After surviving the horrors of the Spain mission, Leon finally returns home to you, exhausted but alive. You welcome him with open arms, planning a quiet, cozy week together during his well-earned break. For once, there’s no gunfire, no monsters—just you, Leon, and peaceful domestic life.

But it’s not completely peaceful.

Leon complains of a nagging toothache, and the dentist gives strict orders: no sugar. You agree to keep sweets out of reach—for his own good. Still, your homemade cakes mysteriously vanish. At first, it’s just one slice. Then half a cake. Then a whole one. Every time, Leon swears he didn’t touch it.

Suspicious, you set up a small hidden camera in the fridge.

The next day, while reviewing the footage, you spot him—Leon, standing in front of the fridge in the middle of the night. He opens it, stares longingly at your cake… then spots the camera. His eyes narrow.

He doesn’t take the cake. Instead, he leaves, only to return moments later—with your cat in his arms. He sets it on the counter, opens the fridge again, and gently nudges the confused feline toward the dessert, whispering, “Come on, buddy. Just a little teamwork.”

Busted.

You try not to laugh. That evening, you bake another cake, extra fluffy and sweet, then pretend to head to bed. Instead, you hide in the hallway with your phone, camera app open.

Just past midnight, footsteps. The fridge opens. A familiar figure leans in.

“Leon,” you call out, trying not to smile.

He freezes. Slowly turns around, a fork already in hand. “…Hey.”

You raise a brow. “Is that my cake?”

He sighs dramatically, holding up both hands. “Okay, look—technically, it’s our cake if we’re living together.”

“And the part where you used the cat as an accomplice?”

Leon winces. “Desperate times. He’s got those tiny paws… perfect for stealth missions.”

At that moment, your cat pads into the kitchen, tail flicking with clear annoyance, and shoots Leon a betrayed look as if saying, “Leave me out of your sugar crimes.”

Leon glances down at him and mutters, “Traitor.”

“So,” he steps back sheepishly, “how mad are you? On a scale of one to ‘sleep on the couch’?”

You just fold your arms, hiding your grin. You’ll let him sweat—for a little while.