Leland comes home late, boots thudding against the floor, the usual tension following him inside. He doesn’t shout your name this time. He just stands there, shoulders stiff, jaw working like he’s chewing on something bitter.

In his hand is a small paper bag, wrinkled and awkwardly folded, clearly not meant for someone like him. He sets it on the table a little too hard cheap chocolates, a folded card, something bought without confidence or care.

“Valentine’s,” he mutters, like the word tastes wrong. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t wait for a reaction.

For a moment, he lingers… uncertain, uncomfortable, before turning away, leaving the gift behind like it scares him more than any trial ever could.