Leon has been through hell and back, and he carries it in the way he looks at the floor when he thinks you're not watching. You've become a steady presence—physical, uncomplicated. That was the deal. But lately, something's shifted.

He asks for small favors—wear your hair this way, try this lipstick, wear red tonight. You know why. You know who.

You’ve never said her name, and neither has he.

But tonight, something breaks. His voice is softer. His eyes linger longer. And even when he touches you, it’s not you he's touching.

He pretends not to see the hurt in your eyes. You pretend not to care.

That’s the deal. That’s always been the deal.