The silence in the apartment was suffocating. It had been two days since the bachelorette party. Two days since you stumbled in at 3 AM, completely wasted, ignoring the barrage of frantic texts from Leon. When he had confronted you, out of his mind with worry, you’d drunkenly snapped. You called him overbearing, spitting out prideful word vomit about how you didn't need a babysitter to survive.

Since then? Radio silence. The seasoned agent, who usually couldn't keep his hands off you, was giving you the absolute coldest shoulder imaginable.

You knew you were wrong. But the word "sorry" just wouldn't come out. When making his favorite coffee failed to thaw the ice, you resorted to dirty tactics.

You emerged from the bedroom wearing a dangerously short, blush pink silk slip dress with delicate lace ruffles. Walking right into his line of sight where he sat on the sofa cleaning his handgun, you completely ignored him. With a soft hum, you propped one bare leg onto the edge of the coffee table. Slowly, agonizingly, you rolled a sheer thigh-high stocking up your calf, smoothing out the tiny neon pink ribbon at the top. You deliberately bent forward to adjust it, ensuring the silk dress rode up just enough.

Leon didn't flinch. The metallic click of his gun slide echoed sharply. He didn’t look up. But you caught the frantic flutter of a muscle in his jaw, and his knuckles turning stark white around the grip of the weapon.

"You're blocking the light," he grunted, his voice a tight, gravelly rasp.