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The room was narrow, barely lit by a single fluorescent tube that buzzed softly above their heads. The concrete walls bore stains of dampness and old paint, and the air was heavy with dust and the sharp scent of disinfectants. It was one of those places chosen only because it was relatively safe—doors locked, windows boarded up, no line of sight from outside. A temporary stop. A waypoint, not a home.
Claire stood facing the wall, her palms pressed against the cool concrete, trying not to move. Her jacket had been taken off and tossed over a chair nearby, the shirt beneath lifted just enough to expose the bandage on her side. The fabric was already slightly soiled, damp with sweat and traces of dried blood. The wound was no longer fresh, but it was still painful—reminding her of itself with every deeper breath.
Leon stood behind her.
Too close.
He was aware of it from the very first moment he stepped up to her. Aware of the space he shouldn’t cross. Aware of the warmth of her body, the difference in temperature, the tension that appeared almost instantly, as if the air between them had thickened. And yet he didn’t step back. He couldn’t. The dressing needed to be changed, and he was the only one who could do it.
“Tell me if it hurts.” he said quietly, his voice calm and controlled—exactly the tone he used in situations that demanded focus.
“I’ll manage.” Claire replied just as evenly, though her fingers tightened slightly against the concrete.
Leon reached for clean bandages and scissors. His movements were precise, practiced, almost automatic. He’d done this hundreds of times over the years—for himself, for partners, for people whose names he no longer remembered. Normally it was just another part of routine. But now, nothing felt normal.
When his fingers touched the fabric of the bandage at her side, Claire held her breath. Not deliberately. Her body simply reacted faster than thought. She felt the warmth of his hands even through the layers of material, felt the careful pressure, the gentleness with which he worked, trying not to hurt her.
“Breathe.” Leon said almost instinctively, noticing the change in her posture. “Don’t tense up.”
“I am.” she lied.
Leon lifted his gaze for a moment, as if wanting to look at her face, but all he could see was her profile reflected in a cracked fragment of mirror on the wall. Pressed lips. Slightly furrowed brows. And something else. Something he couldn’t name, but that made his own breathing grow shallower.
He carefully cut away the old bandage. The material came loose with a soft rustle, exposing the skin around the wound. It was reddened, still sensitive. Leon leaned a little closer to see better, and with that movement his body ended up almost directly behind her.
Too close.
Claire felt it immediately. His chest was only centimeters from her back. She felt the heat radiating from him, his scent—familiar, carrying hints of gunpowder, leather, and something else she couldn’t quite define. Her breathing quickened, though she tried to control it. Each inhale was shallower than the last.
“Claire.” he spoke again, quieter. “Seriously. Breathe normally.”
“I’m trying.” she replied, and there was a note of tension in her voice she hadn’t meant to put there.
Leon stopped. His hands hovered in the air near her waist. For a fraction of a second, he did nothing. Just stood there. Listening. Feeling.
That was when he noticed it clearly—her shoulders were tense. Her posture rigid. As if she were bracing for more than just a change of dressing.
“If this is too much…” he began.
“No.” she cut in immediately. “No, it’s… it’s fine. I’m just… tired.”
She wasn’t entirely lying. The exhaustion was real. It just wasn’t the only reason.
Leon nodded, though he couldn’t be sure she was telling the truth. He decided not to push it. Not yet. He reached for a gauze pad, soaked it with disinfectant, and carefully cleaned the edges of the wound. Claire hissed softly, her fingers digging in harder.
“Sorry.” he said automatically.
“Nothing new.” she muttered. “I’ve had worse.”
“I know.” he replied. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t be careful.”
His hand shifted just slightly lower to better secure the material. His fingers ended up dangerously close to her waist, where the skin was especially sensitive. The contact was light, barely a brush—but it was enough.
Claire stopped breathing altogether.
Leon felt it almost immediately. The change in her body’s tension was subtle, but to someone as attuned to details as he was, unmistakable. He froze. His fingers halted mid-motion.
“Claire…” he said quietly, a warning in his tone.
“It’s nothing.” she answered too quickly. “It’s just… a bit cold in here.”
It was a weak excuse. They both knew it.
The silence that followed was thick. The fluorescent light buzzed again, as if reminding them of its presence. Leon stood just behind her, his hands still raised, as though afraid to touch her again. Thoughts churned in his mind in a way he didn’t like. Too much awareness. Too many emotions he hadn’t planned on letting surface.
“If you want, I can…” he started.
Claire finally took a breath. Shaky. Uneven.
“Don’t go.” she said softly.
Those two words hit him harder than anything before. They didn’t sound like a command. Not like a plea. More like a confession she hadn’t had time to think through.
Leon swallowed.
“I’m here.” he replied, just as quietly.
He returned to the dressing, but his movements were slower now. More careful. Each gesture deliberate, as if he were walking on thin ice. The bandage wrapped around her side, layer by layer. His hands repeatedly came close to her waist, touched her skin through the fabric of her shirt, sometimes—entirely by accident—brushed bare skin.
Each time, Claire reacted the same way—with a short, broken inhale.
“Breathe.” Leon repeated, this time more softly, almost a whisper, leaning a little closer. “Easy.”
His voice was right by her ear. Too close. Definitely too close. Claire felt warmth spread along her neck, the skin there especially sensitive. She closed her eyes, though there was no need—she’d been staring at the wall anyway.
“You could try too.” she replied, attempting to add a hint of humor to her voice, though it came out weaker than she’d planned.
Leon smiled briefly, almost soundlessly.
When he finished, he tied the bandage with a sure motion and withdrew his hands. He stepped back half a pace. She felt the small distance immediately—as if something had been taken away that her body had grown used to in a surprisingly short time.
“All done.” he said.
Claire lowered her shirt and turned around slowly. Their gazes met. They were very close. Too close to pretend nothing had happened. Too far to do anything about it.
For a moment, they just looked at each other.
“Thanks.” she said at last.
“Always.” he replied.
They didn’t move right away. The tension didn’t fade. It hung between them—quiet, hot, unspoken. Something that had existed for a long time, but had only now become impossible to ignore.
Leon finally looked away first. He took a step back.
“You should sit down.” he said. “Rest.”
“In a minute.” she answered.
She watched him for another moment. He pretended to check the equipment, to adjust something, to be busy. But they both knew it was just buying time.