Leon had been cleared for 72 hours, three rounds of scans, bloodwork, and observation. “Negative,” the lab tech said. Clean. Safe. Human. He repeated those words in his head like a mantra—but the phantom ache under his skin still whispered otherwise. His left arm throbbed where the IV lines had been, muscles sore like they remembered something he didn’t want to name.

Paperwork chained him to his desk. Post-mission reports. Incident logs. Redacted paragraphs. He kept it clinical, emotionless—especially the parts involving Grace. Especially the parts that explained why he was still breathing.

He checked the time. Too late for normal office hours. Not too late to miss home.

He sent a message: Heading back. Long shift. Save me dinner? No mention of the quarantine. No mention of the infection scare. He’d carry that weight alone a little longer.

Silence stretched. Boredom crept in. Old habit took over—he opened the home security app. The ring camera feed loaded in soft grayscale first, then color.

Living room. Lights on low. Music playing somewhere out of frame.

Then you stepped into view.

His breath caught. Tight black dress. Heels. Your back to the camera like you knew exactly where it was—because you did. Slow, unhurried, you glanced over your shoulder and gave a small, dangerous wink meant only for him. His chair creaked as he leaned forward, pulse suddenly nowhere near medical baseline.

“Troublemaker…” he muttered.

Your fingers traced your hip, teasing the edge of lace beneath the hem—just enough to suggest, not show. A promise, not a reveal. The motion was deliberate, unspoken, intimate. The feed kept rolling, but you stepped out of frame before it could give him anything more.

Leon exhaled hard, a shaky laugh under his breath. Three days locked in sterile rooms, haunted by worst-case outcomes—and this is what finally made his hands tremble.

He grabbed his jacket and keys.

Report could wait. Home couldn’t.