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Something’s bothering him.
It’s not like you were paying extra hard attention or anything, but you can tell. He’s leaning across from you, hunched over a standing table, elbows neatly crossed on top of the dented metal. The old rickety van that's been converted into a food truck hisses and pops behind you, flooding the air with the smell of oil and grilled meat.
There’s an umbrella affixed through the centre of the table, casting a patch of shadow over the both of you, which you’re particularly grateful for. The afternoon sun is especially brutal today as the heat seeps straight through your navy standard-issued R.P.D. uniform.
A seagull's cawing carries over from somewhere down the docks. You tug at your collar again and again to let a little air in. The fabric feels sticky. Your uniform clings oppressively to your skin in all the wrong places.
You take another bite of your burger.
Perfect.
Greasy and indulgently salty. The type that makes your mouth water and your arteries want to cry out in disdain at the same time. Not that you minded it all that much. You’re planning on living for a good time, not for a long time, anyway.
Leon pushes a fry around in his tray in absent circles, leaving a long streak of grease across the plastic. His eyes have that distant glaze in them, focus slipping in and out, going somewhere dark and decrepit, and you can’t follow them.
You know that look on his face. You’ve seen it more often in recent years. He’s somewhere far away right now, far beyond this cramped little food truck lot, like he’s watching a movie only he can see. And whatever’s playing behind his squinted eyelids isn’t kind.
You and Leon went through the same police academy together. You suffered through it side by side: the same cramped dorms, the same yards, the same hellish drills that Drill Sergeant Jack Krauser loves to dish out—like somehow you lot were the ones personally responsible for the falling out with his fiancée.
So naturally, somewhere in between push-ups in the rain and mind-numbing criminal law lectures, you and Leon became good friends.
Which means that Leon Scott Kennedy has known you longer than Claire Redfield. Even longer than the ever-elusive Detective Ada Wong, whom you’re utterly convinced he has a deeply complicated will-they-won’t-they thing for.
You try not to get too bitter at the thought. You also try not to get too bitter at the one-sided affection you’d amassed over the years by working with him. And that weight gets heavier when he inevitably falls for someone else in much of the same way.
Still, you were drawn impossibly close to him, even when he was still a fresh-faced rookie. You were much like a sunflower, dutifully turning its head towards the sun. His blatant optimism back then had been so palpable that it just clung to you, buzzing lightly beneath your skin, and he had this sort of spark in him that made you want to stay forever in his orbit.
You remember him as clearly as a nice summer’s day.
“Oh, hey! It’s you.”
You’d looked up to find him beaming at you, his blond hair a little too neat, his posture a little too straight.
You’d just stepped into the station, balancing a heavy cardboard box full of your personal belongings on your hip. You crammed in everything you thought was important at the time. A sad little plant that’s definitely seen better days sits in the corner. Stacked beside it were worn-out notebooks with old coffee stains on the edges, and nestled between them was your ceramic cat mug. Its ears are chipped in the corners, but it’s still your favourite thing. It followed you through two cities, three dead-end jobs and more bad days than you can count.
Your favourite thing.
Only second to Leon Kennedy, of course.
“You remember me, right? From the police academy?”
Of course you did. His smile had taken up space in your head rent-free since the day you first met. You bit your lip, schooling your expression into something normal and totally casual. “Yeah.” You said, letting a genuine smile cross your lips. “I remember.”
He laughed, full of mirth and easy joy. “I can’t believe your desk is right across from mine.”
His grin is stretched wide, crinkling the corners of his eyes, and you can practically picture him wagging some invisible puppy tail in excitement.
The golden retriever energy that radiated off him was stupidly contagious, so much so that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from showing just how giddy he made you.
Maybe you’ve finally found your big break. Maybe you’ve found the promise of sunlight finally piercing through after a long, depressing stretch of rain, because the idea of spending at least the next six months sitting across from your long-lost crush? It felt like winning the damn lottery.
You giggle to yourself, the sound slipping out into an ugly snort.
Leon arches a brow, his beautiful forehead creasing. He gazes questioningly at your half-eaten burger, like it might be the one responsible for your malfunction. “What’s so funny?”
That breaks you out of your momentary stupor.
You splutter, a hiccup of laughter still stuck in your throat. You spit out a mangled bit of lettuce, and it plops into the wrapping paper in a way that’s definitely not cute.
Pink tinges the high of your cheeks. It is, without a shadow of a doubt, the least flattering thing you’ve done in front of another human being for months.
“Nothing.” You say quickly, clearing your throat and swiping your hand across your mouth in embarrassment, pretending to get rid of any stray sauce or crumbs. “Just uhm—nothing.”.
The hint of a smirk threatens to pull at the corners of his mouth. He fights it, holds it back, like he is doing you the courtesy of not letting you see the full thing. His eyes flicker to you and this time, there’s a shining glint to them.
You stay silent, picking mindlessly at the sesame seeds stuck on top of your bun. You roll one between your fingers, press it flat with your thumb. You don’t trust your voice to work when he looks at you like that.
Like you matter to him more than you’ve ever let yourself believe.
He doesn't push which you're secretly grateful for. Behind you, one of the food truck workers barks out an order and something hits the hot grill with a sharp sizzle. Metal scrapes against metal as he drags a spatula across the surface, the smell of burning meat rising in the air once more. Leon’s the one who looks away first. The light in his eyes dims back into something tired, frayed around its edges. You follow his lead shortly after.
The Leon in front of you is a lot quieter now. More reserved. He’s no longer the same bright-eyed eager rookie who showed up everyday in a pressed uniform with a heart full of naive idealism. That version of him lives somewhere in your memory, safe and sound, untouched with everything that came afterwards.
You can still see him if you close your eyes hard enough. Leon laughing too loud at his own terrible dad jokes, shoulders shaking by the force of it. Leon tripping over his own feet, springing back up with a sheepish grin on his face. Leon looking fondly at the world like it wasn’t capable of doing the kind of damage that it did.
He’s still sweet underneath it all. Still the kind of person who wants nothing more than to help people. The same selfless man who would recklessly throw himself into danger even if it meant someone else would walk away unharmed. That part of him never changed. Maybe that’s why you fell in love with him in the first place.
Same blue eyes, same sweet boy.
But he’s changed in other ways. And joining the force did that to him.
He’s shared bits and pieces of it with you over the years, enough for you to fill in the blanks. Some stories he can say out loud. Others he keeps locked up deep, drowning them in cheap liquor on the nights when sleep doesn’t come.
One of the cases in particular, sunk its claws and left its mark. A shouting match that spiralled out of control. A father with a shotgun, a five-year-old boy who walked out of that house, an orphan. Leon had been the one to wrestle the weapon out of the father’s hands. In the struggle, the gun went off. The blast hit the mother, killing her instantly. But it didn’t end there—no. Even in cuffs, the father somehow got his hands on an officer’s sidearm. He turned it on himself, pressed the muzzle under his chin, and pulled the trigger.
He’d shown up at your doorstep that night, inconsolable. Eyes bloodshot, uniform stained dark red, caked with dried blood and god knows what else. You’d barely gotten to the door before he folded in on himself, harsh broken sobs tearing out of him like something finally ripped loose inside.
You hadn’t known what to say. There was nothing that would’ve fixed it anyway.
So you didn’t try.
You grabbed his wrist, pulling him inside as you kicked the door shut behind you. You held him close as he buckled over, falling apart like wet putty in your hands. One of your hands was carded in his hair, the other wrapped around his wet shivering body. His whole frame trembled against you, muscles fiercely locking like he’s trying to swallow back the screams that wanted to rip out of his chest. He buried his head deeper and deeper into the crook of your neck, like he wanted to disappear there forever. His lips brushed against your skin in cold, accidental passes, his breath coming in hitching bursts that warmed your throat.
“I’m sorry.” He kept saying, over and over. A prayer he couldn’t stop reciting. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
You had pressed your cheek on top of his head, telling him in whispers, that this would not last forever. That there would be another day, and after that another day, and then another one after that. You did not promise it would be easier. You just promised that time would keep moving, even if he felt stuck in an endless nightmare.
At some point you shifted, pressing your ear against his chest. You listened to the frantic drum of his heart and prayed. To any deity that might be listening. To all of them. Take his pain away. Hell, give it to you instead for all you cared.
Later, when you’d mentioned Leon’s existence to a close friend in passing, she’d looked at you with a glance that’s somewhere between pity and annoyance.
“He’s just using you, you know.” She’d said. “You’re his emotional support dog.”
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe he is and maybe you are.
But you don’t care. He’s still your friend. Come hell and high waters, you’d do everything in your power to make sure he’s okay.
And that’s the part that slightly terrifies you. Because you love him so much, you’re not sure how much of yourself you’re willing to burn for him. Where the line is. If there even is one anymore.
You shove the last of your burger wrapper into a fist, fingers crinkling the greasy paper. You walk it over to the nearest trash can and toss it in. You wish you could throw away the tight knot in your stomach along with it.
“C'mon! Let’s go.” Leon calls out, a few steps ahead of you. “Beach isn’t going to patrol itself.”
You fall into step behind him, angling toward the stretch of sand behind the food trucks. You and him have waterfront patrol for the evening. Bit romantic in theory, if you don’t know what it actually entails. In practice, it’s mostly talking down to teenagers and sprinting after the ones who think tagging the seawall and flirting with arson on the pier is some noble cause for rebellion.
The sun is setting, painting the horizon in layers of blazing color. The sky looks like someone dragged a brush through watercolor, the streaks bleeding softly into one another.
It’s a gorgeous sight.
But still nothing compared to him, you think pathetically to yourself.
You take a glance at Leon, and he’s spilled over in a kaleidoscope of colours: pearly pinks, vibrant purples, warm golds and finally settling into a calm azure blue. He looks so unreal like this. Something about it reminds you of the paintings you’d see locked behind a glass in a museum—so beautiful you’re afraid you’d stain it if you stretched a hand out to touch it. And you’re so afraid that if you had called out and he answered, and you brushed your fingers over the canvas of him, the mess of paint under your fingertips would smear and ruin everything.
So you don’t reach out and instead, you take in the waves lapping lazily against the shore as you make your way down the sand. You draw a long inhale, enjoying the cool salty breeze on your face that’s about as tender as a lover’s breath. You let yourself loose in a daydream, for a second, about what it would be like if you were to go on a date with him, off-duty. Just the two of you, without the badges and without the radio on his shoulder. Your hands would purposefully find his, fingers lacing tightly together and you’re laughing at something completely mundane and stupid. You’d stop briefly for ice cream and in your mind, he’s swiping a thumb at the corner of your mouth, collecting a fleck of cream that you missed. He pulls it back slowly and licks it away clean with a tantalizing smirk.
You blush furiously. You hope the sunset covers it and that the red on your cheeks reads like its reflected light.
Red…
And just like that, your mood dampens. You visibly frown.
Because for fuck’s sake. You see her everywhere. In the rays bleeding across the horizon. In the mirrored flash of the sunset on someone’s sunglasses. Hell, even in the washed-out afterimages behind your pupils after you blink.
She’s inescapable.
The thorn in your side in perfect lipstick, with a perfect silhouette and an even more perfectly tailored dress.
To think you have a chance with him, you’d have to believe you could compete with that woman in red.
You let out a quiet scoff under your breath at that.
Hah. Not a chance.
Leon tucks his hand into his pockets as he walks beside you, shoulders hunched as if he’s trying to cover himself against the breeze. He nudges a clump of sand with the tip of his boot and without warning, kicks it at you. The little spray arcs up and hits you square in the ankle, grains of sand slipping over the lip of your shoe.
You grimace, stopping briefly to shake your foot out. “Ugh, seriously?”
“Stop doing that.” Leon chastises.
You blink at him incredulously. “Doing what?”
He gives you a small, unapologetic smile, the corners of his mouth tilting just enough to soften the hard edges of his handsome face. “Spacing out.”
Your jaw ticks in frustration. Well, pot meet kettle.
You shoot him a halfhearted glare. “I was not.” You grumble, stomping your heel into the sand until it shifts and the worst of it falls out of your shoe.
“You were.”
“Maybe I was just thinking about work.” You offer half-heartedly, tucking a stray bit of hair behind your ear. “Ever think of that? I’m very dedicated, you know.”
He snorts softly. “Sure. Is that why you were smiling like an idiot?”
You stumble a bit in the sand. “I was not smiling.”
“Uh-huh.” His tone is flat and vaguely unimpressed as he steps closer, shoulder bumping into yours on purpose. “You had that look.”
“I do not have a look.” You mutter childishly. You’re far too aware of your stomach doing those stupid little flips that it would usually do when he’s close to you.
“You do.” He insists, like it’s a fact of life. “Been around you long enough to know it.”
You open your mouth to snap something back, but he turns around and stops walking all of a sudden. You don’t catch it in time and run straight into his chest. Your hands fly out, bracing yourself against the front of his police vest, your fingers gripping tightly at the worn fiber.
For a while, there isn’t a single speck of red haunting the edges of your vision.
There’s only him.
And you’re on the beach with him on a beautiful day. He doesn’t say he loves you outright, but you believe that he does because why wouldn’t you?
He’s told you things he’s never shared with another soul. He’s trusted you with his hopes and dreams of a future that probably won’t come true. When something good happens, you’re the first person he wants to tell. He doesn’t hurt your feelings. He builds you up. He never makes you feel small. He tells you about all the things he finds fascinating; blue herbs, green and yellow. All of them collected like little prizes on his shelf. He swears up and down about their benefits, pressing some into your hands when you’re sick. You don’t really believe in any of it, but you look at him and somehow you feel better anyway. He texts you to ask if you’ve eaten when you’re having a bad day at work. And he brings you out to the beach on a beautiful day, under the guise of work. And somehow, the fear of what he could do to you, of how badly this could end, vanishes just like that.
You’re on a beach with a beautiful boy. You love him, but you feel like you’ve robbed a jewellery store at gunpoint by wanting him as badly as you do.
His hands stay on your arms, holding you steady. “You okay?”
You hold on to him as tightly as you could. You’re pretty sure you’re cutting off the circulation in his arms but he doesn't seem to mind all that much.
You should laugh it off. You should step back. You should say yeah, sure, just tripped over my own feet again, classic me.
Instead, your mouth does something reckless.
“I love you, Leon.”
For half a second, the world doesn’t change at all. The surf keeps rolling in and out against the shore, foaming white at its borders, and the wind keeps worrying at your hair and tugging at the hem of your shirt like it’s curious at what’s unraveling.
Leon’s breath hitches at your confession.
And it’s something so small and insignificant, but it still feels like he’s made you grab a live wire with your bare hands and you’re still standing there somehow unscathed.
The weight you’ve been carrying for years slides off your chest so suddenly you almost sway, following it to the ground. You’d imagined this exact moment with him in a thousand and one different ways. One of them with fireworks blasting in the background, a cinematic swell of music and the universe pausing to applaud your bravery. Something dramatic and spectacular enough to match just exactly how loud it’s been inside of you. You’re somewhat hoping for some grand gesture to fall from the sky and into your lap but admittedly, this whole thing has been underwhelming in the way that stepping off a ledge is underwhelming. Of course, right up until the point you realize you’re falling.
His eyes search your face, ocean blue, wide and stunned, as if he’s trying to figure out whether you actually said it or he’d finally snapped and started hallucinating.
You steel your nerves, swallowing the painful lump in your throat. Your heart is still doing that same thing it’s been doing all evening. It beats heedlessly inside your ribs, stubborn and terrified. But there’s no backing out now. If you stop talking, you’re afraid you’ll start thinking, and if you start thinking you might lose your nerve completely.
“And I have been for a while now.” You continue, fingers trembling at your sides. “I love your smile, I love your stupid jokes, I love your stupid face when you’re sleeping, I love your stupid laugh, I love that you can’t drive for shit, I love that you can burn spaghetti–”
Leon’s brows shoot up at that, the faintest twinkle of amusement dancing across his pretty blues.
“and I don't care if– ” You start again, and then your mouth stalls, because the sentence is too big. Because you don’t know how to say: I don’t care If you don’t love me back. I don’t care if there’s someone else nestled in your heart. I just need to make sure I’m always on your side.
But the words clog in your throat, refusing to be dragged out.
Your voice cracks on the last word, anyway. You hate that. You hate how obvious you are. You hate that your eyes start to burn and you hate the silence stretches between the two of you, long and utterly terrifying, making panic start clawing its way up your throat.
“And I—I’m not saying that to put pressure on you,” You ramble the words out nervously. You’re desperate to salvage whatever will remain of your deteriorating friendship. “You don’t— You don’t have to say anything back. I’m not asking for that.”
You swallow again, hard. The lump in your throat won’t move. Your hands feel cold despite the warmth of him seeping into yours.
“So if this makes things weird, or if you don’t feel the same, just tell me. I promise you, I can handle it.”
You can’t. But you’ll die before you let him know that.
Leon’s mouth parts slightly. There’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes, as if he’s hearing something he'd never thought about once in his life before. For a moment, you think he’s not going to respond. Then he lets out a slow breath, his gaze finally leaving yours. His eyes drop, blond lashes dipping in low. He closes his mouth again, lips pressing tightly together, adam's apple bobbing with the movement as he swallows back whatever he was about to say.
When he steps in, your body moves a fraction of an inch back on instinct. His hands around you tighten firmly, but not painfully. It’s like he’s afraid you’re going to bolt given the chance. He slides his arms down to settle at the small of your back and he pulls you impossibly close to him and keeps you there, trapped in his cage.
“You’re seriously pretending you couldn’t tell how I feel?” He asks lowly. “After all this time?”
You can’t meet his eyes. You look shamefully at the ground instead. At the trail of footprints the two of you have left behind. Paired prints, sometimes close enough to overlap, sometimes side-by-side where your shoulders bumped and you didn’t move away. Seashells glint dully in the fading light, scattered between bits of discarded plastic and seaweed that’s dried into wiry tangles. You look at where your shoes are half-buried in the sand and where the tips of it brush against his.
He takes your hand in his as he tugs the Kevlar away from his chest, pulling it aside just enough to clear a space, and then he lays your hand flat over his heart. He smooths your palm over, fingers splaying wide over the back of your hand. He cradles you there, presses you there, making sure you can’t mistake the point he’s trying to make.
Your own pulse is pounding so hard that you could barely feel his beneath your fingertips.
You close your eyes. You try to wrestle your thoughts–your ridiculous downward spiral, the one that’s born thanks to years upon years of wishful thinking–into something more manageable. You force your focus on the solid feeling of his muscle instead and the faintest tremors of his fingers as they clamp gently over yours.
You draw in a shaky breath. You’re grateful for the salty air that fills your lungs, clearing your head in an instant. You tell yourself to listen. Understand what he’s trying to tell you instead of talking yourself out of it. Something you’ve gotten awfully used to over the years.
“Do you feel that?”
His voice is strained, roughened by nerves or the cold or something else you’re too scared to name. He curls his fingers more securely, pinning your hand in place so you can’t wriggle out of whatever it is the two of you have been dancing around for way too long.
Your fingers tense involuntarily in response.
And there it is. The undeniable, frantic beat of his pulse.
Leon’s in love with you too.
Your heart, traitorous little thing it is, settles deeper into your body, taking its roots there. Like it’s saying yep, this is where we live now. And maybe that grand fanfare of romanticism you’ve secretly been hoping for isn’t something either of you deserved because you’re both too fucking stupid to realize it.
You tremble. You’re a deer in the headlights. You're a burglar in the pitch black darkness of his home, so you say, “This can’t be right.”
Leon presses your palm even more firmly against his chest, like he’s leaving you no more room for doubt, like this is the only language he knows how to speak right now and the only one he trusts to get through to you.
“And why wouldn’t it be?” He mumbles, tone quiet, but fond. He can’t quite understand how you ended up here. His eyes are soft when he looks at you and it’s so tender in a way that makes your chest ache for his embrace. Your beautiful boy, sweet as ever.
You shake your head, because even saying his name feels like picking off a scab that never quite healed properly. “Because you’re… you. And I’m… well.” You gesture weakly at yourself, not even sure what you’re trying to indicate. Not enough? Not right? Not her? Take your pick. “I’m me.”
Leon’s brows furrow together. “That’s not really an answer.”
You let out a laugh that isn’t funny at all, frustration bubbling up because you don’t know how to make him understand the self-deprecating monster living inside your head.
It is.” You insist, and your throat burns something raw and uncomfortable. “You’re too good for me.” You admit, the words finally pulling out of you in a strained breath.
Tears sting at the corners of your eyes. They cling stubbornly to your sockets and you refuse to let them fall. You hold your breath without meaning to, afraid that if you even breathe wrong you might miss whatever he says next.
Leon slowly unfurls your hands from his. With the pad of his thumb, he brushes away the traitorous tear that slips down your cheek, touch painfully gentle and infuriatingly kind.
“Me.” He repeats, genuinely baffled. “Too good for you?”
He motions at himself, voice tipping into something half-incredulous and half-offended on your behalf.
“You’re talking about the guy who… what? Drinks too much on his days off? Shows up at your door at stupid o’clock covered in blood and expects you to just—deal with it?” He raises a hand and wipes it down his face, frustrated. “The guy who can’t even sleep without—”
“Stop.” You say, voice cracking.
And you fidget, just a little, because you know every one of those things is true. You’ve seen the worst of him in its purest, rawest form. You’ve shaken him awake when he’s passed out drunk on a random park bench. You’ve stood beside him at your sink, cleaning the blood off his hands and watching the red swirl down the drain. You’ve watched him jolt awake on your couch at three in the morning as he lay gasping for breaths like he’s been breathing in gasoline in his sleep instead of air.
“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, lips pressing into a thin line. “I’m not the one that’s ‘too good’ for you, alright? I never have been.”
“You are to me.” You say weakly. Your voice sounds small, even to your own ears.
Something in his expression cracks at that. In all the years you have worked with him, you have never seen him look quite like this. Conflicted. Like there is too much noise in his head and he is trying to turn the volume down on all of it just so he can think.
“You shouldn’t put me on that kind of pedestal.” He mutters. There is a bitter edge to it which you do not like. “I’m not worth that.”
“Maybe let me be the one to decide what you’re worth.” You say, stubbornly as ever.
He leans in closer, close enough that his warm breath ghosts welcomingly over your face. “I could say the same to you.”
You were already close, but now there’s almost nowhere for you to go. The wind carries the smell of salt and something vaguely metallic from his gear, and you’re brutally aware of everything all at once. The faint moles dotting his neck and cheeks. The orange light of the setting sun catching on his lashes and turning them the finest gold and the soft shadows they cast across the clean lines of his face, tracing the curve of his cheekbones. You catch yourself wondering what he’d look like in the morning, under the sunlight beaming through the curtains, framing him in something almost angelic. Hair mussed from sleep, pillow creases pressed into his skin. Your oversized shirt hanging off his shoulders instead of his uniform. You on your bed instead of standing on a beach, and him there with you instead of alone in that empty apartment.
His thumb strokes the line of your throat, feeling your pulse race against his touch. “You don’t get it, I think.” He says, voice still rough. “You see this… version of me that doesn’t exist anymore. That kid from the academy? He’s gone. What’s left is—”
You shake your head. “I see you.”
You heave. “And the you right now.” You manage. You reach up, fingers finding a loose strand of hair on his forehead. You smooth it back gently, letting yourself savor the soft, silky feel of it between your fingers. “Are good.” You say quietly. “To me.
His eyelids flutter halfway shut, expression loosening. When he looks at you again, it's with a kind of reverence that makes your lungs forget how to work. Like he’s a devout, pious man looking at something worth worshipping.
He lifts your hand slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You do not.
He brings your knuckles to his lips and presses a kiss there, his eyes never leaving yours. The contact is light and tentative, but it sends a violent spike of heat through your core.
You feel faint. Your heart trips over itself, hammering so hard you are half convinced you are about to give yourself a cardiac arrest.
Your tongue darts out to wet your dry lips and he takes it as an invitation to close the last bit of space between you. His nose is only a couple of inches away now. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze flickering down to your mouth. You mirror him without thinking, turning your face at the opposite angle. You tip your chin up and press your lips to his.
His mouth catches yours and Leon kisses you back with a ferocity that sends you reeling.
Your mind lags behind your body. Your eyelids flutter shut. Your lips part on a quiet gasp. His tongue flicks against your bottom lip, testing and asking for permission. You let him in. Your thoughts dissolve into static. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, fingers sliding along the line of your neck. He tilts your chin closer, guiding you into the kiss, deepening it. The smooth of his tongue glides against yours, hot and dizzying. Your knees wobble. Your legs tremble beneath you, threatening to give out.
Leon, ever the hero that he is, shifts his stance and supports your weight without hesitation. One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you securely against his chest.
He breaks the kiss only by a fraction, his lips still brushing yours as he breathes. When you open your eyes, he’s smiling. It’s that genuine, unguarded smile you remember from the corners of your memories.
“Say it again.”
And you’ll say it a thousand times if he’d asked you.
“I love you.”
He cups your face with both hands, palms warm against your cheeks, turning you this way and that to press kisses to your forehead, then to your temples, and then to the curve of your cheeks.
“Again.”
His mouth trails down the underside of your chin in a slow line, then finds its way back to your lips and lingers there. You tilt your head and press a kiss to the taut line of his jaw in return.
“I love you.” You repeat.
He pauses briefly.
Your pulse stutters.
He’s trying to say something. His mouth opens. Closes. Like the words are there but he’s not sure if he should let them out. He’s a man standing on the edge of a ledge and he’s deciding whether to step off or stay on solid ground.
And what are you but a heliotropic little thing?
There could be an entire field of sunflowers turning east in the morning light, but you don’t angle yourself towards the same sun, you’d be angling yourself towards him, to catch every single ray of syllables he’s willing to give you.
His lips part and there it is, the very four words you’ve been wanting to hear, since the day you saw him with that boyish smile and a small wave at the R.P.D. lobby.
“I love you too.”