Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You could stay here?”

He’s giving you a look that says: Did I stutter?

You could… stay?

Here?

Stay here. Stay here in his house.

You blink a couple of times to get your bearings.

“You– are you sure? I mean, I really could drive home. It’s not like I’ve never driven in the snow before.”

Leon crosses his arms and stares you down, disapprovingly. “I’m not letting you do that.”

Your stomach clenches. He’s more than capable of having a commanding presence. You’ve just never seen it directed at you.

It’s clear on his face that he senses your hesitancy.

“I’d never make you stay,” he corrects himself, “I just– I can’t let you drive home in this. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

You swallow, eyes flickering down to your lap where you nervously pick at your own fingers.

Leon mentally slaps himself. He wasn’t exactly trying to scare you, just convince you to stay– keep you safe. He took a deep breath, softening his tone as he spoke. “Hey, listen. I know it may seem… I don’t know, like a big deal or something, but I’m genuinely worried about you driving back home. I– I’m just saying, you could stay here. Will you please consider it?”

You consider it, eyes flickering from your hands in your lap to the flurry of white outside the large window.

Leon watches you silently, hoping he hadn’t freaked you out too much. He honestly hadn’t meant to sound so authoritative. He was just... concerned. He didn't want to outright admit just how much the thought of you on the road right now was making his gut twist with anxiety. He'd already admitted enough for one night.  You take a deep breath, "Alright. If it's really no trouble for you..."

It’s like an actual weight was lifted off his shoulders. He thinks he probably visibly relaxed upon hearing your agreement. God, he didn’t realize  just how tense he’d been until you agreed to stay. He manages a small smile, trying to downplay the relief he felt.

“It’s really not. I wouldn’t have offered if it was.” Lie. Total lie. He would have offered even if it compromised everything in his life. Shit, he’s losing it. You nod and mumble something to yourself. It makes his heart feel a little funny when you lean back and bring your knees up to get more comfortable.

Why did he feel so on-edge about this? This wasn’t a mission, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling of anxiety that clawed at his gut. He sank back into the couch next to you, eyes briefly flickering to the storm outside before returning to you.

“Good,” he muttered, hoping he sounded at least somewhat collected. He hadn’t managed to scare you off. That’s a win in his book.

"I feel stupid, I should have checked the weather before I stayed so long..." You mutter, absentmindedly picking at the fabric of your jeans, "I guess I just got a little too excited," a sheepish admission.

“Excited, huh?” Leon raised an eyebrow, a cocky smirk appearing on his face. “Yeah I was pretty excited earlier too,” he teased, a suggestive tone in his voice.

The shock is evident on your face when you whip around to face him, slapping him in the arm.

“That is not what I meant!”

Leon let out a laugh, the sound deep and rich. “What? You weren’t excited earlier?” He teases again, pretending your slap actually hurt his arm. “You’re breaking my heart.”

Your face couldn’t get any redder. And the groan that escapes your lips is one against your will. Before you know it, you're covering your face, "Please don't make fun of me." This is the last thing you need right now.

He gently took one of your hands and pulled it away from your face, chuckling lowly, “Hey, look at me,”

No you most certainly do not want to look at him right now. Not after you just practically jumped him. You allow your remaining fingers to slide from where they cover your eyes to peer at him, all dark blonde hair and adoring eyes.

“I’m just saying…” He starts, slowly and carefully pulling your other hand into his, “Any time you wanna jump in my lap again, I’m available.”

Oh, he thinks he’s funny. That last comment earns him another whack in the arm. Leon chuckles in amusement, taking the second whack like a champ. “Hey, hey, calm down.” He teased, that stupid smile pulling at the corner of his lips as he continued to play with your fingers. Then, he seems like he’s made up his mind. 

He rises from the couch, “It’s getting late, let me find you something to sleep in.”

Leon huffs into the phone cradled between his head and shoulder as he carries in grocery bags.

“No, I said I’m making her dinner.”

Ingrid scoffs on the other line, “Okay, well I didn’t tell you to do that.”

Honestly, the last thing he needs right now is pressure from Ingrid.

“Well– I am.”

“I didn’t even know you cooked,” is her reply from the other line, he’s not sure if he appreciates her surprised tone.

“Could you not sound so surprised? I have hobbies outside of work, you know?” It comes out a little more angrily than he meant it to. But God dammit, he’s stressed. Not that there’s anything to be stressed about. It’s just dinner. He hasn’t even been on a mission in weeks, barely any training scheduled, and he’s off today.

She sighs, “Sorry, I just can’t imagine you doing anything that doesn’t involve a threat to national security.”

This time, he sets a bag of vegetables down on the counter a little harder than he meant to.

“Why did I even call you…” He mutters, quickly switching her to speaker phone. Luckily, she knows him and offers a light chuckle before speaking again.

“It’s going to be fine.”

“I know it’s going to be fine.”

“Then why are you calling me?” She quips. It’s a good question. Why is he calling her?

Leon stifles a groan while he unpacks the rest of his groceries, adding, “What do I do? Do I get flowers or something?”

Ingrid seems to think about this for a moment.

“Does… she like flowers?”

The question hangs in the air and he pauses, thinking hard.

“I don’t know actually.”

Another scoff, “What do you mean ‘you don’t know’? What do you two even talk about?”

Okay, this isn’t helping.

“Lots of things–”

“Maybe tonight is a good opportunity to get to know her?”

He does know you, he knows a lot of things about you. Like where you work, your coffee order, that you like floral scented perfumes… Oh, christ. Maybe he doesn’t know as much as he thought. But like he said, normal people meet everyday and learn about each other over time. Why did it sound so great in theory, but so scary in practice?

“Listen, I don’t need your advice.”

“You called me,” she reminds him. Touché. A soft shuffling can be heard through the phone and he can only assume it’s the sound of her returning from her lunch break. “I’m just saying, I think you should try to learn a little more about her. I don’t want you… going into this blind.”

For the first time in a while, Leon feels incredibly stupid. It’s a punch to his ego to receive training on basic social interactions from someone like Ingrid, who too was married to her job.

“So, what do I do? Just ask her a bunch of questions about herself?” He scoffs, shoving the used grocery bags into the trash.

Ingrid pauses, either in shock or exhaustion, he’s not sure.

“No, just get her to talk about herself. Make her feel comfortable.”

Now that clicks for Leon.

“Like the REID technique?”

There’s a squeak of surprise followed by several noises of distress that tell him he just said the wrong thing.

“No, Leon. Like a date. This is not an interrogation.”

Right. Make her dinner, learn about her, don’t get her flowers because she might not like them. These are very simple steps. He can follow these steps.

“I have to go now. But just– dial it back, alright?”

“Dial it back?” His brows furrow.

“Don’t freak her out or anything. You can come off a little… intense.” He can practically hear Ingrid’s eyes rolling.

One more step for the list. 

Shit.

Shit.

What do women wear to sleep? Leon can’t remember. It was nice to offer, right? Now that he’s rummaging through his drawers, sifting through old t-shirts, he thinks you can hear the cogs turning in his head from the other room. What size is a woman? He lifts one from the drawer, holding it up to gauge the size. This should work, right?

He runs a hand down the size of his face. It should not be this difficult. But, jesus. How embarrassing is it that he can’t do something as simple as host someone for a night? When did he become so socially unaware? Maybe Ingrid was right all these years. The thought makes him scowl. Each and every time she reminded him that he needs other friends and, no, he can’t marry his job– it’s like she knew this moment was coming.

But, he didn’t want to think about Ingrid right now. There’s a very pretty girl seated on his couch waiting for him and he can’t keep deliberating what fucking t-shirt you’d like.

Without any further thoughts, he tosses the t-shirt, accompanied by a pair of boxers that had always been a little small on him. Then, he returns to fold them, before scurrying off to his adjoining bathroom. He doesn’t need you thinking he’s messy.

Leon’s bathroom was practically pristine from the lack of use. On autopilot, he opens the cabinet below the sink, pulling out a duffel bag to retrieve one of his spare toothbrushes. He didn’t anticipate you’d be spending the night, so there was time to prepare for this. Maybe he could tell you one day that his spare toiletries were actually from his go-bag. The thought stops him in his tracks.

One day.

The idea came to him so easily. The idea that you could be around long enough to find out about all the secret stashes within his apartment– it hit him like a ton of bricks.

As he stares into the bag, his breath quickens. What the hell was he doing? He can’t have a girl in his apartment. Certainly not you. He quickly shoves the bag back into its rightful place, slamming the cabinet door.

Afterwards, a frantic montage ensues. Nearly emptying all of his drawers, looking for anything dangerous or damning– Leon tucks it all away into a place he hopes you’ll never see. 

“Okay– this is all I have that I think will fit you.” He mutters, gesturing to the clothes.

Leon's room is exactly as one would expect from someone like him. Very neat, minimalist and lacking any form of personality. There isn't a single picture hung up in the room and the bed is made perfectly.

He hands you the clothes he's dug up, his gaze trailing over your body as you pick them up to inspect them. They're obviously too big but he doesn't seem to mind much.

You swallow. In his room, about to put on his clothes. Tonight is turning out to be... a much bigger step than you anticipated.

"Thanks..." You murmur out, awkwardly.

Leon picks up on your unease, his expression going a little softer for a second. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the wall, his gaze on you lingering for far longer than necessary. He juts his chin to the adjoining bathroom and you nod in understanding.

In the bathroom, which is freakishly clean, probably from the lack of use, you think, you place your hands on the counter to steady yourself. Your reflection in the mirror reveals one of distress, face flushed and hair mussed from your earlier excursion. The minutes alone are oddly a little freeing. Once you’ve taken the time to brush your teeth, wash your face and slip into his clothes, you take a moment to steady your breathing under the fluorescents.

When you emerge, he's pulling a blanket out of his closet. The clothes are a little big for you, the shirt hanging to the top of your thighs, almost completely obstructing the boxers from view. With your arms folded across your chest, you rub them anxiously.

He’s changed into his own clothes now. It’s a mouthwatering combination of sweats and a tee-shirt of his own. If you weren’t so nervous, you would have taken a moment to fawn over him.

Leon looks up and when his eyes land on the sight of you in his clothes, his gaze darkens. If he likes what he sees, he makes no comment about it. You catch him grabbing the blanket a little harder than he intends to. He looks almost as if he finds you endearing.

"Oh, thank you," you say, gesturing to the blanket in his hands. He looks down at it and scoffs, brows raised as if you're crazy. You falter.

Leon quirks a brow, a half-amused smile on his face. He shakes his head and raises the blanket.

" Honey, I'm taking the couch," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. Leon shakes the blanket in his hand as if to say, this is for me.

Your jaw drops. "But- you can't." You protest, "It's your house!"

Leon laughs, like he finds your concern rather charming, but not charming enough to convince him otherwise.

"Exactly." He says, throwing the blanket over his shoulder. "I can do what I want. You're taking the bed, come on now."

After all he’s done for you tonight, you don’t think you can stomach this one.

With wide eyes, you stutter out, "That's ridiculous I'm not taking your bed."

Leon lets out a long sigh. He shakes his head and closes the distance between the two of you until he's standing right in front of you, towering over you with his sheer size.  His gaze is intense as he looks down at you.

"Well, I'm not taking no for an answer, so– end of discussion." His eyes sweep over your body, his gaze lingering on the way his clothes hang off your form. You want to shrink into yourself and kiss him all at once.

Before you know it, you're making your way over to the bed– his bed. There isn't any time to protest amidst your daze. Leon watches you intently as you obediently walk past him towards the bed. With a smug little smirk on his face, he steps back to give you some space, his arms crossed once again.

"Good." He mutters, satisfied you aren't putting up a fight anymore.  He can't help but admire how cute you look in his clothes, a sight just for his eyes only. "Go ahead," he says, "get comfy." It’s an order.

This is so humiliating. But you listen, climbing into the bed, albeit a little awkwardly. As he makes his way to the door, ready to turn off the lights, you say something that has him stopping in his tracks.

"Hey, Leon?"

He makes a hum of acknowledgement.

"Would you... stay for a bit?"

Leon pauses at the doorway, a hand around the doorframe. He doesn't turn around but you can feel the way his shoulders tense and you can practically hear the gears working in his brain. The rational part of him is telling him he should just shut the lights and leave, keep some distance like he should. 

But the more desperate part of him is convincing him that you need his company as much as he wants yours. And– maybe that's not so bad. 

With a soft exhale, he turns around to look at you, "You... want me to?"

Now, your cheeks have practically turned scarlet. He can tell it took a lot of courage for you to even utter the words. And he doesn't want to push you. But he has to know. He has to know you meant it.

You give him a shy nod, avoiding his gaze.

You mean it.

Leon sucks in a breath, his eyes burning into you. He looks a little surprised but it quickly fades into a soft, almost adoring expression. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Your words and timid little gestures are enough to make his heart skip a beat. He'd be lying if he said your shyness didn't affect him. How cute you look, all red in the face and avoiding his gaze. And god– in his bed.

In the span of 2 minutes, you have a federal agent at your mercy. Leon spent years training on how to keep the upper hand in a conversation. But when he's with you, even one look is enough to short-circuit his brain and forget everything he's ever learned.

"Yeah, I can do that," he replies, turning to shut off the light, mostly to keep you from seeing the small smile growing on his face. He sets the blanket down on the edge of the bed, discarded and long forgotten. 

He crosses the expanse of the bedroom with long strides, climbing into the bed next to you. There's a lump in his throat as he allows his eyes to scan over you, taking in the way you look under his covers. It's almost too much to take in.

The moonlight and shadows are casting their spell on you, and it's all he can do to keep his fingers to himself. To keep his hands off of you. His eyes dart across the features of your face, silently admiring the way the shadows play off your skin. The snowflakes outside the window paint an almost ethereal look on you and Leon is left breathless.

"Thanks," is all you mutter into the darkness. And for some reason, it makes his heart twist in his chest.

"Don't mention it," Leon replies, keeping his voice low, and hopefully, his breathing even.

It's too damn hard to act nonchalant when you're laying in his bed, in his clothes. His hands ache to reach out and touch you but he restrains himself.

He settles on lying on his side, facing towards you. He can't help but admire how pretty you look with the moonlight filtering in through the window. His bed had never felt… empty before. But with you in it… he's sure he'll feel your absence when you leave in the morning.

Jesus, he can’t even think about that right now. Especially not when you roll over, facing him as well. Close enough to touch but not quite.

Leon feels a rush of excitement when you turn to face him. His eyes dart over your features eagerly, studying the way the shadows play over your face. He's close enough to smell the faint scent of your skin and for a second, Leon's fingers twitch. He wants to reach out and touch you so badly but he has to keep it together.

The space between you two feels like an inferno, so close, yet so far. His chest is tight and he's afraid you might hear his heartbeat thumping wildly against his ribcage.

Instead, he lets out a shaky exhale, "You okay?" he murmurs, in a pathetic attempt to fill the silence.

It brings the softest smile to your face, nodding sleepily. Silence fills the room. The winter storm wages on outside the window, allowing the shadows of the falling snow to dance around his walls–  across your face.

"Can I ask you something?"

the sound of your voice makes him feel something he can't quite describe. He sucks in a breath and nods in response.

"Depends on what it is,"  he mumbles, his voice soft and low.

To his surprise, you chuckle at his noncommittal answer. "Why don't you like to talk about your time as a cop?"

Leon's expression visibly sours at the mention of his time as a police officer. He doesn’t even try to hide the way his jaw clenches.. It's like a switch has been flipped. Gone is the soft look on his face, replaced by a grim expression. This is the last thing he wants to talk about now.

After a few moments of tense silence, he finds his voice, "What is there to talk about?" he grumbles tersely.

The sleepy look on your face is gone, replaced by one of guilt. And Leon wants to punch himself in teh face, repeatedly.

"I don't– I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you." You mumble out, sounding a little sheepish.

Leon lets out a shaky exhale, a part of him feeling a little guilty himself at how cold he'd come off. He isn't... mad at you but talking about his past has a way of bringing out the worst in him. He wants to punish himself for taking such an angry tone with you. Never with you.

"No, I…" he mutters, his entire body sagging. "I'm sorry. You didn't do anything wrong, it's just…" his voice trails off and Leon curses under his breath.

To his surprise, you reach your hand to close the distance, and place it gently on top of his wrist. "I don't need to know." You murmur, looking intently into his eyes.

Time stops and Leon's eyes widen just slightly at the sudden touch. His skin burns where your hand is gently placed on his wrist. He's frozen in place, staring at you, at the way those pretty eyes gaze into his own. Foreign and strange. Nothing like when Ingrid tries to get him to talk about his feelings. A lump forms in his throat, a million words stuck there, unable to come out. He opens his mouth, as if to speak, but the only sound he manages to make is something between a scoff and a shaky laugh.

He’s floundering.

Eventually, he manages to rasp, "I meant it. I'll tell you one day." He didn't know he was going to say it, but it's a promise.

"But to answer your question," he clears his throat, "it's a little… painful for me."

Painful.

Like he’s tortured or something. It nearly made him sick to say it– to admit it out loud. But saying it to you? It wasn’t half as bad as he expected it to be.

The air is thick when you nod in understanding, rubbing your thumb along the outside of his wrist. That simple gesture with your thumb makes Leon's breath catch in his throat. There's a split second where he considers bearing his very soul to you, spewing every secret he possibly could. His eyes flutter closed, feeling you.

"I understand. It must be hard," you speak lowly into the air.

It's the sweetest form of torture– the slow, soft movement of your thumb over his skin. He can feel his blood rush through his veins, and he has to fight the urge to grab your hand and just hold it. Maybe bring it to his lips and kiss each knuckle. He chuckles, maybe because he's feeling delirious.

"It's nothing I can't handle," Leon reassures.

You let out a little noise to show him you heard him. Leon has a sneaking suspicion that you don't believe him, but you're polite enough to drop the topic. Your own eyes are fluttering shut now.

"How long are you around for?" He knows what you mean.

He looks at you, at the way you're slowly drifting to sleep– wrapped in his sheets, wrapped in his clothes, and he's caught off-guard. You look… perfect. This awful, feral part of him realizes that tomorrow morning, you just might smell a little bit like his bed, his detergent. Maybe you’ll smell like him. He can't help but wonder what his life would look like if you were a permanent fixture in it, instead of just a temporary one.

"A few more days. But I won’t be gone for long." He answers honestly.

A soft deep sigh escapes you as you hum thoughtfully, thumb slowing its movements.

"You've been home for a while," you comment, idly. The conversation is coming so easily, it's euphoric.

Leon lets out a hum of his own in response. He should be getting back out there. He's usually itching for it– could never stand to be in one place for too long. But here he is, with you, indulging himself in this moment of normalcy. 

He hates it.

And he wants more of it.

"Do you miss it?" You start, yawning softly, "When you're inactive for too long?"

He's quiet for a few moments, letting the question settle in. He's not used to talking about himself, certainly not with anyone who isn't Ingrid. But you're–  different. It doesn't feel like talking about himself when it's with you. It feels natural. Normally, talking about his job leaves a sour taste in his mouth but, you're not asking about his job. You want to know about him.

"Kinda," he confesses, "I get restless easily. I'm missing it less and less lately, though." Boldly, he threads his fingers through yours, allowing you to read between the lines in his answer. He’s not sure if you do, because all you give him is a sleepy little noise– it’s sweet and it makes his heart feel tight in his chest and he’s acting before he can stop himself.

He reaches a hand forward, gently tucking a strand of hair that has fallen into your face behind your ear. His knuckles brush against your skin and it takes everything in him to not trace the line of your jaw, your neck, down to your collarbone and maybe one day–

In another life, he would do it all. Worship every inch of your skin. But in this one, he has to restrain his desires. He savors what he has, these fleeting moments with you. And he chokes down the guilt that follows his wandering thoughts. Not right now.

"You should get some sleep." Leon's voice is a low rumble, hoping it didn't come out as choked as it felt. It doesn't matter, though, he's lost you to sleep anyways.

Now all he has to do is find the strength to pull himself away.

"Fuck..." He mutters, wiping a hand down the side of his face. The couch is waiting.

You woke up to an empty bed. He kept his promise. He took the couch.

You’re not sure why you were surprised when you found Leon the next morning, already dressed and alert, ready to start the day. Of course he’s a morning person. Sweet as ever, he’d slid a cup of coffee across the counter for you, just like you’d always imagined he would.

Your heart swelled when you realized there was cream in it.

Maybe you were reading into it too much, but you didn’t know anyone who took their coffee black and still kept creamer in their house, much less hazelnut.

Neither of you speak of it.

You’re on cloud nine when you arrive at work. The high gliding you through a particularly painful retelling of Cindy’s less than spectacular Tinder date last night.

“And then the craziest part, he still expected me to go home with him at the end of the night!” Cindy chatters on from across the cluster of desks.

You raise your eyebrows in acknowledgement, nodding along to her story. A grimace crosses your features.

“Oh, gross. Some guys are just–”

“Good morning!” Yoko interrupts, waltzing over. She has a perky disposition you’ve never seen before. Neither of you have the chance to greet her back before she continues to speak.

“Oh,” Yoko starts, taking in your appearance, “Late night?”

A wave of embarrassment. Was it that obvious?

“I guess–”

“Help me in the breakroom?” She cuts you off, smoothly. You stutter out a jumble of words and nod your head, already rising from your seat, giving Cindy an apologetic look. What’s gotten into her today?

Yoko doesn’t say anything as she leads you through the door of the breakroom and you almost feel dizzy from the whiplash. She still doesn’t speak as she gestures to the cardboard box filled with various coffee filters, pods and paper cups. You nod along and begin to help her restock the cabinets.

An uncomfortable silence follows that Yoko appears to be immune to, looking oddly content as she fills the cabinets.

“So,” she breaks the silence, not taking her eyes off the pack of coffee filters in her hands.

“How long have you been sleeping with Kennedy?”

You almost drop the paper cups to the floor. Is the room spinning?

“I’m sorry?” Is all you can manage.

“I said, how long have you been sleeping with Kennedy?”

You heard her the first time. Her voice travels in such a nonchalant manner, that you could imagine she was just asking you about the weather. Her face remains completely unaffected. She trapped you in here to confront you about this.

Yoko shrugs her shoulders, “I already know. You might as well just tell me.”

You’re gasping for air– trying to gulp down any that’s left in a room that feels like it’s getting smaller by the minute. No. No, no, no, no…

“I’m not–” Is all you can manage.

“I saw the text.” 

Text? What text? You’re lightheaded. What did she see? You’d been careful enough, right? There couldn’t be anything damning in your texts? Does she go through your phone?

It all dawns on you in an instant. You’re ready to facepalm.

Meet me in my office?

He’d sent it when you were too busy trying to calm Cindy down from her toner incident, playing it off the first time as a text from Ingrid. But, when the notification flashed on the screen a second time, she must have seen. It’s the only explanation.

“I can explain.” Explain what, exactly?

It doesn’t seem to have an effect on Yoko. The scariest part, she’s completely devoid of any emotion. If you were to imagine this conversation, she’d be… excited to be in on the gossip. Or pleased with herself for figuring it out. But there’s… nothing. Nothing on her face.

She rolls her eyes. 

“Then tell me how long.” She says flatly.

You want to answer, you really do. Yoko might be your coworker, but she’s also your friend. At first, nothing comes out. But she looks at you so expectantly, like a parent scolding their child.

“A few months… and I’m not– I’m not sleeping with him.”

Yoko’s brows raise in an accusatory fashion.

“A few months?”

You can’t keep the guilty look off your face.

“Yes… since before… Christmas. We’ve been– seeing each other–”

The unaffected look morphs into pure shock as she says, “I’m sorry, before Christmas!?” That timeframe clearly was not in her calculations. At first, she seemed… disapproving. Now she looks outright offended. But, why?

God, you look guilty. You look so guilty.

“Wait– that’s why you’re so chummy with Hunnigan?” You want to open your mouth to protest but she’s quicker than you, a look of betrayal on her face. “Or, is that where you’re going when you say you’re assisting Hunnigan?”

Now, it’s your turn to look shocked.

“What? No!”

She rolls her eyes again, “Meet me in my office.” It comes out of her mouth like it’s the biggest load of shit she’s ever heard, and it hurts.

You’re blinking back tears at this point and it’s humiliating.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” You counter, trying to remain strong.

“Fine. But you know,” Yoko scoffs and shakes her head in disbelief, “I would kill to be in that Field Support Office. And you just– you don’t even care. That’s what’s so frustrating about it.” She spits out.

White noise rumbles in your ears as the blood rushes to your head. You’re confused and angry and hurt all at the same time. She’s supposed to be your friend.

With deep breaths, “My relationship with Ingrid has nothing to do with him.”

She laughs bitterly, shaking her head once more.

“You know, I really thought– you’d tell me on your own eventually, but you just never did. You waltzed into his office every time the opportunity arose, and let everyone fuss over you. You didn’t even say anything– you just let everyone believe he was being cruel–”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” You repeat through gritted teeth. You’re stunned by her behavior. She’s never acted like this before. Yoko has been your rock here for months and it’s killing you, killing you to see her like this. There’s a venom in her voice you didn’t think was possible. And yet, no matter how much your eyes well up with tears, or how much you try to explain yourself, there’s nothing stopping her.

She lets out another cruel scoff, “I thought I caught you early,” she continued, ignoring you, “But really, since before Christmas?”

“Yes– Yes since before Christmas. But it’s nothing serious! It just sort of… happened. He bumped into me that night when I had to stay late to cover for Ellen and–”

Yoko’s eyes widen and she brings a hand to her throat.

“Kennedy ratted her out.” She breathes the words as if she can’t believe them herself.

“What? No. It wasn’t like that at all.”

Yoko rolls her eyes at you once more and reaches over to take the paper cups from your hands.

“I can handle it myself actually.”

Your heart shatters into a million pieces. It all happened so fast. There’s a lump in your throat that you can’t seem to swallow and Yoko– she can’t even look at you.

“Yoko, I–” You choke out. But she doesn’t flinch, just raises a dismissive hand at you.

It’s all too much. Your chest is heaving. A pit in your stomach to match the lump in your throat. Eyes are welling with tears that you don’t bother to wipe away as you turn around and return to your desk.

She’s supposed to be your friend.