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The complex felt dead in a way that always unnerved Claire more than any scream could. The emergency lights pulsed lazily, casting shadows that stretched too long, too thin across the concrete walls. The air smelled damp and chemical-heavy, thick with a weight that seemed to have been forgotten for years. Claire led the way, weapon raised, step deliberate, though every muscle in her body was taut, alert. Leon followed, just behind. Too close for standard protocol. Too far for her comfort.
“Sector B should be clear,” he said softly.
“Should.” The word was always a warning.
Claire nodded without turning. She knew his voice. Calm, controlled, threaded with tension he never allowed his posture to betray. She knew he was tracking her every movement, her breath, her arm’s sway. Always.
The laboratory doors hissed open.
A gas seeped out, almost imperceptible. No smoke. No alarms. Only a subtle shift in the weight of the air, a faint prickling on her skin. Two steps forward, and Claire realized something was wrong.
“Leon…”
The world wavered. Reality seemed to loosen at some invisible seam. The lights blurred into streaks of luminescence, and sounds slowed, deepening unnaturally.
Leon was immediately at her side.
“Claire. Look at me,” he said.
His hand gripped her forearm, firm, certain—too intimate for protocol. Claire felt it all: heat, pressure, pulse.
“You’re…” she faltered, frowning. “You’re here?”
The question hung heavy between them. Leon didn’t answer right away. He studied her, assessing not just her body, but what rippled behind her eyes.
“I am,” he said finally. “But if you see me, I need to know it’s not just… this.”
He didn’t let go.
Claire swallowed. Her heart thumped erratically, too loud, too fast. The gas was unraveling the iron control she usually wielded like armor. Fear mixed with something else, always present, never spoken. Tentatively, she reached out, brushing her fingers against his. Real. Warm. Still.
Leon’s breath shifted, just for a fraction. That was enough. The world rippled around them, but he remained fixed, steady.
And that was dangerous.
“Breathe,” he said, calm, yet tinged with tension, intimate, not a command. “Focus on me. Only me.”
Claire tried. Really tried. But the gas stretched seconds, warped space, blurred edges. The world shrank to the warmth of his hand, the closeness of his body, the metallic-and-gunpowder tang mixed with something distinctly human.
Too close.
She realized it belatedly. Leon occupied the edge of her personal space, the one she always defended meticulously. Now, her body did not recoil. It responded, logically, inevitably.
“If you disappear…” she began, but cut herself off. Her voice sounded weaker than she intended.
Leon lifted his other hand, paused for a heartbeat, and placed it on her shoulder. Steady, grounding, intimate.
“I won’t disappear,” he said quietly. “Even if you stop seeing me.”
Those words struck harder than the gas. Claire closed her eyes. Just for a moment. When she opened them, the lab was alien again, walls shifting, lights pulsing with her heartbeat. But he remained. A fixed point amid chaos.
“We have to move,” she muttered, more to herself than him.
“I know. But not alone,” he replied, not letting go.
They moved together, deliberately, slowly, each step a conscious decision. Leon mirrored her pace, and Claire noted it all too acutely. Every small concession fanned the tension neither wanted to admit.
When a wave of dizziness forced her to stop, he was there instantly. His hand slid from her shoulder to her back, steadying her against him. Through thin fabric, she felt warmth, muscle, breath—too close, undeniably too close.
But she didn’t pull away.
For a moment, the world vanished—the lab, the gas, the protocols. There was only the silence between them, thick and taut, as if the air itself held its breath.
“Claire…” Leon’s voice came first.
Her name sounded different—quiet, tentative. Their faces hovered inches apart. For a heartbeat, she thought it might be another illusion, fragile as the wavering reality around them.
She didn’t move.
“I am,” she said finally. “Still here.”
Leon nodded, as though her confirmation anchored him. Slowly, he withdrew his hand. Not fully. Testing whether separation was still possible.
It was. Barely.
They moved forward, shoulder to shoulder, the tension lingering like an unexploded mine. The gas’s grip faded, but its effects lingered. And so did the realization: something had been exposed, and nothing would be the same.
The corridor stretched ahead like a wound that refused to heal. Lights flickered sporadically, casting the walls in a pale, uneven rhythm. Claire walked slower than usual. Leon adjusted without question, matching her pace. Her hand brushed his arm—not necessity, but choice. Functional, yet intimate. Fingers clenched slightly. His muscles remained alert, responsive.
“There,” Leon murmured, nodding toward the evacuation doors.
Claire hesitated. Dizziness returned without warning. The world tilted. Her stomach clenched.
Leon reacted instinctively, one hand at her waist, the other at her shoulder, drawing her into him, steadying her. It felt… natural, inevitable.
Claire inhaled sharply. More surprise than pain.
“Sorry,” she muttered.
“No,” he said immediately. “Don’t.”
Her hand lingered on his sleeve, his fingers pressed against her skin. Through thin fabric, warmth, certainty, reality.
“The gas is still affecting you,” he said quietly. “It will pass.”
But he didn’t retreat. Claire wasn’t sure whether he meant the chemical or something else entirely.
The doors clicked open. Beyond, a small, secured service area: concrete, magnetic lock, silence. Safe.
Leon closed the doors, activated the lock, then stepped back. Only slightly. Not enough.
Claire slid to the floor, leaning against the wall, hands trembling, heart racing.
Leon knelt immediately.
“Look at me,” he said.
She did. His face was tense, focused, eyes darker than usual. She was still under the gas’s influence, but she could see him. Really see him.
“You’re safe,” he added.
The word felt alien in this world, but her body obeyed immediately. Shoulders relaxed, breath slowed.
“Leon…” she began, but stopped.
He took her hand gently. This time, no rush, no necessity. Only choice.
“I am here,” he said calmly. “Always.”
Her fingers closed over his, confirming warmth and reality.
The silence thickened.
Leon leaned closer, kneeling before her. Knees nearly touching. His other hand rose, paused, rested lightly on her cheek, giving her space to recoil.
She didn’t.
Claire closed her eyes for a heartbeat, leaning into him. Gentle, entirely un-crisis, un-commanding.
When she opened them, he was closer. No sudden movement. No beginning. Just presence. His thumb brushed her cheekbone. Breath caught.
“Claire,” he said.
Private. Quiet.
She closed the distance. The kiss was slow, tentative, as if speed would shatter the fragile moment. Warm, certain, waiting for confirmation.
She gave it.
Her hand threaded through his hair, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, controlled, taut like a string stretched to its breaking point. Breaths mingled, uneven, hot.
His hand at her waist, the other bracing against the wall. Holding her. Anchoring her. Fear of letting go.
The world disappeared. Lab, gas, mission—all gone. Only them. Only now.
The kiss lasted too long. Every attempt to pull away ended in returning.
When they finally parted, barely centimeters, foreheads touched lightly. Breaths ragged.
“This…” Leon began, then stopped.
Claire lifted her head, eyes dark, focused on him. Gas fading, but something else remained: dangerous, undeniable.
She brushed her lips against his again, whispered his name.
“Leon…”
And then it stopped.