A Leaf

A Leaf
Leomord’s POV

The morning after the rain feels like silence before a song. Like a peaceful silence.

The air is damp, but fresh. The grass is still dripping from last night’s downpour, and the earth smells new. I wake up with her hand resting on my chest, her breath warm on my skin. Her fingers twitch slightly in her sleep, like she’s dreaming of something tender.

I don’t move. I don’t even blink.

I just watch her.

In this moment, she’s mine. The world is quiet. The gang is far behind. And I can almost believe we’re normal, just two people in love.

But that illusion is fragile.

When she opens her eyes, I catch the trace of a smile before she yawns and pulls the blanket closer.

“Morning,” I whisper.

“Morning,” she mumbles, her voice still hoarse with sleep. “You’re staring again.”

“I don’t get tired of it,” I say truthfully.

She smiles. “Cheesy.”

But she leans in anyway, kisses me on the jaw, and gets up to make coffee.

I stay lying there for a few more seconds, my heart aching in a quiet way. The kind of ache you get when you realize something beautiful is also something temporary.

We don’t talk about the past anymore, not the threats, not the shadows. We’ve locked those doors. But I know we’re both still listening for footsteps.

Later, we walk down to the small weekend market that opens near the lake.

She buys a bag of cherries, insisting we eat them while we walk. I don’t argue. Her mood is light, her laughter soft. She tugs me by the hand and points at things—candles shaped like animals, pressed flower bookmarks, fresh bread wrapped in paper.

“I like it here,” she says as she bites into a cherry. “It’s like the world pauses.”

I nod. “Maybe we can make it last.”

She stops walking and looks at me. “Do you believe that?”

“I want to.”

She holds my gaze for a while. Then she takes my hand again and keeps walking. She doesn’t say anything more, but she doesn’t let go.

That night, she surprises me with a sketch she’s been working on. It’s of us—dancing in the rain. My arms around her, her head tilted back, laughing. It’s rough, unfinished, but honest.

I stare at it for a long time.

“You made this?”

“I tried,” she says shyly. “You inspired me.”

My throat tightens. “You always surprise me.”

She shrugs, cheeks flushed. “You surprise me too. I didn’t think I could trust anyone again.”

I don’t deserve that kind of trust.

But I want to.

I wrap my arms around her, hold her close. “You’re the only thing that makes me feel human.”

The next day, we decide to explore a quiet trail that winds through the pine forest. We pack simple food, sandwiches, apples, and water, and start early before the sun gets too high.

She wears one of my old jackets, even though it hangs off her shoulders. She says it makes her feel safe. I say nothing, just admire how she makes even my roughest things look soft.

The walk is quiet, filled with birdsong and the distant sound of the stream. We don’t need to speak. Her presence is enough.

Eventually, we find a clearing with flat rocks, and we sit down to eat. She leans her head on my shoulder as we share the last apple.

“I used to dream of this,” she says suddenly.

“Of what?”

“This. Peace. Someone who doesn’t hurt me.”

I press my lips to her forehead. “You’ll never have to look back again.”

But she does. I see it in her eyes sometimes. The fear, the caution. And I don’t blame her.

She turns toward me. “Leomord?”

“Yeah?”

“If one day, someone from your past finds us again, what will you do?”

I hesitate.

“I’ll protect you,” I say.

“No lies?”

“No lies.”

She nods slowly, but I can tell she’s still afraid. Maybe not of the gang. Maybe of losing what we’ve built. And honestly, I am too.

That evening, we sit by the porch with warm tea and an old record playing inside. I watch her sway slightly to the music, even while sitting. Her rhythm never fades.

“Dance with me again?” she asks softly.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

We don’t care if the neighbors hear. We don’t care if the tea goes cold. We hold each other, swaying under the deepening sky, slow and unafraid.

And for the first time in years, I feel like the worst is truly behind us.

But a part of me, quiet and buried, still watches the shadows.

Still listens for footsteps.

~

As we slow our dancing, she rests her head on my chest. Her fingers trace lazy circles on my back, and for a while, we stay like that, still moving, even after the music fades.

“You know,” she murmurs, “I never thought I’d fall for someone like you.”

I raise a brow. “Someone like me?”

She grins against my shirt. “Quiet. Brooding. Ex-criminal.”

I laugh, not because it’s funny, but because it’s painfully true.

“Yeah. Not the safest bet,” I admit.

“But I didn’t want safe,” she says, pulling back to look at me. Her eyes are steady. “I wanted real. And you’re the most real thing I’ve ever known.”

I don’t know what to say to that. So I don’t say anything. I just kiss her, slowly, like I have all the time in the world. Because maybe we do.

When we finally go back inside, I light a candle by the window, something Grandma used to do when she wanted to keep spirits away. Anastasia curls up beside me on the old couch with a blanket draped over us. Her breathing deepens, and I think she’s fallen asleep.

But then she whispers, barely audible, “Do you think they’ll ever forgive us?”

“Who?”

“The people we left behind. The ones who got caught in the crossfire.”

I pause. Her words sting in places I don’t like to visit.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe some things aren’t meant to be forgiven. Only survived.”

She nods slowly. Her eyes don’t leave the flame.

And just like that, the quiet peace between us shifts. A chill sneaks in with the night air, subtle but impossible to ignore.

Because survival means more than running. It means being ready, again.

For whatever waits beyond the calm.