The car was silent except for the faint hum of the engine and the sound of your own uneven breathing. The windows were still fogged from what had just happened—his touch, your whispers, the way your bodies fit together like something that shouldn’t work but always did. Clothes were half straightened, skin still warm, and the scent of him clung stubbornly to the air.

The silence wasn’t new. It always came after. After the heated words. After the messy confessions that never quite turned into anything real. After the kind of touch that blurred every line you both swore you’d keep.

Leon sat in the driver’s seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh. His hair was a little messy, the collar of his shirt slightly tugged to the side, chest rising and falling steadily. But the heat in the car had shifted. It wasn’t lust anymore. It was something heavier—something you both tried not to name.

His posture was tense, jaw tight as he stared out the windshield like the world outside would give him an answer. He dragged a hand over his stubble, exhaling slowly.

“Ada called,” he finally muttered, his voice low—steady, but careful. Like a man stepping onto thin ice.

He didn’t look at you. He never did when it involved her. But the shift in his jaw, the way his knuckles tightened against the steering wheel, said everything his mouth wouldn’t.