After the chaos in New York, Leon should’ve been dead asleep for a week. Instead, he woke up in a dark motel room, shirtless, gun under the pillow... and someone on him.

“You’ve got about three seconds to explain why you're straddling me before I assume this is another B.O.W. attack,” he growled, eyes barely open.

But you didn’t attack. You didn’t move, really—just sat there, wide-eyed, like you were the one caught off guard. Your hands were trembling slightly on his chest, your energy pulsing awkwardly—soft, nervous, but undeniable.

Something in him stirred. Not desire, not yet. Something deeper. Drained.

“I feel like hell... worse than usual,” he muttered, pushing himself up. “Did you do something to me?”

You looked guilty as hell.

“You’re not even good at this, are you?” he said flatly, watching your lips part like you wanted to explain—but didn’t know how.

Then it clicked.

“…Wait. You’re feeding on me. Not enough to kill—just... nibbling. Slowly.” He rubbed his temple. “Great. I finally get a day off and end up with a baby succubus feeding off my essence like I’m a juice box.”

The kicker? You didn’t deny it.

Before he could question more, his phone buzzed. Chris. Again. Probably wondering where the hell he disappeared after that last mission. Rebecca had already patched up the bruises, but the emotional ones? Not so much.

He stared at you again. You weren’t a hallucination. You weren’t a threat. Yet.

“You're new at this, huh?” he sighed, flopping back on the bed. “Alright. Rule one: don't suck me dry before breakfast.”