot, that suddenly seems absurd. The sound is soft, but in the profound silence, it rings like a bell.
Johnās head lifts. He looks more startled by this than by any sound in the dark. āWhat?ā he asks, his voice rough with disuse.
āNothing,ā you say, the faint smile lingering. āJustā¦ the way today went. If I donāt laugh about it, I think Iāll scream.ā
That earns you a real smile from him. It is brief, a fleeting crack in the granite, but it is genuine. It transforms his face, smoothing the hardened lines, and the sight of it causes a peculiar ache beneath your ribs. āYeah,ā he says, the word warm. āKnow that feelinā.ā
Encouraged by the crack in the silence, you keep talking. Not of weighty things, but of small, inconsequential observations. Half-formed thoughts, stories without morals or endings, the quiet trivia of existence. He listens, his eyes never leaving you, his attention complete. It feels as though your voice is a tether, holding him firmly in the present, in this exact, fragile moment.
At some point, without discussion or acknowledgement, he shifts. It is a minute adjustment, just enough that the worn leather of his boot comes to rest near yours. The blanket slips from your shoulder. You let it be.
The silence returns, but it is different now, longer, thicker, fertile. Not empty. Alive with unspoken things.
When you adjust your position, your arm brushes against his. You freeze, half-expecting him to recoil, to re-establish the distance that has defined the night. He doesnāt move. The contact remains, and through it, you feel the solid warmth of him, the quiet rhythm of his breathing. You smell the smoke in his clothes, the dust of the road, and beneath it, something else, something worn-in and human, almost familiar.
āYou okay?ā he asks, his voice a low vibration you feel as much as hear.
āYes.ā
Another pause hangs, delicate as a held breath.
āYou donāt gottaāā He cuts himself off, swallows hard. āYou donāt gotta stay this close if you donāt want to.ā
You turn your head just enough to see his profile. His eyes dart to yours, then away, the tension in him so profound it seems a part of his skeleton.
āI know,ā you say.
And still, you do not move.
That seems to settle something within him. Or perhaps it unsettles everything. He releases a long, slow breath, his shoulders dropping a fraction, as if surrendering a weight heās carried for miles. The firelight plays across his face, not as a mask now, but as a revealer, softening the harsh angles to show what lies beneath: a loneliness so deep it has shaped him, a weariness that is soul-deep, and a quiet, aching want. Not for passion, but for the simple, terrifying solace of not being alone.
When a sharper gust of wind slices through the clearing, he hesitates, then reaches over. His movements are deliberate, almost reverent, as he adjusts the blanket so it drapes over both of your shoulders. His body doesnāt press against yours at first. There remains a careful inch of cool night air, a tacit boundary.
Minutes pass. Maybe an hour. Time has lost its meaning in the cocoon of dark and dwindling light.
Eventually, unconsciously, your shoulder leans into his. You donāt realize youāve done it until you feel the subtle stiffening of his frame. You pull back immediately.
āSorryāā
āItās alright,ā he says, too quickly. āI justā¦ aināt used to it.ā
You hesitate, your voice soft. āTo what?ā
You see the lie form and die on his lips. He considers deflection, the old, safe habit. Instead, he offers the raw, unvarnished truth. āTo someone stayinā.ā
The words hang in the air between you, heavy and stark. You offer no empty reassurance, no platitudes. You simply settle back against him, slower this time, a clear invitation for him to refuse. He doesnāt.
His arm lifts, pauses in mid-air, a question mark, then settles around your shoulders. The weight is tentative at first, barely there, as if he is testing the reality of the gesture, testing his own permission to give it.
The closeness changes then. It becomes charged, the quiet now thick with a significance that hums in your blood. You sit like that for a long time, wordless. Just two sets of lungs breathing in tandem, two bodies sharing a slowly dwindling warmth. You feel the faint, persistent tremor in his hand where it rests against your arm. Without thought, you reach up and cover it with your own.
He inhales, a sharp, caught breath. For a heartbeat, you feel the old instinct coil tight within him, the urge to retreat, to vanish, to flee from connection as if it were a threat. It thrums through him like a current.
Instead, he does something that breaks you a little. He leans his forehead against your temple. The contact is gentle, hesitant, unbearably tender.
āTell me if this is a mistake,ā he murmurs.
The words are barely audible, less a question and more a confession, a plea for an anchor in his own turbulence.
You turn your head slightly, your cheek brushing the rough stubble of his. Your heart is pounding, not with fluttery excitement, but with the profound, solemn weight of understanding. You know this man will leave. You have known it from the moment you saw him in the dying light. He is a creature of departure. But right now, in this sliver of eternity, he is here. And he is painfully, undeniably human. And he is hurting.
So you do not answer with words. You donāt have time to.
He exhales, a long, unsteady release that seems to come from the very depths of him, and closes the final distance himself.
The kiss, when it happens, is quiet. There is no rush, no consuming hunger. It is lips meeting with a soft, firm pressure, a touch that feels less like taking and more like grounding. As if he is proving to himself, through you, that he still exists somewhere outside the prison of his regrets. He pulls back almost immediately, his eyes searching your face, braced for regret, for rejection.
When you do not pull away, he kisses you again. Slower. Deeper. Yet still restrained, held in check by a lifetime of holding back. His hands come up to frame your face, his touch astonishingly gentle, as if he knows he is handling something both precious and ephemeral, a moment on loan from a future that does not include him.
You rest your forehead against his, eyes closed, breathing in the scent of him, smoke, leather, cold air, and man. This isnāt about desire, not in any simple sense. It is about forgetting.
For him, forgetting the man he believes he is supposed to be, forgetting the chain of choices that trails behind him like iron weights.
You shift closer, a slow, deliberate surrender, curling into the solid warmth of him beneath the shared blanket. His arm tightens around you reflexivelyāa movement that is both protective and deeply unsure, as if his body is remembering a language his mind has tried to forget.
The kiss deepens, not with urgency, but with a profound, aching need for connection. It is a silent conversation, a yielding on both sides. He moves with a careful gravity, his hands guiding you back, not onto the hard ground, but onto the softened makeshift bedding of his own bedroll. He follows you down, his body a welcome weight, a shield against the vast, cold dark.
He never stops kissing you. His lips are a slow exploration, a mapping of your mouth, the corner where a smile might live, the curve of your cheek, the sensitive hollow just below your ear. Each touch is deliberate, reverent, as if he is committing the sensation to a memory he intends to keep. His calloused hands cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your jawline with a tenderness that contradicts every hard line youāve seen in him.
Between kisses, breaths mingling in the small, warm space he has made for you both, he whispers a word into your mouth. It is ragged, soft, almost lost.
āJohn.ā
You hum in quiet question, your own hands finding the tense planes of his back, feeling the shift of muscle and scar beneath his shirt.
He pulls back just enough to let you see his eyes in the faint glow. They are dark pools, full of a storm of feeling, want, fear, and a staggering vulnerability.
āMy name,ā he breathes, the words a raw offering. āItās John.ā
It is more than an introduction. It is a gift. It is the first piece of himself he has voluntarily given, the key to a door that has been locked and barred for what feels like a lifetime. In this lawless, empty place, where names are currency better left unspent, he is paying you with his truth.
You donāt say it back immediately. You donāt treat it lightly. Instead, you kiss him again, slowly, deeply, letting your lips convey what words cannot, that you have received it, that you understand its weight. Your fingers trace the line of his stubbled cheek, and you feel him shudder, a full-body release of a tension so old it had become part of his architecture.
āJohn,ā you finally whisper against his lips, and the sound of his name, spoken in this intimacy, seems to fracture something within him. He buries his face in the curve of your neck for a moment, his breath hot against your skin, and you hold him there, this man of silent roads and shaking hands, who has just given you the one thing he had left that was truly his to give.
The sound of his name, spoken by your lips, seems to break a final dam within him. A low, shuddering breath escapes him, warm against your skin, and when he lifts his head to look at you again, his eyes are glistening in the starlight. Thereās no embarrassment in it, only a raw, unveiled vulnerability.
His kisses begin again, slower now, deeper, as if each one is a question and an answer. His hands, those steady, trembling hands, begin to move. They slide from your face, down the column of your throat, over the rise of your shoulder, with a reverence that steals your breath. They donāt grab or claim; they learn. The pad of his thumb traces the line of your collarbone as his mouth follows the same path, his lips soft and seeking.
Every touch is a silent confession. The way he eases your coat from your shoulders, his movements patient and deliberate, speaks of a fear of causing harm. The way his fingers fumble slightly with the buttons of your shirt isnāt from inexperience, but from a profound, aching care, as if you are something precious, heās terrified of breaking. You help him, your own hands moving to the worn fabric of his vest, pushing it back, feeling the solid, warm plane of his chest beneath the thin cotton of his undershirt.
When skin meets skin, he goes still for a moment, his forehead pressed to yours. You can feel the rapid thrum of his heart against your own. āGod,ā he whispers, the word a prayer, a plea, an exhalation of pure feeling.
With the gift of his name still hanging in the air between you, a sacred secret in the dark, his exploration deepens, as if that confession granted him a new kind of permission. His mouth leaves yours, but the connection is unbroken. He trails a path of open-mouthed kisses down the line of your jaw, his stubble a delicious abrasion against your softer skin, until he finds the frantic pulse at the base of your throat. He lingers there, his lips feeling the beat of your life, and you canāt suppress a sharp, indrawn breath. The sound seems to galvanize him.
There is no rush. The night holds its breath around you. The dying fire is a bed of pulsating embers, casting the world in a monochrome of deep shadow and faintest crimson glow. The only things that exist are the points of contact between your bodies, a constellation of heat and sensation against the vast cold.
He peels away the rest of your clothing with a patience that is almost devotional. Each new expanse of skin is met not with greed, but with reverent study. He kisses the delicate skin of your inner wrist, where blue veins trace a map beneath the surface, and his tongue touches the very spot your pulse thrums. A shiver, uncontrolled and electric, runs up your arm, and a soft, sighing noise escapes you.
He makes a sound himself, a low hum of discovery. It becomes his mission, his quiet worship. He maps you with his mouth, paying meticulous attention to every place that makes you sigh, gasp, or utter a small, helpless sound. He kisses the sensitive hollow of your elbow, the gentle curve where your shoulder meets your neck. He traces the pronounced line of your collarbone with the very tip of his tongue, and when you arch slightly off the bedroll, a broken whimper in your throat, he repeats the motion, slower, savouring the reaction heās drawn from you.
His hands follow, a separate but harmonized exploration. They are broad, work-roughened hands, but their touch is astonishingly gentle. They span your waist, holding you as if you are something of immense and fragile value. His fingers trace the delicate ladder of your ribs, one by one, with a touch so light it raises a topography of goosebumps in its wake. Every shift of your body, every hitched sigh, is met with his rapt, total attention. It is as if he is memorizing a scripture written in flesh and breath, committing every verse of your response to a memory he fears will fade.
His own yearning is a palpable force, a current of pure, untempered need that radiates from him like heat from a banked fire. It is a tension held in check by a will that has been forged and tempered in the long, silent kiln of solitude. You can feel it everywhere: in the corded, rigid strength of his arms as they cage you gently, muscles standing out like rope beneath his skin; in the searing, almost feverish heat of his chest and abdomen where they press against yours; in the unmistakable, rigid proof of his desire that presses insistently against your thigh, a blunt and heated promise.
He rocks his hips against you once, a short, helpless, instinctual grind of his hips that is pure biological truth. A ragged, guttural groan is torn from him, the sound raw and involuntary, as if surprised out of a deep place within. The movement, the sound, seem to shock him. His entire body goes rigid with the effort of stopping.
He pulls back, creating a sliver of cold night air between your bodies. Mastering himself requires a visible, physical shudder that runs from his shoulders down the length of his spine. The control it costs him is etched brutally into his body: the clenched muscle of his jaw stands out like stone, a tendon pulsing in his neck. His hands, which had been cradling you with such tenderness, are now fisted in the coarse wool of the blanket on either side of your head, his knuckles bleached white with the strain of his restraint. His eyes, dark and wild in the gloom, search yours, not for passion in that moment, but for permission, for a sign that the leash he keeps on himself can be safely dropped.
Seeing the answer in your gaze, he lets out a trembling breath. The fight for control shifts, transforms. It is no longer about stopping, but about governing the how. With a reverence that borders on agony, he positions himself. His hands slide beneath you, one curving to support the small of your back, the other tangling gently in your hair, as if to ground you both.
Then, with a slowness that is exquisite and devastating, he enters you.
It is not a thrust. It is an arrival. A slow, inexorable, breathtaking yielding. He feels immense, not just in physical sense, but in presence, filling a void you hadnāt fully acknowledged was there. The sensation draws a sharp, shuddering gasp from your lips, a sound that seems to unravel the last of his composure. A broken moan escapes him in response, his forehead dropping to press against yours, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He holds himself there, fully sheathed but motionless, for a long, suspended moment, as if absorbing the reality of the connection, the shocking truth of being within, and not alone.
He begins to move only when his trembling becomes too great to contain. The rhythm he finds is not one of driven passion, but of profound, soul-deep yearning, a deep, rolling tide of connection that seeks not to claim, but to meld, to forget where he ends and you begin. Each withdrawal is a gentle, aching loss; each slow, pressing return is a homecoming. It is a rhythm of finding, not taking, each movement a whispered question and a sighed answer in the sacred dark.
You reach for him, your hands finding the hard, sculpted plane of his back. Your palms slide up the slopes of muscle shaped by labor and survival, tracing the hidden geography of his life. Your fingertips catch on the ridges of old, silvery scars, a storybook of violence and near-misses written in flesh, each one a silent testament to a past he carries alone. The feel of them under your touch, these monuments to his solitude, makes your heart clench. You pull him closer, your arms wrapping around the broad strength of his shoulders, an unspoken permission, a silent plea for him to stop fighting himself.
He understands. That final, gentle pull is the key that turns the lock. He comes to you with a sound, a deep, relinquished sigh that seems to rise from the very bedrock of his soul. It is the sound of a man who has been holding up the sky all by himself for years, his bones bowed under the impossible weight, and who has only now, in this tiny circle of firelight and darkness, been allowed, for a moment, to set it down.
The joining is achingly slow. There is no force, no conquest. It is a gentle, inexorable slide into a blissful, enveloping heat that feels less like an invasion and more like a homecoming. He fills you completely, a perfect, breathtaking fit that draws a sharp, shuddering gasp from your lips and a corresponding groan from deep within his chest. For a long, suspended moment, he doesn't move. He is utterly still, embedded within you, his body bowed over yours, his forehead pressed to your temple. He is breathing as if heās been running for miles, each ragged inhalation a prayer, each exhalation a release of ancient tension. You can feel the wild, frantic hammer of his heart where your chests are pressed together, a drumbeat of vulnerability against your skin.
When he finally begins to move, it is with a rhythm that is pure, undiluted yearning. It is not the paced, driven motion of passion, but a deep, rolling wave of connection, a slow, worshipful wave that has nothing to do with taking and everything to do with finding. Each withdrawal is a tender, aching loss; each measured, pressing return is a quest for a deeper truth, a more profound union. His face remains buried in the crook of your neck, his lips pressed to your damp skin. His breath comes in hot, open-mouthed gusts, and between them, his whispered words continue, a raw, broken, and utterly private soundtrack to this most intimate of motions.
āForgotā¦,ā he mumbles, the word thick and muffled against your throat, trembling with emotion. āForgot what it wasā¦ to beā¦ touched.ā
A powerful tremor seizes him at the confession, a quake that runs through his entire frame and into yours. His rhythm stutters, hips pressing forward in a sudden, deeper surge that wrings a low, guttural groan from him, the vibration humming against your skin. He stills again, panting, as if overwhelmed by the sheer sensation of being not just inside you, but felt by you.
āDonāt let me go,ā he whispers into the hollow of your shoulder, the plea stark, unadorned, and terrifyingly sincere. āNot yet.ā
You tighten your arms around him in answer, your own whisper a promise against his ear. You hold him as if you could anchor him to this earth, to this moment.
But it is the next word, breathed into the space where your shoulder meets your neck with such desperate, aching hope, that utterly undoes you.
āPleaseā¦ā
It is more than a syllable. It is a lifetime of loneliness condensed into a single, shattered sound. It is the echo of mornings waking to cold blankets and empty horizons, of conversations held only with the wind, of a heart so accustomed to its own echo that the sound of another's pulse is a miracle. It is the sound of his walls, those meticulously maintained fortifications of silence and distance, crumbling into dust, leaving him exposed and trembling in his own truth.
You turn your head, seeking his lips in the dark. You find them, and you kiss him. This kiss is different. It is not about passion, but about solace; not about claiming, but about giving. You kiss him with a depth that seeks to pour every ounce of present-tense reality into him, the living warmth of your shared skin, the solid, real weight of his body atop yours, the undeniable, beautiful truth that in this sliver of time, he is not alone. You swallow his broken āplease,ā drinking down his loneliness, and in its place, you give him your breath, your warmth, the silent, steadfast assurance of your embrace. You kiss him until his trembling begins to subside, until the frantic edge of his plea softens into a sigh of acceptance against your mouth, until the rhythm of his body moving within yours becomes not a search, but a shared, sacred journey.
Your kiss, your breath shared as his own, becomes the final sacrament that breaks the last of his monumental control. The careful, yearning rhythm heād maintained fractures utterly. What was a deep, rolling wave becomes a crashing tide. His movements turn urgent, his thrusts deeper, driven by a need that is no longer just physical, but a desperate, soul-deep seeking for union, for oblivion, for proof of life. His arms, once trembling with restraint, become bands of iron around you, locking you beneath him, pulling you impossibly closer with each driving stroke as if he could physically fuse your bodies into one single, safe entity.
His whispered confessions cease. Language is lost, burned away in the overwhelming furnace of sensation. All that remains are raw, animal sounds, guttural groans punched from his chest, ragged pants hot against your skin. His world has narrowed to the feeling of you surrounding him, the heat, the friction, the incredible, forgotten rightness of it.
His pace becomes relentless, a pounding heartbeat of pure need. The tension coils in him, tighter and tighter, a spring wound to its breaking point. You can feel it in the corded rigidity of every muscle, in the way his fingers dig into your back, not to hurt, but to hold on as the current tries to sweep him away.
Then, through gritted teeth, against the sweat-slick skin of your neck, a new whisper rashes out, broken and fervent.
āSoā¦ so fuckinā goodā¦ā
He grinds into you, a deep, circular motion that wrings a gasp from your throat, and his voice drops to a rough, awe-struck murmur, meant only for you, for this.
āThatās itā¦ thatās it, sweetheartā¦ā
The unexpected endearment, so raw and tender, lands like a lightning strike in the storm of sensation. It is possessive, reverent, and utterly surrendering all at once. It is the sound of a man not just losing control, but gifting it to you.
It is the spark that ignites the powder keg within him.
His rhythm becomes frantic, a final, desperate climb. A ragged, broken sound is torn from him, a sob, a prayer, a curse. And then, with a force that seems to shake the very ground beneath you, he shatters.
His release comes not as a quiet sigh, but as a choked-off, strangled cry. Half-formed, desperate, a sound wrenched from a place within him that has been sealed and silent for years. It is a vocalization of pure, unadulterated relief. He pours into you, his body convulsing in violent, uncontrollable shudders. He holds you so tightly it borders on pain, his entire body bowing as he presses into you with his final thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You can feel the hot pulse of his climax deep inside, the physical manifestation of his surrender, and it is the most profoundly intimate sensation you have ever known.
The intensity of it, the sheer, raw relief and abandonment in his climax catches you like an undertow. The emotional gravity of the moment, the weight of his trust, the exquisite physical friction of his still-trembling body, pulls you over the edge moments later. Your own release is different, a silent, washing wave that crests and crashes through you, a brilliant, shimmering counterpoint to his storm. It is not loud, but it is immense, magnified a thousandfold by the knowledge of what he has just given you: the gift of his utterly shattered control, the sight of his soul laid bare in ecstasy. The pleasure is inextricably interlaced with a heartbreaking tenderness that leaves you breathless and trembling in his crushing, essential embrace.
For a long, timeless while after, he does not move. His weight is a heavy, warm, and profoundly real anchor upon you. His face remains hidden in the hollow of your neck, his breath hot and slowing against your skin. Fine, aftershock tremors continue to ripple through his muscles, little earthquakes of spent passion and lingering vulnerability. You stroke his hair, your fingers carding through the sweat-damp strands, feeling the solid shape of his skull beneath your palm. The night is utterly silent, the cold world held at bay by the cocoon of heat you have generated together.
Finally, with a sigh that seems to hold the weight of years, he shifts. He rolls to his side, taking you with him in one fluid motion, keeping you wrapped tightly in the circle of his arms and the shared, threadbare blanket. He arranges you against him, tucking your head securely under his chin, and presses one last, soft, lingering kiss to the crown of your head. His breathing slowly evens out into the deep, steady rhythm of one exhausted to their soul.
He doesnāt speak. The whispered words have all been spent. All that remains is the holding, the slow, synced beating of two hearts in the dark, the shared warmth, and the unspoken, aching truth that hangs in the air, as palpable as the scent of smoke and skin.
Morning comes the way it always does out here, quiet and inevitable. No church bells chime the hour, no distant voices carry on the wind, no wagons rattle down the gravel road to break the stillness. There is only the soft, grey light bleeding into the world from the east, turning the horizon a pale, watery shade of lilac and washing the stubborn stars away one by one. The cold, no longer held at bay by fire or shared body heat, clings to everything with a damp, relentless persistence. It seeps through the wool of the blanket and settles deep into your bones, as if it has always belonged there, as if last nightās warmth was the fleeting illusion.
You wake slowly, drifting up through the layers of sleep in gentle, disjointed fragments.
Warmth. The heavy, comforting weight of a blanket over your shoulders. The faint, sweet-ash scent of smoke lingering in cloth and in your own hair.
For a few precious, disoriented seconds, you donāt remember. The road, the wolves, the tense standoff, the fire that became a confessional, it all feels like a story you dreamed. Then you hear it.
The soft creak of leather shifting. A belt buckle being cinched with careful, deliberate silence. The muted scrape of boot soles against the hard, frost-dusted earth.
Your eyes open.
John is a few paces away, his back mostly to you, moving with a quiet, efficient grace that speaks of a lifetime of early departures. He moves like a man afraid a single sound might wake the whole world and demand explanations he cannot give. His bedroll is already tightly bound and strapped to his pack. The camp is dismantled with a practiced, almost sterile efficiency. Nothing remains but a small mound of cold, grey ash, with perhaps the faintest ghost of an ember buried deep beneath if one were foolish enough to dig for it.
He is packing like a man who never intended to stay.
You push yourself upright slowly, the blanket slipping but still draped around you. It falls down your shoulders, but you donāt pull it back up. Instead, your fingers curl into its rough edge, clutching it as if it is the last tangible proof of the night, the final warmth you are permitted to keep.
John freezes the moment he senses the shift in your breathing, the subtle rustle of wool. Not startled, just utterly still, as if caught in the undeniable act of leaving. A thief in the grey dawn light.
For a long, suspended moment, neither of you speaks. The morning is so profoundly quiet you can hear the soft rush of your own blood in your ears. Somewhere in the distant tree line, a lone bird offers a single, questioning call, then falls silent, as if awaiting an answer that will not come.
You clear your throat, your voice coarse with sleep and the residue of unshed tears. āYouāre leaving.ā
It isnāt an accusation. It holds no anger. It is merely a statement of fact, a truth you both understood was woven into the fabric of this encounter from the very first raised gun.
Johnās shoulders rise on a slow, deliberate inhale. He keeps his eyes fixed on his hands, on the leather strap he is methodically tightening, on any fixed point that is not you.
āYeah,ā he says.
The single syllable is uttered like it causes him physical pain.
You sit there, the blanket now pooled around your waist and watch him. Everything about him is rendered differently in the pale, unforgiving morning light. The dark, bruised hollows beneath his eyes are more pronounced. The exhaustion doesnāt just line his face; it sits upon him like a second, heavier coat. The hard, resigned set of his mouth is not new, it looks like a decision carved into him, a sentence he has been reading from a thousand times before.
You nod slowly, because you do understand. You understand the language of his silence, the meaning in his averted gaze.
He drags in another sharp breath, steadies himself against some internal tremor, and finally turns just enough that you can see his profile. He doesnāt face you fully but angles his body enough to speak without the cowardice of having his back entirely to you.
His eyes flick toward you, a swift, pained glance, then drop to the ground as if burned.
āI got a family,ā he says.
The words fall between you like a stone dropped into a still, deep pond. The ripples are silent but felt in the very air.
You donāt react outwardly. Your chest constricts, a sudden, fierce ache, but you school your features into a mask of calm acceptance. This revelation is not about shocking you. It is about him finally giving voice to the ghost that has been sitting at your fire all night.
āA woman,ā he continues, his voice dropping even lower, as if ashamed of the very words. āA boy.ā
His jaw clenches, the muscle jumping visibly. He grinds his teeth, fighting for control, for the right to say the next part.
There is a pause that stretches too long, filled only with the cold morning air. It seems the rest is lodged in his throat, a confession too jagged to pass.
Then, quieter still, barely a whisper meant for the ashes at his feet, he speaks again.
āI didnāt mean to hurt you.ā
The apology is not dramatic. It holds no plea for your understanding, no attempt to elicit comfort. It is simply shame, plain and unadorned, sitting heavy in every syllable. It is the apology of a man who knows the wound is made, even if the blade was dull and his hands were shaking.
He takes one cautious, hesitant step closer, then stops abruptly, as if an invisible boundary stands between you. He isnāt sure he is allowed in your space anymore.
āI justā¦ā His voice falters, breaks. He swallows hard, his Adamās apple bobbing. āI just forgot who I was for a minute.ā
Your throat closes, a hot, aching tightness. You donāt know what to do with that sentence. It is too devastatingly human. Too small and too enormous all at once. It isnāt a polished line. It isnāt a flimsy excuse.
You draw a slow, careful breath. The air is so cold it stings your lungs.
A thousand responses crowd your mind. You could demand the story, why he left, where they are, what heās running from. You could hurl accusations of selfishness, of betrayal. You could voice the petty, hurt part of you that wants to make him feel the sting of his own abandonment. You could, with a single whispered word, ask him to stay anyway, to choose this fragile, newborn thing between you over the ghosts he chases.
But you donāt.
Because you knew. Maybe not the specifics, not the names, not the face of the woman, not the age of the boy, but you knew this was borrowed time the moment the firelight first caught the stark planes of his face and you saw a man who looked like he didnāt even belong to himself. You knew mornings existed, harsh and real. You knew roads stretched on in all directions, demanding choices. You knew some people are composed more of leaving than of staying.
The silence stretches again, thinner and more exposed in the daylight. The intimacy of the dark has burned away, leaving everything raw and visible.
You tighten your grip on the blanketās edge, your knuckles white, as if this coarse wool is the only anchor you have left.
āI understand,ā you say at last.
It is all you can manage. Two words, honest and clean, offered not as forgiveness, but as acknowledgment.
Johnās face contorts for a fraction of a second, a spasm of something that could be relief or could be even deeper pain, before he looks away again, as if the simple kindness in your words is a burden too heavy to bear.
He nods once, a sharp, jerky motion.
āThank you,ā he murmurs, though it sounds like the last thing he wants to say, a formal gratitude for accepting the wound he gave.
He bends, picks up his weathered satchel, and slings it over his shoulder with a motion that is too fluid, too practiced. It is the motion of a man for whom leaving is the only thing he knows how to do with absolute certainty.
You stand slowly, the blanket still wrapped around you like a shield. The cold of the earth bites into your bare feet. You take a half-step toward him before you are even aware of moving, a silent, physical reach.
John goes preternaturally still.
Then, as if moving through deep water, he takes one deliberate step toward you.
You donāt retreat.
The flat, grey light catches his face as he closes the small distance, softening the hard lines but exposing the profound exhaustion he usually keeps hidden beneath a layer of grim endurance. He still doesnāt quite meet your eyes, his gaze fixed somewhere near your shoulder, as if looking at you directly would be the final straw, the thing that unravels his resolve completely.
He lifts his hand.
You feel the warmth of it in the cool air before he makes contact, a silent promise of touch. With a gentleness that steals the breath from your lungs, he brushes a loose strand of hair back from your face, his knuckles grazing the curve of your cheekbone.
The touch is feather-light. Reverent. A final, tactile memorization.
His thumb pauses there, in the hollow just below your cheekbone, for half a second too long.
You inhale softly, a tiny, hitched breath you cannot suppress.
John swallows, the sound audible in the stillness. His hand falls away as if your skin has become molten, as if he has indeed burned himself.
āIām sorry,ā he whispers again, the words barely a shape on the cold air.
You nod once. You swallow down everything else, the questions, the pleas, the bitterness. You let them settle like stones in the pit of your stomach.
A gust of wind moves through the clearing, a lonely sigh that lifts the edge of the blanket and carries with it the final, fading scent of woodsmoke and damp earth.
John takes a step back and turns away.
He does not look at you. He will not let himself.
His boots crunch with soft, final authority over the frost-stiff grass. His silhouette, dark and solitary, cuts a sharp line against the pale, indifferent dawn, moving toward the dust of the road as if it is a force pulling him by the very spine.
You stand there, the blanket wrapped tightly around your shoulders, and you watch him go. You watch until he is nothing but a blur against the grey, until he crests a small rise and is swallowed whole by the waking light.
When you finally look away, itās at the dead fireplace. Itās cold ash, no embers left and you realise some things only burn long enough to keep you warm, never long enough to stay.
Synopsis: What starts as lingering touches and unspoken promises slowly turns into something real, or so you think. When Steve finally says he wants to take things seriously, you let yourself believe him. But one misunderstood moment in an empty classroom is all it takes to unravel everything.
Tags: Miscommunication (im sorry!), Angst with a Happy Ending, Situationship to Lovers, Emotional Vulnerability, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Steve Harrington, Confession Scene
Warnings: Emotional Distress, Arguments, Feelings
Words: ~10k
A/N: everybody trust me i hate miscommunication tropes as much as you do but this came to me in a dream!! trust me plsssĀ
There are some things Steve Harrington does that feel like promises, even when he never says the words.
Like the way his hand always finds the small of your back in the hallway, thumb brushing slow, absent-minded circles against your spine as if heās reminding himself youāre real. Like the way he leans in when he talks to you, even when the hallway is crowded, his shoulder brushing yours, his voice dropping just for you. Like the way he says your name, soft, familiar, like it belongs to him.
And yet.
Youāre still nothing official.
Hawkins High hums around you, lockers slamming, laughter echoing, someoneās radio blaring from a car in the parking lot, but Steveās attention is fixed on you like the rest of the world has gone slightly out of focus. Youāre leaning against your locker, pretending youāre listening to him ramble about something, Tommy, maybe, or his shift at Family Video, while your brain is busy cataloging every little detail.
The way his chestnut hair, perpetually imperfect, falls into his eyes when he tilts his head to emphasize a point, and the subsequent, effortless sweep of his fingers to push it back.
The faint, clean scent of his cologne, something warm with sandalwood and soap, mingled with the unique, essential scent ofĀ him, a familiarity that makes your lungs feel tight.
The deliberate, casual way his knee nudges yours, a gentle tap-tap-tap of denim against denim.
You do realize.
You always do.
ā- and then he has the nerve to tell me I shouldāve locked up earlier,ā Steve finishes, scoffing. āLike I donāt already do everything around there.ā
You hum in response, smiling up at him. āSounds rough.ā
He grins back at you, and itās a thing of devastating, effortless beauty, the kind that still liquefies your insides and sends a flock of wings beating against your ribs, even after all these months of nearness. His eyes crinkle at the corners. āYou saying that,ā he murmurs, leaning in an inch, ājust made my whole day, yāknow. Single-handedly.ā
Before you can respond, he steps closer, too close for just friends, not close enough for something more, and his fingers hook into the belt loops of your jeans. Itās familiar. Easy. Intimate.
Possessive.
Your breath catches despite yourself.
Steve doesnāt pull you all the way in. He never does, not here. Instead, he leans down just enough that his mouth brushes your ear as he murmurs, āYou busy after school?ā
Your heart stutters.
āDepends,ā you say carefully. āWhy?ā
āThinking we could hang out.ā His fingers tighten briefly, a silent punctuation. āJust us.ā
Just us.
Those two words are your entire lexicon. They are the title of your story so far. They mean his couch and shared bowls of popcorn, the quiet of his empty house, his arm around your shoulders while a movie plays unseen. They mean everything and they promise nothing, all at once. They are the haven and the torture.
āYeah,ā you say, hoping he canāt hear the way your voice softens. āIād like that.ā
He smiles again, satisfied, like heās already won something, and finally lets go, just as someone walks past, glancing at the two of you with raised eyebrows.
Steve doesnāt notice.
Or maybe he does, and he just doesnāt care.
You sit with your friends at lunch, poking half-heartedly at your food while they watch you with the kind of knowing expressions that make your skin itch.
The cafeteria is loud, trays clattering, someone laughing too hard at the next table, the distant echo of a basketball bouncing somewhere in the gym, but at your table, it feels like everything has gone uncomfortably quiet. You can feel their eyes on you every time you push a pea around your plate instead of eating it.
You donāt need to look up to know why.
āSo,ā Robin says finally, breaking the silence as she steals one of your fries without asking and pops it into her mouth. āLet me guess. Steve walked you to class again?ā
You let out a slow breath through your nose. āHe was already going that way.ā
Robin hums, unconvinced.
Robin lifts her drink, watching you over the rim. āFunny how heās always already going that way.ā
You stab at your food a little harder than necessary. āItās not like that.ā
āMmhmm,ā Robin says, smirking now. āAnd let me guess, he touched you?ā
Your fork freezes halfway to your mouth.
āRobin,ā you warn, heat rushing to your face.
She leans back in her chair, utterly unapologetic. āWhat? Iām just saying. Shoulder? Waist? Hand on your back like heās guiding you through a crowd that doesnāt exist?ā
You donāt say anything, just staring back at Robin.
āThatās a yes,ā she says, grinning when you donāt answer fast enough.
āIt doesnāt mean anything,ā you say quickly, too quickly, the words tumbling over each other like if you say them fast enough they might become true. āSteveās justā¦ like that.ā
The second the words leave your mouth, they feel thin. Hollow.
Robin arches an eyebrow. āDoesnāt it?ā
You drop your gaze to your tray, suddenly fascinated by the unappealing texture of cafeteria mashed potatoes. āItās justā¦ Steve.ā
Nancyās smile softens, the teasing giving way to something more careful. āThatās the problem,ā she says gently. āSteve is great. Steve is alsoā¦ Steve.ā
You know exactly what she means.
Steve Harrington is warmth and easy smiles and hands that linger like he doesnāt know how not to touch you. Heās late-night drives with the windows down, his jacket draped over your shoulders without a second thought. Heās leaning in too close when he laughs, his thumb brushing your knuckles like it belongs there. Heās kisses that feel slow and deliberate, like heās memorizing you.
And then heās the way his voice goes light whenever things get too serious. The way he dodges questions without technically avoiding them. The way he says weāll see instead of yes or no.
He kisses you like he means it.
He holds you like youāre something precious.
He looks at you like heās already halfway in love.
But he never says anything that might actually define what the two of you are.
Every time you get close, every time you feel the words building in your throat, he does something that makes you forget why you were nervous in the first place. A stupid joke whispered against your ear. A kiss pressed to your temple. A soft hey like heās afraid you might disappear if he doesnāt say it just right.
āHe hasnāt said anything,ā you admit quietly, the confession settling heavy in your chest. āNot really.ā
Robinās expression softens instantly, all the teasing slipping away. She nudges your arm with her elbow. āYou deserve clarity, you know.ā
You nod, because you do know. Youāve known for a while now. Itās just easier to ignore when Steveās hands are warm and familiar and he looks at you like youāre the only person in the room.
āI thinkā¦ā you start, then stop, chewing on your bottom lip. āI think heās just scared.ā
Robin tilts her head. āOf what?ā
You donāt answer right away.
Instead, you think of the way Steveās hands settle so naturally on your waist, like he doesnāt even think about it anymore. The sound of his laughter in your ear when you say something stupid. The way he always finds his way back to you, no matter how busy his life gets.
You think of how careful he is with you when it matters most.
āOf messing it up,ā you say finally.
Robin sighs. āOr of having something real.ā
You look up at that, startled, but she just offers you a small, knowing smile.
āThose two things tend to look pretty similar,ā she adds.
You donāt know whether to laugh or cry.
Instead, you glance across the cafeteria without meaning to, and your breath catches when you spot Steve a few tables over, leaning back in his chair, laughing at something Tommy said. His eyes flick up for just a second, instinctively finding you like they always do.
When he sees you, his smile changes. Softens.
Your heart stutters traitorously in your chest.
Robin follows your gaze, then looks back at you. āJustā¦ donāt let him keep you in the gray forever.ā
You nod again, even as hope flickers stubbornly to life in your chest.
Because despite everything, despite the doubt and the uncertainty and the way your heart feels permanently suspended in mid-fall, Steve Harrington keeps choosing you.
And for now, that feels like it has to mean something.
The parking lot after school is a smear of late-afternoon gold, heat still trapped in the asphalt even though the day is slipping toward evening. Cars cough to life in uneven bursts. Someone yells goodbye across three rows of vehicles. The last bell feels like itās still vibrating in your bones.
Youāre halfway to your own car when you realize Steve hasnāt said a word since you stepped outside.
Thatās not like him.
Steve Harrington usually fills silences like heās afraid theyāll swallow him whole, complaining about teachers, talking about work, narrating his entire thought process with an easy grin. Today, heās walking beside you with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, shoulders tense in a way that doesnāt match the sunlight.
You sneak a glance at him.
His hair is a mess from running his fingers through it all day, curls catching the light. His jaw works like heās chewing on something he canāt swallow. When he notices you looking, he flashes a smile so quick itās almost automatic.
Too automatic.
āYou okay?ā you ask softly.
He blinks, like youāve pulled him out of a thought he shouldnāt be having. āYeah. Yeah, Iām good.ā He pauses, then adds, too fast, āJust tired.ā
You hum, letting it go because youāve learned when to press and when to let Steve have his space. Itās a careful dance. One youāve gotten too good at.
You reach your car. Your keys are already in your hand when Steve speaks again.
āHey,ā he says.
Something about his voice makes your fingers still.
āYeah?ā
He nods toward the far end of the lot, where the gym doors cast a long shadow across the pavement. āCan weā¦ not leave yet?ā
Your stomach flips, that familiar mixture of hope and caution. āLikeā¦ hang out?ā
Steveās smile twitches. āYeah. Justā¦ for a minute. Somewhere quiet.ā
Somewhere quiet with Steve Harrington is never just somewhere quiet. Itās stolen moments that feel like secrets. Itās the soft, slow slide of your name from his mouth like heās tasting it. Itās everything you tell yourself not to expect and everything your heart insists on wanting anyway.
You nod, trying to look casual. āSure.ā
Steveās shoulders loosen a fraction, like heās relieved you didnāt say no. He turns and starts walking, and you follow him without thinking twice.
He leads you around the side of the school, past the dumpsters and the faculty parking spots, where the noise of the lot fades into something distant. The air smells like cut grass and warm brick. A cicada buzzes somewhere nearby, loud enough to fill the silence between you.
Steve slows as you reach a back entrance, one of the doors thatās supposed to be locked but never is, not really. He glances over his shoulder like heās checking if anyoneās watching, then pushes it open.
āSteve, ā you start.
He holds up a hand, a quiet wait, and thereās something in his eyes that makes you stop.
Inside, the hallway is dimmer, cooler. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead. The school feels different when itās emptier, like a place youāre not supposed to be.
Steve walks ahead, footsteps soft against the waxed linoleum. He doesnāt look back to see if youāre following. He doesnāt have to.
He stops at the end of the hallway, where a classroom door is cracked open. The room beyond is dark except for the slant of sun coming through the blinds, striping the floor in pale gold.
Steve pushes the door open and steps inside.
You hesitate for a half-second before you follow.
The classroom smells like chalk dust and old paper. Desks sit in neat rows, untouched. The air is warm where the sunlight hits, cool in the shadows. It feels too intimate, too quiet, like the world has pressed pause just for you.
Steve closes the door behind you, not all the way, not with a click, just enough that itās mostly shut. Enough to make the room feel like a pocket of privacy.
He turns to face you.
For a second, he justā¦ looks at you.
Not the quick, teasing glance he gives you in the hallways. Not the lazy, half-lidded look he gets when heās flirting.
This is different.
His eyes flicker over your face like heās trying to memorize it. Like heās searching for something. His hands hover at his sides, uncertain.
Nervous.
Youāve seen Steve nervous before, before games, before fights, before anything he actually cares about.
Youāve never seen him nervous like this.
Your heart starts to beat harder, a little too loud in your chest. āSteveā¦ what is this?ā
He swallows. āNothing. I mean, ā He exhales, sharp and frustrated, as if annoyed with himself. āItās not nothing.ā
Your fingers curl around the strap of your bag just to have something to hold. āOkay.ā
Steve drags a hand through his hair, and the motion is so familiar it almost makes you smile, until you see the way his hand trembles slightly when it drops back down.
He laughs once, breathy. āGod. This is stupid.ā
āItās not stupid,ā you say immediately.
He looks at you, and something in his expression softens at the way you say it. Like he didnāt expect you to be gentle.
Steve steps closer, slowly, like heās testing whether youāll back away.
You donāt.
He stops close enough that you can smell him, warm cologne and something clean beneath it, soap maybe, the faintest hint of cigarettes from someone elseās jacket heās been standing near. His presence fills the space in front of you in a way that makes everything else feel smaller.
His gaze drops to your mouth. Your breath catches. Steve lifts his hand. His fingers brush the side of your neck, just below your ear, light as if heās afraid of hurting you. The touch is so gentle it makes your skin prickle.
And then his hand slides to cup your head, palm settling at the base of your skull. Itās a protective hold. Intimate. Reverent.
Your throat tightens.
Steveās thumb strokes once, slow, along the edge of your hairline.
āIs this okay?ā he asks, voice quieter than youāve ever heard it.
You nod, too quickly. āYeah.ā
His eyes flicker to yours, searching, making sure. When he seems satisfied, his hand tightens a fraction, not rough, justā¦ certain.
He pulls you toward him. Not rushed. Not hungry. Like heās been waiting.
Your body moves with his like it already knows how. Like youāve done this a hundred times and still never quite get used to the way it makes you feel.
Steve leans down, slow enough that you could stop him. His forehead almost brushes yours. His breath fans across your lips.
And then he kisses you.
It isnāt the kind of kiss he gives you in his car when the radio is too loud and his hands are everywhere and everything feels like fire. This kiss is quieter. Deeper. Like heās trying to say something without words.
Steveās mouth moves against yours with careful patience, as if heās learning you again. His hand stays on the back of your neck, thumb stroking, grounding you. The other hand hesitates at your side before settling lightly against your hip, not gripping, not claiming, just holding you there, like he canāt bear the thought of you drifting away.
You melt into him before you can stop yourself.
Your hands lift, finding his jacket, fingers curling into the fabric because you need something to anchor you. Steve makes a sound, barely audible, almost a sigh, and deepens the kiss slightly, like your touch gives him permission.
Itās all so slow it feels dizzying.
When he finally pulls back, itās not sudden. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. His breathing is heavier now, steady but purposeful, like heās trying to calm himself down.
Youāre still, caught between hope and fear, waiting for whatever comes next.
Steve opens his eyes.
Theyāre softer than usual. Unshielded.
āHi,ā you whisper, because the word is the only thing you can manage.
Steve gives a small, shaky smile. āHi.ā
You let out a breath that sounds too much like a laugh. āWhat are you doing?ā
Steveās smile fades, replaced by something serious. āTrying to not screw this up.ā
Your stomach drops and flips at the same time. āThis?ā you echo, voice barely there.
He swallows, gaze darting to your mouth again, then back up like heās afraid if he looks away youāll disappear.
āUs,ā he says.
Itās only one word, but it lands like something huge.
You feel your pulse in your throat. āSteveā¦ā
His hand remains at the back of your neck, warm and steady. āI, ā He exhales, eyes squeezing shut for a second like heās bracing himself. āIāve been thinking.ā
You search his face for the usual escape routes, humor, flirting, anything that might turn this into a joke.
There are none. Steve looksā¦ scared.
āThinking about what?ā you ask softly, even though youāre not sure you want the answer. Because answers change things. They make it real. They make it something you canāt pretend doesnāt matter.
Steveās throat bobs. āAbout how I keepā¦ doing this.ā
āDoing what?ā
He laughs again, but thereās no humor in it. āPulling you in and then acting like it doesnāt mean anything. Like weāre just, ā He shakes his head, jaw tight. āLike I can just keep you in my pocket whenever I want.ā
Your chest tightens. āIs that what you think youāve been doing?ā
Steveās eyes snap to yours, sharp. āNo.ā The word is immediate, fierce. āNo, thatās not what I want. Thatās-, ā He stops, frustration flashing across his face. āThatās not what you are to me.ā
You swallow hard. āThen what am I?ā
The question slips out before you can stop it, raw and honest and dangerous.
For a moment, Steve just stares at you.
You can see him thinking. Wrestling with it. The effort of it makes his brows draw together, makes his grip at the back of your neck tighten slightly like youāre the only thing keeping him steady.
Then he leans forward, not to kiss you, not this time, and speaks so quietly you almost donāt hear it.
āI want to take us seriously.ā
The words hit you like a wave.
Your mind goes blank.
Your heart stutters, then starts racing so hard you canāt tell if youāre breathing right.
You blink. āWhat?ā
Steveās mouth twitches, as if he expected you to laugh at him. He doesnāt pull away, though. He stays right there, close enough that his breath still brushes your lips.
āI want to take us seriously,ā he repeats, a little firmer now. āI wantā¦ I want to actually be with you.ā
Your throat tightens painfully.
Because itās everything youāve wanted to hear and everything youāve been afraid to hope for.
Because youāve built a whole world in your head out of little moments, his hands on your waist, his jacket around your shoulders, his laugh in your ear, and every time you tried to turn those moments into a real sentence, you stopped yourself.
You told yourself not to be greedy.
Not to ask for more.
Not to make it complicated.
But Steve is standing in front of you, looking at you like youāre something worth risking everything for, and suddenly all of your careful self-control feels paper-thin.
āSteve,ā you whisper again, because his name is still the only thing you have.
He nods, like heās bracing for impact. āI know itās, Ā I know itās kind of out of nowhere.ā
āItās not,ā you say, voice shaking. āItās not out of nowhere. I just, ā
You stop, because the truth sits heavy on your tongue: I didnāt think youād ever say it.
Steveās eyes soften, as if he hears the unspoken words anyway.
His thumb strokes at your hairline again. āIāve been an idiot,ā he admits quietly. āIāve been acting likeā¦ like if I donāt label it, it canāt break.ā
Your breath catches. āAnd now?ā
Steve hesitates.
The hesitation scares you more than anything else.
But then he exhales and looks at you with something almost desperate. āNow Iām tired of pretending I donāt care.ā His voice drops. āBecause I do.ā
Your chest aches, sharp and sweet.
You imagine it, just for a second.
Steve walking with you openly, hand in hand, not caring who sees. Steve introducing you as his girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever youād be. Steve showing up at your door in daylight, not sneaking in through windows like a secret.
You imagine not having to wonder if youāre allowed to want him.
You imagine a future that includes him on purpose. Itās terrifying. Itās beautiful.
And it makes your eyes burn.
You laugh weakly, shaking your head. āYouāre serious.ā
Steveās expression turns almost offended. āYeah. Iām serious.ā
You stare at him, trying to find the catch. The joke. The moment where he backs out.
Steve doesnāt. He just looks at you like youāre the only answer heās ever had.
āI want you,ā he says, voice barely above a whisper. āI wantā¦ you. Not just, ā He gestures vaguely, frustrated. āNot just this. Not just whenever. I want it to be real.ā
Your heart twists.
Steve Harrington, who looks like he belongs on magazine covers, who has half the school still acting like heās the center of the universe, looks at you like you are the one heās afraid to lose.
āYouāre crazy Steve Harrington,ā you whisper automatically.
Steve gives you a look that says be serious.
You huff out a small laugh, then go quiet again, hands still gripping his jacket like youāre afraid if you let go, youāll wake up.
Steve tilts his head, watching you like heās trying to read your thoughts. āSay something,ā he murmurs. āPlease.ā
You open your mouth. Your brain is full of static.
āWhat ifā¦ā you start, voice trembling. āWhat if you change your mind?ā
Steveās face softens, something pained flickering in his eyes. āI wonāt.ā
āYou donāt know that.ā
āI do,ā he says immediately, more certain than before. His hand at your neck tightens just enough to make your breath hitch. āBecause I already tried changing my mind. I already tried telling myself it was justā¦ fun.ā
He swallows.
āItās not,ā he admits, so quiet it feels like a confession. āNot for me.ā
The room feels too small for the way your heart swells.
You blink fast, forcing yourself to breathe. āSo what, what does taking it seriously mean to you?ā
Steve hesitates, and your fear spikes again, until he starts speaking, words careful, as if heās building them from scratch.
āIt means I stop acting like youāre a secret,ā he says. āIt means Iā¦ I donāt do this half-in, half-out thing anymore. It means if I want to see you, I call. I come to your door. I-, ā He swallows, cheeks flushing faintly. āI take you on dates. Real ones.ā
Your lips part slightly.
Steve looks relieved that youāre not running. He leans closer, foreheads nearly touching again.
āAnd it means,ā he adds, voice softer, āI stop pretending I donāt feel things.ā
Your chest tightens around the words.
You let out a shaky breath. āSteveā¦ā
He doesnāt kiss you this time. He waits, like heās giving you the choice. Like heās giving you the respect he shouldāve given you from the beginning.
It makes your throat ache.
You nod slowly, almost to yourself. āOkay.ā
Steve blinks. āOkay?ā
You nod again, still stunned. āOkay.ā
The look on his face is instantaneous, hope like sunlight, relief so sharp it makes his eyes go glossy. He laughs, breathless, like he canāt believe you said yes.
āYeah?ā he asks, voice cracking. āYou mean it?ā
You canāt stop the small smile that tugs at your mouth, even through the fear. āYeah, Steve. I mean it.ā
For a second, he just stares at you like heās memorizing this moment too, your smile, the way your eyes soften, the way your hands are still clutching him like youāve been holding on for dear life.
Then his hand at your neck slides down slightly, fingertips brushing your jaw, and he kisses you again.
Itās still slow.
Still reverent.
But now thereās something else in it, something steady. Certain. Like heās not asking anymore. Like heās claiming a future. And you let him, because for the first time, you let yourself imagine that maybe this isnāt going to end in your heart breaking.
Outside, the sun continues to dip behind the school, the world carrying on like nothing has changed.
But in the quiet, stripe-lit classroom, with Steve Harringtonās mouth on yours and his hands holding you like you matter, like everything does.
The next morning, you wake up smiling.
Itās small and stupid and completely uncontrollable, the kind of smile that sneaks up on you while youāre brushing your teeth, while youāre tying your shoes, while youāre staring at your reflection and thinking, This is different now.
Because it is different now.
Steve said it out loud.
He said he wanted to take you seriously. He said he wanted something real. He didnāt dodge it, didnāt joke it away, didnāt soften it with a laugh. He looked at you like he meant it.
And that changes everything.
You walk into Hawkins High with a lightness in your step that feels almost dangerous. Your bag bounces against your hip. Your heart beats faster than usual, like itās trying to keep up with the possibilities racing through your head.
You imagine him waiting by your locker.
You imagine his smile when he sees you, the way itāll soften like it always does. Maybe heāll pull you in close, just a little smug this time, like heās allowed to. Maybe heāll kiss your cheek. Maybe he wonāt care who sees.
No more secrets, he said.
You round the corner, already searching for him,
And your locker is empty. You slow to a stop, confusion prickling at your skin.
Maybe heās running late.
Thatās normal. Steve is perpetually running late. You tell yourself that easily, shrugging it off as you spin the dial on your locker. The metal clicks open with a sound that feels too loud.
You glance down the hallway once more.
Nothing.
Your chest tightens slightly, but you ignore it. One morning doesnāt mean anything. You grab your books and shut the locker, the echo ringing through the hallway like punctuation.
Heāll find you later, you tell yourself. He always does
First period passes with a thick, syrupy slowness. The teacherās voice becomes a distant drone, words like āalgebraic expressionā and āpolynomialā dissolving into meaningless sound. Your focus fractures, pulled relentlessly toward the classroom door every time it creaks open, each time, a foolish, hopeful jolt. Then, toward the clock above the chalkboard, its red second hand ticking with a maddening, lethargic precision. In the margin of your notebook, your pen moves of its own volition, tracing the familiar curves of his name before your brain catches up with your heart. You black it out furiously, a dark, scribbled storm cloud over the letters, your cheeks flushing with the vulnerability of it.
You donāt see him.
Second period is a study in mounting quiet. You tell yourself itās fine. His schedule is different; the halls are long. But you still catch yourself scanning the river of students between bells, your eyes skipping from face to unfamiliar face with a practiced, automatic hope. The bright, morning excitement you carried like a secret begins to tarnish at the edges, dulled by a faint, creeping confusion.
By third period, the soft, private smile you woke up with, the one that felt like a promise etched into your skin, has faded completely. In its place is something careful and cautious, a tentative line your mouth holds. You tell yourself youāre being dramatic, borrowing trouble. Steve doesnāt owe you every minute of his time. He didnāt say everything would change overnight. He just said,
I want to be serious. I want this to be real.
The memory of his voice, low and earnest in the quiet of his car last night, wraps around your heart. It has to mean something. ItĀ hasĀ to.
When the bell shrieks for fourth period, you gather your books with a restless energy, your thoughts a tangled knot. The hallways have reached their peak volume, a chaotic symphony of slamming metal and shouted plans. You merge into the current of bodies, feeling oddly separate from the flow.
You donāt notice the voices at first. Theyāre just another thread in the noisy tapestry, laughter, a shout, the hum of a hundred conversations. Youāre halfway to your class, mind still churning, when a specific sound slices cleanly through the din.
Steveās laugh.
Itās unmistakable. Warm, open, and bright, the sound youāve come to associate with sun-drenched afternoons and the safe circle of his arms. Your heart, that traitorous organ, gives a reflexive, joyful skip before your mind can process the context.
Your head turns, an instinct you cannot fight.
The sound emanates from an open classroom a few doors down, Mr. Kellyās history room. Your feet slow, then stall. You tell yourself youāre just going to glance in. Just to see him, to catch his eye and share a silent, connecting smile. Just toĀ knowĀ heās there.
You take a few steps closer, drawn by a magnetism you despise.
The classroom door is wide open, a rectangle of buttery morning sunlight painting the floor. Inside, a girl stands near the teacherās desk, leaning back against it. You recognize her vaguely. From his economics class. Sheās pretty in a way that seems unconscious, her smile easy, her posture comfortable in her own skin.
Steve is leaning against a student desk opposite her, his body angled toward hers in a mirror of their positions.
Too close.
The observation hits you like a physical blow, a sudden, sickening dip in your stomach.
Theyāre laughing about something; their heads inclined toward each other in a shared space. Steveās posture is the picture of relaxed ease, the Steve who owns every room he enters, who draws people in with the effortless gravity of his charm. This is him, unguarded and shining.
The girl says something, her lips shaping words lost to the hallway noise.
Steve laughs again, a softer, more intimate echo, and shakes his head, running a hand through his hair in that way you love.
Then she reaches out.
Her fingers, confident, casual, brush his arm, just above the elbow. The touch is light but lingers, a punctuation to her smile. She looks up at him with an expression that is unmistakably grateful, familiar.Ā Intimate.
From your frozen vantage point in the hallway, it looks like a language. A language of comfort and shared history.
A language youāre not fluent in.
Your breath snags, catching painfully in your constricted throat.
No,Ā your mind screams, immediate and defensive.Ā This isnāt, it canāt be,
Steve leans in slightly, saying something in return, his voice too low to hear. The movement is small, but from your angle, itās devastating. Itās him closing the distance. Itās him choosing proximity, the same way he leans intoĀ yourĀ space, the same way he curved his body around yours just yesterday against your locker.
The same way.
A sharp, white spike of pain lances through your chest. Your vision wavers, the edges blurring with a hot, sudden pressure.
You take a stumbling step back without conscious thought.
Thatās when Steve looks up.
For half a heartbeat, his face is still open, lit with the fading echo of his smile, unguarded.
Then his eyes find yours.
And his entire world shifts.
His smile doesnāt just fade; it evaporates, wiped clean as if it never existed. His body goes taut, straightening away from the desk as if yanked by an invisible wire. His brows pull together in a sharp vee of confusion, of dawning alarm. His mouth opens,
āHey-!ā
He takes a hurried step toward the door, toward the hallway.
TowardĀ you.
The girl beside him follows his gaze. She glances at you, a stranger lurking in the doorway, then back at Steve, her pretty face etching with puzzlement.
Steve doesnāt see her confusion.
Because heās looking only at you.
And there it is, plain, stark, and horrifying in its clarity, a flash of pureĀ panicĀ in his eyes.
That should mean something. It should mean he cares, that heās caught, that you matter enough to spark fear.
In this shattered moment, it means nothing.
Your chest caves inward, a hollow, collapsing feeling that steals the air from your lungs. The roar of your own heartbeat ascends, a deafening thunder in your ears that drowns out the hallway, drowns out her voice, drowns out the scrape of Steveās shoes on the linoleum as he moves.
One thought rises, crystalline and cruel in its clarity:
How breathtakingly naive could you possibly be?
You donāt wait. You donāt give him the chance to reach you, to offer some placating, pretty lie. You spin on your heel and walk away, fast and deliberate.
Your footsteps are the only sound you hear, echoing with a terrible finality as you push through the crowd. Your shoulders hunch instinctively, bracing for a blow that never comes. You donāt look back. You canāt bear to see him following, and you think it might kill you if he doesnāt.
Your vision swims, the world tilting. You blink hard, teeth grinding together, and force your legs to carry you forward, away.
Yesterday now feels like a beautifully crafted joke, and you were the oblivious punchline. His hands, so gentle on your face. His voice, rough with emotion, sayingĀ I want to take us seriously.Ā The entire, fragile future you allowed yourself to sketch in the air between you, a future with labels and certainty and him.
Stupid.
You should have known. Steve Harrington has always possessed a genius for making people feel singular, like they are the only star in his sky. You just made the catastrophic error of believing you were the one whoĀ actuallyĀ was.
You shove the door to the nearest bathroom open, the force rattling the frame. The fluorescent lights buzz with a sterile, aggressive energy, reflecting harshly off the white tiles. You stumble to the sink, gripping the cold porcelain edge until your knuckles bleach white, breathing in ragged, uneven gasps. You force your gaze to the mirror.
The person staring back is a stranger. Eyes glassy and wide, shimmering with unshed tears. The smile is gone, replaced by a pale, stricken stillness. You lookā¦ embarrassed. Deeply, profoundly humiliated.
You press your palms flat against the counter, letting the cold seep into your skin, a feeble anchor.
Get it together. You are not crying over this. Not here.
Because what did you truly expect? You existed in the gray space. No titles, no declarations, no contract. You were a lovely, ephemeral thing he could enjoy without consequence, a feeling he could take back without warning, as easily as he took back his smile in that classroom.
You straighten slowly. You lift your chin. You will the trembling in your limbs to still.
You will not let him see this. You will not give him that.
When you finally leave the bathroom, you map a new course through the school, avoiding the tributaries that lead to his locker, his usual haunts. You keep your eyes fixed on some distant point ahead, your steps measured and sure. Every burst of laughter you pass sounds like mockery. Every intertwined couple is a fresh, tiny stab.
You donāt see Steve again for the rest of the day.
But you feel him everywhere. In the echo of a familiar laugh down the hall. In the faint, ghostly scent of his cologne lingering near his locker. In the heavy, pervasive silence of your phone, which remains stubbornly, accusingly dark. He is a ghost haunting the familiar halls, a presence etched into the very air you now struggle to breathe.
You donāt cry on the drive home.
Not because you donāt want to, God, you do, but because crying would mean admitting you let yourself believe him. It would mean admitting you let Steve Harrington say I want to take us seriously and you didnāt question it, didnāt guard your heart the way you always promised you would.
So you keep your eyes on the road and your hands steady on the steering wheel, jaw clenched so tightly your teeth ache.
The radio is off. The silence feels too loud.
Every stop sign feels like it takes too long. Every red light feels like punishment. You catch yourself staring at the reflection of your own eyes in the rearview mirror and you look away immediately, like you canāt stand the sight of yourself right now.
Because you look stupid. Like someone who thought theyād finally been chosen.
Your house comes into view and you pull into the driveway too fast, tires crunching gravel. You park crooked. You donāt care. The front door is there, familiar, safe, and you cling to it like itās the only thing keeping you from shattering.
You slam the car door and march inside.
The moment the door closes behind you, the adrenaline fades, and the humiliation hits like a wave.
You drop your bag by the entryway. You donāt take your shoes off properly. You kick them into a corner and head straight to your room like if you stop moving youāll break apart.
The second youāre inside, you shut the door and lock it.
Then you press your back against it, breathing hard, like you just ran a mile.
How naive could I be? It loops in your head, sharp and merciless.
You cross the room and fall onto your bed, face-down, smothering your face into the pillow before any sound can escape. You grip the fabric like itās the only thing you can hold onto. Your chest rises and falls too fast.
You tell yourself youāre fine.
You tell yourself youāre not going to cry.
Your throat burns anyway.
Behind your closed eyes, flashes of the classroom scene replay like a cruel little film you canāt turn off.
Steve leaning in.
Her hand on his arm.
His smile,
And then the way his face changed when he saw you, like he hadnāt expected consequences to exist.
Like he hadnāt expected you to be real.
A sharp sound cuts through your spiraling thoughts. The unmistakable screech of tires and the crunch of gravel. Your heart jumps, stupidly hopeful for half a second before it turns bitter.
No. It canāt be. Another noise, louder this time. A car door slamming.
Your breath catches. You lift your head just enough to listen. Footsteps. Fast. Heavy.
Then,
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The front door rattles in its frame.
āCome on, _______!ā
Steveās voice. Strained. Breathless. Too loud. Too real.
āI-I can explain everything!ā
You freeze.
Your whole body goes cold and hot at the same time, like youāve been dropped into boiling water. For a moment you canāt move, canāt breathe, canāt even think beyond the way your heart is trying to claw its way out of your chest.
Heās here. He came.
And the worst part, the part that makes you want to scream, is how your heart reacts like this means something. Like this is proof you mattered.
But it isnāt proof of anything except that Steve Harrington hates feeling like the bad guy.
You bury your face back into the pillow harder, as if you can mute his voice through sheer willpower.
ā_______!ā he calls again, and it cracks on the second syllable like it hurts him. āPlease. Just open the door, just let me talk to you!ā
Another bang. The door shudders.
You squeeze your eyes shut. Donāt. Donāt go down there. Donāt give him the satisfaction of watching you fall apart.
You stare at the darkness behind your eyelids and try to breathe through the ache in your chest.
And in that darkness, your memory betrays you.
The first time he said your name softly.
It wasnāt even dramatic. It was late, summer air thick and warm, you perched on the hood of his car while he fumbled with a lighter he didnāt need. Heād been talking about nothing, work, his mom, some stupid movie heād seen, until the conversation faded naturally.
Youād looked at him and smiled.
And heād looked back like he forgot how to breathe.
ā_______,ā heād said, barely a whisper, like he was testing the sound of it. Like he was afraid it might break if he said it too loud.
Youād laughed and asked what.
Steve had shaken his head, swallowing hard. āNothing,ā heād mumbled, eyes fixed on your mouth. āJustā¦ youāre, ā
He never finished the sentence.
The banging at the door yanks you back to the present.
āPlease!ā Steve shouts, voice raw now. āPlease, I swear, this isnāt what you think!ā
You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound.
You donāt want to hear this.
You donāt want him to explain, because explanations donāt erase what you saw. Explanations donāt erase the way your stomach dropped, the way your hope died so fast it felt like whiplash.
Explanations donāt erase the fact that you believed him.
Another memory slides in, unwanted and vivid.
The first time he kissed you in his car.
It had been raining, the kind of storm that made Hawkins feel smaller, the streets slick and shining under streetlights. Heād driven you home because your ride bailed last minute, and youād sat in the passenger seat with your arms folded, trying to pretend your heart wasnāt racing.
Steve had pulled up in your driveway and turned the engine off.
For a second, the only sound was rain ticking against the roof.
Youād thanked him, reaching for the door handle,
And his hand had shot out, catching your wrist.
Not tight. Not controlling.
Justā¦ desperate.
Youād looked at him, confused.
Steveās eyes had been dark, searching. His chest rose and fell like heād been holding his breath for the entire drive.
āWait,ā heād said quietly.
āSteve -ā
Heād leaned across the center console and kissed you like heād been starving, like heād spent weeks thinking about it and couldnāt stop himself anymore.
It wasnāt gentle. Not that first kiss.
It was messy and sudden and real, his hand sliding up your arm to your shoulder, fingers curling like he was afraid youād disappear.
When he pulled back, his forehead had rested against yours.
āSorry,ā heād breathed, even as his thumb traced your jaw. āI just, Ā I couldnāt, ā
Youād smiled, dazed.
And Steve had kissed you again.
Downstairs, the banging stops. The sudden silence is so abrupt it makes your ears ring. You lift your head slightly, listening, pulse pounding. For a moment, thereās nothing. No yelling. No knocking. No Steve.
Relief loosens your shoulders before you can stop it. You sink back into the bed, exhaling shakily, your face still pressed into the pillow.
Maybe he gave up. Maybe he,
A sharp tap interrupts the thought.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Not from downstairs. From your window. Your whole body stiffens.
Slowly, like youāre moving through water, you lift your head.
There, outside your window, crouched low like a criminal in a bad movie, is Steve Harringtonās head.
A mop of brown hair, slightly windblown, eyes wide and pleading as he peers up from the bottom of the glass.
Of course. Of course he would do this.
Because Steve has climbed through your window dozens of times before. Itās practically muscle memory at this point. Late nights when he couldnāt sleep. Long afternoons when he ājust happenedā to be in your neighborhood. Moments when he wanted you and didnāt want to ask properly.
He taps the window again, softer this time, like heās trying not to scare you.
āPlease,ā he mouths through the glass.
You stare at him, frozen.
Steve shifts awkwardly, fingers curled on the windowsill, arms trembling slightly like heās already losing his grip. ā_______,ā he says when you finally crack the window open just enough to hear him, voice strained. Heās breathing hard, hair falling into his eyes. āPlease, let me just explain.ā
You donāt answer.
Your throat feels sealed shut.
āPlease,ā he repeats, desperation bleeding into every syllable. āLet me in, Iām gonna fall in a second.ā
Heās not exaggerating. His foot scrapes against the side of the house, searching for purchase. The ridiculousness of it, the way he looks like a guilty cat caught in the rain, almost makes you laugh.
Almost.
But then you remember that classroom.
You remember that girlās hand on him.
And the laughter dies before it can reach your lips.
You should let him fall. You really should. Instead, you shove the window up with a sharp movement and step back, arms crossed like armor.
Steve hauls himself inside with a clumsy grunt, landing awkwardly on your bedroom floor. He winces, rubbing his side, then immediately looks up at you like heās afraid youāll vanish. His cheeks are flushed. His chest heaves. He looks like he ran here.
You hate that you notice. You hate that even now your body reacts to him like heās home.
āPlease,ā he says, voice raw. āI can explain everything, I, ā
āExplain?ā you cut in, sharp and trembling. āThere is nothing to explain.ā
Steve flinches like you slapped him.
āWhat I saw was pretty obvious,ā you continue, voice rising despite your efforts to keep it steady. Your throat burns with every word. āYou were in there with her. Laughing. Leaning in. And she was, ā you swallow, forcing the image back down, ā, touching you.ā
āIt wasnāt like that,ā Steve says immediately, too fast, desperation making the words stumble out. āIt was just, ā
āJust what?ā you snap. āJust you doing what you always do? Making someone feel special when itās convenient?ā
Steveās eyes widen. āNo, ā
You laugh bitterly. āLike I know we arenāt serious, ā Your voice cracks and you hate that it does, hate that youāre giving him proof that youāre hurting. āAnd maybe you donāt actually care about me or my feelings, but why would you lie?ā
Steve goes still.
āI didnāt lie,ā he says, and it comes out quieter than before, like heās trying not to scare you, like heās trying to keep the panic in his chest from spilling everywhere. āI meant it.ā
You shake your head hard, as if you can shake the memory of him saying it out of your body.
āYou said you wanted to take us seriously,ā you spit, wiping at your cheek angrily even though you donāt remember tears falling. āYou said it like you meant it. You kissed me like you meant it. You made me, ā Your voice breaks and you have to inhale sharply through your nose. āYou made me believe you.ā
Steveās face crumples for half a second before he forces it back into something steadier. He swallows, Adamās apple bobbing.
ā_______,ā he whispers, like your name hurts him.
āDonāt,ā you warn, backing away a step.
Steve mirrors you without thinking, stepping forward at the same time, as if the distance between you is a problem he needs to fix.
You put your hands on his chest and shove.
Hard.
Steve barely moves. Not an inch. The only thing that shifts is his expression, surprise flickering, then something softer, almost aching, when he looks down at your hands like heās realizing how much youāre shaking.
āStop,ā you say, voice thin. āJust stop coming closer.ā
āIām not trying to, ā he starts, then cuts himself off, frustrated with his own inability to get it right. He drags in a breath like heās bracing. āOkay. Okay. Iāll, Ā Iāll stay here. Iāll stay.ā
He stays, barely.
You can still feel him, even from a few feet away. The warmth of him. The weight of him. The way the room seems to bend around Steve Harrington like he belongs at the center of it.
You hate that you miss him even while youāre furious.
Steveās hands lift again, palms open, pleading. āJust, just listen to me. Please.ā
Your laugh comes out broken. āWhy? So you can tell me Iām imagining things? So you can say it was nothing and Iām overreacting?ā
āNo,ā Steve says quickly. āNo, Iām not, Ā Iām not gonna do that.ā
āThen what?ā you demand. āWhat were you doing in that classroom with her?ā
Steve squeezes his eyes shut for a second, jaw flexing, like heās trying to hold himself together.
When he opens them, his eyes are shining.
āI was, ā He swallows. āShe was crying.ā
You freeze.
The answer is soā¦ normal that it throws you off balance. It doesnāt match the story your brain has been screaming at you all day.
āCrying?ā you repeat, voice flat with disbelief.
Steve nods once, sharp. āYeah.ā
You stare at him, waiting for the rest, waiting for the punchline that turns this into another excuse.
Steve takes a step forward without thinking again.
You immediately shove his chest a second time, even harder.
He still doesnāt move. He just looks at you, breathing heavier now, frustration and panic and hurt twisting across his face.
āIām serious,ā he says, voice cracking on the words. āIām not lying to you.ā
āDonāt say that,ā you whisper, because it makes your chest ache in a way you canāt afford right now. āDonāt say youāre serious when I just, Ā I just watched you, ā
āYou watched me what?ā he snaps, and then immediately regrets the sharpness, his tone softening as he takes a breath. āYou watched me comfort someone who was crying.ā
You shake your head, anger flaring hot to cover the humiliation. āYou were close.ā
āI was close because she was falling apart!ā Steve bursts, hands clenching at his sides. He catches himself, lowers his voice like heās afraid youāll bolt. āShe was, she was a mess, _______.ā
He takes another careful breath, like heās trying to talk to you without pushing you off a cliff.
āIt was her and Tommy,ā he says, eyes locked on yours. āThey broke up. Likeā¦ for real this time.ā
Your stomach twists.
The name lands heavy, because itās familiar. Because it makes sense. Because youāve seen Tommy Haganās version of love, loud, careless, humiliating. The kind that treats feelings like weaknesses.
You still donāt let yourself soften.
āAnd that has what to do with you?ā you ask, voice cutting.
Steveās mouth tightens. āBecause she came to me.ā
Your laugh is sharp. āOf course she did.ā
He flinches at that, like youāve hit something tender.
āShe asked where Tommy was,ā Steve continues, pushing through, words coming faster now like heās terrified youāll interrupt again. āShe said he wouldnāt answer her, he wouldnāt even look at her, and she, ā he swallows hard, eyes flickering down and back up, ā, she thought he was with someone else.ā
The irony makes your stomach churn.
Steveās voice goes quieter, almost ashamed. āAnd then she started crying, likeā¦ ugly crying. Right there.ā
You blink, caught between rage and confusion and something that feels dangerously close to guilt.
āAnd youā¦ā you start.
Steveās hands lift slightly, helpless. āI didnāt know what to do. I told her to come inside so she wouldnātā¦ I donāt know. So people wouldnāt stare.ā His throat works as he swallows again. āShe was embarrassed.ā
The word slices through you because you know exactly what embarrassment feels like.
It feels like your chest being hollowed out in a hallway.
It feels like believing someone and being made a fool.
Steve takes another step forward, slower this time, like heās approaching a wild animal.
You donāt move away.
You also donāt move toward him.
āYou have to believe me,ā he says, voice rough. āI didnāt touch her like that. I didnāt, ā He shakes his head hard, eyes bright. āShe grabbed my arm when she thanked me. That was it.ā
Your nails dig into your palms.
The memory replays: her hand on him, Steve leaning in. Your brain tries to twist it back into betrayal because betrayal is easier than uncertainty.
āThen why didnāt you find me?ā you whisper, the question leaking out before you can stop it. āWhy werenāt you there this morning? You said, ā Your voice falters. āYou said you wanted to take us seriously.ā
Steveās whole expression shifts at that, something pained and frantic.
āI was going to,ā he says immediately. āI swear I was.ā
You scoff, but it sounds weak.
He shakes his head, words spilling. āI got pulled into helping Mr. Wallace with something first thing. He asked me to move equipment for the gym, then I got stopped by,- by her. And I thought Iād see you between classes, and then I didnāt, and then, ā His breath stutters. āThen you saw me and you left.ā
You swallow hard.
Steve steps closer again, unable to help himself.
You push him again, hands flat on his chest.
He still doesnāt move, only dips his head slightly, like heās letting you do it because you need to.
āDonāt.ā you whisper, voice trembling. āDonāt come closer when youāre trying to convince me you didnāt, ā
āIām not trying to convince you,ā he cuts in, eyes fierce now, something cracking open in his voice. āIām telling you what happened.ā
āPeople always tell the truth when they get caught,ā you snap, the words tasting bitter.
Steveās face goes still.
Caught.
Like youāve reduced him to the worst version of himself. Like youāve decided heās a liar before he can prove otherwise.
āI didnāt get caught,ā he says, voice low. āBecause thereās nothing to get caught doing.ā
Your chest tightens.
You want to believe him so badly it makes you angry.
āThen why did you look like that when you saw me?ā you demand, voice breaking at the edges. āWhy did your face, ā
Steveās throat bobs. He looks at you like heās trying to find the right words, like he knows one wrong sentence could destroy whatever fragile thread is still holding you here.
āBecause I knew exactly what it looked like,ā he admits quietly. āAnd I knew exactly what youād think.ā
That makes your stomach twist.
āAnd you still, ā you start.
āI didnāt have a choice,ā Steve says, and his eyes flash, frustration, fear, honesty. āShe was crying, _______. She was asking me if Tommy ever even cared about her. She was asking me if he was with someone else.ā His voice cracks. āWhat was I supposed to do, tell her to shut up because my girlfriend might walk by?ā
The word hits you like a slap.
Girlfriend.
You freeze.
Steve freezes too, like he didnāt mean to say it out loud. Like it slipped out because itās what heās been thinking.
You stare at him, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.
Steveās eyes widen slightly. His cheeks flush faintly, and for a moment he looks almostā¦ embarrassed.
But he doesnāt take it back.
He swallows hard and steps closer again, like he canāt stay away from you even when youāre angry.
āIām sorry,ā he says, softer. āIām sorry you had to see that. Iām sorry I wasnāt there this morning.ā His voice drops, pleading. āBut donāt, donāt do this thing where you decide you already know the worst about me.ā
Your hands tremble against his chest.
You push him again, one last time, more out of desperation than anger.
Steve finally moves a fraction, but only because he lets himself.
He doesnāt step back. He steps in.
Until you can smell him.
His cologne wraps around you, familiar and cruel because it smells like nights you wanted to pretend meant nothing. It smells like his car. Like safety. Like Steve.
Your breath catches.
Steveās voice turns low, steady, dangerous in the way honesty can be when itās stripped bare.
āThatās the truth,ā he says. āAll of it.ā
You open your mouth to respond.
Nothing comes out.
Because heās close enough now that you can feel his breath on your skin, steady but heavy, and his hair brushes your forehead when he dips his head just slightly.
He still doesnāt touch you.
Not really.
He keeps his hands at his sides like heās forcing himself not to grab you, not to hold you, not to do the thing he always does to distract you from your anger.
Instead, he lets his words do it.
āItās only you,ā he whispers.
Your fists unclench instantly, betraying you.
Your entire body reacts like it recognizes the truth before your brain does.
Steve watches it happen, your shoulders dropping a fraction, the tension shifting, and his breath shudders like heās been holding it.
āItās only ever been you,ā he repeats, quieter now, like heās saying it to convince you and himself at the same time.
Your throat tightens painfully.
Because the worst part is: you want to believe him.
Youāve wanted to believe him from the moment you saw him at the bottom of your window.
Steve tilts his head, eyes searching your face like heās reading every micro-expression, every flicker of doubt.
āOkay?ā he asks, voice barely audible.
You donāt answer.
He doesnāt move. Doesnāt reach for you. Doesnāt push.
He just stays close, like heās giving you the space to choose.
āOkay?ā he repeats, a little more desperate now, like the word matters more than oxygen.
You exhale shakily.
Your shoulders relax despite yourself, and you shake your head, a bitter little laugh escaping as your eyes sting.
āI hate you,ā you whisper.
But thereās a tiny smile creeping at the corner of your mouth, traitorous and soft.
Steveās face breaks open with relief so intense it almost looks like pain.
His arms wrap around you instantly, like the second you give him permission, he canāt hold back anymore. He pulls you into his chest, burying you against him like heās been starving for it all day.
The warmth of him hits you like a wave.
You should push him away.
You donāt.
Steve exhales, shaky, into your hair. His hands spread across your back like heās anchoring you.
āI meant everything I said,ā he murmurs, voice thick. āEvery word. Iām not, ā He swallows hard, arms tightening. āIām not playing with you.ā
Your face presses into his shirt, and your fingers curl into the fabric without thinking.
Steveās cheek rests against the top of your head, and you feel the tremor in his breath.
āNext time,ā he whispers, voice rough with emotion, ānext time you think Iām lying, donāt run. Yell at me, hit me, slam a door in my face, I donāt care, just donāt disappear on me like that.ā
Your chest aches at the way he says disappear, like losing you is a real fear.
You swallow hard. āYou scared me,ā you mumble into his shirt, voice muffled.
Steveās arms tighten again. āI know.ā His voice breaks. āIām sorry. I swear Iām sorry.ā
You stay like that for a moment, breathing each other in, the quiet finally settling.
Then Steve pulls back just enough to look at you, hands still on your arms, thumbs brushing lightly like he canāt stop touching you now that youāve let him.
His eyes search yours again, softer this time.
āI want to do this right,ā he says. āI want to beā¦ what I said. For you.ā
You blink fast, trying to keep your voice steady. āThen donāt make me feel stupid for believing you.ā
He lifts his hands slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. When you donāt, his fingers come to rest at your waist, thumbs brushing lightly like heās grounding himself.
Steve leans down just enough that you have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.
And there they are.
The stupid, unfair puppy-dog eyes.
Soft. Open. Earnest in a way that makes your heart ache. He looks at you like youāre something precious heās terrified of breaking, like heās already decided youāre worth every risk heās ever been afraid to take.
His hand slides up, warm and careful, until it cups your cheek. His thumb brushes just beneath your eye, feather-light, like heās checking youāre really here.
āLet me make it up to you,ā he whispers.
The words are barely there, breathed more than spoken, and they land directly against your lips. You donāt get the chance to respond.
Steve leans in slowly, giving you time to stop him even now. When you donāt, his mouth brushes yours in a kiss thatās gentle and reverent, like an apology wrapped in promise.
Itās soft at first. Just a press of lips. A quiet Iām here.
His other hand comes up to cradle your face, thumbs resting along your jaw like he never wants to let go again. The kiss deepens just slightly, careful and unhurried, like heās memorizing the way you feel when youāre not angry, when youāre not pulling away.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
His eyes stay closed for a second, like heās savoring the moment. Like heās relieved. Like he knows he almost lost you.
āIāve got you,ā he murmurs, voice low and steady. āOkay?ā
This time, when you nod, thereās no hesitation.
And Steve smiles, small and soft and real, before kissing you again.
hey girl! i just finished reading the steve fic and i LOVED IT!! youāre amazing. just as constructive criticism, i feel like sometimes the dialogue can feel a little more poetic/monologue-y than how people might naturally speak in the moment. for example:
āAnd I told you, you donāt get to decide what āsafeā looks like for me. You donāt get to build the cage, however well-intentioned, and call it shelter. A cage denies the sky, Steve. Even a gilded one.ā
the writing is beautiful!! but it feels like something youād read in narration or the inner thoughts of reader, rather than a natural conversation or argument. maybe you could write more casual/natural dialogue or read the dialogue yourself when writing and checking if it sounds seamless.
that said, i genuinely loved the fic and iām excited to read more of your work š
Hi queen! Thanks for reading I really appreciate it! I understand what you mean about the dialogue! English isnāt my first language so I apologise if it doesnāt flow as normal! I blame my old teacher for making me read bronte lol. Thanks for your feedback will definitely do my best to incorporate it in future works :)
