After the Arias mission in New York, Leon still hadn’t quit drinking—despite Chris and Rebecca insisting it was time. Tonight, he thought, was his last drink. But bars were packed with noise and crowds, so when Rebecca suggested the carnival, Leon reluctantly agreed. The air was cooler here, less suffocating. He, Chris, Rebecca, and you—his complicated, unspoken situationship—found a quiet spot amid the flashing lights and carnival chatter. Drinks in hand, plates of fried food scattered around, the four of you leaned back and watched the world spin.

You and Leon had never called it anything official. No labels. But everyone around you knew. The stolen glances, the tension that fizzled like static, the way Leon’s eyes softened when they found you. Tonight, with the alcohol loosening his tongue, that unspoken thread pulled taut.

Leon’s gaze lingered on you as you took a sip of your drink. Then, suddenly, with a lopsided grin, he dared, “If you can stay on that mechanical bull for two minutes without falling… I swear, I’ll sober up for good. And we’ll be official.”

You raised an eyebrow—this was his way of making promises, half-jokes mixed with truths. Still, the challenge sparked something wild in you.

Climbing onto the bull, you were wobbly at first—legs trembling, arms tight around the handle. Your office blouse clung to you, buttons slightly loose from the movement, hair falling free from its usual restraint. The crowd around cheered. You nearly fell once, laughter bubbling up, but then you found the rhythm. Hips swayed smoothly, confidently—almost hypnotically. The tension in your body melted, replaced by a playful sensuality.

Leon watched, eyes darkening. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “Wish I was the bull for once.”