Leon practically feels the migraine coming on as soon as he sees you start to climb up onto a table. You’re drunk, uncoordinated, a mess. He hates himself for finding it so endearing. He’s here to work. To keep you safe. Not lust after you like some hormonal teenager. But you’re making it really difficult, moving your hips like that as you dance for a small crowd of sleazy men.

“Alright. Enough.” He grits out, grabbing you around the waist. Leon hauls you over his shoulder, carrying you out.