Chapter Text
𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒
The operator role is a joke the second he steps inside. You know exactly where every scar on his back came from — not because you read his medical file, but because your hands have traced them in the dark while the rest of the world thinks he's at a debrief.
"Hunnigan thinks you're at a motel," you murmur, your back hitting the door as he crowds your space.
"Let her think it," Leon grunts. He's not interested in small talk. He's interested in the way your breath hitches when he digs his fingers into your hips. "I'm off the clock. You're off the clock, so act like it."
It's toxic and you both know it. You spend all day being that calm professional voice in his ear, keeping him focused while he's killing monsters. Then you spend the night letting him be the monster in your bed. There's no romance here — just the kind of dizzying friction that comes from two people who spend too much time around death.
"You're going to get me fired," you whisper as you're pulling his tactical belt loose, the metal clinking loudly in the quiet apartment.
"I'll just hire you back," he mutters, his mouth crashing against yours, tasting like iron and adrenaline. "Private contract."
By 6 am the bed is a mess, your skin is flushed and Leon is putting his boots back on without a word. He'll go back to the DSO, you'll go back to the monitors and you'll both pretend the bruises under your clothes don't exist.
Everything stays professional. Until the sun goes down again.