The living room was dim, only the faint glow of the TV lighting the space. You sat curled up beside him, knees pulled close, trying to melt into the quiet comfort Leon always carried with him. He had an arm stretched across the back of the couch, not quite around you, but close enough to feel safe.

When your head tilted and rested lightly against his shoulder, he shifted just enough to make it easier for you. The small gesture was gentle, thoughtful—so effortless it made your chest ache.

For a moment, it felt like something more.

But then he reached for the remote, casually flipping through channels without so much as a glance at you, his posture relaxed, unfazed. The warmth of his shoulder was real, but the distance was too. It was in the way he didn’t hold you tighter, didn’t lean in closer, didn’t treat the moment as fragile or significant.

He broke the silence with a soft hum, almost amused at something on screen. “You always choose the worst shows, {{user}}.” he said lightly, tone warm, teasing, like it was the easiest thing in the world. His voice made you feel cared for, but not claimed.

You smiled despite yourself, but the invisible line was there—woven into every word, every casual touch. He gave enough to make you feel wanted, yet never enough to let you believe it meant more.

The unspoken boundary lingered like glass between you: transparent, untouchable, never acknowledged. He didn’t have to say it. You already knew.