𝗦𝗮𝘂𝗱𝗮𝗱𝗲, Leon Kennedy

5: Holding On

                                                            ᴄᴀᴛʜᴇʀɪɴᴇ:

I left the sink running momentarily, watching the water flow as my hands clutched the basin. Expelling the contents of my stomach into the toilet had lowered the severity of my intoxication, but, I still felt the gentle buzzing of bourbon against my skin. My lip jutted out in disappointment, knowing I would wake up with a dull ache in my skull the next morning.

Sighing, I turned the handle adjacent to the faucet until water no longer splashed against the mint-colored porcelain of the sink. Taking one last distasteful glance at my reflection, I exited the restroom.

I ran a hand through my hair, hesitantly approaching the bar. James eyed me carefully as I made my way closer.

"He said he'd come." He spoke tenderly, his southern drawl sugary sweet as it hit my ears.

Taking a seat once again, I rested my forehead against the sealed wood of the bar top. It was pleasantly cool against my skin and I relished in the way it eased the burn of the alcohol.

"You actually called him?" I groaned softly, wrapping my arms around my abdomen.

He placed a hand on my shoulder, "I can't let you go home alone."

I lifted my head, looking into his eyes. They were a warm, captivating shade of brown. Almost like a gingerbread cookie. "Why?"

His hand raised hesitantly from my shoulder and gently brushed away the hair clinging to the left side of my face. His fingers were soft.

"I don't wanna see your name in the obituaries, Doll." He spoke, the sound a soft purr, and his fingers lingered against my cheek for a second longer than necessary.

"You don't even know my name," I murmured, leaning back to increase the distance between us.

It was divine to receive such  tender affection, but it wasn't his adoration I craved. His voice, as joyful and bright as it was, wasn't what I longed to hear and his smile, although brilliant, wasn't the one I dreamed of.

"I'd recognize your face." He grinned.

As if they would print my picture in the paper.

I chuckled, "Busted lip and all?"

He shook his head and reached into his apron, "Hard to forget."

There was something so juvenile about him. Almost as if even though his mind and body had grown with age, his heart was still young and pure.

I sat straighter, watching as he pulled a lined index card from his pocket.

"I wrote it down a little neater for you," He grinned as he slid the card across the bar, "The napkin got a little wet."

Looking up at his face, I carefully lifted it from the wood, holding it between my fingers. The words 'Mystery Man' were written in beautiful cursive script just above what I imagined was Leon's phone number. The digits looked familiar.

He wasn't too far off. Leon had become somewhat of a mystery to me. A mystery I somehow knew everything about. I knew his favorite color was navy blue, his favorite movie was 'Die Hard', and his favorite song was some indie rock beat called 'Saudade'.

I knew that he murmured in his sleep and that he loved the rain. I knew that he only drank his coffee black to seem cool and that he truly preferred it with cream and sugar. I knew that he hated the feeling of polyester and that he always cut the tags off of his t-shirts. I knew that he sang in the shower and that he hated the taste of coconut. I knew that he preferred DC over Marvel and that he could speed-run Mario Bros on the Nintendo.