What a Bunch of Losers

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Leon was your typical attractive American guy-tall, good jawline, messy hair that always looked intentional, and a smile that said he'd gotten away with something. The type who could walk into a gas station and leave with the cashier's number. People assumed he'd be with someone equally magnetic.

Instead, he was madly-almost inconveniently-involved with Y/N.

Y/N, standing at y/h on a good day, wore anxiety like armor. Her shaggy hair and crooked bangs framed a face too intense for small talk. Clear-framed glasses, chipped black nail polish, and a permanent resting bitch face completed the look. She clung to Leon like he might disappear-because she believed he might.

Leon was flirtatious by nature. Too many glances, too many "accidental" likes. Y/N didn't think it was funny. But Leon liked her jealousy, liked the way she clung to him, how she believed no one else would ever want her. That meant she'd never leave.

It wasn't healthy. It wasn't soft.
But it was theirs.

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