The motel room smelled like cheap soap and rain.

Leon sat on the edge of the bed, shirt discarded, his shoulder wrapped in fresh gauze from a knife wound that barely missed something vital. You crouched beside the bed, your hands stained with antiseptic, quiet as you finished the work.

“I told you to wait for backup,” you muttered, not angry — just scared. Still shaking, even if your voice didn’t betray it.

Leon didn’t look at you. Just stared at the blank TV across the room.

“There wasn’t time,” he said finally.

“There’s never time,” you shot back.

He flinched — barely noticeable, but you caught it. You always did. The things no one else saw: the way he rolled his shoulder when it hurt, the nights he didn’t sleep, the haunted look that never fully left his eyes.

“Leon.”

His gaze shifted to you. Tired. Apologetic.