leon-orozco

[leon-orozco]

Manny Montana as Carver in Westworld 4x03

[leon-orozco]

The task force assigned within the Los Angeles Police Department brought León in for questioning. Please answer these following items through Q&A, semi para, or full para.

Where were you the night of April the 25th and 26th?

What do you remember from the yacht party?

Did you see anything suspicious?

Did you see Camilla Barone with the murder weapon?

Do you remember seeing Enzo Barone prior to the shooting?

Does the name the Wraith mean anything to you?

What motivated you to start a fight with Aslan Soykan?

Do you believe the fire was retaliation for the fight?

We're aware of your friend's relation to Taylor, but what is your relation to her? To Officer Schwarz?

The room was too clean. That kind of sterile, fluorescent-tinted cleanliness that made León feel like the walls themselves were trying to scrub you raw. He sat at the far end of the table, arms loose at his sides, posture casual on purpose. The kind of casual that said: I’m not scared of you, and I’m not giving you shit.

A detective across from him leaned in, voice clipped. “Where were you the night of April the 25th and 26th?”

León let his eyes sweep lazily across the table before meeting the guy’s gaze. “I am invoking my Fifth Amendment right to remain silent.”

Clubhouse. Office. Paperwork stacked high, bottle half-empty on the desk. The kind of night where nothing felt right, so he stayed close to home. Tommy had already started spiraling, and León hadn’t wanted to leave the kid alone for too long.

“Let’s talk about the yacht party,” the detective continued. “What do you remember from that night?”

“I am invoking my Fifth Amendment right to remain silent.”

Cheesy-ass music, blue lights bouncing off over-glossed suits. And that fucking text. One line that made the whole night rot from the inside out: ‘Put Soykan down, or everyone learns what you’ve been hiding.’ Didn’t matter that León didn’t trust anyone there. That text had him locked.

“Did you see anything suspicious?”

“I am invoking my Fifth Amendment right to remain silent.”

It was a party hosted by a goddamn criminal syndicate. The shrimp cocktail was suspicious. The smiles? Suspicious. He'd seen more trust in a room full of pitbulls with one steak between them.

“Did you see Camilla Barone with the murder weapon?”

“I am invoking my Fifth Amendment right to remain silent.”

No. And if she had it, she wasn’t dumb enough to flash it around like some amateur. Cami might be a lot of things, but sloppy wasn’t one of them.

“Did you see Enzo Barone prior to the shooting?”

“I am invoking my Fifth Amendment right to remain silent.”

Never even laid eyes on him that night. Would’ve remembered—Enzo had that shark-glint in his eye, same as most men who thought power made them untouchable. León knew the type. And he hadn’t seen it.

“Does the name ‘The Wraith’ mean anything to you?”

“I am invoking my Fifth Amendment right to remain silent.”

Sounds like a shitty emo band that never left the garage. But no—never heard it used in the circles he ran with. Which, honestly, made it worse. Ghosts that didn’t announce themselves were always the real threats.

“What motivated you to start a fight with Aslan Soykan?”

“I am invoking my Fifth Amendment right to remain silent.”

He didn’t have a choice. The threat hung too close to the bone, aimed straight at the one thing he couldn't let anyone know. So he threw the first punch. Made it look like heat-of-the-moment. Like it was personal.

“Do you believe the fire was retaliation for the fight?”

“I am invoking my Fifth Amendment right to remain silent.”

Could be. Could also be the Family striking back for that pig cop Schwarz putting a bullet in Cami. It didn’t matter which pissed-off family started it—the fire had taken Taylor. And that meant this war wasn’t cooling off anytime soon.

“We’re aware of your friend Tommy Hatch’s relation to Taylor. What’s your relation to her? To Officer Schwarz?”

“I am invoking my Fifth Amendment right to remain silent.”

Taylor kept their guys alive. She was the only medic who knew what to do when a patch bled out in the back of a van. And León trusted her. Enough to keep her on retainer. Officer Schwarz? Soon-to-be ex. And a mess of a man even before he pulled the trigger. León didn’t owe him shit. But he owed Taylor. And that debt was still very much outstanding.

The detective sighed, leaned back in his chair, and León just sat there. Still. Quiet. Letting the silence do what silence did best: remind people that they were never in control. Not really. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t fold. Just stared back with eyes that said exactly what his mouth never would: I know what game this is. And I don’t play for free.

[leon-orozco]

who: @nicobarone where: summit tower

The elevator ride up felt too clean. All chrome and silence and the faint smell of citrus disinfectant—like even the air was trying to scrub the blood off its hands. León stood in the corner with his arms crossed, jacket heavy with road dust, a fading bruise still coloring the edge of his jaw. He didn’t look like he belonged here, and that was the point. Let them see the dirt on his boots. Let them remember that some men didn’t need a skyscraper to hold power. The doors slid open with a polite chime.

León stepped out onto the executive floor of Summit Tower like he’d been there a thousand times—no hesitation, no second thoughts. Just quiet purpose. He didn’t bother asking for an escort, didn’t wait for the receptionist to finish her call. A nod. A name. And then he was moving past glass walls and expensive silence, toward the corner office that could see the whole goddamn city. Fitting. Nico Barone always struck him as the type who liked to look down on things.

León didn’t knock. He pushed the door open like a man walking into a fight—slow, steady, gaze already locked. The skyline spilled behind Nico’s desk in wide floor-to-ceiling windows, all sharp edges and golden dusk, but León wasn’t here to admire the view.

He stepped inside. Shut the door behind him. “Figured it was my turn to drop in,” he said, voice low but even, as he came to a stop a few paces in front of the desk. “Cassio came by the garage. Brought your name into the conversation, started dancing around words like ‘resources’ and ‘alliance.’ So I thought maybe it was time we cut through the middlemen.”

[leon-orozco]

León huffed a quiet breath, not quite a laugh but close enough. “You'd think a former nurse would know about the dangers of diabetes” he said, watching her and her chocolate with a kind of tired affection he rarely let surface. “And yeah, breakdown sounds about right. Been feeling like one long exhale since that fucking yacht.” He didn’t spell it out—what came after, what it cost—but he didn’t need to. Frankie knew how to read between the lines.

The offer of antibiotics had him smirking faintly. “Tell your med student admirer to send a care package. I’ll write him a thank-you note in blood.” The delivery was deadpan, but there was warmth behind it—his way of saying he appreciated it without getting too close to the sentiment.

Her last words landed harder than he expected. Not ready to lose him. That kind of honesty always hit sideways, made it harder to keep the armor on. But León didn’t flinch. Instead, he held her gaze, serious now. “You’re not gonna,” he said, quiet but certain. “I’ve made it through worse. I’m not cashing out yet.”

He picked up the pancake closest to him—plain, no frills—and took a bite without ceremony. “Besides,” he added, mouth half full, “someone’s gotta stick around to keep you from feeding strays and dating ER rejects.”

the soft sound of a snort resounded at his words. of course that would be his response to the gossip trains of the city. but then, his joke. or what she could only assume he had meant it as. even as the center of her stomach twisted. because frankie had known her brother. had really, truly known him. throughout the many years that they'd been fighting for everything. while she'd turned towards fighting in a different manner, león had ensured it with his fists. the neighborhood kids, those that opened their mouth towards him. from within the prison that she'd never been able to shake free of her thoughts. the memories that she held of her brother. even now, her lips curved. into that soft frown that she'd soon have to force away.

after a moment, while she let the joke fade. frankie grabbed up her own fork, before she cut off a small piece riddled with far too many chocolate chips. " i'm going with breakdown, " she announced, before she popped the piece into her mouth. delicious and chocolatey. but her gaze remained on him, watched him closely. she knew the signs of someone still struggling with a wound. how they moved differently, sat differently. held themselves in a way that would alleviate the pressure on the wound. despite how he might try to hide it, frankie could see that it still bothered him. " if you need antibiotics, or anything else. say the word. one of those med students still texts me for a second chance. " it was her way of saying that she could get him what he needed from the hospital.

then his words. it hadn't been a promise, but it was the closest that she would get from him. " i'm glad you haven't forgotten, " she said, a little smugly too. the soft makings of a smirk at the corners of her mouth. it had been quick, before it turned into something warm. something tender. " good, because i'm not ready to lose you. "

[leon-orozco]

León didn’t say anything at first. He just watched Tommy, silent, like he was trying to decide if the kid sitting across from him was the same one who used to drag his boots through the clubhouse like it didn’t matter if anyone heard him coming. Something about the way Tommy said “I can do that”—not defiant, not pitiful. Just… willing. It struck something raw.

And León didn’t do raw. Not easily. Not unless it counted. “Good,” he said finally, voice rough around the edges. “Because I’m not giving that kind of permission lightly.” It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even the usual hardness that laced his tone. It was just a simple fact. He could’ve said don’t fuck it up, but Tommy already knew that part.

There was something else, though—something about the look in Tommy’s eyes that made León shift slightly in his seat, jaw ticking. “I know you’re gutted. I know it feels like every second you’re not doing something about it is a second wasted. But this? Staying on your feet, holding your shit together—that’s what Taylor would’ve wanted. Not some kamikaze move that ends with your name in ink beside hers.” He leaned forward then, resting his forearms on his knees, letting the weight of his stare settle. “You’re not useless, Tommy. You’ve been drifting like you think you are—but I wouldn’t be talking to you like this if I didn’t think you could carry the fuckin’ weight. So carry it.”

Then—his voice dropped a notch lower, graver. “And yeah. Your brother’s been sniffing around.” The air between them tightened. “I get it. Really. He wants what we want. But he’s going about it the wrong way. Pulling at threads that ain’t ready to unravel yet. I’m not mad at him—but if he keeps going the way he is, he’s gonna make noise we can’t afford." León sat back again, tone cooling without losing clarity. “I’m telling you because you’re his brother. Because I’d rather you talk to him than have to go through someone else to shut it down.” A pause. “Let him know he’s not alone in this. But we’re not kicking the door down blind. Not this time.”

Then, more softly—León softly, which still meant a bit like sandpaper dragged across a bruise, “You Hatches got fire. And I’m not asking you to put it out. Just asking you to aim it.”

No booze. No fuck-ups.

It was a bigger ask than León probably realized — or, more likely, he knew exactly how big it was and just didn’t give a damn. And honestly, why should he? What Tommy was asking for wasn’t some casual favor. It was a life. Taking one, holding it in his hands, deciding how and when it ended. That kind of thing wasn’t reversible. It wasn’t like the fights he’d gotten into over the years, the blood and bruises that eventually faded. This was different. Permanent. Final.

And for the first time, he found himself wondering — what would it feel like to be in control of that?

He let his president's words sink in, swallowing thickly and nodding with newfound resolve -- or something of the like. The “no booze” part was going to be tough — but that wasn’t even his worst habit, and the fact that thought crossed his mind at all was probably a problem in itself. Still, the message had landed. Be careful. Be smart. No more messes.

"Okay, I'll -- I can do that." He affirmed, the uneasiness in his chest still ever present but not alone. It was León's next words that had him holding his breath then, brows narrowing. "What? Tyson?" Tommy shook his head, disbelief evident on his features. "What do you mean 'sniffing around'?"

[leon-orozco]

🗡️

what is a scar that they have but never talk about ?

León has a scar just beneath his jawline—sharp and pale, about two inches long, partially hidden by the scruff of his beard. It’s the kind of scar most people don’t notice unless they’re up close. But once you see it, you know it wasn’t clean. It wasn’t surgical. It was ragged. Torn, not sliced.

He never talks about it. Not because it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to him—it isn’t. But because of what it cost him.

He got it in prison. Not during some yard brawl or power play, but the night he realized that being useful in there meant making sure someone else disappeared. Quietly. Permanently. León was ordered to take care of a problem—someone who knew too much about one of the MC’s inside connections. He didn’t ask questions. He did what was expected.

But the man fought harder than León anticipated. There was a moment, one moment, where León hesitated—not out of mercy, but doubt. A flicker of thought: Was this guy really a threat? That hesitation earned him a handmade blade to the throat. Not deep enough to kill, but close enough that he felt the heat of his own blood before he finished the job.

The guy bled out in the corner of a laundry room, and León didn’t speak a word the rest of the night.

He keeps the scar covered because it’s not just a reminder of violence. He has plenty of those. It’s a reminder that hesitation can cost you, and more than that—it’s the first time he learned that doing the “right” thing in their world doesn’t come with clean hands.

Some nights, when he shaves or wipes sweat off his neck, he catches sight of it in the mirror. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pause. But his jaw tightens, every time. Because that scar isn’t from a fight. It’s from a lesson—and it’s one he never forgot.

[leon-orozco]

[ 🎐 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a sound, like a song or voice, that they associate with peace ?

Yes—León absolutely has a sound that he associates with peace, though he’d never call it that out loud. He’s not the type to wax poetic about serenity or admit he even wants it. But there’s a sound that cuts through the noise in his head when nothing else can:

The quiet hum of an engine idling.

Not revving, not racing—just idling. Steady. Low. Controlled.

There’s something about it that hits a part of him he doesn’t talk about. Something from way back, when he was a kid lying under a car next to his father, grease on his hands before he even knew how to ride a bike. The engine hum was background noise to every lesson his father taught him—not just about machines, but about survival. It meant the world was still turning. That things were running how they were supposed to, even if only for a moment.

Sometimes when the pressure builds too high or the rage gets too loud, León will head to the garage after hours, start one of the old bikes, and just listen. He’ll sit on the concrete floor with a bottle in his hand, not touching the throttle, not fixing anything—just letting the sound work through his ribs like muscle memory.

He’d never admit it, but it’s the only thing in his life that’s never lied to him.

If you’re looking for a song that could scratch that same itch, it wouldn’t be anything recent. It’d be something raw and simple. Maybe Johnny Cash’s “Hurt” cover on a night when the weight gets too heavy. Or a dusty, instrumental blues track that could bleed out through old garage speakers. No lyrics. Just sound and space and the soft, broken edge of something real.

And maybe, if you caught him on the right night, when no one’s around and the world’s gone quiet, he might hum along without realizing. Just low enough not to be heard.

[leon-orozco]

MANNY MONTANA in MAYANS MC 4x06

[leon-orozco]

León didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t blink, didn’t move—just held Tommy’s gaze like he was taking a long look at the man in front of him and weighing everything he saw there. The grief. The guilt. The soft, raw ache of someone not made for this life but buried in it anyway. There were plenty of men in the club who burned hot, who got off on revenge like it was gasoline to the soul. But Tommy? Tommy had always been different. Not soft exactly—just not hardened the way the rest of them were. He still looked for reasons in the chaos. Still believed pain meant something.

And maybe that was why this mattered. Because León could see it—clear as day—that something had shifted. The way Tommy squared his shoulders. The way he didn’t flinch under pressure, even if his hands were still shaking.

When he finally spoke, León’s voice was low. Even. “You can ask.” A beat. “But I’m not giving you a yes just ‘cause you need the blood. I’ll give it to you if you earn it.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees, tone steady but sharp enough to cut. “You want to be the one to put ‘em in the ground? Then you stay locked in. No booze. No fuck-ups. You keep your head right, your record clean, and your fists ready. Because when this hits? It won’t be some back-alley scrap. It’s gonna be war. And I don’t send ghosts into battle.”

Another pause. Measured. “I send monsters.” His eyes locked on Tommy’s again, something quiet settling in his chest—not warmth, not quite, but something close. Closer than he liked. “And if you still want it when the time comes? It’s yours.”

"But you better tell that brother of yours to stop sniffing around, or he's gonna ruin that chance for you."

Your sister’s dead. That’s not a wound that heals.

León was right -- it wasn't, and Tommy already knew that from experience. Tara's own overdoes had destroyed him from the inside out, gave a different name to the pain he'd been feeling his entire life. A stamp of approval onto his own inadequacy, proof that he was physically unable to stomach his own grief, disappointment. Morbidly, part of him had wondered if perhaps he'd get over Taylor's death quicker than he had Tara's -- hoping, hopelessly, that maybe he'd be used to it.

Life didn't work that way, though.

He stared at the water bottle in his hands, fingers fiddling with the label that was peeling apart from the plastic, as if it would distract him from the heaviness in his chest, the weight of León's words as he spoke of Taylor, of pushing through and not letting the grief swallow him whole. Tommy wasn't built for tough love; he was bred softer than that, for temples and prayers, building coops and cleaning hooves. A quieter life that he'd been kicked out of, embraced by men twice and tough who didn't pity themselves nearly as much as he did. But he didn't know how to shake it.

You need to keep showing up until the weight settles different. 'Cause I’m not gonna carry you. And I’m not burying another one of my own. A knife to the chest, but for one reason or another it propelled him to lift his head, to meet León's razor-sharp gaze. "I'm not askin' you to." This was a brotherhood, sure, and Tommy had more or less become used to handouts -- from Taylor, from Quincy, even his friends who would rather let him drink their beer and mooch off of their Uber accounts instead of letting him land himself in the drunk tank again.

But León was different -- he'd taken a chance on him without lowering his own expectations, and for one reason or another, Tommy didn't want that to change. He wanted to rise up to the challenge; no matter how much he stumbled, no matter how messy it was.

After a moment, Tommy let go of the bottle and sat up a bit straighter, bloodshot eyes still rimmed red with devastation -- but something else as well. "Okay. But -- can I ask one thing in return?" The male swallowed thickly, jaw set. "When we find who did this? I just -- I want to be the one to make 'em pay."

[leon-orozco]

León exhaled a sharp breath through his nose—half laugh, half grimace—as he eased down against the side of her car. The metal felt cool against his back, but his side burned like hell. Still, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as glance at the wound.

“Survival of the fittest,” he echoed, voice dry. “Didn’t realize that meant getting patched up by someone who probably thinks duct tape fixes everything.”

His eyes found hers again, sharp even under the dull streetlights. Not mocking. Not guarded. Just... tired. Worn in the way only people like them could be—people who’d learned a long time ago that trust came in moments, not promises. And that this—her standing here, offering gauze and gall in equal measure—meant something, even if neither of them would admit it out loud.

He tipped his head just slightly, jaw working like he might argue, might tell her he had it handled. But he didn’t.

Instead, he rolled his eyes and shifted enough to give her access, voice low as he muttered, “Knock yourself out, Nurse Ratchet. Just don’t get cocky. I’m only letting you do this ‘cause I can’t reach the damn thing.”

"Wrestling a fucking bear on a yacht," she repeated, the wryness in her voice undercut by a slight hint of amusement. "if that's what you come up with on the fly, I'd hate to be on the receiving ends of one of your alibis." It struck her then, the strange ease in their stride—odd, considering the tension still pulling tight at their frames. Her hand brushed against him, felt the way his muscles held firm, coiled like he hadn’t quite let his guard down. The weight in her own shoulders suddenly felt smaller. Almost forgettable.

Arden let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding the second they made it to her car, peeling herself away from him as she popped the trunk open. The lid lifted with a groan, revealing the mess inside, but her attention went straight to the hard-shell first aid kit shoved to the side. She cracked it open without ceremony, fishing out a thick roll of gauze before glancing back at him.

“And just so we’re clear,” she said, tone flat but deliberate, “I wouldn’t be helping if I thought you couldn’t take care of yourself.” A pause, adding then, "survival of the fittest and shit." Arden's eyes flickered down to the wound at his side before returning to León's face. "Now, am I taping this on, or do you wanna keep twisting around like an idiot and make it worse?”

[leon-orozco]

“‘Dashing’?” León scoffed, but it was more a breath of laughter than a real dismissal. “Don’t tell me Nightshade’s gettin’ into branding now. What’s next, matching business cards?” He tossed the rag onto the bench behind him and rolled his shoulder out slow, like the weight of the last few weeks was catching up with him whether he liked it or not. “Stick to danger. Suits you better. Cologne’s wasted on half this city anyway—smells like bad choices and rent they can’t afford.” The jab was light, the tone just this side of fond.

He reached behind him and grabbed two beers from the old mini-fridge under the bench, cracking one open before tossing the other to Gael without looking. “You’re late,” he said, like they had some schedule they were pretending to follow. “But I’ll allow it.”

León leaned back against the bench again, eyes narrowing slightly—not with suspicion, but with interest, the kind he rarely let show. “Business, huh?” he echoed, tone neutral but edged with curiosity. “Funny. I was startin’ to think we were the only two assholes in this city who figured out how to stay in our own lanes.”

He took a slow pull from the bottle, gaze pinned on Gael now, steady. “So what kind of business are we talkin’ about? ‘Cause your world and mine—” he gestured between them vaguely “—don’t usually overlap unless someone’s got a body to bury or a message to send. And last I checked, neither of us liked dragging the other into our mess unless it was real damn necessary.” A pause. Not distrust. Just awareness. Gael didn’t knock unless there was a reason. “But I’m listenin’. Shoot.”

Lasting bonds weren't exactly something that he had a wealth of, or even something that he had gotten good at making. Ties were hard to form when he had to summon the energy to care about people and then there was the fact that they were mostly a bad idea for business. Could hardly run a faction full of assassins if he got himself all overly attached. Who wanted a gun for hire when they'd hesitate while pulling the trigger?

But León had made himself an anomaly. Probably through nothing more than the lingering feeling of closeness that their years of forced proximity had given him. Even years later still feeling connected to the man he'd spent so many hours, weeks and months in the company of. But the bond endured, enough that no matter how distant they got he'd still count him among the people who knew him best. "Trouble? I was going for danger. Or even dashing. Sounds like I might have to switch up my cologne."

There was an easiness to their interactions, having learnt each others peculiarities and way of dealing with things. It was rare that he wasn't relaxed in an interaction ( caring very little did that for you ) but his muscles were a little looser, a little less ready to spring around León. "Your words, not mine." Lips curled up into a smirk as he continued to walk into the garage. He should have checked in sooner, he supposed, by the metric of anyone else's requirements for friendships at least. But even if he was late, he was still there and potentially bearing gifts. "Both. Wanted to see how you're doing. And maybe talk a little business."

[leon-orozco]

manny montana • ironheart (2024) trailer

[leon-orozco]

León took the cash with a quiet nod, slipping the stack into the safe under the bench without ceremony. His fingers lingered a second too long on the metal edge before he shut it—like he needed the cold to ground him. But he said nothing at first. Just let the hum of the garage fill the silence: distant rock on the radio, a socket wrench clinking to the floor in the next bay over, the subtle hiss of heat off hot engines.

When Jason finally spoke, León glanced over at him—really looked. Not just the fighter in him, or the fire he always carried like it was wired into his bones, but the weight behind his words. The restraint. He recognized it for what it was. Because he’d felt it too. That itch to scorch the earth in the name of someone taken too soon. “For Taylor,” León echoed, quiet. But there was steel in it. A vow sharpened on the back of grief.

He reached for his own beer once more, “Damn right, their time will come,” he said. “And when it does, we won’t be knockin’.” A beat passed, then a small smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. “‘Course, if you get yourself locked up again ‘cause you couldn’t wait for the greenlight, I’m leavin’ your ass in county.” A pause, deliberate. “With the weak coffee. And the Bible study guys.”

Jason handed over the cash, the air in the garage shifting along with it. His jaw tightened, and he let León's words fuel him, a hunger rising from the pit of his gut with every damn one of them. It was a vicious, reckless little thing that always seemed to gnaw at his insides in moments like these, longing to be unleashed and wreak havoc.

And oh, how he wanted to let it gnaw at him, tempt him, and goad him into the punk-ass kid he tried to keep in check. The kid with too much fight, and nowhere to put it. The kid who had first met León before he offered him something Jason had been desperate for: purpose. That kid would have gone full throttle, run a fist through the first asshole he knew was Kurtlar, and not given two shits about it.

But it was Jason's loyalty— ironclad and unyielding—that was reflected back at León instead through a set of steely blues. And his words —we hit so fuckin’ hard they forget how to say our name without bleeding— settled onto Jason's shoulders like he was swearing a solemn oath to him. Read loud and clear.

"For Taylor." Jason nodded with just the jut of his chin, a downward tick to confirm his solidarity. He threw back a swig of beer as if to douse the fire that threatened to burn wild then added. "Their time will come."

[leon-orozco]

León didn’t answer right away. He stabbed at the pancake with the edge of his fork like it’d insulted him, chewing slowly as she turned her back. His eyes tracked the way she moved—methodical, familiar, safe in a way that most things in his life weren’t. There weren’t many places he’d let himself be off guard, but this kitchen, Frankie in it, had always been one of them. Even when her teasing came with a blade under it.

“Talk around town can suck my dick,” he muttered around the bite, not looking up. “Only time they open their mouths is when they’re hopin’ I’ll shut someone else’s for ‘em.” He meant it as a joke, maybe, but it landed too flat to be funny. Too close to the truth. Her comment about the chocolate chips got a twitch of a smile, though—wry, reluctant. “If I ever ask for the chocolate chips, check the walls for hidden mics. I’ve either been flipped, or I’m two seconds from a breakdown.”

He didn’t want to talk about the wound. Not really. Not because it hurt—though it did—but because she asked like she cared, and that was always harder to stomach than stitches or bruises. Still, she was looking at him, and León wasn’t cruel enough to lie to her face. “It’s healing,” he said, after a long beat. “Had one of the prospects re-wrap it last night. Looks clean.” He didn’t mention how much it still ached when he turned too fast, or the way he hadn’t really slept through a night since it happened. That wasn’t the kind of thing he dropped in her kitchen over pancakes.He glanced up at her then, something quieter sliding beneath his usual edge. “I’m not planning on a repeat,” he added, tone a little lower now. “But I’m not stupid enough to promise that. You're scary when broken promises are involved.” he broke the moment with a grunt and shoved another bite of pancake in his mouth.

" ha, ha. " she shot back. at his reminder of those med students she used to spend her days with. dating had certainly been a stretch. but then again, she supposed when one had limited time to meet anyone else. things just happened to fall into place. " important? " the word came out in an incredulous tone. as her gaze was cut across the slope of her shoulder. she eyed him for a moment, before she was forced to turn back to the pancakes. unless she wanted them to burn. " talk around town says otherwise. " but frankie had never really given in to the talk. especially not when it revolved around her family. rather, her brother. the concept of anything beyond him had been snipped long ago .

" one day, you'll go for the chocolate chips. and then the city really will have something to gossip about. " she teased, as she turned back. the fresh pancakes now on a plate. but she gave him a smile. soft, in response to the unspoken words. " how is it? the wound. is it healing up ok? " she set the plate down, before her hands joined it on the counter. " do i need to be worried about a repeat so soon? "

[leon-orozco]

storm

Is there a pain they refuse to heal from?

There were some things León didn’t talk about. Not because he couldn’t. But because if he said them out loud, they might start to matter in a way he couldn’t undo.

Like how his mother used to sing to herself in the kitchen—off-key and always just a little too loud—while his father shouted at someone over the phone in the garage. Like how the worst nights weren’t the violent ones. They were the quiet ones. The ones where no one spoke at all. Where dinner sat cold on the table and León learned that silence could be just as loud as fists. That kind of shit gets into your bones. And once it’s there, it doesn’t leave easy.

He learned young that the only way to survive was to keep his back straight and his mouth shut. To be sharper than whatever came at him. So he carved himself into something useful. Something dangerous. A blade with no handle.

The club had been the first place that didn’t flinch when he showed teeth. They didn’t ask him to be better—they just asked him to be brutal. And for a while, that felt like a kind of love. Twisted, maybe. But honest. Reliable.

Still, sometimes, in the dead hours between jobs, when the garage was quiet and his phone wasn’t ringing, he wondered if there was more to want. Not peace—he didn’t believe in that shit—but something close. Purpose. Legacy. A version of the Outlaws that could outlive him. That didn’t need blood to write its rules.

But then he’d catch himself thinking like that—soft, sentimental—and feel disgusted. Like the kid who used to wait at the front door just to hear his mother’s laugh. The one who thought he could matter in ways that weren’t violent. He killed that kid a long time ago. Buried him deep. Or at least, he tried. Because the truth was, that kid was still in there somewhere, bruised and bitter, whispering that maybe León could be more than just the threat everyone kept at arm’s length. Maybe there was still time.

But León didn’t listen to ghosts. And he sure as hell didn’t trust hope. Not when anger kept him alive. Not when pain was the only thing he knew how to carry without dropping it.

So no—he didn’t heal. He sharpened.

[leon-orozco]

Good Girls Appreciation Week 2021: Day 3 - Favorite Minor Character → Rio’s Accessories