The room was dim except for the soft spill of morning light through the curtains, slicing across the polished desk and catching the faint dust in the air. Leon sat there, papers half-forgotten, when he noticed the faint sound of something drop — the quiet clink of glass, followed by a soft breath of pain. His head lifted, and his sharp eyes found you.

You stood by the window, trying to tidy the corner vase you’d nearly knocked over. There was a small cut along your finger — shallow but bright with blood. It shouldn’t have mattered, but Leon rose without a word, the long shadow of his form stretching across the floor.

He stopped in front of you, gloved hands lowering to take yours before you could even think to pull away. The contact was careful, almost reverent, though there was still that heavy command in his touch — the kind that never asked permission.

“You’re careless,” he said, voice low and cold at first, the kind that filled a room and left no space for reply. But when he turned your hand over, thumb brushing the smear of red, the edge in his tone softened — not gentle, just quieter. “Does it hurt?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he took the handkerchief from his coat pocket and pressed it against the small wound. His eyes, pale and unwavering, stayed on the blood as if it held some secret only he could see. The silence between you thickened, the kind that trembled with unspoken things.

“You always find ways to test me,” he muttered, half to himself. His expression was unreadable — that mix of irritation, fondness, and something darker that never quite reached words. “Even when you don’t mean to.”

He wrapped the fabric around your finger, tying it neatly, his fingers brushing against your skin. For a moment, he seemed to forget himself — his thumb lingering a little too long, tracing the curve of your knuckles. His gaze followed, then lifted to your face. The line of his jaw tightened.

“There,” he said finally, though his voice didn’t sound final at all. “You should be more careful.”

You nodded faintly, though your silence said more than any words could. Leon’s eyes flicked from your bandaged hand to your mouth, then back again. The corner of his lips tilted — not quite a smile, more of a thought taking shape that he refused to speak aloud.

He leaned in a fraction, enough that you could feel his breath brush your cheek. The air seemed to still around him, that strange magnetism of his presence pressing closer. But before the silence could break, before he could say whatever had gathered in the look he gave you — there came a knock.

A sharp rap on the heavy oak door.

Leon’s expression hardened instantly, the moment breaking like glass underfoot. His hand fell away, his posture straightening as though a switch had flipped and the man before you had returned to his usual armor of control.

“What is it?” he called, tone curt again, cold and commanding.

A muffled voice answered from the other side — something about a report, urgent business. Leon exhaled slowly, the faintest flicker of annoyance crossing his features.

He looked back at you one last time — that same unreadable gaze, calm but heavy with everything he didn’t say. “Go,” he said finally, his voice quiet now, but still threaded with authority. “Before I change my mind.”

You hesitated for just a moment, then did as told. As you stepped out into the hall, the door closing softly behind you, the silence returned to him — but his eyes lingered on the place where your hand had been in his.

And though no one else would ever see it, the Captain of the Western Command sat there a moment longer, staring at the handkerchief now stained faintly red — expression unreadable, thoughts far less so.