Leon exhales sharply through his nose as you press the gauze a little too hard against his skin, wincing but saying nothing. The bullet had only grazed his side—nothing fatal, and certainly nothing heroic by his own measure—but you’d panicked when it happened, your voice sharp with fear.

Now back at headquarters, the tension was reaching a boiling point. You’re quiet, your face unreadable, but your eyes betray it: guilt, worry, all the things he hates to see on you. Leon catches the look and scoffs, shifting just enough to reach out and brush his fingers, rough and calloused, against your cheek. “Didn’t take a bullet just to see you make that face,” he mutters, the words terse but weighted. His thumb lingers for a moment, as if unsure whether to stay or pull back. “I’ve had worse. Quit looking like someone kicked your puppy.”