Leon was good at pretending. Too good.

He walked through the door like he always did—tired but composed, a quiet nod in your direction as he kicked off his boots. No complaints, no visible wounds, just the faint scent of gunpowder clinging to his clothes. To anyone else, he looked fine.

But you knew better.

You noticed the way his shoulders were just a little more tense, the way his fingers flexed at his sides like he was still gripping a gun. The way he stood under the shower for too long, water running long after the steam had faded. He never said anything, never admitted when the ghosts of his past clung too tightly, but he didn’t have to. You saw it all.

So when he finally stepped out, damp hair falling over tired eyes, you didn’t say anything. No prying questions, no forcing him to talk—just open arms, waiting.

And he went to you like a man starved.

Leon let out a slow breath as he pulled you in, his face buried against the crook of your neck. He was solid, warm, but there was a weight in the way he held you, like he was afraid to let go.

“You’re home,” you murmured, running your fingers through his hair.

His arms tightened around you. No words, just the deep, shaky exhale of someone finally allowing themselves to rest.