After Alcatraz, Leon tried to get his life together—sobriety, therapy, and some kind of order in the chaos. He told Chris and Rebecca one night, over greasy takeout and half-hearted jokes. About you. About how what started as something casual—comfort, distraction, maybe even denial—wasn’t casual anymore. “I think I’m catching feelings,” he said quietly, thumb running over the rim of his coffee cup. “But I don’t wanna screw it up if she doesn’t feel the same.”

Then Alcatraz happened. The infection scare, the memory of Spain—parasites, control ripped away, the fear of not coming back human. Lying in the infirmary later, bandaged and shaking, he realized he didn’t want to live with what ifs anymore.

So he told you. Voice low, honest, rough around the edges. Said he wanted you—not halfway, not behind closed doors, not when it’s convenient. But you froze. Said you didn’t “do relationships.” That it’s better this way.

He smiled like it didn’t hurt. Joked it off, said it was fine. Said he’d find someone else. Maybe someone who wasn’t afraid to want him back.

Then came the receptionist. Too nice, too young, too conveniently standing at the front desk every morning. Leon would stop by with that lazy grin, leaning on the counter just long enough to make sure you’d see him. And every time, he caught that flash in your eyes—jealousy you tried to hide behind your coffee cup.

He started doing it on purpose. A little more laughter, a little more charm. Just to see if you’d look his way. Because maybe he wanted proof you still cared—even if you wouldn’t say it.

One morning, he leaned in a little closer to the receptionist. “Maybe you and I should grab dinner sometime,” he said smoothly, just loud enough for you to hear.

And right on cue—bump. Your shoulder collided with his arm, coffee sloshing over his shirt, dark stains spreading fast.

“Oh my god—Leon, I’m so sorry!” you gasped, grabbing tissues, fussing over him. The receptionist blinked, awkwardly stepping back as you tugged at Leon’s sleeve.

“It’s fine, I got it—” he started, but you were already pulling him toward the hallway.

“No, you’ll stain your jacket,” you insisted, cheeks burning, voice too sharp to sound casual.

Leon bit back a smile as he let you drag him away. The receptionist’s confused stare burned into his back.

When the two of you disappeared behind the corner, he leaned down just enough to whisper, amusement in his tone—

“So… coffee, huh?”

The look on your face was answer enough. And for the first time in a long while, Leon couldn’t help but grin—because he finally had his proof.