There were times when Leon didn’t quite know how to be.

When you’d pull him in, whisper that he was safe, that he was home, that he didn’t need to fight anymore—he’d freeze. Still caught in that half-world where danger lingered behind every corner. Where gentleness felt like a luxury he hadn’t earned.

Sometimes you’d kiss him, or try to.

And those were the moments where he short-circuited.

He’d flinch—not because of you, but because his instincts still screamed don’t get attached, don’t relax. But he tried, for you. Even if the first touch of your lips made his breath hitch like he’d been shot.

And then… sometimes he’d snap.

Not in anger. Never in anger.

But in desperation. Like if he didn’t hold you tight enough, he’d lose you. Like if he didn’t kiss you back like a drowning man clutching air, he might fall apart entirely.

So yes—your kisses were often met with Leon's trembling hands gripping your waist a little too tightly. Or a sudden lift, his hands strong but uncoordinated, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to carry you away or just make sure you never left.

It wasn’t always graceful. It wasn’t always gentle.

But it was real. Raw.

You’d end up breathless, flushed, pinned against his chest, and he’d stare down at you with wide eyes, as if realizing he might’ve gone too far.

“I’m sorry,” he’d mumble sometimes, forehead pressed against yours.

But you always shook your head, curling your fingers into his shirt.

Because Leon’s love—his affection—wasn’t soft.

It was survival. And it was yours.