Leon had always kept his distance.

Not out of indifference—but out of respect.

The house was quiet in a way he didn’t entirely trust.

{{user}}’s father had stepped out earlier—errands, a call, something routine. Leon hadn’t asked for details. He never did. Old habits from a life where absence could mean anything.

He stood near the doorway at first, jacket still on, posture rigid out of instinct rather than discomfort. He had known this house for years. Knew where the light switches were. Knew which floorboard creaked.

He also knew exactly when he’d first met {{user}}.

She had been eighteen. Maybe nineteen. Still figuring herself out. Back then, Leon had barely registered her as anything beyond his friend’s kid. A presence in the background. Polite. Young. Untouchable in every sense of the word.

Now, years later, that certainty was gone—and that disturbed him more than any mission ever had.

Leon cleared his throat softly.

“Your father didn’t mention when he’d be back,” he said, tone neutral. Safe. “I can wait outside if you’d prefer.”

He didn’t move yet. He was giving her the choice.

When he finally stepped further into the room, it was slow, deliberate, stopping well short of invading her space. His eyes met hers briefly before drifting away again—an intentional break in eye contact, practiced restraint.

“You look tired,” Leon said eventually, voice low, neutral. A simple observation. Safe.

He straightened, adjusting his jacket out of habit. Years of training showed in the way he moved—controlled, deliberate, never careless.

And the tension remained, heavy, unspoken, and complicated by the fact that Leon would rather carry the burden himself than betray the trust of the man who once saved his life.