Chapter Text
You wake to tires moving slowly over gravel.
At first, the sound works its way into whatever you were dreaming about. Your half-asleep brain turns it into something else, maybe waves breaking against the dock or wind moving through the trees, anything ordinary enough that you don't have to wake up yet.
Then a car door slams outside.
Your eyes open.
For a few seconds you stay exactly where you are, tangled in the faded blue quilt your grandmother made years ago, staring at the white beams running across the ceiling while your brain catches up with the rest of you.
Morning has already found its way into the room. Sunlight pushes through the thin curtains beside your bed, bright enough to turn the edges almost translucent, and a narrow strip of it cuts across the floorboards. The window is cracked open because you forgot to close it before falling asleep last night. Cool air slips through the gap carrying the smell of pine and lake water, something so familiar you probably wouldn't notice it anywhere else.
Downstairs, a cabinet closes.
Ceramic knocks softly against the counter, followed by the low, slightly concerning groan of the coffee maker your mother refuses to replace despite everyone agreeing it sounds like it's dying.
She's awake.
Of course she is.
Your mother has never understood sleeping in at the lake house. She'll claim she does, usually while criticizing everyone else for wasting half the day, but you've never seen her stay in bed past seven here. By the time the rest of you wander downstairs, she's usually had coffee, watered the flowers and decided what everyone will be eating for dinner twelve hours later. Although, that type of early morning for her has always given her peace and that is something that this place holds for each of you here, so you can't really fault her for that.
Your father won't be far behind her. If he's not in the kitchen, he'll be on the screened porch with his glasses low on his nose and the newspaper spread across his lap, occasionally making an irritated noise at something he's reading as though whoever wrote it might hear him from Lake George.
Tyler, meanwhile, could sleep through a small earthquake.
Some things never change.
That's probably what you love most about this place, the stability and peace it brings.
The Johnson lake house has been the backdrop of your entire life. Summers stretch longer here somehow, marked less by dates than by things you remember doing. The first swim when the water was still too cold. Fourth of July fireworks reflected across the lake. Your mother's dinners on the porch. Your dad swearing at the boat. Tyler convincing you to do something stupid and then denying responsibility when one of you got hurt.
Every version of you has existed somewhere inside this house.
There's still a faint mark on the hallway wall from when you and Tyler tried to carry a mattress downstairs by yourselves and put a corner straight through the drywall. Your mother keeps saying she's going to paint over it. She never does.
The dock has been replaced twice since you learned to swim off the end of it, but in your head it's still the same dock.
Even your bedroom has resisted growing up with you.
You've changed it, technically. The posters disappeared years ago. The shelves hold different books. The clothes shoved into the dresser are definitely not the clothes you wore at sixteen.
Still, the room remembers.
Photos cover one side of your mirror, some recent and others faded enough that everyone in them looks slightly sun-bleached. There are pictures from college mixed in with family vacations and summers here. Emma appears in half of the newer ones, usually making a face at the camera or holding a drink she probably shouldn't have had, but always having an arm around you.
Your nightstand is crowded with books because apparently the stack you already hadn't finished wasn't enough to stop you from buying more. One is lying facedown where you abandoned it last night. Another still has the receipt tucked inside because you refuse to buy bookmarks for reasons you can't explain.
The little white desk beneath the window has been there since you were a kid. The paint is chipped around the edges now, and if you pull out the bottom drawer, your initials are still scratched underneath from when you were thirteen and briefly believed carving your name into furniture was a personality.
You learned to drive a boat here, bait your own hook because Tyler got tired of doing it for you, and that paddleboards become significantly less fun when your brother deliberately rocks them from the opposite side.
You had your first truly catastrophic sunburn here.
You also had your first real heartbreak here, although you've decided that particular memory doesn't deserve waterfront property in your head anymore.
The house holds all of it without asking questions.
That's why coming back always feels so good.
No matter how much changes everywhere else, this place waits.
Another car door shuts outside.
And just like that, you remember.
"Oh, no." You groan
Pulling the quilt over your face.
"No. Absolutely not."
Because there is one variable your peaceful summer morning failed to account for.
Leon Kennedy.
You lie there for another few seconds as if refusing to move might somehow reverse the situation outside.
It doesn't.
Your parents told you months ago that Leon would be spending most of the summer here. Your mother had said it while chopping vegetables, so casually that you almost missed it.
Leon's staying with us this summer.
As though she'd said she was buying new patio cushions.
You'd looked up so quickly she'd laughed at you.
Three months.
An entire summer of Leon moving through the house like he owns part of it, which, honestly, he might as well at this point.
Your parents never officially adopted him. They just slowly started treating him as if they had.
Your father calls him son without thinking about it. Your mother worries about whether he's eating enough and keeps whatever coffee he likes in the pantry even when he hasn't visited in months. Tyler stopped introducing him as his friend years ago because anyone who knows your family already knows Leon.
He's just Leon.
He has a bedroom here, even if everyone insists on calling it the guest room.
He knows where your father hides the spare boat keys.
He knows which porch door sticks when it rains and exactly how hard to shoulder it before the frame gives.
There are Christmas ornaments with his name on them.
It is ridiculous.
You sit up, wrestling your legs free of the quilt, and cross the room toward the window.
Part of you already knows what you'll see.
The black SUV in the driveway still manages to annoy you on sight.
It looks expensive in that deliberately understated way expensive cars always do, polished dark enough to reflect the trees above it. Leon apparently couldn't just arrive like a normal person. He had to show up looking like someone transporting classified documents.
You pull the curtain aside.
There he is.
Your annoyance lasts about three seconds.
Then something else gets in the way.
Leon is standing beside the SUV with one hand on the open door, looking toward the house.
You haven't seen him in almost a year.
You knew that. Obviously. You've been aware of exactly how long it has been, though you'd rather throw yourself off the dock than explain why.
Still, you weren't prepared for him to look this different.
Not dramatically different. Nobody else might even notice immediately.
You do.
He's thinner through the face. Not enough to look sick, but enough that the hollows beneath his cheekbones are more pronounced than you remember. His hair is longer and falls across his forehead when he looks down to reach into the vehicle. His shoulders seem broader beneath the black shirt he's wearing, but there's tension in the way he holds them, like relaxing has become something his body no longer does automatically.
He pulls a bag from the backseat and sets it on the gravel.
For a moment he just stands there.
Still.
It shouldn't bother you.
It does.
You remember the last time he was here. He'd been tired then too, but it was the normal kind of tired Leon always seemed to carry after work. He'd slept until almost noon his first day back, eaten enough breakfast for two people and spent the afternoon losing spectacularly to Tyler at cornhole while insisting the boards were crooked.
This is different.
You can see it from a second-story window.
Something in your chest tightens before you have time to stop it.
Then Leon looks up.
Straight toward your room.
You drop the curtain and step backward so quickly your heel catches the edge of the rug.
"Shit."
Your heart starts beating faster, which is irritating for several reasons.
Mostly because it has been doing stupid things around Leon Kennedy since you were sixteen and you'd really hoped adulthood might have cured you.
Apparently not.
You met him when you were ten.
Tyler was fourteen, Leon sixteen, and one afternoon your brother walked through the back door with a tall blond boy carrying two fishing poles and announced Leon was staying for dinner.
You remember being annoyed because they wouldn't let you come fishing with them.
That was your first impression of Leon Kennedy.
Tall. Blond. Rude.
The assessment wasn't entirely wrong.
Dinner turned into another dinner. Then a weekend. Then more weekends. Before long Leon was showing up often enough that your mother stopped asking whether he was staying and simply put another plate on the table.
Years passed that way.
Leon at cookouts with your father.
Leon and Tyler arguing over video games in the basement.
Leon stretched across the couch on Christmas morning while your mother handed him a stocking because at some point she'd started making one for him too.
Leon on the boat.
Leon at the end of the dock.
Leon stealing food from your plate even when there was an entire serving dish directly in front of him.
He spent a significant portion of your childhood irritating you on purpose.
He'd tug your ponytail when he passed behind your chair. Hide your sunglasses. Call you short when he knew perfectly well you weren't. When you got older, he switched from kid to trouble, which somehow managed to annoy you even more.
At sixteen, you started noticing things you would've preferred not to notice.
The girls who found excuses to hang around Tyler whenever Leon was home.
How different Leon looked after a summer away.
The way his voice had changed.
His hands.
Which was deeply embarrassing and therefore something you buried immediately beneath hostility.
It worked surprisingly well.
You could call him an asshole much more comfortably than you could admit you missed him whenever he left.
You turn away from the window before you can make yourself any more pathetic and get dressed.
Jean shorts. Black T-shirt. Hair pulled back without much effort.
Nothing special.
You absolutely do not look in the mirror twice before leaving.
Downstairs, voices drift from the kitchen.
Your mother's, bright with the particular happiness she gets whenever one of her unofficial children returns home. Your father's follows, lower and harder to make out.
Then Leon says something.
You can't hear the words.
Doesn't matter.
You'd recognize his voice anywhere, unfortunately.
You make your way down the stairs more slowly than necessary, letting your hand slide along the wooden banister. Halfway down, the smell of coffee reaches you, followed by bacon and something sweet cooking on the stove.
When you round the corner into the kitchen, nobody notices you immediately.
Your mother is standing near the stove in her robe, talking while she moves pancakes onto a plate. Your father has abandoned his newspaper on the counter. Leon is beside the island with a coffee mug in one hand.
Seeing him up close is worse.
So much worse.
And…. different
You stop in the doorway.
The boy who used to spend entire afternoons trying to throw Tyler off the dock is nowhere to be found. At twenty-six, Leon has settled into his body in a way that makes the sixteen-year-old you remember seem almost impossible. He's broader now, especially through his shoulders, and the black T-shirt he's wearing does very little to hide it.
There are scars you don't remember.
One disappears beneath his sleeve. Another pale mark cuts across his forearm.
You don't stare long enough to catalogue them.
At least you hope you don't.
What gets you isn't any of that anyway.
It's his face.
He looks tired.
Really tired.
There are faint shadows beneath his eyes, and something about his expression seems more restrained than you remember. Leon was never particularly easy to read, but he used to wear amusement openly. You could tell when he was about to say something designed specifically to piss you off.
Now there's a distance to him.
Then he looks up.
His eyes find you immediately.
The distance disappears.
Not completely, but enough.
His mouth pulls slightly at one corner.
"Morning, trouble."
You hate the relief that comes with hearing it.
So you do what you do best.
You look directly at your mother.
"Did he have to come?" You groan your head tipping back
Your father's coffee goes down wrong.
He coughs into his fist while your mother laughs, turning away from the stove long enough to give you a look.
Leon glances down at himself as if checking for some obvious defect.
"Nice to see you too."
"I was having a really good morning."
"You've been awake for what, five minutes?"
"Best five minutes of my summer."
Your mother shakes her head. "Please don't start before I've eaten."
"I didn't start anything."
Leon takes a drink of coffee.
"She never does."
You look at him.
He looks back.
And for a second the year between visits disappears so completely it catches you off guard.
He's still Leon.
That's the problem.
Because six weeks earlier, when your parents picked him up from the airport, he hadn't seemed like Leon at all.
The terminal so crowded that your mother nearly missed him.
People streamed through the arrivals area with suitcases rattling behind them, families pressed against the barriers waiting for someone to appear, announcements spilling from the speakers overhead and disappearing beneath dozens of conversations.
Your mother spotted Leon before your father did.
She always does.
"Leon!"
He turned at the sound of her voice.
Later, she wouldn't be able to explain exactly what bothered her about that moment. Maybe it was the way his whole body seemed to respond before his face did. His shoulders dropped slightly, like he'd been holding them too high for too long, and for one second at the sound of her voice he looked younger.
Relieved. Safe.
Then he pulled himself together.
Your mother was already moving toward him.
She wrapped her arms around him before he had a chance to properly set down his bag.
"Oh, sweetheart."
Leon stood stiffly for the first second of the hug.
Then his arm came around her.
"You look exhausted," she murmured.
"I'm okay."
His voice sounded rough.
Your mother pulled back enough to look at him cupping his face as she looked him over.
She didn't argue, which was probably the kindest thing she could have done.
Your father stepped in next and put a hand on Leon's shoulder.
"Good to see you, son."
Something passed across Leon's face at the word.
"Good to see you too, sir."
They started toward the exit before anyone could make the reunion into something Leon would have to endure rather than enjoy.
They almost made it.
A man's voice stopped them near the doors.
"Hey, wait. Are you...?"
Leon slowed.
A couple stood several feet away, both of them staring with the uncertain recognition people get when they know they've seen someone before but haven't figured out where.
Then the man's expression changed.
"You're him, aren't you? The agent who saved..."
He didn't finish.
He didn't need to.
Your mother's hand slipped around Leon's arm.
His jaw had gone tight.
The woman beside the man looked horrified at having bothered him. "I'm sorry. We just wanted to say thank you."
Leon nodded.
"Of course."
Polite. Controlled. Nothing else.
Your mother didn't give the conversation time to grow.
"He's just getting home," she said pleasantly.
It was phrased like an explanation and delivered like an ending.
They understood.
By the time your parents got Leon into the car, your mother had already decided she wasn't going to ask him anything.
Not about Spain.
Not about the girl.
And especially not about the photographs and stories that had been circulating on television for days.
If Leon wanted to talk, he would.
The doors shut and the noise of the airport disappeared.
Your father pulled away from the curb.
Leon sat in the backseat with his hands loosely clasped between his knees, staring out the window.
Your mother watched him in the mirror.
He seemed unable to settle. His attention moved with the cars around them, eyes catching on exits and intersections before shifting again. He looked thinner than the last time she'd seen him. There was a healing cut near his temple that he'd apparently decided didn't warrant mentioning.
She let several minutes pass before she tried to make things normal.
"We went up to the lake last weekend," she said. "Your room's ready. Tyler tried fixing the ladder on the dock and nearly ended up in the water-"
"How's Y/n?"
Your mother stopped.
The question came quickly enough that for a moment she thought she'd misheard him.
"She's good."
Leon nodded, still looking out the window.
"Good."
Your mother smiled faintly and continued. "Mike says we're replacing the porch chair this year. He claims it broke on its own, but I watched him drag that thing across the deck, and-"
"How's Y/n?"
Your father glanced at the rearview mirror.
Your mother did too.
Leon didn't seem to notice either of them looking.
"She's okay, Leon."
He nodded again.
"Okay."
Your mother waited a moment before starting another story, this one about the neighbors asking whether he'd be around for the Fourth.
She got halfway through it.
"How's Y/n?"
This time she turned around.
Leon looked at her.
There was nothing dramatic in his face. That almost made it harder to see.
He looked tired enough that something inside her hurt.
"Leon, honey."
He went still.
"You've asked me that already."
Confusion appeared first.
Then embarrassment.
His gaze dropped to his hands.
"Sorry." He said so quietly that your mother immediately wished she'd phrased it differently.
"No, no. That's not what I mean."
She reached between the seats and rested her hand against his forearm, just to make sure he was here this time.
"She's okay. I promise."
Leon looked at her.
"Yeah?"
"Yes."
"She's good?"
"She's good."
He nodded.
Your mother squeezed his arm before turning forward again.
"You can stop worrying."
That was when Leon seemed to understand what he'd been doing.
He leaned back against the seat and looked out the window again.
For the first time since leaving the airport, some of the tension left his shoulders.
Not much.
Enough that your mother noticed.
He didn't ask about you again.
He didn't have to.
You know none of this.
As far as you're concerned, Leon Kennedy arrived this morning in an offensively expensive SUV, walked into your kitchen and immediately started staring at you.
Which he's still doing.
You shift your weight.
"Stop."
His eyebrow lifts.
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
You hate that you don't have an answer.
"Just stop staring."
"I've been here thirty seconds."
"And you're already irritating me."
A little more of the old Leon comes back into his face.
"Good to know some things survived the year."
You open your mouth to answer, but something crashes upstairs.
Everyone looks toward the ceiling.
A second thud follows.
Then Tyler's voice tears through the house.
"LEON!"
Your mother closes her eyes.
"Oh, for God's sake."
Tyler comes down the stairs at a speed no twenty-five-year-old man should attempt in socks. His foot slides on the hardwood near the bottom. He catches the railing, nearly takes out a side table, somehow recovers and continues into the kitchen without losing momentum.
Leon barely has time to put his mug down.
Tyler hits him hard enough that the dishes in the cabinet behind them rattle.
Leon catches him automatically, one arm coming around his shoulders to keep both of them upright.
Then he laughs.
The sound catches you completely off guard.
It's loud and real, nothing restrained about it.
You haven't heard him laugh like that in a long time.
Tyler grabs both of Leon's shoulders and looks at him.
"Dude."
"Hey, Tyler."
"Dude."
"You said that."
"I know. Holy shit."
He hugs him again.
This one is different.
The joke disappears from it.
Leon closes his eyes briefly and grips the back of Tyler's shirt.
Nobody says anything.
Your mother turns toward the stove, suddenly very interested in the pancakes. Your father picks up his coffee.
You've all seen enough on television to know there are questions nobody at this table is going to ask.
Tyler lets him go first.
Then, because he's Tyler and sincerity makes him physically uncomfortable after approximately four seconds, he starts talking so quickly Leon barely gets a chance to answer.
"How was the flight? How long are you actually staying? Did you bring your fishing stuff? Dad says the boat's running weird again. Oh, and Y/n still can't wakeboard."
You straighten.
"Excuse me?"
Tyler points at you. "You heard me."
"I can wakeboard."
"You cried."
"I was eight."
"You were six inches from shore."
"I thought I was drowning."
"You could stand."
"I didn't know that."
Your father starts laughing.
Your mother joins him.
Leon is trying not to, which lasts maybe two seconds.
"You are all dead to me," you inform them.
"Breakfast," your mother announces, carrying a plate to the table. "Sit down before I decide none of you deserve it."
Nobody moves quickly enough.
She gives everyone a look.
Chairs scrape across the floor.
The table your grandfather built has been in the house longer than you have. It's enormous, scarred in places and slightly uneven near one end because he refused to admit he'd measured something wrong. Your mother has threatened to replace it several times and been immediately overruled.
There are marks in the wood from birthday candles and hot serving dishes. Tyler carved something underneath when he was nine and still won't admit it was him.
Leon has sat at this table hundreds of times.
You don't know why it feels strange when he takes his usual chair across from you.
Your mother begins putting food on plates whether anyone asks for it or not.
Pancakes, eggs, bacon, fruit.
"You still cook like we're preparing for winter," you tell her.
She points the spatula at you.
"You'll eat it."
"Threatening me before coffee feels excessive."
Your father snorts.
Tyler reaches for bacon.
Leon laughs again.
Your eyes lift before you can stop them.
He's looking at you.
Again.
You stare back.
There's something different about it, and that bothers you more than if he'd simply been flirting.
Leon used to look at you like he was waiting for an opportunity to annoy you.
Now he looks almost... pleased.
Not smug.
Not amused at your expense.
Just happy to see you sitting there.
You don't know what to do with that, so naturally you choose violence.
"I always wondered if the government taught you to brood or if you came like that."
Tyler chokes on his orange juice.
Your father groans.
Leon looks down at his coffee.
"I brood?"
"You've been dramatically staring out windows since approximately 2008."
"I have not."
"You have."
"You keeping records?"
You point your fork at him.
"That response isn't helping your case."
He laughs into his mug.
Normally this is where Leon would come after you.
He'd mention one of your teenage disasters, make fun of your hair, steal something from your plate just to make you mad. The two of you had developed a rhythm years ago, irritating enough that your mother frequently threatened to put you at opposite ends of the table.
This time he doesn't.
He smiles.
Your mother notices.
Your father notices because your mother notices.
Tyler looks between the two of you with a little too much interest.
You miss all of it because you're busy stealing bacon from Tyler's plate while he's distracted.
Leon sees that too.
He remembers you doing the exact same thing when you were twelve.
You'd deny it every time, even with the evidence in your hand.
He remembers the way your nose wrinkles when you're trying not to laugh. The freckles across your cheeks that get darker every summer. The fact that you still push your hair behind your left ear when it falls into your face.
None of those things should matter.
They do.
For weeks, his brain had reduced you to a question.
Is she okay?
He'd thought it in places he doesn't want to remember. On planes. In hotel rooms when he couldn't sleep. In the moments when exhaustion stripped everything else away.
Now you're sitting across from him stealing your brother's breakfast and insulting him.
You're okay.
The realization settles somewhere deep enough that Leon doesn't touch it.
Not yet.
Your mother gets up to refill the coffee.
The conversation shifts toward summer plans, and she pauses near the refrigerator when she notices the calendar.
"Oh, is Emma still coming this weekend?"
Your mood changes immediately.
"Yes! She's leaving Friday morning."
"Good. I've missed her."
Tyler groans. "Finally. Someone in this house who actually likes me."
"I like you."
"No, you don't."
You take another drink.
"Fair."
Your father laughs.
Emma has been your best friend since freshman year of college, back when both of you were pretending you weren't terrified of being away from home for the first time.
You became roommates mostly by accident and stayed friends through enough questionable decisions that separating now would probably require legal paperwork.
She knows everything.
Almost everything.
She was the person who held your hair at three in the morning while you announced you would never drink again, then brought you a mimosa the following afternoon because she knew you.
Your family took to her immediately.
Your mother asks what she wants for dinner before she visits. Your father keeps up with her internship. Tyler claims she's the superior Johnson sibling despite the minor issue of her not being related to any of you.
"She's staying all week?" your mother asks.
"I think so. She might have to leave early if her internship gets busy."
"She won't," Tyler says confidently.
You look at him. "How would you know?"
"I'll hide her keys."
"That's kidnapping."
"Semantics."
Your father shakes his head.
The conversation moves on to boats, bonfires and the Fourth of July barbecue your mother has apparently been planning since February.
Leon listens more than he talks.
You notice eventually.
The old version of him would've been right in the middle of everything, talking over Tyler and arguing with your father about something stupid.
Today he seems content to sit back and watch.
Then Tyler says, "So."
You don't even have to look at him.
You know that voice.
"No."
He smiles.
"I didn't say anything."
"Don't."
"What?"
"Whatever you're about to do."
Your mother sighs.
Your father looks interested.
Tyler leans back in his chair.
"Should Emma bring what's-his-face?"
You look at him.
Your stomach drops.
"Tyler." You say your teeth gritted
Your mother looks between you. "Who's what's-his-face?"
"Oh, you don't know?"
"Tyler. Stop."
"The guy."
Your father lowers his mug.
"What guy?"
Tyler's grin widens.
"The friends-with-benefits guy."
Your fork hits the plate.
"Tyler!"
Your father coughs hard enough that your mother reaches over and pats his back.
"Oh my God," she mutters.
Across from you, Leon doesn't move.
That's the first thing you notice.
Everything about him goes strangely still.
Your father looks at you once he's recovered.
"Friends with benefits?"
"It was nothing."
"His name was Jake," Tyler supplies.
You glare at him.
"Nobody asked you."
"Just helping."
"You've never helped anyone in your life."
Your mother points at Tyler. "Leave her alone."
Too late.
Leon looks at you.
"College boyfriend?"
"No."
Tyler snorts. "Definitely not her boyfriend."
You consider kicking him beneath the table.
Leon keeps his eyes on you.
"What happened?"
The question annoys you immediately.
Maybe because you've already had enough. Maybe because this is humiliating. Maybe because Leon has been home less than an hour and somehow you're discussing your sex life in front of your parents.
"Nothing happened."
He studies you.
"Okay."
Something about the way he says it irritates you further.
Tyler, apparently committed to dying today, adds, "Jake was kind of a douche."
"He wasn't a douche."
"Oh, now you're defending him?"
"I'm not defending anybody. Can everyone please stop talking about this?"
Leon looks down at his coffee.
"How long were you seeing him?"
You stare at him.
"Why?"
He lifts one shoulder.
"Curious."
"Few months."
"Serious?"
"No."
His thumb moves along the edge of the mug.
"Why'd it end?"
You feel your patience thinning.
"Because I wanted it to."
Leon looks up.
"That's it?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
There it is again.
That calm little answer that sounds like he doesn't believe a word you're saying.
You set your mug down.
"Maybe I got bored."
His face changes.
Barely.
You wouldn't have caught it if you weren't already watching him.
"Maybe."
Now there's something in his voice too.
You sit back.
"You seem weirdly invested."
Tyler becomes intensely interested in the conversation.
Your mother mutters something about needing more coffee.
Leon leans back in his chair.
"I'm making conversation."
"Bullshit."
Your father's fingers move to the bridge of his nose.
Leon watches you for a second before asking, "You knew him for what, a semester?" He rolled his eyes
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing."
"No. You clearly meant something."
His jaw shifts.
"It means a couple months isn't a long time to know somebody."
"You don't know anything about him."
"Maybe not." He shrugs again the action increasingly becoming more irritating
"Then why are you acting like you do?"
Leon should stop.
Some part of him knows that.
He doesn't.
"Because people aren't always who you think they are."
You laugh once, without humor.
"Thank you. Very wise."
His eyes narrow slightly.
"You're getting defensive."
"I'm getting annoyed."
"There's a difference?"
"Yes."
"Could've fooled me."
You stare at him.
There it is.
That old feeling you hate.
Being younger than him.
Less experienced.
Like Leon has already seen whatever lesson you're still stupid enough to be learning.
"You don't get to talk to me like I'm twelve."
"I didn't say you were twelve."
"You don't have to."
He exhales and looks away for a second.
When he turns back, the irritation is still there.
"You were seeing some guy you barely knew and you're acting like asking about him is an interrogation."
"Because you're interrogating me."
"I'm asking questions."
"Nobody asked you to."
"Fine."
"Fine."
Tyler looks between you.
Your mother gives him a warning look before he can contribute.
Leon takes another drink of coffee.
You should leave it alone.
Instead, the humiliation of the entire conversation sits hot beneath your skin, and when Leon looks at you again, something in his expression makes you feel small in a way you can't stand.
"You should be the expert on relationships, right?"
The room changes.
Your mother looks at you.
"Y/n."
Leon goes very still.
You know you should stop.
You don't.
"Maybe you should date Ashley Graham."
Silence.
Real silence this time.
Your father's expression changes first.
Tyler's follows.
Your mother closes her eyes briefly.
"What?" you say, because now you're embarrassed and angry enough to keep digging. "We all saw the pictures you with the president's daughter. The articles after you came back."
Leon looks at you.
Whatever irritation had been in his face is gone.
Something else replaces it.
Pain.
You only see it for a second.
Then nothing.
His expression closes so completely that you almost wish he'd gotten angry instead.
"Don't."
The quietness of it unsettles you.
"What?"
"Don't talk about something you know nothing about."
Heat climbs into your face.
The words aren't particularly cruel.
That's almost worse.
Because suddenly you're aware of exactly what you don't know.
Where Leon goes when he leaves.
What happened in Spain beyond the pieces that made the news.
What those scars are from.
What Ashley Graham means to him, if she means anything at all.
You're outside of that part of his life.
Young enough, apparently, to make assumptions about things he actually lived through.
You hate the feeling immediately.
You push your chair back.
"Whatever."
The legs scrape loudly against the floor.
Nobody tries to stop you.
"Enjoy breakfast."
You leave before your face gets any hotter.
The screen door slams behind you hard enough to rattle the glass.
Inside, nobody speaks for several seconds.
Leon looks down at his coffee.
He knows he pushed too far.
He'd known it while he was doing it.
The problem is that the second Tyler mentioned another man, something ugly and unfamiliar had settled beneath Leon's ribs. Jake. A few months. Casual. Details he hadn't known existed because he'd been gone while your life kept moving without him.
He has no right to be angry about that.
The fact doesn't make the feeling disappear.
Outside, you don't stop until you reach the dock.
The sun is higher now, bright enough that the boards are already warm beneath your bare feet. The lake stretches in front of you, blue and glittering, the Adirondacks rising green around it.
Usually this fixes everything.
You sit near the end and pull your knees toward your chest.
It doesn't fix shit.
"Don't talk about something you know nothing about."
You pick at a loose edge of wood beside your leg.
"Asshole."
A small wave hits the dock.
At least the lake never argued with you.
You stay out there longer than you mean to.
Long enough for the anger to cool into embarrassment, which is arguably worse.
You shouldn't have brought up Ashley.
You know that it was cruel.
You also know Leon shouldn't have spent breakfast acting like he had any right to question you about Jake.
Both things can be true.
You're still pissed at him.
That feels important.
Eventually the sun gets too warm to sit there in a black T-shirt, so you get up and head inside.
The house has gone quieter.
Your parents are somewhere outside. You can hear Tyler in the garage, followed by the metallic clatter of something hitting the floor and your father shouting a question from somewhere farther away.
No Leon.
Good.
You take the stairs quickly and shut yourself in your room.
If everyone is going to spend the day by the water, you're not letting one stupid breakfast ruin it.
You open your dresser and pull out a black bikini.
Then jean shorts.
Then different shorts.
You stare at yourself in the mirror.
Take them off.
"What are you doing?"
Your reflection offers nothing useful.
You grab the first pair again.
This is ridiculous.
You are going swimming at your family's lake house. You have done this approximately a thousand times. The fact that Leon happens to be downstairs should have absolutely no bearing on what you wear.
Which is why you spend another five minutes deciding between two cover-ups.
You hate yourself a little.
Eventually you settle on the bikini, shorts and an oversized white button-up left open over the top. Your hair goes into a loose ponytail. Sunglasses. Sunscreen. Phone. Tote.
Done.
You look in the mirror once.
Then again.
"Whatever."
You grab the bag and pull open your bedroom door.
You walk directly into Leon.
The impact knocks you backward before you even register who it is.
His hands catch your arms.
Your palms land against his chest.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Leon is warm beneath your hands.
That's the first stupid thing your brain notices.
The second is how close his face is.
He's carrying a duffel over one shoulder and another bag in his hand, apparently on his way to the guest room. His fingers are still wrapped around your upper arms, steadying you.
His eyes move over your face.
Then lower.
You become acutely aware of the open button-up and the black bikini beneath it.
His gaze returns to yours.
You step back.
Leon lets go immediately.
The hallway feels warmer than it did five seconds ago.
You adjust the strap of your tote.
"I can't believe you're still here."
His mouth moves slightly.
"Thought maybe you lost your ability to be mean."
"Thought maybe you lost your ability to annoy me."
"I was gone for a year."
"And you've been back an hour. Impressive recovery time."
That gets a quiet laugh from him.
You don't want to like the sound.
You do anyway.
Leon shifts the duffel higher on his shoulder.
"You still mad?"
"Depends."
"On?"
"Whether you're planning another interrogation before lunch."
His expression changes.
The amusement fades.
"I'm not."
"Good."
"I shouldn't have pushed."
You weren't expecting that.
Your fingers tighten around the tote strap.
"No. You shouldn't have."
Leon nods.
For once, he doesn't defend himself.
That makes it considerably harder to stay angry.
Annoying.
You look past him toward the guest room.
"So they're sticking you in there again?"
"Apparently."
"Poor room."
He glances toward the door.
"Think it'll make it?"
"Hard to say."
"I'll try to be gentle."
You roll your eyes.
"You heading down?"
"Eventually."
His eyes flick toward the sunglasses in your hand.
"Lake?"
"That's generally why people wear swimsuits."
"I've been away. Things could've changed."
You almost smile.
Almost.
Neither of you moves.
The hallway isn't particularly narrow, but suddenly it feels like it is.
Leon is standing close enough that you can see the faint line of a scar near his jaw you hadn't noticed downstairs. You wonder where it came from.
You don't ask.
His eyes stay on yours.
"Still hate me?"
The question is quieter than everything else.
You look at him.
There's no smirk waiting behind it.
That's what throws you.
"Currently?"
"Yeah."
You humm and pretend to think about it.
"Ask me after lunch."
His mouth lifts.
"I'll take it."
Tyler's voice carries up the stairs before either of you can say anything else.
"Y/N!"
You close your eyes.
"Saved by the idiot."
Leon laughs.
You move around him, your shoulder brushing his arm because apparently neither of you thought to make enough room.
The contact lasts less than a second.
You still notice it.
Halfway down the stairs, you tell yourself the hallway meant nothing.
It was an apology.
Barely.
A conversation.
Not even a particularly interesting one.
The house sounds normal again below you. Your mother is laughing somewhere outside. Tyler yells your name a second time because patience has never been one of his strengths. The screen door opens and closes.
You adjust your sunglasses on top of your head and keep walking.
Three months.
That's all.
You've survived twenty-one years of Leon Kennedy existing in your general vicinity. You can survive one summer with him sleeping down the hall.
Easy.
At least that's what you tell yourself as you head toward the lake.
Upstairs, the guest room door closes behind him.
And neither of you is angry anymore.
You're not sure that's an improvement.