Leon never realised how much a break-up would affect him. Usually he drowned himself in whiskey or beer or whatever he could get his hands on in hopes of forgetting. Sometimes after work, he’d drive home and take a longer route.

The path he took was one he knew all too well. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel as he drove, humming along to his mixtape blasting out from his radio.

Well, he ‘said’ it was his, when really it was one that was made for him. By you. His heart burned at the thought.

He sighed, taking a hand off the wheel, raking it through his hair, which was in dire need of a haircut. Leon’s eyes darted forward — more so than usual — taking in his surroundings.

Before he could even protest, he hopped out the car, locking it. He paced up the driveway, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket.

Then it hit him.

He’d driven to your home instead of his.

He didn’t even know how you’d react to him showing up at your door, about two weeks after you broke up with him. Over the phone. During his training.

With one hand still in his jacket pocket, he pressed the doorbell, tapping his feet against your ‘Welcome’ rug. He recalled you used to leave a key underneath it when he was coming back home late, and he even flicked it back with his boot out of habit.

He muttered a quiet, “Shit,” under his breath as he did.

Almost as if on cue, the front door opened, revealing you in your pyjamas, rubbing your eyes.