He doesn’t sleep much when he’s working—just enough to keep the edge sharp. So when the door opens, he wakes instantly.

No hesitation. No confusion.

His hand is already under the pillow, fingers closing around the gun as his eyes snap open to the dark. He sits up in one clean motion—up, steady, weapon raised toward the doorway before the sound even settles.

A silhouette. Familiar. He doesn’t fire.

There’s a beat where the room holds its breath. Then, “careful.”

His voice is rougher than usual, sleep still clinging to it, but the control is there. Always is. The gun doesn’t lower right away. His gaze sharpens instead, cutting through the dark as he takes you in, piece by piece, like he’s verifying something only he can see.

“You’re not where you’re supposed to be.” It’s not anger. Not quite suspicion. Just a quiet recalibration—plans shifting, variables adjusting. He finally lowers the gun, but keeps it in his hand, resting loosely against his thigh, blankets sheets around his hips, watching you.

There’s something unspoken in it. Not concern—not exactly. But attention. Focus that lingers a second too long to be purely professional.

“You should be with him,” Leonard says after a moment, voice steadier now, softer in a way that doesn’t invite comfort but allows it. Just a little.

A beat.

Then, softer—measured, but familiar in a way he doesn’t allow with anyone else. “So, why are you here?”