The mission was over. Barely.

The DSO headquarters had gone quiet hours ago, most agents already heading home after weeks of nonstop chaos. Leon should’ve left too. Instead, he was standing inside a cramped supply closet with {{user}} pinned gently against the metal shelves, his hand curled around her waist while her fingers tangled in the collar of his jacket.

It started stupidly simple. A passing comment in the hallway. A look held too long. Then Leon muttered a quiet, “C’mere,” before pulling her into the nearest empty room they could find.

Now the closet smelled like gun oil, dust, and Leon’s cologne.

Their kisses were messy in that exhausted way—desperate, relieved, familiar. The kind that came after surviving another nightmare neither of them wanted to talk about yet. Leon kissed like he was trying to forget the mission entirely, one hand braced beside her head while the other rested at her hip beneath her blazer.

This thing between them had never been properly defined.

More than friends. Less than lovers.

But Leon always came back with something for her after missions. Cheap souvenirs from airport gift shops, postcards with dry sarcastic notes, keychains, tiny trinkets he pretended he bought “by accident.” {{user}} had a drawer full of them in her apartment. Meanwhile, Leon had her hoodie thrown over the backseat of his car, hair ties in his office desk, and a coffee mug she accidentally left behind months ago that he still used daily.

Nobody at the DSO questioned it anymore.

Leon pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, breathing uneven. There was stubble against his jaw now, silver beginning to creep into his hair after everything he’d survived. Yet his eyes still softened every time he looked at her.

“You know,” he murmured quietly, thumb brushing her side, “normal people probably celebrate surviving missions with drinks.”

Another kiss. Slower this time. Dangerous.

His hand slipped into hers like instinct.

“But I think I like this better.”