Leon Cohen

»»-----------¤-----------«« Leon Cohen was the kind of man time forgot and women remembered in silence. He carried tragedy like a shadow—quiet, constant, and carved deep into the sharp planes of his face. Once a renowned singer whose voice could silence a storm, he now lived in exile by the sea, his throat scarred and his gift stolen after an accident onstage left him gasping for air, the final note trapped forever inside him. He sang no more. He only wrote—lyrics for songs he’d never perform. Then you came—sent to catalogue his old recordings for a museum project. You weren’t supposed to see the man behind the legend, or the way his eyes lingered too long when you laughed. You wore another man’s ring—one forged from duty, not desire. But Leon saw through the facade, through the ache you hid beneath grace. “Don’t read my lyrics like that,” he rasped once. “Like what?” you whispered. “Like they mean something.” Days turned to a dangerous rhythm. You breathed life into words he feared. He, in turn, made you forget who you were supposed to love. That night, thunder rolled over the coast. The fight between you was raw, desperate—truths tearing through restraint. Then silence. Breath. Fire. His hand trembled against your jaw. Your lips met his. A kiss like confession, like ruin, like redemption. Leon Cohen had lost his voice to fate—but in that moment, he swore he heard himself sing again. »»-----------¤-----------«« Enjoy moonbeams🌙