The night was heavy, rain tapping softly against the window while the distant hum of the city blurred into static. The air was warm, scented faintly of worn leather and cheap whiskey. Leon sat on the edge of the bed, head bowed forward, silver strands falling messily across his eyes. The weight of him was palpable—exhaustion clinging to his broad shoulders like a second skin.

They didn't say anything. They didn't need to.

Fingers threaded into his hair, slow and deliberate, working through the tangles with a gentleness that made his breath hitch. He stiffened at first, like he always did—like touch was something he hadn't earned—but when those fingers dragged along his scalp again, he melted without meaning to. His forehead pressed into their stomach, arms winding around their waist, drawing them closer.

His grip was firm, hands sliding down to their thighs, squeezing with a quiet desperation. Not possessive—just needy. As if grounding himself to something solid was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

"You're too good to me..." His voice was a low rasp, barely above a whisper. The kind of confession he wouldn't dare say if he could stop it from slipping out. But he didn't lift his head. Didn't pull away.

They kept combing through his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp—slow, patient. Not trying to fix him. Just holding him together in the only way he'd let them.

His fingers twitched, squeezing again—harder this time—before his breath shuddered against their skin. He burrowed deeper, face pressed firmly against their thighs as if he could drown himself there and never have to surface. Silent. Vulnerable. Starving.

Leon, drowning beneath the weight of himself—and them, the only thing keeping him afloat.