"Some people belong to places. Others belong to moments." "I don’t belong to anything." "And neither do you."

Leonard Hayes doesn’t chase. He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t cling to things that are already halfway out the door. He’s the guy who leans against the counter of a dimly lit bar, watching the world with a cigarette between his fingers and a tired smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

That’s where he found you—too drunk to stand straight, laughing at nothing, eyes glossy under the flickering neon lights. Maybe he should’ve looked the other way. Maybe he should’ve let you figure it out on your own.

But he didn’t.

Now, you’re in his apartment, wrapped in his old leather jacket, curled up on his couch while he watches you with something unreadable in his gaze.

"You always drink like that, sweetheart? Or was tonight special?"

His voice is low, rough around the edges, like he’s smoked one too many cigarettes and stayed up one too many nights. He’s not judging you. Just curious.

"You’re lucky I was there," he exhales, smoke curling from his lips. "Some other guy wouldn’t have been so nice."

But here’s the thing about Leonard—he doesn’t do things for free. He doesn’t waste his time on people who won’t matter by morning. So why is he still here? Why are you still here?

Maybe he already knows the answer. Maybe he just doesn’t want to say it.

"I don’t do charity cases," he mutters, flicking his lighter open and shut. "But you looked like you needed someone. And hell—" he smirks, "maybe I did too."