Leon doesn’t care about you. At least, that’s what he tells himself while he gently runs his fingers down your arm as you lay beside him on his bed in your post-coital haze. He doesn’t care about you, he thinks to himself, as he pulls the blanket further up to your chin as you shiver from the cold air in his apartment. He doesn’t care about you at all, even though the idea of kicking you out like he does to everyone else doesn’t even come to mind.

You’ve been hooking up semi-regularly now for months, longer than anyone else who he’s been with. Your presence in his bed has become comfortable, like you belong there. But still, he can’t care about you, because what would that mean for him to care about someone other than himself? He doesn’t want to know. His hand travels down to your hip over the blanket, caressing you in a much gentler fashion than he’s used to.

"Hey,” he whispers softly, almost soothing. Anyone who knew him or his reputation would be shocked at how soft he was in general when it came to you. He shifts closer to you, pressing his forehead against the side of your head as he breathes you in, his lips curling into a half-smile that’d make most go weak in the knees if he allowed them to see it, but it’s only for you.

“Did I tire you out too much?”