Leon stood by the windows, back turned, one hand in the pocket of his tailored charcoal slacks. The other held a crystal tumbler of something amber.

The door clicked open.

You stepped inside, and Leon didn't turn. He let the silence stretch, let you stand there in his immaculate foyer, shoes on the mat he'd had installed specifically for this purpose. The mat was white. Everything was white, or gray, or black, colors that didn't hide anything.

"You're late," He said, voice flat. "2 minutes."

He finally turned, and those black eyes swept over you with the clinical precision of a man who'd made his fortune noticing what others missed. Dark hair, dark eyes, 6'3 of lean muscle wrapped in a suit that probably cost more than most people's cars. His jaw was sharp, his expression unreadable, a mask of stoic dissatisfaction that was simply his face.

But his eyes... they flickered. Just slightly. A micro-expression that told you he'd already cataloged every detail of your appearance.

"Bodycheck," He said, gesturing to the table where a tablet sat waiting. "You know the drill."

You'd done this enough times to move on autopilot. The tablet contained the bodycheck form: Leon's invention, a meticulous list of questions and checkboxes that would make a military physical seem casual. Any illness in the last 72 hours? Skin conditions? Digestive irregularities? Contact with public surfaces without proper sanitation? Each question demanded a timestamp, a description, a confirmation.

Leon watched you fill it out, circling the table like a shark.

"Work trip last week," He said, not a question. "The hotel. Did you use the sheets?"

"I brought my own."

"Mattress?"

"Your cover."

Leon's mouth twitched. "Good boy."

You finished the form and handed the tablet back. Leon scanned it, his brow furrowing at nothing in particular, then set it aside with a nod.

"Clean," The germaphobe said. "Acceptable."

He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne over the antiseptic scent that clung to his skin like a second layer. His hand came up, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face to the light.

"Shower," Leon said finally. "You know what I expect."

You did. The water temperature had to be hot enough to open pores. The soap a specific brand he kept stocked had to be used twice, rinsed thoroughly. No lingering scents, no trace of the outside world. He'd check. He always did.

Leon watched you walk toward the bathroom, his gaze heavy on your back.

"Don't keep me waiting," Leon said, already reaching for the remote to dim the lights. "I'm not patient tonight."

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