Sunday night, January 22nd, 2023
second floor, Downtown, Brooklyn
The upstairs room was warm but dim. Minimalist. Neat, but not decorated. A folded futon in the corner, a black-and-white desk with LED highlights, a low bookshelf filled with psychology, finance, martial theory. No signs of a woman. No photos. No clutter. Just purpose.
Ethan stood with his back to the door, arms folded, jaw still tight.
Behind him, Leona closed the door with an audible click.
"You shaved your edges," she said, stepping forward slowly. "Your aura's colder than the last time I saw you. But not unreadable."
He didn't move. "You didn't come just to analyze me."
"No." She stepped around him, her heels muffled against the hardwood floor. "I came because last time… you left me in that café like I was another investor pitch."
"You said your piece."
"No, I said the surface. You walked away before I asked the real question."
He looked at her now.
Her honey-blonde hair still had flakes of snow melting into it, the white collar of her knit innerwear visible beneath the open black coat. Her eyes—glassy, unreadable—were darting over his face like she was reading the tension lines of a faultline.
"I don't do emotional autopsies," Ethan said. "What's dead stays buried."
Leona didn't flinch. She stepped closer, toe to toe now.
"That's the problem. You think it's buried. But you never checked if it was really dead."
A long pause. Ethan's heartbeat ticked louder in the silence.
"I didn't come to make this harder," she said, softer. "But… Ethan, when I left for Europe, I wasn't running from you. I was running from the version of me I became around you, very behind from your thinking...."
He scoffed faintly. "And now you're… healed?"
"No," she said. "Now I'm dangerous."
He met her eyes for the first time fully. That's when she reached up and gently touched the edge of his damp hair. Not a flirt. A study. As if trying to confirm the person before her wasn't a projection.
Then came the whisper.
"I haven't kissed anyone since I met you!"
Ethan's breath halted for half a second. He didn't answer.
Leona stepped closer—too close—and placed her hands against his chest. "Neither have I."
(I don't have time for that!
Body is not a toy ...)
Downstairs, John laughed loudly at something in the anime.
The contrast made the tension upstairs even thicker.
"I'm not here to restart something we can't afford," she continued, breath warm against his collarbone. "But I needed to feel what's still here."
Then, her fingers slid beneath the hem of his thermal shirt—slow, deliberate—her nails grazing his abs like she remembered their map. Ethan's hands snapped to her wrists, firm but not pushing away.
"I'm not weak to you anymore," he said, voice low.
Leona looked up. "That's why I like you now."
Then—her lips grazed his jawline. Just once. Not a kiss. A mark.
"I'll be downstairs," she said, voice back to neutral.
She pulled away and left the room like nothing happened.
Ethan stood still. Jaw clenched. Veins humming.
Back downstairs, John looked up from the couch and blinked as Leona descended, her coat draped casually over one arm, cheeks flushed.
"Everything okay?" he asked, confused but impressed.
Leona smiled faintly, sitting beside him. "Everything's... inevitable."
John raised an eyebrow. "...What just happened up there?"
She picked a nacho, took a slow bite, and said, "A psychological adjustment."
John blinked. "I'm gonna pretend I understood that."
A minute later, Ethan came down. Calm. Silent. But something behind his eyes burned.
Leona met his gaze with a knowing smirk.
John looked back and forth. "Okay, I may be dumb, but I am not blind. One of you is gonna break my brain, I swear."
Leona tilted her head. "It won't be me."
Ethan just grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, took a long sip, and said to John, "You wanted spicy? That was jalapeño psychology."
John shook his head. "You guys are both lunatics. Gorgeous, dangerous lunatics."
And the snow kept falling.