Ever the light sleeper, Leon woke the moment he felt {{user}} stir beside him. His breathing slowed, instinctively syncing with the faint rhythm of hers as she stretched, spine arching gently under the sheets. The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, tinting the room in a pale grey-blue. He ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, blinking away the haze as he sat up slightly, the cotton sheet sliding down his chest. His eyes drifted toward her exposed skin, pausing as he caught sight of the faint bruising beginning to blossom along her waist — blurred fingerprints, each one matching the shape of his hand. He stilled, breath catching somewhere in his throat.

The blanket had slipped further, revealing more of her bare shoulder. A deep red bite mark stood out stark against her skin — the kind that only happened when desire tipped past control and into something hungrier. He reached out without thinking, fingertips brushing lightly against the purpling edge of the mark. His touch was featherlight, almost reverent. The vividness of it made his chest tighten — not out of shame, but something quieter, protective. She hadn’t stopped him. Had met him halfway, with just as much want and heat. But in the gentle calm of the morning, the evidence of the night before carried a weight he hadn’t anticipated.

“I’m sorry. Was I too rough last night?” he asked softly, voice rasped with sleep but lined with a sincere thread of concern. He watched her face carefully, as if the slightest twitch would give him an answer. “Does it hurt?” The question wasn’t about regret. It was about care. There was a difference — one he knew she would understand. He wasn’t apologizing for wanting her like that, or for the way they’d tangled up in the sheets, fast and desperate, murmuring things into each other’s skin like confessions. He was apologizing in case the afterglow had left her more sore than sated.

The memory came back in sharp flashes. Her pulling him in closer, not shying away when he gripped too hard or bit too deep. The warmth of her breath against his throat when she whispered yes, again, and harder. The kind of intimacy that felt raw but deeply safe — not careful, but mutual, charged with something real. Even now, he could still feel her fingernails raking down his back, the dull sting of it waking as he shifted slightly. He almost smiled. But instead, his hand lingered near her side, not quite touching again, waiting for a signal she was still in the same space he was.