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Leon has always looked out for you. A long-time family friend, the man who taught you how to shoot, who walked you home after dark, who made sure no one laid a hand on you.
You’re not a kid anymore, though. Eighteen, grown, and pushing boundaries. You see the way his jaw tightens when you stretch in front of him, the way his eyes flick away when your clothes ride up too high. He thinks he’s being subtle. He’s not.
Leon made a promise—to your mom, mostly—that he’d look out for you while she was out of town. Just for a while, she said. Just until she got settled. You’re technically old enough to handle yourself, but Leon never was the type to break his word.
So now he checks in. Drops by to make sure you’re eating, that you’re safe, that you haven’t burned the place down. It’s an excuse, really. A way to justify being around you, when he should probably be keeping his distance.
Leon is good. Always has been. But lately, good is getting harder. Because you’re not just the girl he’s supposed to be looking after—you’re something else. Something tempting. Something he shouldn’t want.
Sometimes, he catches himself staring too long, thoughts slipping into places they shouldn’t. Sometimes, when you stretch in front of him, all slow and lazy, he has to bite his tongue to keep from saying something he shouldn’t. Sometimes, he just wants to bend you over, press you down, and—
He exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. No. He’s still a good man. Right?
Tonight is no different. He knocks once, then lets himself in, because that’s what he’s always done. He finds you in your room, stretched out on the bed, looking far too comfortable in barely-there clothes.
“Hey, sweetheart. Whatcha doin’?” His voice is smooth, warm—too casual. He leans against your doorway, arms crossed, gaze locked firmly on your face.
You stretch out even further, letting the hem of your shorts slide up just a little more. “Just bored,” you hum. “Thinkin’ about what to do tonight.”
Leon exhales through his nose, shifting his stance. “How about takeout?”
He tries not to let his eyes wander, but it’s a fight. You’re all sprawled out, skin bare, tempting in ways you probably don’t even realize. Or maybe you do. Either way, he’s gonna have to take a cold shower after this.
You roll onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow as you glance at him. “Takeout sounds good,” you say, dragging your fingers lazily down your bare thigh. “But I dunno what I’m in the mood for.”
Leon swallows thickly. Jesus Christ.
His eyes snap to the floor, then to the wall—anywhere but you. He clenches his jaw, shifts his weight, rolls his shoulders like that’ll somehow get rid of the tension coiling in his gut. It doesn’t.
“You’re always indecisive,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “C’mon, sweetheart, just pick something.”
You huff, rolling onto your back again, arms stretching above your head in a way that makes your top ride up, exposing a sliver of soft skin. Fuck. He looks away so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.
You’re not doing it on purpose. You can’t be. There’s no way you’re sitting there, all sleepy-eyed and careless, thinking about how every little movement is setting him on fucking fire.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s not intentional. You don’t know. You don’t realize what you’re doing to him, how bad he wants—
No. No, he’s not going there.
Leon exhales slowly, tilting his head back, willing himself to get a damn grip. “Fine,” he says, voice rougher than he intends. “I’ll order something. You’re gettin’ whatever I pick.”
You pout, pushing yourself up to sit cross-legged. “That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair,” he says, already pulling his phone from his pocket. And neither is this.
Because now you’re sitting up, all close, knees brushing his thigh where he stands beside the bed. You don’t pull away. You don’t even seem to notice. You’re just looking at his phone screen, eyes flicking over the menu like this is nothing, like your warmth isn’t seeping into his skin, like he’s not about to lose his mind.
He clenches his jaw. The tension is unbearable. He needs space. Needs air. Needs to step away before he does something he shouldn’t.
But then you sigh, leaning your head against his arm, just for a second. It’s innocent—so fucking innocent. Just a small, tired gesture, like you’ve done a thousand times before. Like you don’t feel the shift between you.
But he feels it. He feels everything.
And it’s killing him.
Leon doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
Your head is against his arm, warm and trusting, and it should be nothing. It is nothing. Just you, getting comfortable, like you always do.
But it’s different now. It has been for a while.
Because you’re older. Because you’re beautiful. Because every innocent little thing you do hits him like a goddamn truck.
Leon knows he should step away. Put distance between you before the tension coils any tighter. Before he does something fucking stupid.
But then you shift, tilting your head up to look at him, lips parted like you’re about to say something—except you don’t. You just stare. Close. Too close.
And for one awful, dangerous second, Leon doesn’t pull away.
His self-control is hanging by a thread. His pulse is in his throat, hands flexing at his sides as he forces himself to breathe. Your skin is warm against his, your scent dizzying, something sweet and soft that makes his brain go static.
She doesn’t know what she’s doing. He repeats it like a prayer, like it’ll ground him. She doesn’t know.
Then, you sigh, a little dramatic, pushing your forehead into his bicep with a soft groan. “Ugh, I hate deciding on food.”
Leon exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus, sweetheart,” he mutters.
“What?” You look up again, blinking, eyes round and questioning, completely unaware of the absolute hell you’re putting him through.
He doesn’t answer. He can’t. If he opens his mouth now, he’s not sure what the hell will come out.
Instead, he shakes his head, stepping away—finally, finally getting some goddamn space before he loses his mind.
“You’re getting pizza,” he says, gruff, already dialing the number. “And you’re gonna eat all of it. No complaints.”
You grin, flopping back onto your bed. “Yes, sir.”
Leon’s grip tightens on his phone.
She doesn’t know what she’s doing.
…Right?
Leon spends the next five minutes ordering pizza like it’s a military operation.
He keeps his voice steady, his grip firm, his eyes anywhere but on you. Because if he lets his mind wander—even for a second—he’s done for.
You, of course, are completely oblivious. Just lying there on your bed, scrolling through your phone, all soft and relaxed like you don’t have a damn clue what you’re doing to him.
By the time the pizza gets here, Leon’s convinced himself he’s fine. That he’s got this under control.
He doesn’t.
Because dinner is a whole new form of torture.
You sit next to him on the couch, way too close, knees brushing his thigh every time you shift. You eat slow, licking sauce off your fingers without thinking, humming in satisfaction when you take a bite.
And Leon—poor, suffering, about-to-break Leon—has to sit there and act normal.
He focuses on his food, barely tasting it, jaw tight as he forces himself to breathe through it. To remind himself—again—that you don’t know what you’re doing. That none of this is intentional.
And maybe, if the night had ended there, he could’ve survived it. Could’ve walked out that door, gone home, taken a long, cold shower, and put this behind him.
But then you start cleaning up. And that’s where he slips.
—
You hum to yourself as you stack plates in the sink, completely unaware that Leon is watching you.
Or, more accurately—fighting himself over watching you.
Because your little sleep shorts are riding up, barely covering anything, and when you reach up to put a glass on the shelf, the hem of your tank top lifts, exposing the soft curve of your back.
Leon grits his teeth. Looks away. Tries to remember what self-control feels like.
But then you drop a fork.
You sigh, bending over to grab it—and Leon fucking loses it.
It happens before he can stop himself.
A sharp inhale. A quiet, low curse. The way his hands grip the counter, knuckles white, like he’s physically holding himself back.
And maybe you hear it. Maybe you feel the shift in the air. Because when you straighten up, turning to face him, there’s something different in your expression. A flicker of something—confusion, curiosity—like you noticed.
Leon clenches his jaw. Forces his voice to stay even. “You should be more careful.”
You blink. “It was just a fork.”
His eyes flick to yours, dark and unreadable. “Yeah,” he says, quiet, rough. “Just a fork.”
You hesitate, like you want to say something else, but before you can, Leon pushes off the counter. He should leave. He knows that.
But his feet stay planted.
Because you’re looking at him like that again—like you’re trying to figure him out. Like you’re putting something together that he really needs you to leave alone.
And then, you step closer. Just a small step. Just enough that he can smell your shampoo, can see the soft curve of your throat, can feel the heat radiating off your skin.
“You okay?” you ask, voice light, teasing—dangerous.
Leon exhales through his nose. Lets his gaze drag over you, just once. Just for a second.
And that’s his mistake.
Because his eyes catch on the way your lips part slightly, on the innocent confusion in your gaze, on how soft you are, how warm, how easy it would be to just—
His fists clench. His jaw tightens.
But he doesn’t move.
He should. He should step back, put distance between you, end this before it goes too far. But instead, his fingers flex at his sides, and his breath comes a little slower, a little heavier.
And he stays.
You watch him, blinking up at him like you’re waiting for something—an answer, a reaction, something he can’t give you.
And then you smile, small, sweet, so fucking oblivious to how close he is to breaking.
“Good,” you hum, turning back to the dishes like nothing just happened.
Leon forces himself to breathe. To blink. To move.
He rubs a hand over his face, leans against the counter, forces his muscles to relax. But it’s no use. He’s too wired, too tense, too fucking aware of you now.
And worst of all?
He’s staying the night.
Because that’s what he always does when your mom’s gone. Because you asked. Because it’s normal.
Except now? Nothing about this is normal anymore.
Leon is restless.
He always stays in the guest room when he watches over you, and normally, it’s fine. Comfortable. Just another night of keeping his promise.
But this time?
This time, he can’t stop thinking about the kitchen.
About the way you looked at him. About the way he didn’t move when he should have. About the fact that you’re right down the hall—soft, warm, untouched.
Leon exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. Fuck.
He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, jaw tight as he tries to force his body to calm the hell down. He’s been tense since dinner, strung tight since you leaned into him on the couch, but now it’s worse. Now, there’s no distractions. No conversation, no food, nothing to keep his mind occupied.
Just silence.
And then—
Your bedroom door creaks open.
He hears the soft pad of your feet against the floor, the quiet hum of a tune you’re barely singing under your breath. He should look away, should keep his eyes on the ground, shouldn’t risk it.
But he does.
And when he sees you, his stomach fucking drops.
You’re in your sleep clothes now—if they can even be called that. Loose, thin fabric, hanging off your frame, shorts that barely qualify as decent.
And Leon? He’s ruined.
His fingers dig into his knees as he watches you move through the hall, completely unaware of how his eyes track you.
You reach for something in the cabinet, stretching up on your toes, making your top ride up—just a flash of soft skin, barely anything, but it doesn’t fucking matter.
Because his body reacts anyway.
Heat coils in his gut. His breathing goes slow and heavy. His nails press into his palms because if he doesn’t ground himself, he doesn’t know what the hell he’s going to do.
And then—
You glance over.
You see him.
And you smile.
“Didn’t know you were still up,” you murmur, rubbing sleep from your eyes.
Leon swallows, hard. His throat is dry. “Couldn’t sleep.”
You hum in sympathy, pulling a glass from the shelf, filling it with water. You take a sip, then lean against the counter, watching him with that easy, soft expression.
And Leon? He can’t fucking breathe.
Because you don’t realize what you’re doing.
Standing there, in barely anything, looking at him like he’s just some guy, some harmless thing, like he’s not sitting here losing his fucking mind over you.
And for the first time, he wonders—
Is he really the only one feeling this?
You take another slow sip of water, oblivious to the war raging inside him.
Leon watches the way your throat moves, the way your fingers curl around the glass, and something in him fucking cracks.
He doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s already standing.
Until he’s already in front of you.
The shift in the air is instant. Thick. Heavy. Charged.
Your breath stutters, eyes flicking up to meet his, round with something like confusion—like surprise. You weren’t expecting him to move, to close the space like this.
Neither was he.
Leon exhales sharply through his nose, jaw clenched so tight it aches. His hands hover at his sides, flexing like he’s fighting himself—because he is.
You blink up at him, lips parted. “Leon—”
“Do you have any idea,” he mutters, voice low, rough, almost dangerous, “what you’ve been doing all night?”
You freeze. Confusion flickers across your face. “What?”
He huffs a bitter laugh, raking a hand through his hair. His control is gone. Gone in the way he looks at you, in the way his voice is all gravel and heat, in the way his breathing is slow and heavy and strained.
“You really don’t know, do you?” His gaze drags over you, slow, deliberate, making your stomach twist. “The way you act. The way you look at me.”
Your heart pounds. You swallow, fingers tightening around the glass in your hands. “I—I don’t—”
He steps even closer, towering over you now, and you have to tilt your head back just to keep your eyes on him.
Leon watches you carefully, eyes dark and unreadable. And then—
Then he laughs, low and humorless, shaking his head.
“Christ,” he mutters, voice thick. “You really don’t get it.”
You still don’t move. You should. You should step back, put space between you, break whatever this is.
But you don’t.
You just stand there, lips parting slightly, eyes wide and searching, like you’re finally seeing what’s been sitting under the surface this whole time.
And Leon—poor, ruined Leon—has never been so close to losing himself.
Your pulse pounds in your ears.
Leon is right there—so close, his breath fanning across your face, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, burning into you.
You should say something. Do something. But you can’t. You just stand there, trapped in the thick, unbearable heat of it all.
And then—
He exhales sharply. His hands flex at his sides, like he’s still fighting something, but it’s pointless. He’s already lost.
Because then, he moves.
Slow at first. Testing. Like he’s giving you a chance to stop him.
But you don’t.
So he takes.
His hand lifts, fingers curling around your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His touch is firm—possessive. Like he’s been waiting for this.
Like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want this.
His thumb brushes over your lips, slow, deliberate, and you shiver under his touch.
“Tell me to stop,” he mutters, voice strained, desperate, like he’s holding on by a thread.
You don’t.
You can’t.
And that’s all it takes.
Leon groans—low and deep—before he finally kisses you.
And it’s not gentle. It’s not hesitant, not testing—it’s hungry. Desperate. Starved.
Like he’s been denying himself for too long.
Like he needs this. Needs you.
His hands grip your waist, tight, pulling you flush against him. You barely have time to gasp before he’s swallowing it, deepening the kiss, pressing into you like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel against him.
And when you whimper?
Leon loses it.
His hands slide lower, gripping your hips, pressing you against him. His breath is ragged, his body burning, and when his lips trail down—brushing over your jaw, your throat, teeth grazing sensitive skin—his grip tightens.
“You have no idea,” he breathes against your skin, voice wrecked, hands roaming, claiming, taking, “how long I’ve wanted this.”
His breath is hot against your skin. His hands? Everywhere.
Gripping, pulling, claiming. Like now that he’s started, he can’t stop. Like he doesn’t want to.
And neither do you.
Because when his lips trail lower—brushing your collarbone, your shoulder—your fingers curl into his shirt, desperate to keep him close.
“Leon—”
He groans at the sound of his name on your lips, deep and wrecked, like it’s undoing him. Like he needs more.
His fingers skim under your shirt, tracing the soft skin of your waist, moving slow—teasing.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dark, something dangerous. His hands slide up, slow and deliberate, and when he presses his hips against yours—when you feel how much he wants this—your breath catches.
“You’re shaking,” he notes, amused, dragging his lips along your jaw. “You nervous?”
You don’t answer. Can’t. Not when he’s touching you like this, pressing against you like he owns you.
Leon hums. “No?” His fingers slide higher, brushing just under your ribs. “Just excited, then?”
You whimper.
And Leon? He fucking grins.
“Yeah,” he mutters, voice husky, breath ghosting over your lips, “me too.”
Then he kisses you—deep, filthy, claiming.
And this time, there’s no hesitation.
His hands tighten on you.
Those flimsy little sleep clothes? They don’t stand a chance.
Because when his fingers tug at your shirt—when his rough, calloused hands slip beneath, dragging against your soft, warm skin—you whimper.
And that sound? That sweet little noise?
Leon growls.
Deep, low, primal. Like it’s the last thing keeping him from completely losing himself.
“You make the prettiest little sounds,” he murmurs, voice thick and dark, trailing kisses down your throat, his teeth grazing, teasing.
And then?
He pulls.
Your shirt? Gone.
Discarded. Forgotten. Because he’s too focused on you—on drinking you in, on dragging his hands over every inch of bare skin he can reach.
And when you shiver—when your hands curl into his shoulders, nails digging just a little—his breath hitches.
“Fuck,” he rasps, voice strained, wrecked, his fingers skimming lower. “You gonna let me keep going, sweetheart?”
Like you could say no.
Like he doesn’t already know the answer.
Because the way you look at him? The way you’re melting under him, breath shaky, pupils blown wide?
He knows.
And when you nod—when your lips part with a breathless little, please—
Leon?
He fucking loses it.
The guest room is dimly lit. The air is thick. Heavy. Charged with something that neither of you can take back now.
Leon’s hands are slow, deliberate—mapping you out, memorizing every little reaction.
And you?
You’re breathless. Overwhelmed. Ruined.
His touch is firm, but careful—like he’s savoring this. Like he’s making up for lost time.
Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?
All the stolen glances. All the lingering touches. The unspoken words, the tension that’s been simmering for so long.
And now?
Now it’s boiling over.
His breath is warm against your skin, lips brushing over every inch he can reach. Every movement is slow—agonizing—like he’s taking his time, like he’s learning you.
And God, he is.
Because when you gasp—when your fingers clutch at his shoulders, back arching slightly—he chuckles. Low. Dark. Knowing.
“Sensitive, huh?” he murmurs, his voice all gravel and heat, his breath fanning over your skin. “That’s cute.”
You don’t have time to answer. Not when his hands move lower.
Not when his lips find yours again, deep and all-consuming, making your head spin.
Because at this point?
There’s no stopping.
No turning back.
Just heat.
Just tension.
Just him.
The air in the guest room is thick, heavy with heat and something neither of you can pull back from now.
Leon moves slowly.
Like he’s savoring this.
Like he’s taking his time, making sure you feel everything.
His hands are firm, but careful. Tracing. Mapping. Learning.
Every sound you make, every little twitch of your body—he memorizes it. Drinks it in like it’s something he’s been waiting for—because he has.
And when he presses closer—when his breath is warm against your skin, his voice low, wrecked—you feel all of him.
The restraint. The hunger. The need.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he mutters against your lips, his hands gripping tighter, his movements slow, deliberate, teasing.
And you?
You’re losing it.
Because every touch, every brush of his lips, every low, husky murmur against your skin—it’s all too much.
Too much and not enough.
He keeps things slow. Keeps you on edge. Makes you wait.
Because tonight?
He’s taking his time.
Making sure you feel it.
Making sure you never forget it.
And when the tension finally snaps—when he finally gives in completely—
It’s everything.
All at once. Overwhelming. Undoing.
And after?
After, when the air is still thick with heat, when the only sound is your unsteady breathing, when your body still hums with the aftershocks of him—
Leon just smirks.
Like he knows exactly what he’s done to you.
And when he pulls you close—when he murmurs something low and teasing against your ear—
You know he’s not done with you yet.
—
The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the guest room.
The very same guest room where everything changed.
You stir, the sheets tangled around your legs, body still warm, still humming with the ghost of last night.
And then you feel it.
The weight beside you. The warmth of someone still there.
Leon.
You blink, slowly coming back to yourself, and when you shift—when you turn just slightly—you see him.
Lying on his back, one arm resting over his forehead, the other loose at his side. The sheets hang low on his waist, exposing the hard lines of his stomach, the sharp cut of his hips.
And God, he looks wrecked.
His hair is a mess, sticking up in different directions. His lips are slightly parted, his jaw tense even in sleep.
And you?
You stare.
Because last night wasn’t some fever dream. Wasn’t some mistake.
It happened.
And Leon?
He stayed.
You shift again, moving to sit up—
And that’s when he stirs.
A low, sleepy grumble, his brows furrowing slightly before his eyes finally crack open.
And when he looks at you—
Oh.
Oh, that look.
Dark. Heated. Something unreadable swirling behind his still-heavy gaze.
Like he’s remembering everything too.
Like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know how.
You swallow, your heart pounding, because the tension?
It’s still here.
Still thick. Still pressing down on both of you.
And when Leon finally exhales—when his voice comes out low and rough from sleep—
You swear it starts all over again.
“Mornin’, sweetheart.”