Hi I just finished reading In My Veins and itâs so beautifully written, you did an amazing job. I was wondering how Leon would react to his reader neighbor bringing him food and checking up on him whenever he comes back from missions who might also have a huge tiny crush on him. Whether or not he knows reader likes him can be your choice anyways have a good day!
This is such a cute idea! Thank you! <3
The porch lights are on when Leon pulls into the parking lot in his Porsche. It casts a soft amber glow across the cracked pavement and the short walkway leading up to his building, warm in a way that feels almost out of place against the quiet, late-night stillness. Most of the other units are dark, their windows blank and uninviting, but his stands apart, lit like something waiting rather than something left behind. For a moment, he doesn't move to get out of the car. He just sits there with his hands resting loosely against the steering wheel, shoulders heavy with the kind of exhaustion that settles deep into the bones and refuses to be shaken loose.
Missions don't leave him easily. They cling in subtle ways, in the tension still coiled through his muscles, in the faint ache at the back of his mind that never quite quiets down, like his body hasn't realized it's safe to stand down yet. But as his gaze drifts back toward the porch light, something in him eases, just slightly, just enough to notice. It's a quiet shift, barely there, but it's real. Because he knows what that light means now.
He turns the engine off and steps out into the cool night air, the door shutting behind him with a soft, final sound. The walk to his apartment is short, familiar, but tonight there's a subtle anticipation threading through it, something steadier than hope and quieter than expectation. It's routine, in a way neither of you have ever named, but one that's built itself anyway, piece by piece, night by night.Â
And sure enough, when he reaches his door, there it is. A container sits neatly off to the side, exactly where it always does, like it belongs there just as much as the welcome mat beneath it. It isn't a surprise, not anymore, but that doesn't stop the faint pull at the corner of his mouth as he crouches slightly to pick it up. The plastic is still warm against his palm, the heat seeping through just enough to tell him it hasn't been there long.
There's a small note taped carefully to the lid, the edges pressed down with a kind of quiet precision that makes it clear you took your time with it. Leon pauses before peeling it off, his thumb brushing once along the paper.
You looked tired last time. Eat this while it's warm and drink water. I mean it! âĄ
Leon lets out a quiet breath that almost passes for a laugh, though it's softer than that, something edged with disbelief and something else he doesn't quite name. His thumb lingers against the ink for a second longer than necessary before he folds the note back along its crease, more careful than he needs to be, and slips it into his pocket like it's something worth keeping. Because it is.
He unlocks the door and steps inside, the familiar stillness of his apartment settling around him immediately. It's quiet in that way it always is when he comes back, not empty exactly, but close enough that it presses in at the edges if he lets himself notice it too much. Tonight, though, it doesn't feel quite as sharp. Not with the lingering warmth in his hands, not with the faint trace of you still clinging to the moment.
He sets the container down on the counter and opens it without bothering to grab a plate, the scent hitting him almost immediately, rich and grounding in a way that cuts clean through the last remnants of the mission still clinging to him. For a second, he just stands there, looking at it, like he's letting himself fully register what it means before reaching for a fork. It's not just the food. It never is. It's the fact that it's there, and that you made it. That you thought of him while you did.
Leon leans back against the counter, twirling the pasta on his fork. He thinks of you. He noticed you early. Not in the way most people notice someone, not in passing or in vague recognition, but in that precise, observant way he notices everything. It had started small, almost insignificant at first. A quiet greeting in the hallway. A polite smile that lingered just a fraction longer than expected. The way you always seemed aware of him without being obvious about it, like you were careful not to cross a line that hadn't been drawn.
Then came the food. The first time, you'd held it out to him with a soft, almost apologetic explanation about making too much, your voice light like it wasn't something you'd thought about more than once. Leon had looked at the container, then at you, then back again, already knowing better even then. He wasn't the kind of man people accidentally cooked for. Still, he'd taken it. And you'd smiled in that small, quiet way of yours, like it mattered more than you wanted it to.
It didn't take long after that. The second time came easier. The third time came warmer. By the fourth, it had settled into something neither of you addressed, but both of you understood.
And Leon? Leon noticed everything that came with it. The way your fingers brushed his when you handed the container over, just slightly longer than necessary. The way your eyes flicked over his face, quick and searching, like you were checking for something you didn't ask about out loud. The way you lingered in the space between leaving and staying, like you were caught in the question of whether you were allowed to want more.
And Leon relished it. He loved those little moments because my god, he was gone for you and didn't know how to tell you.Â
Halfway through the container, Leon sets his fork down and reaches for his phone, his movements unhurried but purposeful. The screen lights up in his hand, your conversation already open like it's been waiting there. He stares at it for a second, thumb hovering as he considers his words, not because he doesn't know what to say, but because he does, and he's choosing how much of it to let show.
Just got back. Doors unlocked.
A pause. He sighs and takes another bite while he waits for you to respond.
Leon's mouth curves, slow and inevitable, something softer settling into his expression as he exhales quietly through his nose. He doesn't answer right away. He doesn't need to. Because he already knows you're coming. And sure enough, it isn't even five minutes. It's closer to three.
He hears your footsteps first, light and familiar against the walkway, followed by the soft, measured knock he's come to recognize without needing to see you on the other side. Three taps. Always three.
Leon pushes himself off the counter and crosses the space without rushing, though there's something just slightly more deliberate in his stride now, something that gives him away if anyone were looking closely enough.
When he opens the door, you're standing there exactly as expected and somehow still enough to pull his full attention anyway, another container held carefully in your hands, your hair just a little out of place like you moved faster than you meant to.
"You're back," you say, even though you already know.
Leon leans one shoulder against the doorframe, his gaze settling on you with that same quiet intensity, steady and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to look.
"Yeah," he replies, voice low, warmed by something that wasn't there earlier. His eyes flick briefly to the container before returning to your face, a hint of something amused flickering through his expression. "And you brought backup."
Your laugh is soft, a little breathless at the edges, and you lift the container slightly as if to justify it. "You eat like you've been gone for weeks, so I figured we could share some dessert."
Leon's expression changes, not dramatically, not in a way most people would catch, but you do. The amusement deepens into something softer, something that lingers a little longer in his eyes as he takes in the container, then looks back at you again like he's re-evaluating the moment with this new piece of information.
"You made me dinner and dessert," he says, quieter now, less teasing, more... something else. There's a weight to it, a kind of careful recognition of what that means, even if he doesn't say it outright.
Your shoulders lift in a small shrug, but it's not as casual as you want it to seem. "I had extra," you reply, defaulting back to the excuse that stopped being convincing weeks ago.
Leon huffs a quiet breath that almost passes for a laugh, his head tilting just slightly as he studies you, his gaze steady enough that it makes it hard to pretend this is all just a coincidence.
"Sure you did," he murmurs.
But there's no edge to it. No calling you out in a way that would make you retreat. If anything, there's something gentler in it, something that says he sees what you're doing and isn't asking you to stop.
He reaches forward then, taking the container from your hands, and his fingers brush yours in the process. The contact is light, but not fleeting. He doesn't rush it. Doesn't pull away the second he could. Instead, he lets it linger just long enough to feel intentional, his thumb shifting slightly against your knuckles before he finally draws his hand back.
It's subtle. But it's not accidental. And the way his eyes stay on yours afterward makes that very clear.
"You always show up right on time," he says, the words quieter now, threaded with something that feels closer to fond than anything else.
You hesitate just slightly, your gaze flicking away for a second before returning, like you're deciding how honest you're allowed to be. "Good timing," you offer, softer now.
Leon hums, the sound low in his chest as he shifts his weight, one hand still resting against the doorframe while the other holds the container. His head tilts just a fraction, his attention narrowing in that way that makes it feel like he's seeing more than you're saying. His mouth curves, slow and knowing, something warm settling into his expression as he takes you in.
The moment stretches, soft and full in a way that makes the space between you feel smaller than it actually is. Then, after a beat, he steps back, opening the door a little wider, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours as he shifts.
"You coming in?" he asks, the words low and steady, carrying that same quiet intention as before, "or are you just dropping this off and running?"
You don't answer him right away. For a second, you just stand there in the doorway, the soft glow from the lights inside casting you in a warm glow, blurring the line between outside and in. There's a familiar hesitation in the way you hold yourself, like you're balancing on the edge of a decision you've made a dozen times before and still haven't gotten used to.
Leon doesn't rush you. He leans back just slightly, giving you space without stepping away entirely, his presence steady and grounding in a way that makes the choice feel less like a risk and more like something inevitable. Your gaze flicks up to his, searching, as if checking for something, permission maybe, or reassurance that you're not overstepping. You find neither hesitation nor distance. Just that same quiet, unwavering attention.
"I can stay," you say finally, soft but certain enough to matter.
Leon's expression shifts, subtle but unmistakable. The faintest curve of satisfaction settles into his mouth.
"Yeah," he murmurs, stepping back fully now, opening the door wider for you. "I was hoping you would."
Inside, the warmth wraps around you almost immediately, carrying with it the faint scent of the pasta he'd already started eating before you arrived. The space feels lived in, but not cluttered, quiet in that way that suggests he doesn't spend much time lingering here unless he has a reason to.
Leon closes the door behind you with a soft click, the sound sealing the moment in place. For a second, neither of you moves very far, the proximity lingering as he steps around you, setting the containers down on the counter with careful, unhurried movements.
"You always bring enough for two," he says, glancing over his shoulder at you as he opens one of them, his tone thoughtful rather than questioning.
Your fingers curl slightly at your sides, and you shift your weight, the motion small but telling. "I don't cook small portions," you reply, quieter now.
Leon hums, like he's considering that, though the look he gives you says he already knows better.
"Convenient," he says, turning fully to face you now, one hand resting lightly against the edge of the counter. His gaze drifts briefly to the container you brought, then back to you, slower this time. "Almost like you planned it."
"Maybe I just like cooking for you." You shrug, a playful twinkle in your eye.
"If I didn't know better," he continues, voice quieter now, "I'd think you were looking for an excuse to stay."
The words settle between you, warm and steady, leaving no room to pretend they're anything but what they are. You don't answer right away. You don't know how to respond, considering he's read you like a book. And Leon lets that silence stretch, not to make you uncomfortable, but to give you time to feel it, to sit in it, to realize he's not pulling away from what this is. He's leaning into it.
He reaches for one of the containers then, popping it open before grabbing a second fork from the drawer. The casualness of the movement contrasts sharply with the weight of what just passed between you, like he's giving you a moment to recover without letting the tension disappear entirely.
"Sit," he says, softer now, nudging the container slightly toward the counter space where you'd usually stand. Then, after a beat, he adds, "Unless you're planning on hovering the whole time."
There's a hint of amusement back in his voice, but it's lighter now, threaded with something that feels easier. You move without thinking too much about it, setting yourself beside the counter as he hands you the second fork, your fingers brushing again in the exchange. This time, the contact feels less accidental, less uncertain.
Then he exhales softly and leans back against the counter beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch, the space between you warm and charged without being overwhelming.
"You always leave notes," Leon says after a moment, his voice breaking the silence in that same low, steady way.
You glance at him, caught slightly off guard by the shift in topic. "I... yeah. Just so you know what it is."
"That's not all they say."
His tone is softer now, more thoughtful than teasing, and when you look at him again, his gaze is already on you, steady and unreadable in a way that makes your chest tighten.
"You tell me to eat while it's warm," he continues, his eyes drifting briefly down to the container before returning to your face. "To drink water. Last week, you told me to get some sleep."
"I don't forget things like that."
You swallow lightly, your fingers tightening just slightly around the fork. "I thought it might help."
"It does." He answers immediately.
Leon shifts slightly then, turning more fully toward you, one arm bracing lightly against the counter behind you, not trapping you there, but close enough that you feel the change in space.
"You take care of me," he says, quieter now, his voice dipping just enough to feel personal. "Even when I don't ask you to."
Your heart stumbles over itself at that, your gaze flicking up to meet his, searching his expression for any sign that he's joking, that he's exaggerating.
"And you leave those little smiley faces. Tonight you drew a heart," he adds, and now there's a hint of something warmer, something almost fond in the way his mouth curves. "Like I won't notice."
You let out a small, breathy laugh, a little embarrassed, a little flustered. "They're stupid, I justâ"
The interruption is gentle, but firm. Leon's gaze doesn't waver.
"They're..." he pauses, like he's choosing the word carefully, "...nice."
The space between you feels different now. Closer. Fuller. Like something's shifted just enough that neither of you can pretend it hasn't. Leon studies you for a second longer, his expression softening in a way that doesn't happen often, like he's letting himself exist in this moment without the usual guard in place.
Then, quieter, almost like he's admitting something he's been holding onto for a while, he says, "I keep them."
Your breath catches. "What?"
"The notes," he clarifies, his voice just as steady, just as honest. "I don't throw them out."
There's no teasing in it now. "I've got a drawer for them."
The words settle somewhere deep, heavier than they should be, softer than anything you were prepared for. You'd left those notes without thinking too hard about what happened to them after, convincing yourself they were fleeting, disposable, just little reminders that didn't mean much once they'd been read. You hadn't imagined them lasting. You definitely hadn't imagined them being kept.
Your fingers loosen slightly around the fork, your appetite forgotten entirely as you stare at him, searching his face for any hint that he might be joking, that maybe he's exaggerating just to get a reaction out of you. But he doesn't look away. He doesn't smile it off or soften it into something to dismiss. He just watches you, steady and patient, like he understands exactly what that confession just did to you.
"You really keep them?" you repeat, softly now, like saying it out loud might make it make more sense.
Leon's gaze flicks briefly to your mouth as you speak, then back up to your eyes, the movement subtle but deliberate.
Your chest tightens in a way that feels almost unfamiliar, something warm and overwhelming blooming beneath your ribs as your mind tries, and fails, to catch up with the idea of it. All those small pieces of yourself you'd been leaving behind without expecting anything in return, carefully folded and taped and sent off with him like they didn't matter that much. And he kept them. Every single one.
"Why?" The question slips out before you can stop it, soft and a little unsteady, carrying more vulnerability than you intended.
Leon's expression shifts at that, enough that you see something real settle into it, something quieter, something closer to the surface than he usually lets anyone get.
His thumb drags lightly along the edge of the counter beside you, a small, grounding motion, before he finally speaks.
"Because they're yours," he says, voice lower now, softer in a way that feels almost private. His eyes don't leave yours. "And because no one's ever done that for me before."
Your throat tightens, your gaze dropping for a second as you try to steady yourself, the weight of that settling somewhere deep and tender. "It's just food and a few notes," you murmur, almost instinctively, like you're trying to make it smaller, safer, easier to hold.
"It's not just that," he says, and this time there's a quiet certainty in his voice, something that doesn't leave room for you to brush it off. He shifts closer as he speaks, enough that the space between you narrows and the warmth of him suddenly becomes more noticeable.
"It's you paying attention," he continues, his tone gentler now, but no less sure. "Remembering things. Showing up."
Your breath catches slightly at that, your gaze lifting back to his before you can stop yourself.
The air feels different now, thicker, charged with something neither of you is pretending not to feel anymore. You're close enough that you can feel the heat of him, close enough that the smallest shift would close the distance entirely.
Leon's gaze drifts, just briefly, catching on something near your temple. Your hair.
A loose strand has fallen forward, brushing softly against your cheek, moving slightly with each breath you take. His eyes linger there for a second, something thoughtful flickering through them, before his hand lifts almost without conscious thought.
His fingers brush lightly against your skin as he tucks the strand back behind your ear, the touch gentle, almost careful, like he's aware of exactly how much it means. The pads of his fingers graze your temple for just a second longer than necessary before his hand lingers there, hovering like he's deciding whether to pull back or stay.
Your breath stills. Everything stills.
Leon's eyes return to yours, closer now, softer, the edges of his usual composure worn down into something warmer, something more open.
"You do that a lot," he murmurs, his voice quieter now, like the moment itself is asking for it.
Your lips part slightly, your mind scrambling to catch up. "Do what?"
"Take care of me," he says, and there's something different in it this time, something deeper, something that feels like it's been building for a while. His hand doesn't fully drop, his fingers still lightly resting near your ear.
His gaze flicks down, just briefly, to your lips. Then back up. You notice he looks at your lips a lot, and my god, do you want to taste him.
"You don't have to," he adds, softer now, like he's giving you an out even as everything about him leans in. "But I'm glad you do."
The warmth of his hand near your ear, the steady weight of his gaze, the way his voice has softened into something that feels like it's meant just for you. It all presses in, quiet and undeniable, until you can't pretend this is just neighborly kindness anymore. He's closer than he's ever been.
You notice it in pieces at first. The way you don't have to lean to hear him, the way the space between your bodies has narrowed to something almost nonexistent, the way his presence fills everything around you until it's impossible to focus on anything else. If you moved even a fraction forward, you'd be touching him fully, not just in those brief, lingering brushes that have defined everything up until now.
And the thought of that doesn't scare you. It should. It probably would have, a few months ago, when all of this still felt fragile and uncertain, when you were carefully placing pieces of yourself at his doorstep and hoping he wouldn't turn away from them.
But now? Now he's telling you he kept them. Every note. Every small, quiet piece of care you thought might disappear the moment he stepped inside.
Your chest tightens again at the memory of it, but this time it isn't overwhelming. It steadies something inside you, shifts the balance just enough that the hesitation you've been holding onto doesn't feel quite as necessary.
Your gaze drops for just a second, not to escape him, but to take in the closeness of it all, the way his shirt shifts slightly with his breathing, the way your hand is resting so close to him that it would take almost nothing to bridge the gap.
Your fingers move before you can overthink it, lifting slowly, giving yourself just enough time to stop if you suddenly want to. You don't.
The first contact is light. Just the tips of your fingers brushing against the fabric of his shirt near his wrist, tentative enough that it could still be accidental if either of you chose to pretend it was. But you don't pull back. Instead, your hand settles there, just slightly more sure, your fingers curling faintly as if testing the reality of it.
His gaze drops immediately to where you're touching him, following the movement like it matters, like it's something he doesn't want to miss. There's a subtle shift in his posture, something that feels like attention narrowing, focus sharpening, all of it centering on you. On this.
Your pulse stutters under the weight of it, but you don't move your hand away. If anything, you let it rest there more fully now, your thumb brushing just slightly against the fabric without meaning to, the motion small but impossible to ignore. You can feel his warmth even through the layers. It unravels you a little more.
"I don't have to," you say quietly, your voice softer than before but more certain too, your gaze lifting back to his as you hold onto that small point of contact. "I know that."
Leon's eyes meet yours instantly, something in them deepening, like he wasn't expecting you to meet him there so directly.
"But I want to," you continue, the words coming easier now, even if your heart is still beating a little too fast. "I like taking care of you."
There's a brief pause, just enough for the admission to settle between you, to become real in a way it hasn't been before.
"And" your fingers tighten just slightly against his sleeve, grounding yourself in the moment as you hold his gaze, "I like being here."
The honesty hangs there, unguarded and fragile and yours. Leon exhales slowly, like something in him just shifted in response, his hand finally moving from where it had hovered near your ear. For a second, you think he might pull away, that maybe you've crossed a line you weren't sure existed.
Instead, his hand lowers, settling lightly against your arm, just above your elbow, his touch steady and warm. It's enough to anchor you there with him, enough to say he's meeting you in this just as much as you're meeting him.
"You're not making this easy on me," he murmurs, his voice quieter now, rougher in a way that feels unintentional.
Your breath catches slightly. "I'm not?"
A faint smile touches his mouth, but there's something more serious underneath it, something that lingers in his eyes as he looks at you.
"No," he says, softer now, his thumb brushing just slightly against your arm in a motion that feels almost absentminded, but isn't. "You're not."
His gaze drops again, just briefly, to your lips. This time, it lingers. And when it lifts back to your eyes, there's no pretending anymore.Â
The silence between you stretches, but it doesn't feel empty. It feels full of everything that's been building, every small touch, every lingering look, every quiet choice to stay a little longer than necessary. It settles into the space between your bodies, warm and charged, until it feels like something you can almost reach out and touch.
Your hand is still resting against his wrist, your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his sleeve, grounding yourself in something real as your thoughts begin to blur at the edges. You can feel the steady warmth of him beneath your touch, the subtle shift of his muscles when he breathes, the way he hasn't moved away, hasn't even tried to create space where there isn't any.
If anything, he's closer now. Close enough that the faint scent of him, something clean with a trace of something deeper underneath, settles into your senses. Close enough that you can see the way his gaze keeps dropping, to your hand, to the space between you, to your lips. And he isn't hiding it anymore.
He's not pulling back. He's not uncertain. He's here. With you. Waiting. Your heart stumbles once, twice, and then something inside you shifts into place. You've spent so long letting this happen in small pieces, in careful gestures and quiet offerings, letting him meet you halfway without ever asking for more. But now the space between you feels too small for hesitation, too full of something real to pretend you don't want it.
Your hand moves to rest atop his on the counter, enough to feel like you're choosing this, like you're building confidence in yourself before you take the step you've been circling around for weeks.
Then you move. It's slow, deliberate, your body leaning in before your mind has the chance to catch up and overthink it. The distance between you shrinks, inch by inch, until there's almost nothing left of it at all. Your gaze flicks to his lips, just for a second, just long enough to confirm what you already know. He's watching you. Letting you.
Your breath mingles with his now, close enough that you can feel the warmth of it, the slight shift when he inhales like he's bracing for something he's been expecting. And still, he doesn't stop you. Your eyes lift back to his, searching, even now, for any sign that you should slow down, that you've misread something.
You don't find it. What you find instead is something softer, something warmer, something that feels like it's been waiting just as long as you have. So you keep going. Just a little closer. Close enough that your lips are barely a breath away from his.
"Gonna need a note for this too," Leon murmurs, his voice low enough that it brushes against your mouth before the words even fully register, "or am I supposed to remember it on my own?"
You freeze, just slightly, a soft, breathless sound slipping out of you before you can stop it, something caught between a laugh and a startled inhale. Your eyes flicker, your focus breaking for just a second as the meaning settles in, warm and unexpected and so him that it makes your chest tighten all over again.
It's gentle. Teasing. But there's something underneath it, something real, something that says this matters just as much as everything else you've given him. That pause is all it takes.
Leon's hand moves before you can decide what to do next, sliding from your arm to your jaw, his touch warm and steady as his fingers curl lightly against your skin. There's no hesitation in it now, just quiet certainty as he tilts your face just slightly toward him.
"Think I'll remember," he adds, softer this time, the hint of a smile still there, but quieter now, closer.
And then he closes the distance. His lips press against yours in a way that feels almost careful, like he's giving you time to feel it, to react, to pull away if you need to. But there's something warm behind it, something that deepens just slightly when you don't move away, when you lean into it instead without even realizing you are.
Your hand tightens against him, shifting from his hand on the counter to his arm, up to his neck, soft and steady and real in a way that makes everything else fade out. Leon's thumb brushes lightly along your jaw, a small, absent motion that feels anything but accidental, and when he pulls back, it isn't far. Just enough to look at you. Just enough to breathe.
His forehead almost brushes yours, his gaze dropping once more to your lips before lifting back to your eyes, something quieter, softer, and a little more undone settling into his expression.
"Yeah," he murmurs, voice low, almost thoughtful now. "I'm gonna remember that one."
You giggle softly at him. Your heart is still racing, your thoughts a little scattered, but one thing is clear in a way it hasnât been before. You donât want to stop. Itâs a quiet kind of certainty, the same kind that carried you into the first kiss, only stronger now, steadier. You move your hand to his hair, your other arm moving to his neck.
His gaze flicks down to the movement, then back up to your face, something in his expression changing again, something that feels a little less careful, a little more there.
âYou sure?â he murmurs, but it doesnât sound like doubt. It sounds like heâs giving you the space to choose again.
You donât hesitate this time. Instead of answering with words, you close the distance. The second kiss isnât as gentle. Itâs still soft, still grounded in that same warmth, but thereâs something deeper in it now, something that doesnât hold back the way the first one did. Your lips meet his with more certainty, more intention, and Leon responds immediately, like heâd been waiting for exactly this.
His hand shifts against your jaw, sliding slightly to cradle it more fully, his fingers spreading just enough to hold you there as he leans into the kiss. It deepens naturally, not rushed, not overwhelming, but full, the kind of kiss that lingers and builds instead of fading.
You feel it in the way his breathing changes, in the way your own does too, in the way the world outside of this moment seems to fall away piece by piece until itâs just this, just him, just the quiet, steady pull between you that neither of you is fighting anymore.
Your other hand lifts without you thinking about it, finding his shirt near his chest, gripping lightly, pulling him closer as if that's possible, soft and searching and a little breathless at the edges.
Leon exhales against your lips, a quiet sound that feels almost involuntary, and his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, holding you closer, like he doesnât want the space back once itâs gone.
Time blurs as your tongues mingle and your breathing picks up. Grabbing each other softly and trying to get closer, where there is no room to do so. Neither of you wants to quit, intoxicated with each other, having waited for this moment for months.
When you finally pull back, it's definitely not because you want to, but because you need to breathe. Your foreheads touch, breaths mingling in the small space, both of you quieter now, a little more undone than before.
Leon lets out a soft breath, something close to a quiet laugh, though thereâs no humor in it, just warmth, just something real settling into place.
âYeah,â he murmurs, voice lower now, roughened slightly in a way that makes your chest tighten. âThat one too.â
Your lips curve before you can stop them, a small, breathless smile breaking through as you let your hand relax slightly against his shirt, resting it against his chest.
For a moment, you just stay there, close, like youâre both adjusting to the shift, letting it settle instead of rushing past it. Then, after a beat, Leonâs gaze flicks toward the counter behind you, where the containers are still sitting, slightly forgotten but not entirely.
"You brought dessert..." he says, a small smile on his face.
You let out a small laugh, still a little breathless. âI did.â
âGood,â he replies, his mouth tilting just slightly, that familiar hint of warmth returning, though it doesnât erase what just happened. If anything, it sits alongside it. âWouldâve been a waste not to share them.â
Your heart does that small, impossible thing again, the one itâs been doing all night, and you nod, a little softer now.
âYeah,â you echo. âWouldâve been.â
Leon steps back just enough to give you space, but not enough to feel distant, his hand brushing lightly against your arm as he moves, a quiet, lingering touch that says heâs not going anywhere.
He reaches for the container, popping it open as you shift beside him, the two of you falling into place at the counter like itâs the most natural thing in the world, like this has always been part of the routine. Only now, itâs different.
Now, when your shoulders brush, neither of you pretends itâs accidental.
Now, when he hands you something, his fingers linger on purpose.
Now, when you glance at him, heâs already looking.
âYouâre gonna have to start writing different notes,â Leon says after a moment, his voice quieter, but threaded with that same soft teasing as before.
You glance up at him, curious. âWhy?â
He looks at you then, really looks, something warm and certain settling into his expression. âBecause Iâm not just the neighbor anymore.â
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