Chapter Text
After every mission, Leon asked Hunnigan out for drinks.
Maybe he was tired of drowning his memories in noisy, grease-stained dive bars alone. Maybe he wanted human company once in a great while that didn't involve debriefing protocols or threat evaluations. Or maybe, deep down, he was trying to actually get to know the field operation support specialist assigned to him outside of a headset, a flickering screen, and an encrypted radio frequency.
After Spain, they had grown closer—he’d even managed to secure her personal cell number during the administrative aftermath—but their off-duty communications remained almost exclusively a loop of Leon asking her out and Hunnigan firing back concise, hyper-efficient refusals.
I’m busy tonight.
Working right now.
Too tired.
No, Leon.
She was the absolute picture of unyielding professionalism. She didn't divulge her personal life, didn't talk about her background, and rarely let an unscripted emotion slip past her carefully constructed guard. In all the months they’d known each other, the single piece of personal information he’d managed to extract was that she owned a cat—a remarkably fat orange tabby named Fred.
“Fred? Really?” he’d asked her once over an open line while waiting for a transport chopper.
“It was his name at the shelter,” she had replied, not even looking up from the paperwork she was sifting through. “I wasn't going to change it.”
And that was it. As far as Leon was aware, she lived alone, and her work was her life. She quite literally worked around the clock, whether from her pristine desk in the command center or from her apartment late at night with secondary reports spread across her coffee table. The grind never stopped for her.
She survived on black coffee—always on standby, always piping hot, always unadulterated. No sugar, no cream, no milk. Just bitter, high-octane caffeine.
Whenever Leon had to drop by headquarters for high-clearance debriefs, he made a point of picking up a fresh cup for her. A proper dark roast from the small espresso shop two blocks down beat the chemical slop that sputtered out of the breakroom machine. She would accept it with a quiet, polite nod before taking a sip. No words exchanged, just that silent acknowledgment between two people who spent far too much time in the dark.
That was usually how their mornings started. He’d hand off the cardboard cup, she’d take it, and they’d fall into step down the fluorescent-lit hallways toward whatever high-security conference room awaited them—heading toward a debriefing for a mission that had either ended in blood or would inevitably go to hell in a week's time.
It was after one of those particularly grueling briefings that he noticed the first real crack in her armor.
As they walked down the lingering corridor toward the parking garage to call it a day, Hunnigan pulled off her rimless glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long, heavy breath that seemed to drain the remaining color from her face.
“You okay?” Leon asked, keeping his hands jammed deep into his leather jacket pockets.
She pushed her glasses back onto her face, setting her composure back in place like a protective visor. “Fine.”
She sighed immediately after—a soft, involuntary exhalation. Definitely not fine. But keeping it together, as always, under the heavy weight of departmental oversight.
“Got any plans after this?”
She paused. Usually, her excuses were instantaneous, delivered with calculated efficiency before he could even finish the sentence. But Leon caught the slight hesitation in her stride. She was actually debating what to say—actually considering humoring him for once.
Finally, looking down at the thick manila folder tucked tightly against her chest, she murmured, “...No.”
“Want to get drinks?”
Another long, heavy pause stretched between them, echoing off the bare concrete walls of the stairwell.
“Sure.”
Leon raised an eyebrow, shifting his balance. Interesting.
“You know any good places?” he asked as they pushed through the double crash doors into the cool subterranean air of the parking facility.
Hunnigan let out a short, dry huff of a laugh that barely reverberated in the hollow garage. “Do you honestly think I go out for drinks often, Kennedy?”
Leon shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I don't know. I don't know what you get up to when you're not clocked in.”
She smiled tiredly, shaking her head as her heels clicked against the oil-stained pavement. “I'm never not clocked in.”
“That's not healthy.”
Hunnigan shot him a sharp, sideways glance over the rim of her glasses. “That's rich coming from you.”
Leon cocked his head, conceding the point with a slow nod. “Touché. What a pair we are…” He leaned in slightly, lowering his tone as they passed a row of sleek government sedans. “Government dogs working insufferable hours.”
“Careful,” she warned quietly, her dark eyes darting toward the dome security cameras overhead. They were still on division property; bad-mouthing their handlers wasn't a habit to indulge in public.
“What are they going to do? Fire me?” Leon muttered, a dark streak of cynical humor running under his breath. “I saved the President’s daughter from a crazed, mind-controlled parasite-infected cult in the middle of nowhere. I’d like to see them try.”
The ghostly hint of a real smile tugged at the corner of Hunnigan’s mouth.
They reached her car—a modest, navy-blue sedan. Inconspicuous, ordinary, entirely unremarkable. Just like everything else she allowed the outside world to see. She fished her keys out of her leather bag, the electronic lock chiming softly in the dim space.
“I'm out of here for now,” she said, pausing at the driver's door and turning back to face him. “Let me know where and when to meet you.”
Leon blinked, taken aback by the sudden reality of it. “You're serious?”
Hunnigan let out a deep, weary sigh, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the warm metal of the car door as her gaze drifted into the shadow-draped corners of the parking garage. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but… I'll humor you. Just tonight. Don't expect anything, Leon. It's just drinks.”
Leon’s smile broadened slightly, the tension in his shoulders dropping a fraction. “Just drinks for Ingrid Hunnigan is a monumental achievement. I didn't know you had a relaxed bone in your body.”
She slid into the driver's seat, cranking the engine and rolling the tinted window down just enough to look up at him. “Shut up, Kennedy. Before I change my mind.”
She shifted into reverse, backing out of the stall and heading for the exit ramp, leaving Leon standing in the faint exhaust haze to make his way toward his own ride.
Ten minutes later, settled behind the wheel of his car, he pulled out his phone and sent a quick text:
The Elmore @ 8pm
Her reply was instantaneous:
Copy that.
Straight to the point. Concise. Very Hunnigan.
Pushing the time back to eight gave Leon a few hours to kill back at his apartment. Maybe he could catch a nap—unlikely as that was given the constant buzz in his ears—or finish up some lingering mission reports. Mostly, it meant staring at the plain walls of his bland, pre-furnished apartment, courtesy of the U.S. government's high-value asset housing program. It felt less like a home and more like a high-security holding cell.
He opened his fridge, the dim light illuminating a bleak interior. A lone six-pack of cheap beer, plastic takeout boxes from three nights ago, and a shriveled lime that was well past its prime. He tossed the lime and the dubious Chinese food into the trash bin, leaving the beer, and slammed the door shut.
He flipped on the television—not to watch anything, but simply to drown out the dead quiet. He hated the silence. Silence was when the noise in his head took over. The dissociation. The phantom sounds of the walking dead, the wet crunch of decaying bone, and the echoing voices of people he hadn't been able to save.
Marvin. Luis. Even Krauser, as twisted and far gone as he’d been at the end.
The voices had been louder since Spain. Since Los Illuminados. Louder than they’d been at any point since the night Raccoon City burned to the ground in '98.
“What do you think, Leon? People can change, right?”
“I trained you well… Leon.”
He had survived Spain. He had brought Ashley back alive. But at what cost?
So many lives needlessly lost. In the heat of the moment, putting down the infected villagers of Valdelobos had been a simple matter of tactical survival. But under the infection, beneath the writhing tentacles of the Plaga, they had been real people once. Farming families. Innocent villagers. That was what made bioterrorism so uniquely sickening—it twisted honest, ordinary humanity into nightmarish weapons, leaving no room for salvation. For them, a heavy-caliber bullet was often the only mercy left.
How many people have I killed?
Leon didn't know. He never counted. He couldn't afford to. He counted his remaining rounds and checked his magazine capacity, but never counted the lives each bullet claimed. Dwelling on it was a quick path to a complete mental breakdown, so he relied on the old government-mandated mantra: exterminating the few to protect the many. Even if it felt completely hollow every time he repeated it to his own reflection.
God, I’m messed up.
When his watch beeped at 7:15, the sharp chime felt like a lifeline pulling him back to reality. Getting drinks with Hunnigan sounded infinitely better than sitting alone in the dark, drowning in his own dark memories.
He headed into the small apartment bathroom, swapping his suit trousers for dark jeans, a comfortable grey long-sleeve shirt, and his worn leather jacket. He raked a hand through his hair, styling it back into its usual signature shape. It felt odd putting even this much thought into his appearance for a simple outing, but he pushed the thought aside. It was just drinks with a coworker. An acquaintance. Casual. Nothing to overthink.
He grabbed his keys and headed down to his car. He would have preferred his motorcycle, but the late autumn cold was already biting, making the drive across town downright brutal.
He pulled up to The Elmore right on time. It wasn't the grease-stained dive bar he usually frequented to blur his edges; it was a notch nicer—dimly lit with warm amber tones, quieter, featuring a decent bourbon selection and hardwood floors that weren't perpetually sticky.
Even though he arrived precisely at eight, Hunnigan was already settled in.
She was sitting alone at the far end of the hardwood counter. Her hair was down in soft, dark brown curls resting over her shoulders, her glasses nowhere to be seen—contacts, he realized with a sudden jolt of novelty. She wore fitted jeans and a soft knit sweater that framed her surprisingly well. He had never seen her looking so relaxed, completely stripped of her rigid office armor.
She was staring down into an Old Fashioned, her lips pursed in deep thought as she swirled the ice against the amber crystal.
“Hunnigan,” Leon greeted softly, sliding onto the leather barstool beside her.
“Don’t call me that,” she replied smoothly without turning her head, though her tone lacked any real professional bite. “We’re not at work.”
“Ingrid, then.”
“Leon.” She offered a brief nod, reaching into her glass to catch the maraschino cherry by its stem. She ate it thoughtfully, setting the thin stem onto her napkin.
Leon signaled the bartender, ordering a local draft before leaning his elbows against the counter. “What made you change your mind?”
“About what?” she asked, still watching the amber liquid in her glass.
“About this.” He gestured vaguely between the two of them. “You’ve turned me down every single time when I’m in the States.”
She shrugged, taking a slow, deliberate sip from her tumbler. “Change of heart.”
“Bullshit,” he countered gently, catching her eye in the dark mirror behind the liquor bottles.
A tiny, guarded smile flickered across her lips. “Maybe.”
Realizing he wasn't going to break through her emotional defense on that subject just yet, he switched to safer, neutral ground. “How’s Fred?”
Hunnigan let out a low, melodic laugh that caught him off guard. “Still fat. Still on a diet. No change whatsoever. Pretty sure he’s sneaking extra food when I'm not looking.”
Leon chuckled, nodding as the bartender placed his mug on the napkin. “Sounds like him…”
A lingering quiet fell over them. Outside of radio comms, tactical updates, and official reports, they had rarely spoken, and the sudden absence of structure left a subtle awkwardness hanging in the warm air. Leon took his beer, offering a polite nod to the bartender before taking a deep swig. He had always been somewhat awkward off the clock—women were frequently drawn to him, sure, but he rarely knew how to navigate romance anymore. His line of work didn't leave much room for genuine human connection.
“How about you?” Ingrid asked, turning her head fully toward him, her dark, unshielded eyes searching his face.
“What about me?”
“Anything interesting going on in your life?”
Leon laughed softly into his glass, the foam clinging to the rim. “You’ve read my file, Ingrid. You monitor my comms. You know everything about me. Work is my life.”
She hummed in quiet agreement, looking down at her glass. “Unfortunately.” Then, after a subtle beat of hesitation, she asked, “Seeing anyone?”
Leon blinked, letting out a short, incredulous laugh. “Like… dating?”
She gave his arm a light, playful nudge. “Yes, idiot. Dating.”
He went silent. An image immediately flashed in his mind—red silk fluttering in the wind, sharp dark eyes, and a quiet exit into the cold night air via grappling hook. It was complicated. Ada had her hooks in him, and as much as he tried to pull himself free, the barbs ran impossibly deep. They always went their separate ways, but Leon knew better than to think it was ever truly over.
“Not really,” he murmured, taking another long drink of his beer to wash away the sudden metallic taste of old memories. “Was interested in someone. She slipped through my fingers.”
Ingrid picked up on the sharp shift in his tone instantly. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Still hung up on her?”
He tilted his head, a faint, bitter smile touching his lips. “Something like that.” Eager to shift the spotlight away from his disaster of a romantic life, he leaned his weight against the bar. “What about you? Got men crawling over themselves trying to get a moment of your time?”
Ingrid barked out an unexpected, raspy laugh. “You’re ridiculous, Kennedy…”
She looked back down into her tumbler, the sudden humor fading from her features as her gaze turned distant and introspective. She swirled the remaining melt of ice against the glass, the soft clinking sound punctuating the bar's low ambient music.
“Not anymore,” she said quietly, her voice dropping an octave. “He broke up with me two days ago.”
“Sorry to hear that…” Leon shifted uncomfortably on his stool, his leather jacket squeaking against the worn vinyl. He genuinely hadn't known she had a boyfriend. It felt strange—almost surreal—realizing there was an entire side to Ingrid Hunnigan’s life that operated completely out of his line of sight. To him, she had always been a voice in his earpiece, an indestructible anchor of quiet professionalism amidst absolute chaos. Imagining her in a mundane apartment, arguing with a civilian about normal domestic routines, felt like trying to picture a totally different person. “How long were you two together?”
“Two years.” She downed the rest of her drink in one practiced swallow, setting the heavy glass tumbler down on the wood with a sharp clack of finality.
Leon nodded wordlessly, taking a slow swig from his bottle. Two years. He hadn't ever been in a relationship that lasted that long. The longest stretch he had ever managed was back at the police academy—six months with a girl whose face he could barely picture anymore. She had dumped him right before he shipped off to Raccoon City for his first day on the force, hooking up with another guy three days later. Turned out to be a mercy for her to not come with him, given how the situation in Raccoon City panned out. But it had cemented a bitter truth early on: normal life was something that always happened to other people.
“It's okay, though,” Hunnigan said, letting out a dry, depreciating chuckle that lacked any real warmth. “All we did was disagree in the end.”
She tilted her head back, staring up at the ambient yellow glow of the bar's industrial hanging lamps. A faint, tired smile tugged at the corner of her lips, though her eyes remained shadowed.
“He said I worked too much. Said I didn't make enough time for him. And he wasn't wrong,” she admitted softly. “He wanted weekends going hiking. Dinner parties with his friends. Normal human stuff.” She shook her head, running a hand through her curls. “Do you have any idea how exhausting it is trying to explain to a civilian why you can't go to his mother’s birthday because you're sitting in a windowless bunker monitoring a bioweapon threat remotely?”
Leon snorted softly into his bottle. “I can imagine. Hard to sound reasonable when half your day is classified above top secret.”
“Exactly,” she agreed, leaning back against the bar counter and resting her elbows behind her on the dark wood. Her frame relaxed in a way he had never seen during working hours. The rigid posture, the tight shoulders, the hyper-vigilance—it had all temporarily dissolved. “I’m not even sure why I stayed with him that long… I mean, he was decent company. A pretty good cook. He was nice.” She paused, tracing the rim of her empty tumbler with a dark nail before casually adding, “A decent lay, too.”
Leon choked mid-sip, his throat seizing as beer went down the wrong pipe. He sputtered, coughing violently into his elbow as he pounded a heavy fist against his chest, his eyes watering under the dim bar lighting.
Hunnigan didn't even flinch. She just turned smoothly on her stool and slapped him on the back with practiced, solid thuds until he stopped wheezing. Her dark eyes glinted behind her long lashes with quiet, rare amusement.
“You okay there?” she teased, her voice dropping into a velvety register he had never heard during working hours.
“Fine,” Leon rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his cheeks burning slightly under the heat of the bar lights. “Just—did not expect that sentence to come out of your mouth.”
“I’m a grown woman, Kennedy, not a nun,” Hunnigan replied dryly, a subtle smirk playing on her lips. She turned back to the bar counter, using her plastic swizzle stick to poke at the half-melted ice cubes left in her glass. “If I’m being completely honest… that’s all we really had left near the end anyway.” She bit her lower lip, staring into the remnants of the dark amber liquid. “It was just stress relief.”
Leon leaned his shoulder against the bar, eyeing her with newfound curiosity. “Stress relief, huh?”
“Don't act so scandalized,” she murmured, shooting him a playful, sideways glance. “You’re telling me you’ve never used sex just to burn off the adrenaline after a nightmare assignment?”
“I usually stick to whiskey and punching bags,” Leon countered, though a crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Less emotional collateral.”
“Smart man,” she sighed, tossing the swizzle stick onto her napkin. “Because adding feelings into the mix is where everything falls apart. People on the outside… they want emotional availability. They want promises we can't keep. But people like us? We can’t do that. We can't do relationships. It’s not viable. It’s practically impossible.”
“You’re not wrong,” Leon agreed softly. He rested his chin in his hand, looking at her profile in the amber light. “You can't explain a B.O.W. outbreak over dinner without sounding like a lunatic or breaking federal law. You try to build something real, and the job eats it alive before it even takes root.”
“Which brings me back to stress relief,” Hunnigan said, her voice laced with a sudden, quiet frankness that held his gaze in the mirror. “No expectations. No awkward Sunday dinners. No lying about where you were at three in the morning. Just… two consenting adults blowing off steam so they don't lose their minds.”
Leon let out a low chuckle, impressed by her bluntness. “Sounds pretty pragmatic.”
“It’s effective,” she replied smoothly. “Or at least, it was until he started wanting more.”
A heavy, quiet understanding settled between them—the kind of unspoken bond that could only exist between two people tied to government NDAs, classified biological horrors, and the constant threat of international crisis.
Leon raised two fingers to catch the bartender’s eye, pointing to a pair of heavy-bottomed shot glasses resting on the glass shelf. “Two tequilas. Silver.”
Hunnigan raised an eyebrow at him, a subtle arch of suspicion returning to her face, though her eyes were bright. “What are you up to, Kennedy?”
When the bartender set the glasses down, Leon slid one across the polished wood until it tapped gently against her empty tumbler. He picked up his own, tilting the clear liquor toward her. “I think this deserves a toast.”
“A toast?” Hunnigan looked at the shot glass, then up at him, incredulous. “To what? Me never being able to find love? To getting dumped?”
Leon cocked his head, a faint, crooked smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “To stress relief. In all its forms. No strings, no drama. And to being single in a job that makes sure we stay that way.”
Hunnigan stared at him for a long beat, her dark eyes searching his face, evaluating the sheer honesty behind his words. Finally, a genuine, soft laugh escaped her chest. She picked up her shot glass, her fingers brushing against his for a fraction of a second—a sudden, warm spark in the cool room.
“To stress relief,” she echoed, her gaze lingering on his.
They clinked their glasses together and threw back the liquor. Hunnigan winced slightly as the sharp alcohol hit the back of her throat, letting out a sharp breath and placing her palm against her sternum.
“God,” she muttered, setting the empty glass down with a slight shudder. “I forget what real alcohol tastes like when I spend months drinking breakroom sludge and not much else.”
Over the next hour, the lingering distance between them shrank sentence by sentence. Without the rigid hierarchy of field agent and operations specialist, the banter flowed easily. They complained about tedious field reports, joked about the bloated, red-tape bureaucracy of USSTRATCOM's oversight committees, and commiserated over the absurdity of their grueling daily schedules.
“You know,” Hunnigan remarked, leaning in closer as she twirled a lock of dark hair around her finger, “for an elite operative, your paperwork is absolute trash, Kennedy.”
“Hey,” Leon protested with a playful grin, leaning back. “I hit target dates. Mostly.”
“Your spelling is the worst,” she shot back, her dark eyes flashing with teasing warmth. “I have to edit your debriefs before they go to the director so you don't look like an idiot.”
“That’s why I have you, Ingrid,” Leon said softly, his voice dropping into a lower, smoother register as he leaned back toward her. “To keep me looking good.”
“Someone has to,” she murmured, a soft flush dusting her cheeks under the bar's warm lighting.
By the time Leon paid the tab, Hunnigan’s shoulders had lost every remaining trace of her office rigidity. Her eyes were bright, her voice soft and loose. She wasn't sloppy—Ingrid Hunnigan was far too disciplined for that—but she was undeniably tipsy, the heavy armor she wore every day finally laid aside.
As they stepped out of the warm, crowded bar into the crisp night air, the temperature dropped sharply. Hunnigan swayed slightly on her heels as her boots hit the icy sidewalk. Leon instinctively reached out, placing a firm, steadying hand on her elbow.
“Whoa there,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against the fabric of her sleeve. “Come on, I’m taking you home.”
Hunnigan looked down at his hand on her arm, then slowly up into his face, her dark eyes narrowing with a sleepy, mischievous glint. “Are you flirting with me, Kennedy? What ever happened to staying single?”
“Ingrid, you’re drunk,” Leon chuckled, guiding her toward the curb.
“Barely,” she huffed, though she made no effort to pull away from his grip, letting him bear just enough of her weight to keep her steady.
When they reached his car—a crisp, a black luxury sedan parked beneath the yellow glow of a streetlamp—she paused, leaning her hip against the passenger door. She gave the vehicle an appreciative, slow once-over.
“Nice ride,” she noted, tilting her head. “Courtesy of the U.S. government?”
“Saving the President’s daughter comes with a few perks,” Leon said, pulling the door open for her. “Get in before you freeze.”
She slid into the leather seat with a quiet, appreciative sigh, resting her head back against the headrest as he shut the door and walked around to the driver's side. The drive through the city streets was quiet and peaceful, save for the low hum of the sedan's heater and the soft murmur of a late-night jazz station on the radio. Hunnigan gave him directions in a low, relaxed voice, pointing out the turn toward her apartment complex—a modest, high-security building nestled in a quiet neighborhood.
Leon parked in the visitor space near the brick entrance and cut the engine. The sudden quiet inside the cabin was palpable. He unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out into the chill air, walking around to open her door again.
“I’m fine, Leon,” she insisted as she swung her legs out, though she had to catch the car door frame to steady her balance as she stood up. “I can walk twenty feet to my front door without an escort.”
“I’m paranoid,” Leon replied simply, matching her stride as they headed into the warm lobby and up the carpeted stairs. “Occupational hazard.”
When they reached the door to her second-floor apartment, Hunnigan pulled her keys out of her coat pocket. She turned around to face him on the narrow landing, key held between her fingers, pointing her index finger squarely at his chest.
“Alright, agent,” she said, her voice dropping into a playful, mock-serious tone that was entirely undone by the soft flush on her cheeks. “You walked me home. Duty fulfilled.”
Leon laughed, raising his hands in fake surrender, an easy smile on his face. “Hey, I’m just making sure you don't trip over your own rug, faceplant and then we don’t see you at work tomorrow.”
She unlocked the door with a quiet click and pushed it open, revealing a warm, dimly lit living room that smelled faintly of vanilla, old paper, and cedar. She stepped inside, dropping her purse onto a small entryway table, before turning back to look at him standing in the doorframe.
Leon hesitated on the threshold, hands shoved deep into his leather jacket pockets, the cold air from the hallway brushing against his neck. “Get some sleep, Ingrid. I’ll see you at the debrief on Monday.”
He turned to head back toward the stairs, but Hunnigan moved faster than he expected. Her hand shot out, her slender fingers catching the collar of his leather jacket with surprising strength.
“Leon,” she murmured, her voice losing its playful edge, replaced by a sudden, heavy quietness.
He stopped, turning back to face her.
With a firm, deliberate tug, she pulled him across the threshold into her apartment, the heavy wooden door swinging shut behind them with a soft, decisive click. The deadbolt engaged with a sharp metallic click that sealed out the bitter chill of the hallway and cut off the rest of the outside world.
Before Leon could even take a breath to ask what she was doing, Ingrid turned, her fingers tightening into the heavy lapels of his leather jacket. With a sudden, decisive burst of strength that caught him completely off guard, she pushed him back until his broad shoulders met the plaster wall beside the entryway.
“Ingrid… what—?”
She didn't let him finish. Stepping directly into his personal space, her scent—a delicate mix of vanilla, cedar, and lingering high-end tequila—filled his senses. She pulled him down by his collar and pressed her lips firmly against his.
It was brief, soft, but firm enough to stall his brain entirely. Leon stood frozen against the wall, his eyes wide in the low, amber glow of her hallway. Her hands had moved down from his collar to lie flat against the grey fabric of his shirt—light, steady, and deceptively warm against the biting cold air still clinging to his coat.
When she pulled back, she didn't step away. She hovered barely an inch from him, her warm breath lingering over his jaw. Without her rimless glasses, her dark eyes looked larger, deeper, searching his face with a raw intensity he’d never seen on her face during endless hours of tactical debriefs and operational briefings.
Leon swallowed hard, his heart knocking against his ribs in a sharp, sudden rhythm. “What happened to ‘just drinks’?”
Ingrid looked him up and down, her gaze slow, deliberate, and entirely unhurried as it traced the strong line of his jaw down to the span of his broad shoulders. “I changed my mind.”
She reached out, her fingers smoothing over the lapels of his jacket, brushing away a subtle wrinkle in his shirt with careful, methodical precision—as if she were adjusting a uniform, though the slight tremble in her fingertips betrayed the heavy pulse racing beneath her skin.
“Tell me, Leon…” She met his gaze again, her dark eyes unfocused in a way that made his stomach drop in the best possible way. “How do you feel about a little stress relief?”
Leon’s mind raced, trying to catch up with the sudden, electric shift in the air.
He wasn't blind. He’d never been blind. Ingrid Hunnigan was an undeniably attractive woman. Beneath the sharp blazers, the neat hair buns, and the razor-thin rimless glasses, she was striking—and tonight, with her dark curls falling loose around her shoulders, wearing a soft knit sweater that clung to her frame, she was downright captivating. But he had always categorized her as strictly off-limits. She was his handler. His anchor. The one person in his chaotic, violence-filled existence who kept him tethered to sanity when field operations went off the rails into unimaginable horror.
Crossing that line felt dangerous. Reckless.
“We’re coworkers, Ingrid…” he said, his voice dropping an octave, raspy and low.
As if to counter his token resistance, she stepped closer still, the soft wool of her sweater brushing against the worn leather of his jacket. Her arms slid up over his chest, her slender fingers weaving together behind his neck to lock him in place.
“Oh, I’m well aware,” she murmured, her tone completely devoid of its usual administrative edge. “I’m not asking for a commitment, Leon. I’m not asking for promises, or romantic gestures, or anything that survives past sunrise.” Her eyes flitted down to his mouth before rising back to meet his gaze, her lower lip caught lightly between her teeth. “Just shut up and indulge me… just for tonight.”
Leon stared down at her, his pulse thumping loudly in his ears.
Just for tonight. No strings. No lingering expectations. No pretending they were normal people capable of a normal life outside the shadow of biological weapons and government secrets. Just two exhausted, battle-worn operatives, battered by horrific realities and endless duty, using each other to quiet the deafening noise in their heads for a few hours.
He didn't want a relationship. She didn't want one either. They were both running on empty, holding back years of built-up pressure, and right now, standing in the quiet amber glow of her apartment, the logical arguments against it sounded completely hollow.
Leon looked at her—really looked at her—and felt the last thread of his iron restraint snap.
Fuck it.
He dropped his hands from his pockets, his large palms cupping the side of her face, feeling the radiating heat of her skin as he leaned down and kissed her hard.
This time, there was no hesitation. Hunnigan let out a soft, sharp intake of breath against his mouth as he pulled her flush against him, his other hand coming around her waist to anchor her body to his. She responded instantly, her fingers tangling deep into the thick blonde hair at the back of his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss.
The restraint they had both held onto for months shattered in seconds. Leon pressed her back against the doorframe, his lips tracing a fiery path from her mouth down to the sensitive line of her jaw. Ingrid groaned softly, her head tilting back to give him uninhibited access, her hands clutching tightly at the leather of his jacket as if she were trying to pull him inside out.
The taste of tequila, citrus, and sweet lip balm lingering on her tongue was hot and intoxicating. Their tongues tangled together in a rhythm that grew rapidly messier, more frantic, fueled by months of unspoken tension, late-night debriefs, and shared trauma.
With a low murmur of impatience against his lips, Ingrid reached between them, her hands working the heavy leather of his jacket down off his shoulders. Leon shimmied out of the heavy sleeves, letting the jacket drop to the hardwood floor with a heavy, satisfying thud. Without breaking the kiss, he hooked his thumbs under the hem of his grey long-sleeve shirt and yanked it up over his head, tossing it aside onto the entryway bench in one smooth, practiced motion.
Ingrid pulled back just enough to let out a breathy, surprised chuckle, her dark eyes flashing in the dim hallway light as her gaze tracked deliberately over the hard contours of his bare chest, his abdominal muscles, and the silver scars mapping his shoulders. Shaking her head in quiet appreciation, she dropped her coat on the ground and reached down to grab the hem of her soft knit sweater, pulling it up and over her head in one fluid gesture.
Leon’s breath caught squarely in his throat.
Beneath the soft wool, she wore a simple, delicate black lace bra that framed her dark skin and lithe frame beautifully. The stark contrast between her hyper-professional office persona and this stunning, raw vulnerability hit him like a physical weight to the chest.
A slow, crooked smirk spread across his lips as his hands settled onto the warm curves of her waist. “Did you wear this for me?”
Ingrid groaned softly, rolling her dark eyes as she rested her forehead against his bare chest, her hands resting flat against his ribs. “I should have known you’d turn out to be a talker.”
Leon’s smirk widened against her hair as he tilted her chin back up with two fingers. “What, you want me to stop?”
She wrapped her arms back around his neck, her fingers digging tightly into his hair as she pulled him back down to her level. “Hell no.”
“You literally just told me to shut up two seconds ago,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing small, hypnotic circles into the soft skin of her hip.
Her dark eyes fluttered open, searching his face with a smoky, half-hooded intensity. “I changed my mind.”
“You’ve been doing a lot of that tonight…” Leon rasped, his voice dropping into a dark, dangerous register.
Before she could offer a sharp retort, Leon hooked his arms under her thighs and maneuvered her back firmly against the wall, stepping in close to interlock his leg between hers. Chest to bare chest, he captured her mouth again in an open-mouthed, relentless kiss, his tongue claiming hers with a deep, deliberate rhythm. The sheer heat radiating off her skin was intoxicating, completely erasing the last lingering traces of the cold city night.
His hand slid smoothly around from her waist to her back, his calloused fingers easily locating the small metal clasp of her lace bra.
Ingrid paused, her breath hitching sharply against his lips, her chest rising and falling rapidly against his bare torso. “Aren’t you going to ask for permission, Kennedy?” she panted into his mouth, a quiet edge of teasing warmth running under her words.
Leon smiled against her lips, his fingers deftly unhooking the closure with effortless ease. “Something tells me you want this.”
A breathless, throaty laugh escaped her throat. “Your intuition would be correct.”
He smoothed the thin lace straps off her shoulders, letting the black lace drop silently to the floor alongside their discarded clothes.
As his broad hands smoothed over her ribs, his mouth slid down from her jawline, trailing warm, heavy kisses down the sensitive column of her neck.
“No marks,” Ingrid managed to gasp out, her hands clutching tightly at his broad shoulders as an involuntary shiver ran straight down her spine. “Chest is fine. Not the neck. I have an oversight committee meeting on Thursday morning.”
Leon chuckled low against her skin, the vibration running directly through her collarbone. “Copy that.”
He shifted his focus lower, his hands coming up to cup the smooth curve of her breast, his thumb brushing over her hardened peak before taking her into his mouth, suckling hard.
Ingrid’s professional warning was instantly cut off by a sharp, wanton moan that echoed off the high ceiling of the corridor. Her head thumped back against the wall, her fingers tangling tightly into his blonde hair, holding him close as he nipped and suckled at her skin, working every inch of her chest until she was breathless and trembling under his touch.
Keeping one arm anchored firmly around her waist, Leon slowly sank down to his knees on the floor before her.
He rested his hands against the top button of her fitted jeans, pausing for a fraction of a second to look up at her. Ingrid was panting, her dark face flushed crimson, her lips parted as she looked down at him with wide, dazed eyes. She didn't wait for him to ask; she kicked her legs, her heels going flying, hitting the floor with a clatter, her hands flew down to undo the top button and zipper of her jeans, shoving the stiff denim down her legs. She stepped out of her pants with a slight, unsteady wobble, letting out a soft, embarrassed giggle as Leon’s hands caught her thighs to steady her.
Once her balance was restored and the denim was kicked aside, Leon slid his hands up the backs of her smooth legs, nudging her knees wider apart as he pressed her lower back against the wall. Kneeling between her thighs, he took a slow, deliberate moment to take her in—completely bare, vulnerable, and breathtaking.
He leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the delicate curve of her hip, his large hand squeezing her inner thigh before he leaned in close to exhale a warm, heavy breath over her center. Her dark hair was neatly trimmed, precise, and practical—strikingly characteristic of her, even here.
Ingrid suddenly stiffened slightly, a rare flick of shyness crossing her flushed features as her fingers fidgeted against the plaster behind her. “You… you don’t have to do that, you know.”
Leon let out a low, husky laugh against her skin, brushing a teasing, wet stripe up the crook of her thigh where her leg met her body.
“I know,” he murmured, settling his chin against her inner thigh so his bright blue eyes could look straight up into hers, worshipping her with an unhurried, steady gaze. “But something tells me you need some… stress relief. What better way than this?”
Ingrid let out a quiet, helpless sound, her hands immediately sinking into his hair as he leaned in and placed his tongue flat against her, lapping upward in a slow, firm stroke that barely brushed the sensitive hood above.
She gasped loudly, her hips arching off the wall.
Leon closed his eyes, focusing entirely on the heat and slick taste of her, his tongue working through her folds with firm, tender precision. He hummed softly into her skin, the low vibration driving another sharp intake of breath from her lungs as he flicked and rubbed against her most sensitive spots with unhurried talent.
Sliding his right hand up her inner thigh, he worked a single finger inside her tight heat, not thrusting, but curling his tip upward to press against her front wall while his tongue maintained a rhythmic, relentless pressure over her clit. Ingrid’s knees buckled, her entire frame trembling as her grip in his hair tightened to a point that bordered on painful.
“Hold on,” Leon muttered softly against her skin.
Before she could process the pause, he stood up in one fluid, powerful motion, his arms sliding beneath her thighs to hoist her completely off the floor. Ingrid yelped in surprise, her hands instantly wrapping around his shoulders and her legs locking firmly around his waist to secure herself.
Leon caught her mouth in a heavy, hungry kiss, carrying her down the short hallway toward the dim light of her kitchen. He hoisted her up, setting her down gently onto the cool, polished marble of the kitchen island. The shock of the cold counter against her bare thighs made her draw in a sharp, sudden breath.
As soon as she was seated comfortably, Ingrid unclasped her legs from his waist, leaning back on her elbows with an exhausted, eager sigh. The cool stone beneath her provided a stark, delicious contrast to the burning heat coiled between her legs.
Leon didn't waste a second. He pulled her knees wider, leaning back down between her thighs to press his mouth straight back into her center.
Without the physical strain of holding herself upright against a wall, the pleasure was immediate and overwhelming. Leon devoured her—his tongue flicking rhythmically over her clit while two fingers slid deep inside her, crooking upward into her g-spot in a fast, relentless tempo.
Ingrid’s back arched dramatically off the counter, her moans ringing out unchecked through the quiet apartment. Her fingers pulled violently at his hair, her thighs trembling as the tension built to a sharp, unbearable peak. Leon didn't slow down; he maintained the rhythm, flicking his tongue faster while thrusting his fingers inside her until she shattered.
Ingrid’s thighs clamped tightly around his head as her release hit her, her body going rigid, her toes curling as a long, breathless cry escaped her lips.
Leon stayed right there, sucking gently on her sensitivity and keeping his fingers moving through her trembling heat to ride out every last ripple of her orgasm.
Panting, entirely undone, Ingrid reached down and tugged hard on his hair, her skin overstimulated. “Too much… Jesus Christ, Kennedy…”
Leon let out a low, satisfied hum before letting her pull him up. She reached out, cupping his jaw with both hands and dragging his mouth to hers, thrusting her tongue into his mouth—tasting herself on him as Leon let out a heavy, throat-rattling moan against her lips.
Before she could catch her breath, Leon reached around her waist and gently pivoted her on the smooth marble, turning her until she was on her stomach, her hands gripping the far edge of the island and her feet touching the floor.
He leaned over her back, pressing his broad, bare chest flat against her spine. His breath was hot and harsh against her ear as his hand reached around to cup her neck, holding her gently in place.
“My turn…” he growled softly into her ear.
He unfastened his belt buckle, the sound echoing in the kitchen and pulled his zipper down. He reached with his free hand into his back pocket, fishing a condom out of his wallet and tossing it onto the marble near her head. He tore the wrapper open.
A breathless, wicked smirk spread across Ingrid’s flushed face as she turned her head slightly to look back at him. “A condom in the wallet, Kennedy? Anticipating this, were you?”
Leon let out a soft, breathy laugh before nipping playfully at her earlobe. “Doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”
Ingrid chuckled, watching over her shoulder as he unrolled the latex over his hard length, giving himself a couple of firm, steadying strokes. “Do you make a habit of carrying those everywhere? Take a lot of people home?”
Leon paused for a fraction of a second, a dry, faint chuckle escaping him as his eyes met hers in the dim light. “I wish…”
He reached down, guiding his tip between her drenched folds, coating himself in her slick before lining himself up with her entrance. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed forward, his broad head sliding past her tight entrance.
A shared, guttural groan tore from both of their throats simultaneously. He pushed himself forward inch by inch, the path made easier by her orgasming just moments before.
The stretch was immaculate. With her arms braced against the smooth stone edge and her head thrown back, Ingrid’s spine arched into a tight, breathtaking curve.
Leon drew almost completely back out, pausing for a fraction of a second to take in the sight of her flushed skin before snapping his hips hard back into her.
“Oh fuck!”
The sharp, unexpected cry tore from her throat, echoing off the high kitchen ceiling as her body sang from the sudden, overwhelming collision of friction and deep pressure.
“That good?” Leon leaned over her back, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling hum against the shell of her ear.
Keeping one hand firm around the side of her neck—careful not to leave a mark, but holding her steady—he forced her lower back to arch until her spine pressed flat against his bare, sweating chest, her hips locked flush against the marble island. He leaned forward, driving his hips deeper until his broad tip pressed directly against her sensitive core.
Ingrid gasped violently, a broken, shuttering moan tumbling past her lips as her eyes rolled back.
“I swear to God, Kennedy... if you don't stop teasing—”
He snapped his hips forward with a wet, heavy smack, the impact cutting her off mid-threat and completely shattering whatever remained of her operational composure.
He set a relentless, punishing pace. The quiet kitchen filled with the rhythm of skin against skin and the ragged, breathless sounds escaping Ingrid—stifled whimpers, gasps, and helpless, open-mouthed moans of pure ecstasy. Leon gripped her hip with his free hand, his fingers sinking into her soft skin with a bruising tightness as he pounded into her, effectively driving every lingering drop of his own frustration, exhaustion, and post-mission trauma directly into her heat.
Stress relief.
He could see her point now. Enveloped in her tight, searing warmth, with only the thin barrier of latex between them, the feeling was intoxicating. She was impossibly wet, making every slide slick and smooth, goading him into chasing his own pleasure with faster, harder thrusts.
Mindful of her explicit warning about Thursday's committee meeting, he avoided her neck, dragging his mouth along the curve of her shoulder instead. He nipped and bit at the sensitive, exposed flesh at her collarbone, rewarding each small nip with another sharp, breathless moan that vibrated straight through his chest. She was definitely going to draw a noise complaint from her neighbors at this rate, but Leon was far too intoxicated by the feel of her to care.
Her whimpers reached a fevered pitch, her breathing turning shallow and fast as her body began to tremble. She was right on the edge again.
Leon shifted his weight, reaching around her torso to pull her upper body back off the cold stone. Ingrid’s hands fumbled and squeaked against the polished marble as she tried to find purchase and maintain her balance. Before she could regain her footing, Leon snaked his right hand down her flat stomach, his calloused fingers finding her drenched center and rubbing tortuously over her clit in a fast, circular rhythm.
The hyper-composed, unyielding operations specialist he had known for months completely shattered.
Ingrid went rigid, her inner walls clamping around his shaft in a vice-like squeeze as her second orgasm ripped through her.
“Shit, Ingrid—” Leon growled out, his jaw clenching as her walls milked him.
Driven over the edge by the sheer intensity of her contraction, he drove into her two more times before slamming home with a deep, guttural groan. He held himself buried deep inside her, his hips rocking in short, tight motions as he milked his own intense finish through the peak of her release.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
They stayed pinned together against the edge of the kitchen island, their chests heaving in tandem, the quiet apartment filled with the heavy sound of their mingled, ragged breathing.
Then, unexpectedly, Ingrid let out a soft, almost hysterical laugh—her voice rasping and hoarse from how loud she’d been shouting minutes earlier.
Leon couldn't help the slow, satisfied smile that tugged at his lips. He rested his forehead against her warm shoulder blade, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her skin before slowly pulling back and sliding out of her.
He carefully worked the condom off, knotting the latex to ensure nothing spilled, and stood there in his unbuttoned jeans, feeling suddenly, hilariously out of place in her immaculate kitchen.
Ingrid turned her head over her shoulder, her dark curls tumbling over her face, watching him with half-lidded, amused eyes.
Leon cleared his throat, holding the knotted latex between two fingers. “Uh... where’s your trash?”
He looked around the pristine space, failing to spot a garbage bin anywhere.
Ingrid let out another breathy laugh, shaking her head at him as she pointed toward a set of lower cabinets near the sink. “Under the counter. Pull out panel.”
“Got it.” Leon padded over, found the hidden built-in bin, and tossed the condom inside. He pulled up his jeans, zipping them and fastening his belt buckle with a quiet metallic click.
While he was fixing his clothes, Ingrid pushed herself off the marble island. Her legs looked distinctly unsteady as her feet touched the floor, and she let out a long, dramatic sigh as she padded into the adjoining open-concept living room. Without an ounce of her usual rigid posture left, she flopped onto the plush, navy-blue sofa, completely boneless and relaxed.
Leon turned on the kitchen faucet, filling two tall glasses with cold filter water. He carried them into the living room, setting one down on the coffee table within her reach before taking a sip from his own.
Ingrid stared up at the ceiling, one hand resting over her eyes. “Shit,” she muttered, her voice still raspy. “I haven't had sex that good since... I can't even remember.”
A fat orange tabby with a crackly meow emerged from under the sofa where he was hiding. Ingrid looked down. The photos didn't do justice to the real thing. He was huge.
She laughed, scratching at his ears while she was still sprawled on the couch, “Sorry for disturbing your sleep, Freddy.”
Leon lingered beside the couch, a faint, crooked smirk playing on his lips. He walked back into the kitchen corridor to gather his discarded clothing, slipping his grey long-sleeve shirt back over his head and smoothing down his hair.
“Leaving already?” Ingrid asked, turning her head on the cushion to watch him step back into the living room, Fred had jumped up on the couch to sit on the backrest cushion, getting comfortable, the poor pillow sagging under his weight.
Leon raised an eyebrow, picking up his leather jacket and shaking it out once. “What happened to ‘no attachments’?”
“Spending the night doesn't break that,” she countered smoothly, a lazy, suggestive glint returning to her dark eyes. “Besides... give me twenty minutes and a glass of water, and I’m down for round two.”
Leon chuckled, shaking his head as he sat down on the edge of the sofa beside her. “It’s past one in the morning, Ingrid. We both have work tomorrow.”
Ingrid didn't pull away; instead, she casually shifted her weight, resting her head directly on his lap. Her dark hair spilled over his dark jeans, soft and warm against his thighs.
Leon looked down at her, the absurdity of the moment washing over him. “As much as I’d love to stay here and fuck until I run out of condoms... we both know we need to sleep. And you—” He leaned down, lightly poking her right between the eyebrows, “—are going to be hungover as shit.”
Ingrid groaned, swatting his hand away and covering her face with her forearm. “Ugh. Don't remind me. The tequila is already starting to catch up.”
Leon’s smile softened into something quieter, a sudden wave of heavy physical exhaustion setting into his bones. “I’m heading out.”
She lifted her head off his lap, settling back against the cushions as he stood up. “See you tomorrow, Kennedy.”
“We’ll see,” he said dryly. “Depends on whether or not you can open your eyes without the light killing you.”
Ingrid tilted her head, giving him a sly, guarded smile that felt distinctly like the Hunnigan he knew from behind the console. “I’ve been sick as a dog before and still made it in before you.”
Leon scoffed softly, pulling his arms through the sleeves of his leather jacket. He paused, his hands resting on the zipper, a sudden knot of hesitation tightening in his chest. He clenched his jaw for a second, fighting the urge to keep his mouth shut, before deciding to just throw the question out into the open.
“This... isn't going to change things, right?” He shrugged, adjusting the collar of his jacket to avoid looking directly at her face. “Just don't want things to be weird tomorrow.”
Ingrid looked at him for a quiet beat, her expression softening into something surprisingly gentle. Then, a low chuckle escaped her.
“If you don't tell anyone, I won't,” she said quietly. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her eyes locking onto his with absolute clarity. “It’s like I said, Leon. It’s just stress relief.”
Leon stared at her for a moment, letting the words settle. He gave her a short, firm nod. “Get some sleep, Ingrid.”
“Drive safe.”
He turned, swiped his wallet off of the counter, opened her front door, and stepped out into the quiet, carpeted hallway. The heavy wooden door shut behind him with a soft, decisive click, the deadbolt engaging from the inside.
Leon stood on the landing for a long, quiet moment, letting out a deep, heavy breath that fogged slightly in the cool air of the stairwell.
Never in his life had he imagined he’d end up in a situation like this with Ingrid Hunnigan—the most buttoned-up, hyper-professional woman in the entire federal government. It had satisfied an itch deep inside him he hadn't even realized was burning, stripping away the lingering horrors of Spain for a few precious hours. Her logic was sound; the physical release was real, and the mutual understanding between two broken people was strangely comforting.
Yet, as he walked down the quiet stairs toward the lobby, a strange, quiet weight settled in his stomach.
It wasn't guilt—not really. Neither of them belonged to anyone else. There were no broken vows, no lies, and no false promises of romance exchanged in the dark. They were two consenting adults in an impossibly high-stress line of work, finding a temporary escape from a world full of monsters and classified horrors.
So why did it feel like something fundamental had shifted?
He pushed through the heavy glass doors of the apartment building and stepped into the biting autumn night. He walked over to his sedan, unlocking the driver's door and climbing inside.
He didn't turn the key immediately. Instead, he sat in the dark cabin, resting his hands on the steering wheel, inhaling the faint, lingering scent of vanilla, cedar, and high-end tequila still clinging to the collar of his shirt.
Maybe it was because, in a world where everyone he cared about either died, betrayed him, or vanished into the night with a grappling hook, Ingrid Hunnigan was the one person who stayed. She was his voice in the dark. And now, they had crossed a line that neither of them could uncross.
Leon let out a dry, breathy chuckle, shaking his head at his own overthinking as he turned the ignition. The engine roared to life, casting a warm yellow glow across the empty parking lot.
Just stress relief.
He shifted into drive and pulled out onto the quiet city streets, heading back toward his empty apartment. For the first time in months, the quiet waiting for him at home didn't feel quite so deafening.