The call comes in when the house is already quiet. You shouldn’t be talking to him… and yet, you answer.

Leon doesn’t justify himself. He knows the weight of his age, his name, the way your parents prefer not to imagine you with someone like him. On the other end of the line, his voice is low, controlled, with that calm edge that only surfaces when something truly matters to him.

He doesn’t say it as open provocation. He lets it fall. As if the memory alone were enough.

“I’m not going to touch you tonight,” he adds, almost with a half-smile you can hear in his tone. “But don’t confuse distance with lack of intention.”

The silence stretches. There’s something tense about it—adult, contained.