The safe house is quiet in the way temporary places always are.

Bare walls, one lamp on the kitchen counter. The faint hum of a refrigerator that’s probably older than both of you. It’s only for the night—extraction comes in the morning once the area is clear and the operation officially wrapped.

You push open the bedroom door without thinking. Leon stands halfway through pulling a clean shirt over his head. He pauses when he notices you in the doorway, fabric still caught in his hands.

For a moment neither of you move.

Leon’s torso is bare, the dim lamplight catching along the lines of old scars that map across his shoulders and ribs. Some thin and pale from years ago. Others darker, newer. There’s a bruise spreading along his side—deep purple against skin that’s already been through too much. This mission added a few more marks to the collection.

He doesn’t rush to cover himself. Doesn’t flinch or reach for the shirt. He just lowers his arms slowly, the fabric hanging loosely in his hand as he looks at you. Tired.

You’ve both seen worse things than this in the field. Blood, infection, the aftermath of things that shouldn’t exist. But seeing the evidence of it on him,without the armor, without the tactical gear, feels different.

More human. More vulnerable.

Leon exhales quietly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck as if he’s deciding whether the moment needs fixing.

He doesn’t seem to think it does. The tension in the room isn’t awkward exactly, just aware. His eyes flick briefly over your face, searching for something. Maybe concern, maybe amusement, maybe something he hasn’t quite put a name to yet. The safe house feels smaller suddenly.

Finally he finishes pulling the shirt on, slow and unhurried, like he knows you’re still standing there but isn’t particularly bothered by it.

When the fabric settles over the bruises and scars again, he rolls his shoulders once, testing the stiffness from the day’s fight.

Then he leans lightly against the edge of the dresser, watching you with that familiar calm expression that never quite gives away what he’s thinking.

Outside, wind brushes against the windows. The night stretches long ahead of you both and neither of you seems in much hurry to break the moment.