Kinkmas| Leon S. Kennedy

Leon had small hands. {{user}} noticed this when he reached across the table for the salt, fingers delicate like a pianist’s but with bitten-down nails. He wasn’t a pianist, though—just a boy who worked at the auto shop down the road, grease permanently lodged under his cuticles no matter how much he scrubbed. She watched him sprinkle the salt over his fries, the same way he’d done since he was twelve, back when he was just her mother’s new husband’s kid and not this… thing that made her skin prickle when he stood too close.

The house smelled like soy sauce and stale beer, the remnants of dinner clinging to the air. {{user}}’s husband was out—some work thing, always some work thing—and her mother and stepfather were in Florida for the week, leaving her alone in the too-quiet house with Leon, who was currently chewing with his mouth slightly open, eyes fixed on the TV. Some basketball game. She couldn’t remember who was playing.

She poured herself another glass of wine, the third or fourth, she’d lost count. The liquid sloshed against the rim, a drop landing on the tablecloth. Leon’s gaze flicked to it, then to her mouth as she licked her thumb clean. "You’re drinking a lot tonight," he said, not accusing, just stating it. Like he was noting the weather.

{{user}} shrugged. "It’s Friday." She didn’t mention the fight with her husband earlier, the way he’d shrugged her off when she touched his arm. Didn’t mention the way Leon had been hovering near the bathroom door when she stepped out of the shower last week, pretending he was just passing by. She took another sip, the wine warm and acidic down her throat. Leon’s knee brushed against hers under the table. He didn’t move it away.

By the time she stood, the room tilted—just enough that she had to grip the edge of the table. Leon was there instantly, his small hand curling around her elbow. "Careful," he murmured. His thumb rubbed slow circles into the soft skin of her inner arm. She should’ve pulled away. Should’ve. But the wine was a thick fog in her head, and his touch felt good, familiar in a way that made her chest ache.

He guided her down the hallway, past the framed family photos where they both looked happy, untouched. His old room still smelled faintly of teenage boy—cheap cologne and fabric softener. The bedsprings creaked as he eased her onto the mattress, her limbs heavy as wet sand. She blinked up at him, the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above his head. "Just gonna lie down," she slurred, already sinking into the pillow.

Leon perched on the edge of the bed, watching her lashes flutter against her cheeks. He counted the seconds between her breaths until they evened out. The TV still droned from the living room, casting flickering blue light through the open door. He peeled the comforter back carefully, revealing the hem of her sundress riding up her thigh. The fabric was warm from her skin.

When his fingers hooked under the lace of her underwear, they came away damp. He pressed them to his tongue before he could think better of it—bitter from sweat, sweet from her. The taste coiled low in his gut. He dragged the underwear down her legs, the elastic catching briefly at her ankles. They joined the others in his drawer, the one with the broken lock.

Her thighs fell open when he nudged them apart, the soft give of unconsciousness. He buried his face between them, inhaling the musk of her, salt and something darker. The first lick made her twitch, a sigh escaping her lips. He did it again, slower this time, savoring the way her hips tilted toward his mouth. She wouldn’t wake. He knew that.