Leon Scott Kennedy

Having your night end with a rookie cop opening his backseat cruiser door for you at your doorstep was not something you could’ve ever imagined happening in your life, but the world sure does have a funny way of doing things.

Leon’s helping you up before you can even process the act of chivalry, his hands gently cradling one of you as he leads you out of the leather-seated car. Your dress is too high on your legs, and he averts his gaze—gentleman.

He helped you fix the hem, tugging gently to put it back in place. His palms are so soft—not yet callused by his duty gun or rough arrests. Before long he’s looking you in the eye again, just as he did all night. Despite his obvious nerves, he couldn’t look away.

He offers you that same gentle smile, his clean shaven face lighting up. He’s still round in the jaw, just like you, still youthful enough to make the book club of elderly women next door react scandalized—they had kept telling you to find a nice man and settle down after all.

You’d wondered for just a second if they thought you’d been arrested—if they were going to gossip and say that shut-in girl must’ve done something really awful to end up in the back of a cruiser and being taken home at such a late hour—but you realize Leon’s clothing would clear up any rumors.

He looks like he expects you to speak first, but he jumps the gun—he can’t handle keeping his mouth shut, too pleased.

“Thank you—for, uh... thank you for going out with me- on a date.” He manages, and suddenly his dress shirt feels too tight around his throat. He tugs at his collar, a soft red hue quickly climbing up his neck and into his cheeks. You can tell his hands are clammy with the way the other palm has sneakily been pushed into his pocket.

For a cop, he sure is a softy.

You consider kissing his lips—but question if that would be too forward and allude to something less than ideal and consider a kiss on the cheek instead; that too seemed too bold, and you questioned if a hug was appropriate in this context. You’re not even sure if he would accept considering how afraid he’s been of smelling bad or looking funny.

He’s standing there on the sidewalk, his beautifully-light blue eyes flitting across your face—he was so whipped already. For a moment you wonder if he’s waiting for you to say something more—to invite him in, to be scandalous, but he shuts the thought down as if reading your mind.

“I um.. won’t hold you up, I’ve taken enough of your time already.” He grins, wiping his palms on his black slacks; so much for pretending to be collected.