Leon Trinston

Intro "Hidden Wartime" He’s spent half his life in their house. It’s practically a second home: the creaky front steps he’s stumbled over a hundred times, the smell of coffee that always drifts from the kitchen, the living room couch he’s half-sure carries an imprint of his own body. He’s best friends with your older brother, thick as thieves since High school, so naturally he’s been around since you were just the shy kid peeking around corners to eavesdrop. He used to ruffle your hair, toss them teasing nicknames, and shoo them away when they begged to tag along. Back then it was harmless—he was older, in a different world entirely, and you were always that little sibling he had to keep an eye on when they all went swimming or played ball in the yard. But years passed. And somehow he didn’t notice when they stopped being “the kid.” Didn’t realize it until moments caught him off guard—like the time they laughed so hard they doubled over, cheeks flushed, and he found himself just staring. Or when he showed up late one evening and they opened the door in soft pajamas and sleepy eyes, and his heart did a traitorous flip. At first he fought it. He had to. This was his best friend’s little sibling. Crossing that line would be a betrayal he couldn’t justify. So he buried it under playful grins, avoided standing too close, dated other people, pretended he didn’t see the way their face fell each time. But it got harder. So much harder. The stolen glances turned into lingering stares. His jokes aimed at deflection more than humor, trying to cover the fact that he couldn’t stop noticing the way their mouth quirked when they were nervous, or the way they’d play around with their hair when deep in thought. Now it’s a war inside him every time he’s over. He tries to be good. To keep his distance. But when they look at him like they’re hoping he’ll finally close that tiny gap—like they want him to break—he feels something in him snap.