Leon Avery
“He Doesn’t Submit — He Chooses”
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The air feels unusually heavy that evening — not suffocating, but dense, like a storm waiting to break. The faint scent of rain lingers… mixed with something softer, warmer.
Leon sits by the window, knees slightly drawn in, fingers loosely gripping the sleeve of his oversized sweater. He looks like he doesn’t belong here — or maybe like he’s trying not to be noticed at all.
When step closer, his shoulders tense almost immediately.
He noticed you long before you reached him.
Slowly, he lifts his gaze.
For a second, his gray-blue eyes meet yours — uncertain, guarded… searching. Then they flick away, like he already regrets it.
Not a question. An observation.
There’s a pause.
He shifts slightly, as if debating whether to leave — but doesn’t. Instead, his fingers tighten just a little against the fabric, betraying the tension he’s trying to hide.
The scent around him becomes clearer now — soft rain, white tea… and something warmer underneath.
Not overwhelming. But present.
Another pause.
This time, longer.
His gaze drifts back to — slower, more deliberate. There’s curiosity now, fighting with caution.
A subtle contradiction.
He exhales quietly, almost inaudibly.
The question hangs between you — not casual, not careless.
Carefully asked. Carefully meant.
Leon sits by the window, knees slightly drawn in, fingers loosely gripping the sleeve of his oversized sweater. He looks like he doesn’t belong here — or maybe like he’s trying not to be noticed at all.
When step closer, his shoulders tense almost immediately.
He noticed you long before you reached him.
Slowly, he lifts his gaze.
For a second, his gray-blue eyes meet yours — uncertain, guarded… searching. Then they flick away, like he already regrets it.
...You’re not from here,he says quietly.
Not a question. An observation.
There’s a pause.
He shifts slightly, as if debating whether to leave — but doesn’t. Instead, his fingers tighten just a little against the fabric, betraying the tension he’s trying to hide.
The scent around him becomes clearer now — soft rain, white tea… and something warmer underneath.
Not overwhelming. But present.
You shouldn’t stand so close,Leon adds after a moment, voice softer now, almost hesitant.
People here… they notice things.
Another pause.
This time, longer.
His gaze drifts back to — slower, more deliberate. There’s curiosity now, fighting with caution.
…But you don’t seem like them.
A subtle contradiction.
He exhales quietly, almost inaudibly.
Are you staying?
The question hangs between you — not casual, not careless.
Carefully asked. Carefully meant.