The sheets were still warm when Aria reached out, but Leon was already gone.
She blinked in the soft morning light, the silk comforter tangled around her bare legs. Last night lingered in her muscles—tender, electric, unforgettable. And yet, the cold space beside her gnawed like an ache.
She sat up slowly. The penthouse was quiet. Too quiet.
Wrapping herself in one of his shirts, she padded down the hallway, barefoot. The murmur of a voice caught her attention—deep, clipped, not English. Italian? Russian?
She stopped just outside his office. The door was cracked open an inch. Leon's voice filtered through, low and sharp.
"Non adesso. Le cose sono cambiate. No—tell Marco to wait."
A long pause.
Then: "She's not part of this. Not yet."
Aria's pulse skipped. The floor felt less stable than it had a moment ago.
Not part of this?
She stepped back, just as Leon ended the call. He emerged moments later, running a hand through his hair—shirtless, distracted.
His eyes softened when he saw her. "You're awake."
"You left," she said, more vulnerable than she intended.
"Couldn't sleep." He crossed to her and touched her waist. "Didn't mean to sneak off."
She studied him. The calm smile. The dark circles under his eyes. The edge he never quite let down.
"What were you speaking?" she asked, testing him. "It didn't sound like French."
Leon's smile didn't waver. "Just old habits. Half my business is overseas. You pick up things."
Aria nodded slowly, but a seed of doubt had been planted.
Later that day, while Leon was in the shower, she wandered into his walk-in closet—bigger than her first apartment. His suits were arranged with military precision. Rows of custom shirts, polished shoes, leather belts.
But it was the drawer beneath the cufflinks that stopped her cold.
It stuck a little when she pulled it open. Hidden beneath black silk ties and a leather-bound journal was a gun—sleek, matte black, and very real.
Her breath caught.
She didn't touch it. Just stared.
A voice behind her made her jump. "Looking for something?"
Leon stood in the doorway, towel wrapped low around his hips, droplets of water running down his chest. He didn't look angry. Just amused.
"I—no. I was just—"
He stepped forward, gently closing the drawer.
"It's not what you think."
"Then what is it?"
"Protection," he said simply. "I don't exactly have a boring job."
She didn't press further. Not yet.
But her mind was racing.
That evening, as the rain rolled in again and lightning painted the skyline, they sat in silence on the couch. Aria leaned against him, trying to feel normal again.
But everything felt off. His arm was around her shoulders, but his mind was somewhere else.
"Tell me something real," she said suddenly.
Leon turned to her. "Like what?"
"Anything. What were you like before all this?"
He gave a half-smile. "There's no before, Aria. Just now."
"Everyone has a past."
"I burned mine."
She stared at him. "That's not romantic, Leon. That's terrifying."
His smile faded.
"Maybe you should be terrified."
A beat passed between them. Neither moved.
Then Leon kissed her—hard and fast—pulling her beneath him like he wanted to drown in her.
And she let him.
Because wanting him was easier than questioning him.
Later, while he slept, Aria lay awake beside him. She ran a finger along his forearm, memorizing the tension there. The strength. The secrets.
She didn't want to admit it.
But something about Leon Crane didn't add up.
And the more she fell for him…
The more afraid she became of finding out who he really was.