caylee

1. The Environment as an Extension of Self

Stop letting your characters stand in empty white rooms.

2. Dialogue as a Duel

Brontë’s characters rarely say exactly what they mean, but they always mean exactly what they feel.

3. The Power of "Moral Fever"

Brontë’s characters act on principles, even if those principles are wrong.

4. The Confessional Voice

Invite the reader into the diary entries of their heart.

5. The "Tension Threshold"

Brontë isn't afraid to let things get messy, dramatic, and slightly unhinged.

Stop being polite with your characters. Let them want, let them suffer, and let them speak their truths—even if it ruins them.

An example for a fic:

The skyscraper is a vertical tomb of glass and expensive mahogany, currently being redecorated in various shades of arterial spray. 

You, Leon, and the hounds move through the executive suites with a grim, mechanical rhythm. Mara and Striga are low-slung blurs of black fur, snapping spines and tearing throat-flesh before the infected can even groan, while you and Leon provide the percussion—the rhythmic sounds of your suppressed rifle and his gun.

We’re quite the family unit, you think, your inner monologue dryly noting the absurdity as you step over a headless corpse in a three-piece suit. The federal agent, the assassin, and two hellhounds. We should get a minivan. Or a tank.

You reach a transitional stairwell, a brief pocket of dead air between the slaughter on the fortieth floor and whatever nightmare Arias has waiting on the forty-first. 

Leon signals for a halt, leaning his back against the cool, reinforced glass of the exterior wall. Outside, Manhattan is a sea of flickering lights and rising smoke, but inside, the silence is so heavy it feels like it’s vibrating.

Leon looks... frayed. The "suave" agent from the Amazon has been replaced by a man who looks like he’s been held together by cheap bourbon, and sheer force of will for a little too long. He’s staring at his hands—the same hands that held you in the darkness of a jungle bunker years ago—and they’re shaking, just a hair, a rhythmic tremor that mirrors the flickering fluorescent light overhead.

Look at him, your brain whispers, the usual sarcasm sounding uncharacteristically hollow. The DSO’s poster boy is currently held together by nothing but sheer, stubborn momentum and a very high blood-alcohol content. 

"You're doing that thing again, Kennedy," you say, your voice echoing softly in the concrete cavern of the stairwell. 

You lean against the opposite wall, the cold cinderblock biting through your tactical vest. Mara rests her heavy, furry head on your boot, her golden eyes fixed on Leon as if she can sense the fracture lines in his soul. 

"The 'weight of the world' stare. It’s a bit dramatic, even for you. What’s the verdict? You want a cigarette or a hug? I only have one of those, and I don't smoke."

He lets out a breath that sounds like a weary, metallic rattle. He doesn't go for the quip this time. He doesn't even look at you, his gaze anchored to the grime-streaked floor. "I'm fine. Just... a long night."

"Don't lie to me, Leon. We’re past the part where we pretend we’re just colleagues," you counter, your tone losing its playful edge. You push off the wall, stepping into the dim pool of light between you. "Talk to me. Or don't. But stop pretending the floor has all the answers."

He finally looks up, and the depth of the pain in his blue eyes makes the remaining sarcasm die in your throat. It’s raw. It’s the look of a man who has seen the bottom of the abyss and realized it has a basement. 

He opens his mouth to dismiss you again, but his jaw tightens, his throat working as he swallows the lie.

"D.C.," he begins, his voice low and jagged, like broken glass being dragged over silk. "My squad. We were just... doing our jobs. Helping the people we were told to protect." He pauses, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists. "It was a trap. The explosion didn't kill them all instantly. It just... turned them into things I’ve spent my whole life trying to stop."

He looks back down at his hands, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I had to look into the eyes of men I’d shared drinks with, men who had pictures of their kids in their lockers... and I had to put them down. One by one. It doesn't matter how many times I wash them, I still feel the warmth of the blood on my hands."

The silence that follows is thick and suffocating. 

God, Leon, you think, a wave of fierce, unbidden empathy washing over you. You’re a good man in a world that eats good men for breakfast. And you’re trying to carry the corpses of everyone you couldn't save.

You take another step, closing the distance until you're inches from him. You can feel the heat radiating from him, smell the sweat and the sharp, metallic tang of the city’s blood.

"You think you’re the only one who sees faces when you close your eyes?" you ask, your voice barely a murmur. It’s your turn to be vulnerable, to let the mask slip just enough to let him see the wreckage underneath. "I killed him, Leon. The man who raised me. The closest thing I had to a father. I drove the knife in myself."

Leon’s head snaps up, his eyes searching yours.

"I knew he deserved it. I knew he was a monster," you continue, your fingers—still smooth, still lacking the prints the Connections stole—trembling just a fraction. 

"But that doesn't stop the guilt from sitting in your chest like lead. I killed my family and sometimes... sometimes I wonder if I’m just a different kind of monster for being able to do it."

You reach out, hesitating before you rest your hand lightly on his forearm. "I know what it’s like to wonder if the blood will ever actually wash off, or if we’re just stained for good."

Leon’s gaze drops to your hand. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he shifts, his hand coming up to cover yours, pinning it against his chest. You can feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart through the fabric of his shirt.

"Does it?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. "Does it ever wash off?"

"No," you say, leaning in just a fraction, your faces so close you can feel the warmth of his ragged breath on your lips. "It doesn't wash off. But you get better at ignoring the smell. And sometimes... you find someone else with stained hands who doesn't mind holding yours."

Leon’s eyes drop to your mouth, and for a second, the years of alcohol and isolation seem to vanish. He looks at you with a hunger that isn't about blood or viruses—it’s about the desperate, human need to not be alone in the dark.

He leans in, his forehead coming to rest against yours. "I thought I’d never see you again," he breathes, his voice thick with a sudden, devastating honesty. "I thought you were just another ghost I had to live with."

"I'm a very persistent haunting, Leon," you whisper, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the rough, sandpaper texture of his stubble. "Hard to exorcise."

He lets out a soft, huffed laugh, a sound of genuine, broken relief that vibrates through both of you. His fingers tighten around yours, and for a heartbeat, the skyscraper and the zombies and Glenn Arias don't exist. There is only the heat of him and the way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing in this rotting world that makes any sense.

But then, a distant explosion rocks the building, the glass behind him rattling in its frame. The moment breaks, but the tether remains.

Leon pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression a mix of weary resolve and something softer, something that looks dangerously like hope. "After this... if we both make it out... no vanishing acts. Deal?"

You offer him a small, playful smirk, though your eyes are dead serious. "Only if you promise to stop drinking that bottom-shelf swill. Even my hounds have better taste than that."

"Deal," he says, a genuine, lopsided smile finally touching his lips. He checks his gun, the "static" in his eyes replaced by a sharp, focused light. "Let's go finish this. I've got a date with a very expensive bottle of bourbon and a woman who refuses to give me her real name."

"Focus, hero," you tease, whistling for the hounds as you head for the door. "But for the record? I like the sound of that."

──────•✦•──────

The elevator ride to the penthouse is an agonizing crawl of smooth chrome and the hum of high-end machinery. 

You stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Leon, watching the floor numbers tick upward with a clinical focus that doesn't quite mask the electricity still buzzing between your skin and his. Mara and Striga are lying at your feet, their ribs heaving in silent, synchronized pants.

Leon is staring at his reflection in the polished elevator doors, adjusting the collar of his jacket. "So," he says, his voice a low vibration in the small space. "The Amazon was three years ago. You didn't exactly leave a forwarding address. What does a Ghost do when she’s not haunting the DSO?"

You lean your head back against the mirrored wall, watching the way the LED lights play over your hair. 

"I did the tourist thing," you say, your tone light, almost airy. "Visited some monasteries in Tibet. Very quiet. Very peaceful. The monks don't ask about your body count as long as you're good at hauling water. I helped build some filtration systems in sub-Saharan Africa, too. Turns out, my hands are actually pretty good at fixing pipes when they aren't snapping necks."

Leon turns his head, his blue eyes searching yours. There’s a softness there now, a genuine curiosity that makes your chest feel tight. "You seem... different. Less like you’re waiting for a ghost to drag you into the floor."

"Peace is a strange thing, Leon," you murmur, the playfulness fading into a gentle, honest weight. "It’s quiet. It’s boring. It’s exactly what I thought I wanted. I thought if I did enough good—if I saved enough people from thirst or disease—the red in my ledger would eventually turn to pink. Maybe even white."

"So why come back?" Leon asks, his voice dropping an octave. "Why dive back into this sewer? Why NYC? Why Arias?"

You look down at your hands—those smooth, fingerprint-less tips that have done so much damage and so much healing. Because the world is a meat grinder, Leon, and I’m the only wrench I know.

"A dog that weeps after it kills is no better than one who doesn't," you murmur, repeating the mantra that has become the spine of your conscience. "My guilt will not absolve me, Leon. I could build ten thousand wells and pray until my knees bleed, but I’ll still be the woman who put a knife in Konstantin’s throat. I’ll still be the Ghost."

You take a step toward him, the distance in the elevator vanishing. You can see the tiny, silver scar near his eyebrow, the way his jaw tightens when he’s thinking too hard.

"I realized that running away to be a saint was just another way of hiding," you admit, your voice a soft, blunt confession. "Maybe I can’t be 'good' in the way the world defines it, but I can use this violence—this thing they built me for—to protect the ones who don't deserve it. If someone’s hands have to be bloodied to stop Arias, better they’re mine. They’re permanently stained anyway."

Leon watches you, his expression unreadable for a long moment. You expect him to pull away, to give you that "government agent" look of pity. Instead, he reaches out, his thumb catching a smudge of soot on your cheek and gently wiping it away. The contact is electric, a warm brand against your skin.

"You're a hell of a philosopher for an assassin," he quips, though the humor doesn't reach the solemn depth of his eyes. "But I think you’re being too hard on the dog. Sometimes the weeping is what keeps the animal from becoming a monster."

"Maybe," you say, offering him a small, playful smirk that feels more like a shield than a smile. "But the dog still has to bite. And Arias has been asking for a nip for a long time."

The elevator dings—a cheerful, synthetic chime that signals the end of the respite. The doors slide open to reveal the penthouse foyer, a glass-walled palace of opulence and impending death.

"I'm just trying to do what's right, Leon," you say, checking the action on your rifle one last time. "Even if it means getting my hands dirty again. I'm okay with the blood. As long as it's the right blood."

Leon nods, a sharp, determined movement. He steps out of the elevator first, his gun leading the way, but he pauses at the threshold to look back at you.

"Just make sure you save some for me," he says, a flicker of the old, cocky Kennedy returning. "I’d hate for you to have all the fun while I’m busy being a hero."

"Don't worry, Kennedy," you chirp, whistling for the hounds as they trot out into the fray. "There’s plenty of misery to go around."

──────•✦•──────

The roof of the skyscraper is a chaotic mess of shattered glass, lit by the strobe-like flashes of gunfire and the orange roar of burning fuel. 

You arrive just in time to see Glenn Arias decide that humanity was overrated, merging with that hulking mountain of meat, Diego, into a singular, grotesque monster. It’s a towering monument to overcompensation—all exposed muscle, sharp claws and a heart the size of a prize-winning pumpkin thumping visibly in its chest.

Really, Glenn? you think, as you slide into a firing position. The 'giant monster' look is so last decade. 

"Striga, Mara—eyes up!" you bark, your voice cutting through the roar of the wind and the screech of the Tyrant. 

The hounds don't need the reminder. They move like ink stains across the rooftop, snapping at the Tyrant’s massive heels with a primal ferocity, distracting the beast just long enough for Leon to perform another one of his patented, death-defying rolls.

You find yourself working in a three-way harmony you never expected. Leon is a blur, his gun barking in a steady staccato; meanwhile, Chris Redfield is laying down heavy suppressive fire, looking exactly like the underworld whispers described him—which is to say, like a man who eats boulders for breakfast and spends his downtime bench-pressing tanks.

But the Tyrant isn't interested in going quietly. With a guttural roar that vibrates in your teeth, it swings a massive, mutated arm in a wide, sweeping arc. Chris dives behind a ventilation unit, the metal crumpling like tinfoil under the blow, while the mercenary with him is tossed backward like a ragdoll.

The beast pivots with terrifying speed, its eyes—milky and filled with ancient malice—locking onto Leon. It lunges.

"Leon, move!" you scream, but the rooftop is slick with rain and viscera.

Leon tries to pivot, but his boot slips on a patch of Tyrant gore. He tumbles backward, his momentum carrying him toward the edge of the skyscraper. For a heart-stopping second, he’s airborne, the dark New York skyline yawning open beneath him.

You don't think. You sprint, your heart hammering against your ribs, and launch yourself into a slide. You catch his wrist just as his fingers lose their grip on the stone ledge. The sudden jerk of his weight nearly tears your arm from its socket, and you let out a choked, jagged cry of pain.

"I’ve got you!" you gasp, your heels digging into the narrow gutter. "Don't you dare let go!"

Leon’s eyes are wide, reflecting the chaos of the burning city, but he recovers instantly. He grabs your forearm with his free hand, his grip a vice. 

With a grunt of pure adrenaline, you haul him back over the ledge. He rolls onto the gravel, breathing hard, but he doesn't have time for a thank you.

The Tyrant is already looming over you both. It raises a massive, clawed fist, and you barely have time to cross your arms in a desperate block. The blow hits you like a freight train. You’re sent skidding across the roof, your side slamming into a heavy steel pipe with a sickening crack.

The world goes white. Breath is a myth. You can feel at least two of your ribs go from 'functional' to 'shrapnel' in an instant.

Well, your brain wheezes through the haze of agony, at least we know the floor is solid. Also, I think I can taste my own lungs. That’s a new one.

Leon is up in a second, emptying his magazine into the Tyrant’s exposed heart, while Chris emerges from the wreckage of the vents, a fresh grenade launcher in hand. The beast is reeling, its regenerative capabilities finally failing under the sheer volume of lead and hate.

You struggle to your knees, clutching your side, your breath coming in shallow, agonizing hitches. Mara is at your side in a heartbeat, her low growl a protective shield between you and the monster.

"I’m... I’m fine," you cough, tasting copper. "Kill that... overdeveloped science project!"

Chris doesn't need a second invitation. He manages to jam a grenade into a particularly soft-looking crevice of the beast's new anatomy. 

The explosion is a satisfying thump that sends the monster careening off the side of the building—a falling star made of bad choices and failed science.

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the distant sirens of the city and the heavy, ragged breathing of four survivors who really, really need a vacation.

Leon is at your side before the monster even hits the pavement, his hands hovering over your shoulders, his expression a frantic mess of relief and guilt. "You’re hurt. Those ribs—"

"I’m feeling great, Leon," you wheeze, forcing a jagged, painful smirk through the dirt on your face. "Just... help me up before I decide to stay here and become a permanent rooftop fixture."

The silence that follows is brief. You don't wait for the high-fives. You spot Rebecca Chambers slumped near the helipad, and your heart gives a traitorous little squeeze. She’s wearing a wedding gown—a lacy, ivory monstrosity that is currently being ruined by soot and virus-induced sweat.

A wedding gown? you muse, holstering your rifle and ignoring the way your fractured ribs scream at the movement. Arias really was the 'stalker-ex' from hell. Hope she kept the receipt.

You stumble over to her, dropping to one knee. When you press the back of your hand to her forehead, the heat is alarming—it’s like touching a radiator in a Moscow winter. Her skin is flushed a deep, feverish crimson, and her breathing is a shallow, desperate rattle.

"Leon! Chris!" you shout over the dying roar of the fires. "The girl’s burning up."

Chris is at your side in a second, his boots crunching over shattered glass. He looks down at Rebecca, his jaw tight with a frustration he can’t punch his way out of. "The aerosolized vaccine strain—it’s downstairs. Maybe it can help."

Leon looks between you and the stairwell, his face a mask of conflict. He wants to help, but he’s still limping from the fall, and the building is crawling with the 'standard' brand of undead.

"Go," you command, your voice snapping back into its professional, lethal clarity. "I’m taking her. I’ll move faster through the zombies with the hounds. You two handle the clean-up and get that chopper ready for a quick exit."

"You’re injured," Leon protests.

"I'm feeling great." you lie through your teeth, already hooking an arm under Rebecca’s knees. "Besides, I've got the best bodyguards in the business."

Chris looks like he wants to argue, but Leon gives him a sharp, knowing nod. He trusts you. That thought is a warm spark in your gut that you quickly extinguish. No time for feelings; there’s science to be done.

You heave Rebecca up into a fireman's carry. The weight makes your vision go momentarily grey as your ribs protest the shift, but you swallow the groan. 

You whistle once—sharp and piercing. Mara and Striga are instantly at your heels, their hackles raised, sensing the shift from 'defense' to 'escort.'

You don't use the elevator; you use the emergency chutes and stairs, descending like a shadow through the guts of the building. Mara and Striga flank you, their heavy paws thudding rhythmically on the metal grating, their eyes scanning every dark corner for any remaining enemies.

The lower lab is a sanctuary of cold steel and blue light. You lay Rebecca down on a sterile exam table, the lace of her dress snagging on a tray of scalpels.

"Okay, Doc. Let's see if all those papers you published were worth the ink," you mutter. You find the specialized canister sitting in its pressurized case. It’s a sleek, metallic cylinder attached to a clear, medical-grade mask, filled with a swirling, shimmering violet gas—the vaccine for A-Virus.

You don't hesitate. You cup the mask securely over her nose and mouth and twist the release valve with a steady, clinical hand, listening to the sharp hiss of the aerosol as it flows into her lungs. "Don't die on me, Chambers. I hear the BSAA’s retirement plan is actually pretty good."

You stand back, watching her. For a long, agonizing minute, the only sound is the hum of the air filtration and the steady panting of the hounds. Then, Rebecca’s chest heaves. She gasps, her eyes snapping open—wide, blue, and clouded with a momentary, frantic confusion.

"Arias... the virus..." she wheezes, trying to sit up.

Mara, sensing the 'alpha' of the lab is back, decides this is the perfect moment to offer her own brand of medical assistance. The massive black dog lunges forward, her long, pink tongue delivering a slobbering, enthusiastic lick across Rebecca’s cheek.

"Mara! Gross. Down," you command, grabbing the dog by her collar and hauling her back. "She’s a scientist, not a salt lick."

Rebecca blinks, wiping a smear of dog saliva from her face with a shaking hand. She looks at you, then at the two monstrous shadows sitting obediently at your boots. "Who... who are you? Where am I?"

You offer her a small, playful smirk—one that doesn't quite reach your eyes, but holds a flicker of gentle warmth. You don't give her your name. Names are for people who want to be remembered, and you're still working on not being a ghost.

"I'm here to help," you say softly. "And you're in the lab. You’re alright, Rebecca. The vaccine worked. The 'groom' is currently a puddle on the sidewalk forty floors down."

She looks at the wedding gown in horror, the reality of the night crashing back into her. You place a hand on her shoulder, your grip firm and grounding.

"Take a breath," you murmur. "Chris and Leon are upstairs. They're probably arguing about who gets to pay for the helicopter. You're safe. The hounds might be scary, but they’re on your side tonight."

Rebecca looks at you, a spark of recognition in her eyes—not of your face, but of the kind of soul that lives in the dark to keep the light burning. "Thank you," she whispers.

"Don't thank me yet," you chirp, the sarcasm returning as you hear the heavy boots of the rescue team approaching. "You still have to figure out how to clean up after this whole mess."

──────•✦•──────

The dawn is beginning to crawl over the New York skyline, painting the smoke and the wreckage in a pale, unforgiving grey. 

You walk Rebecca out through the shattered glass of the lobby, your hand resting lightly on the small of her back to keep her steady. She’s still in that absurd ivory dress, though it’s now more of a tactical-grey-and-blood-spatter ensemble.

Fashion week in Manhattan really has gone downhill, you think. But hey, she’s walking. I’ll count that as a win for my healthcare initiative.

Outside, the air is thick with the rhythmic sound of rotors. The street is a sea of black tactical vests and blue BSAA patches. It’s a literal army of "good guys," and you feel the familiar, itchy urge to vanish back into the shadows where things make sense. 

Mara and Striga trot beside you, their dark tails low and their ears pricked, acting as a two-dog escort between you and the dozens of rifles currently being pointed in various, non-committal directions.

Chris Redfield is standing by the lead transport, looking like a man who just wrestled a giant boulder and won. He watches you approach, his arms folded over a chest that’s roughly the size of a refrigerator. His eyes are narrowed, scanning you with the clinical intensity of a man who has spent twenty years hunting things that look exactly like you.

"Rebecca," Chris says, stepping forward to take her from you. His voice is a low rumble of relief, but his gaze never leaves your face. Once she’s safely handed off to a medic, he shifts his weight, the leather of his gear creaking. "And you are?"

You stop, keeping a respectful distance. You offer him a lazy, two-finger salute, your expression the picture of sarcastic nonchalance despite the fact that your ribs feel like they’ve been through a woodchipper.

"I freelance," you shrug, your voice smooth and light. "I saw 'giant monster' on the weather forecast and figured I’d come see if the rumors about the BSAA salary were true."

Chris doesn't laugh. He doesn't even crack a smile. "You aren't on any manifest. And those... things," he gestures to Mara and Striga, who both let out a simultaneous, low-frequency growl, "don't look like standard-issue K9s."

"They're rescues," you chirp, your eyes sparkling with a dangerous, playful edge. "They have a very specific diet. Mostly people who ask too many questions."

The tension in the air is thick enough to choke on. Chris’s hand drifts toward the sidearm at his hip—not an aggressive move, but a habit of a man who doesn't like loose ends. You feel the familiar wary animal shifting in your chest, calculating the distance to the nearest alleyway, the trajectory of a smoke pellet.

Then, a familiar silhouette breaks the line of soldiers.

Leon steps into the space between you and Redfield. He looks like a wreck—his jacket is torn, his face is a map of soot and dried blood, and he’s limping just enough to make you want to scold him. But he stands there like a shield, his back to you and his eyes on Chris.

"She’s with me, Chris," Leon says. His voice is steady. It’s the voice of the man from the Amazon—the one who made promises to a woman he barely knew. "I know her. She’s good."

Chris looks at Leon, then back at you, the suspicion in his eyes warring with his respect for the man standing in your defense. "You’re sure?"

"I’d bet my life on it," Leon says. He pauses, then adds with a dry, classic Kennedy smirk, "Mostly because she’s already saved it about four times. My pride can’t take a fifth."

Chris exhales, the tension slowly draining from his massive shoulders. He gives you one final, lingering look of wary appraisal before turning to coordinate with his team. "Get her checked out, Kennedy. And get yourself a medic."

Leon doesn't move. He waits until Chris is out of earshot before he turns to face you. The chaos of the mop-up crew—the shouting, the radio chatter, the sirens—all seems to fade into a dull hum.

He looks at you, and for a heartbeat, the years of distance cease to matter. There’s a lingering look between you, heavy with the weight of things that can’t be said in front of a BSAA firing squad. He looks like he wants to reach out; he looks like he wants to tell you to stay.

"So," he says, his voice dropping to that low, intimate baritone. "The 'vanishing act' part of the evening. Is that starting now?"

"The lighting is better for it," you murmur, your gaze softening. You reach out, your fingers briefly grazing the sleeve of his jacket—a touch so light it might have been an accident. "And I think your friends in the blue vests are starting to wonder if I’m a high-value asset or a high-value target. I’d rather not stay for the debrief."

He says your name then, a desperate, hopeful note catching in his throat.

"I’ll see you around, Leon," you interrupt, your voice playful but firm. You step back, a shadow retreating into the gloom of the early morning. "Remember the deal. No more bottom-shelf bourbon. I’ll know if you’re cheating."

You whistle, a short, sharp trill that cuts through the noise. Mara and Striga instantly pivot, melting into the shadows at your heels.

"Hey!" Leon calls out, a small, genuine smile breaking through the grime on his face. "Next time, I’m picking the venue!"

"Better have a dog-friendly patio!" you shout back over your shoulder, already halfway into the darkness of a side street.

You don't look back. You can't. You can feel the heat of his gaze on your back, a warm brand that follows you into the city’s labyrinth. 

You’re a Ghost, a freelance reaper, a woman with no fingerprints and a heart that’s finally starting to beat again. 

As you fade into the Manhattan fog, the dry, sarcastic voice in your head finally goes quiet, replaced by the simple, rhythmic sound of your own feet—and the two loyal monsters following you home.

You clutch at your chest, the shock of finding an entire person standing behind you making your skin feel like it teleported 1cm to the left without you.

“You weren’t hearing me,” he says by way of an apology. You snatch the earbud back.

“That’s the POINT.”

“You said that info was on a thumb drive?”

“I said it will be,” you say, frazzled. “I’ve got like twenty balls in the air right now, Leon. Don’t break my concentration.”

“Can I help with anything?”

“Respect the status,” you snap, referring to the Do Not Disturb designation that he had bypassed by showing up in person.

Your tone echoes back in your ears and you shut your eyes, sighing and rubbing at a spot on your forehead. You can feel a monumental headache building, but that’s no reason to be nasty. Leon’s under the same tight deadlines.

“Sorry.”

“I get it,” he says, picking up the empty wrapper from your breakfast bar and transferring it to your trash can. There’s a deep scratch on his arm, gummy and raw, held shut with butterfly closures.

“I’ll have it ready by EOD,” you say, pronouncing the acronym like it’s a word. Ee-odd. It’s an olive branch poking up through the hellfire: an inside joke between the two of you. The corner of his mouth stretches into that half-smile.

“Roger, Earworm.”

The bastard thinks it’s a funny nickname: always the voice in my ear. And it is funny, because it was never mean-spirited. Some of the other field operatives get borderline malicious with their interpersonal nicknames.

You toss a balled-up paper at him; he twists and it bounces off his hip.

“So fuck off, Toothskin.”

When you’d first thrown that one back at him you’d won one of his genuine laughs, the kind you only got when you really surprised him. Always making it by the skin of your teeth.

A trainee had said once that your nicknames sounded mean, that they made you sound like unhygienic trolls or rotted goblins. They’d suggested something like Angel and Lucky instead, because it was sentimentally the same thing and positivity would strengthen your team dynamic.

Three guesses if they’d ever completed the program.

You’d never told Leon about that lunch room conversation. You didn’t need to watch him die laughing.

In your cubicle, his smile stretches a little wider, then he glances at his watch. Cursing under his breath, he leaves at an urgent clip. You’re already facing your computer again with your stolen earbud crammed back in.

The silent ticking of the clock remains deafening.

You love the sounds of coming home after a long day, but tonight it all sounds especially serene.

The thump of your shoes, kicked off carelessly in the foyer.

The shf of stiff fabric shed from your tired body, the blissful whisper of well-worn, downy-soft pajamas slipping over your skin.

The delicate clink of a wineglass; the full-throated cascade of a generous pour.

You take a heavy sip and lean against your kitchen island, closing your eyes and releasing a long breath. God. Trapped at your desk all day and then six hundred interceptions when you were finally allowed to leave? You felt like a fucking running back making a mad dash for the endzone. The night air had never tasted so sweet, once you'd finally made it through the doors.

Your oven makes a series of quiet clicks, coming back up to temperature. Even if dinner’s just thawed leftovers, again, you’d set yourself up for something fresh, too, because you fucking deserve it. You’re already starting to smell it. You take another sip of wine and smile.

And then you remember. It strikes you like a horrible bolt of lightning.

At the same time, your phone starts ringing on the countertop.

Incoming Call Toothskin

“Fuck!”

You want to throw your wineglass. How the fuck did you forget? > Answer

“Fuck, Leon, I’m so sorry, I completely fucked it–“

“Hey, whoa,” he says, but you’re still talking.

"It’s in my fucking bag, I was on my way to drop it off and I got–“

He says your name; you barely hear it.

“Fuck! I can’t believe I just fucking walked out– I’ll come drop it off, okay? I can– I’ll just … shit, the fucking oven–"

"HEY," he says, raising his voice. "I’m already in the car. What’s your location?"

When Leon knocks at your door, you swing it open and then hurry back into the house like a reverse doorbell-ditch. He blinks, hand still raised in a frozen knock.

“Just come in!” You shout over the beeping of the kitchen timer.

Leon steps inside and closes the door softly behind himself, looking around.

You hadn’t turned on any lights in the front hall; the kitchen sits as a literal light at the end of the tunnel. Leon clocks your tumbled shoes under your hanging coats, the splay of your keys on the side table where you’d tossed them. Ready to be fucking done with the day. Despite the dark, the front hall is cozy. Your coats hold whispers of your perfume. There’s a hint of clean laundry and an undercurrent of something more complex, almost earthy; the house smells lived in. By you.

It also, overwhelmingly, smells like fresh bread.

You’re setting the steaming, crackling loaf on a cooling rack and slapping the oven gloves off of your hands when Leon wanders into the light of your kitchen.

"I didn’t know you baked,” he says, eyes on the dark golden crust, split open where you’d scored the dough.

"Not really mission-critical information," you say, and pull open your work bag that you’ve hauled onto the kitchen island. Digging around, you find the thumb drive, but it’s tumbled into the bottom next to another thumb drive that looks identical.

Neither are labeled.

"Of fucking course," you mutter, pulling out your laptop with jerky, frustrated motions. It clacks against the countertop; you stab the power button to boot it up. “What’s ten more hours, right?”

Leon doesn’t respond. He’s assessing: you, first and foremost, strung out and self-disparaging; the kitchen, dishes in the sink, scattered messes all over; the fridge door, covered in novelty magnets and a dry-erase calendar; the corkboard on the wall.

His attention snags.

Among photos and receipts and postcards (two are from him, brought back from some vibrantly unpleasant mission locations, as a joke), incongruously, there’s a large champagne-gold envelope with a broken wax seal, clearly torn open with some violence.

It’s stabbed into the corkboard with a paring knife.

You toss one of the thumb drives back into your bag and shove the correct one towards Leon across the kitchen island.

"Bingo," you say, then catch what he’s looking at. He gestures to it.

“Jury duty?”

You know he clocks your dark expression before you 180 into something that matches his jesting tone.

“Yeah the circuit court jumped on the discounted stationary when Party City closed.”

“You hate weddings that much?”

“It’s my fucking ex,” you say venomously, picking up your wine glass. “I almost have half a mind to show up just to congratulate him on the brass cojones. Maybe give him a swift kick in them.”

“Sounds like you should.”

“He’d get too much satisfaction from my missing plus-one,” you mutter. “Like aw, your job couldn’t make it tonight? Dickknuckle,” you add under your breath.

Leon’s watching you, a faint crease between his brows.

“What?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he starts, and your brow creases. “Do you want a plus-one?”

You chuff a laugh, but he doesn’t smile, so you drop yours.

“What, like you know a guy?”

“No. Like I am a guy.”

Your eyebrows lift.

“You want to attend my ex’s wedding.”

“If it means mission success in the swift-kick department, sure,” he says. You narrow your eyes.

“You don’t even know the guy.”

He glances at the stabbed envelope on the corkboard. The blade is lodged; you'd used some force.

“I trust your judgement.”

You cross your arms, searching for a teasing twinkle in his eye, a telltale twitch of his mouth, but he’s just gazing back at you levelly.

“You’re serious,” you realize.

“Always am.”

“Please,” you scoff, but you uncross your arms and reach for your bread knife, throwing him a sidelong glance. Considering. “I’ll think about it.”

He picks up the thumb drive, tosses it in the air and catches it.

“Do that,” he says. “I’ll let myself out.”

“Wait,” you call after him, and he backs up to lean through the kitchen doorway. Wordlessly, you hold out a thick, steaming slice of the fresh bread. “For the trouble.”

He takes it.

He’s halfway to the front door when you hear him groan loud, almost obscene.

“Fuck that’s good.”

The front door closes.

His voice echoes in your ears for a while. Your cheeks are only pink from the heat of the kitchen; you turn and shut the oven off.

Earworm The mission, should you choose to accept it:

A photo loads into the text thread and Leon taps it open.

It’s the wedding invite. There’s a narrow slit bisecting the date, the same width as a paring knife blade.

He skims the details.

Mid-July. Out of state. Outdoors, in a nature preserve. Strictly formal, but no black or white dress.

He eyes the font, the thick textured paper with raw, ripped edges, the embossed leaf detailing.

It’s a vegan menu, isn’t it, he texts back.

Earworm Pescetarian

He snorts. Another text drops in from you.

Earworm You can plant the invite. Grows forget-me-nots

Of course it does.

Earworm Thought about wearing white but they might have me shot

There’s strength in numbers.

Earworm Enabler

Is this not Operation Rock The Boat?

Earworm Can’t rock it if we’re kicked out. Game plan is malicious compliance

… you’re putting me in a dress, aren’t you.

Earworm Hmm. Tempting.

There’s a fucking chandelier in the fitting room.

Under the sparkling, crystalline light, surrounded by three floor-to-ceiling mirrors, you take in your chosen battle dress from every angle.

“Yeah, that’ll do it,” you say out loud.

“You’re done already?” Leon’s voice is muffled, closed in another cubicle across the wide, thin carpet.

“It’s a slip dress,” you call back. “Not many fastenings to tangle with.”

It’s an avocado green slip dress, silky and alluring, with thin shoulder straps and a scoopy cowl neck. It’s definitely your shade. It highlights your freckles and your eyes; it shows off your arms, your collarbones, your neck. What it doesn’t reveal, it hints at, like a prize behind a curtain.

You turn again to admire the back. It’s a lot of cake to be bringing to someone else’s wedding, but he invited it.

You step out into the main space. There are more chandeliers overhead and a mirrored sort of apse at the end of the carpeted runway.

You can hear clothing rustling behind the door of the fitting room directly across from you.

“Sure you can manage all those buttons?”

The door opens and Leon’s there, looking down to fix the lay of his lapels.

“Not quite my kryptonite, but thank–“

He looks up and forgets what he's saying. Forgets where he's going, too. He stands frozen outside his fitting room, just staring at you.

That’s okay; you’re staring at him, too.

The last time you’d seen him in a suit, you were behind a desk watching a grainy, quarter-screen, black-and-white camera feed. That had had very little impact.

This? This has impact. It’s punched your stomach into a somersault.

This suit is camel-brown, the dress shirt a pastel green. The cut of the suit accentuates his broad shoulders, his tight waist; the pants make his legs look longer. The shirt brings out the green in his grey eyes, makes his skin – his lips – look a little pinker.

You were already well aware of how handsome he is, in a rugged, untouchable, dangerous Special Agent sort of way. But he’s standing here in the suit that you picked to compliment your dress and you can’t remember anyone looking more fucking attractive ever in your entire life.

And the way he always carries himself with that self-assuredness, like nothing could ever bowl him over?

He’s staring at you, and he’s looking a little bowled over.

The moment is gone just as quickly as it arrived. He pushes his hand through his hair and the unflappable Leon is back.

“Don’t you clean up nice.”

You shut your mouth with a click.

“Speak for yourself,” you say, heading for the mirrors at the end of the runway. He follows you, standing just behind your shoulder.

The two of you are a fucking one-two knockout. You look so good together, you can’t face it for more than a few blinding seconds before your chest starts feeling tight.

You sit down heavily on one of the velvet chairs between fitting room doors and manage not to put your head in your hands. Leon looks down at himself, smoothing a hand over the buttons of his suit.

“You don’t like it.”

"No, it’s fucking perfect," you bite out.

"What’s wrong?"

"This whole thing is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous." You're short on breath. You can feel panic rising, tight bands around your lungs. You do put your head in your hands, clutching at your hair to stop the tremble in your fingers.

"Hey," he says, crouching down in front of you. "Where’s this coming from?"

"Why am I dragging you into this? I don’t care about him or what he thinks! I don’t care!"

"I volunteered," Leon reminds you.

"Why?"

He does the facial equivalent of a shrug.

"No bioweapons? Open bar? You tell me.”

You unclench your fists from your hair and sit back to look at him, your head against the wall. He meets your gaze, calm and even.

He’s so fucking beautiful. You can’t let on about the gymnastics routine your stomach’s doing.

“If his brother's there, don't rule out bioweapons,” you say.

“Mm. BO?”

You shake your head. “GI.”

“Noted. Book of matches for a quick escape.”

You close your eyes, huffing a little laugh through your nose.

“We’re not locked into anything,” he tells you quietly. “You’re calling the shots.”

“Mm,” you acknowledge, and take a deep breath. “Just another mission.”

“With free dinner.”

Something lands on your knee and you open your eyes; it’s Leon’s hand, palm-up. A question. An offering.

You give him a pained look.

“It’s pescetarian.”

“Could be a red herring.”

Your gaze goes wooden. He raises his eyebrows, innocent.

“Ugh, I hate you,” you say, but clap your hand into his waiting palm. He hauls you to your feet. And he’s not done.

"A bait-and-switch?"

"Stop," you groan, shoving him towards his fitting room.

"A shell game.”

"Ignoring you!" The door to your fitting room shuts and you start wriggling out of the dress.

You almost rip it when Leon yells FISH from across the way and you fall into helpless laughter.

Toothskin Have you checked the registry?

I’m liking the 200-year-old sourdough starter

Toothskin Old yeast… what milestone anniversary is that?

200th. Keep up

And then the day arrives.

Leon puts the Porsche in park and you both sit back, observing the battlefield.

The nature preserve vista stretches vast beyond the front bumper, all dappled sunlight and swaying greens with scatters of bright, energetic color. The sky is a vibrant blue and dotted with cotton-puff clouds, the birds are singing, and there’s enough of a breeze to prevent stagnant air without upsetting meticulous hairstyles. It’s a perfect day in a gorgeous setting.

You’re clutching the invite, unawares, and the heat and moisture from your hands has warped the textured paper. Leon glances down and gently tugs it from your grasp.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m just… trying to remember the last time I saw him.”

“On the Save the Date.”

“Heard him, then. I’m trying to remember what he said to me.”

“Do you think he remembers?”

“No.”

“Blank slate, then,” Leon says, glancing in the rearview. Guests are meandering towards the gap in the low, rustic wooden fence, trickling into the sanctuary. “What are your boundaries?”

“What?”

“As your date. We covered our story; what’s your stance on PDA?”

“Oh.” You wave it off. “I don’t expect you to do anything.”

He scoffs, incredulous. “We’re at a wedding, as a couple, and you look like that,” he says, indicating your whole look with a pointed raise of his eyebrows. “You want people to think you’re dating a eunuch?”

You stare at him like you’re going to fire something back, but there’s nothing in the chamber. He’s disarmed you. Maybe fried your circuitry a little.

“Here,” he prompts, and holds his hand out over the gear shift. “Do you like holding hands with a partner?”

You can’t be this flustered. He’s just gathering intel for the undercover operation. This is tactical.

You take his hand, feigning nothing but mild agreement while your traitorous pulse picks up.

“Sure, it’s fine.”

He adjusts, lacing your fingers together, watching your face.

“Still fine?”

“Still fine.” His palm is warm and rough, callouses at the base of every finger from intensive strength training. His thumb lightly strokes your hand.

“If I touch your back?”

You tamp down a shiver, keeping your voice neutral.

“Fine, from the waist up.”

“Your hair?”

“Why my hair?”

He gently frees his hand, brushes his fingers over your ear like he’s fixing a windblown lock.

“Okay, yeah, that’s fine.”

He traces his thumb from your temple down to your jaw, delineating the side of your face.

“Is this okay to kiss?”

Despite the car still running and the AC blowing, your skin is hot and buzzing and you’re feeling that tight panic start to threaten your lungs again. It’s too close and intimate in here. You swat his hand away.

“Look, I know you’re good at reading a room, okay? So I’ll trust you. Just don’t fucking grope me in front of the bride’s grandma and I think we’ll be fine.”

“Killjoy.”

You sharpen on him. He just blinks at you owlishly, unthreatened.

You poke him in the side, where you know he’s sensitive. He clamps his arm down and jerks away.

“Alright, roger! No show for grandma!”

It pokes you back, right in the funny bone. You collapse into laughter, forehead pressed into his shoulder, and the bands around your chest loosen.

When you recover, he’s still smiling quietly, smug. You give him a shove, then double check your makeup in the visor mirror.

“Alright, let’s go, before all the worst seats are taken.”

The ceremony is gorgeous.

The altar stands under the strong, reaching branches of an ancient oak, in a serene forest clearing bordered by flickering tea lights in pristine mason jars. The bride looks Barbie-perfect in her flawless bright white dress, and the groom – your ex – is practically glowing himself. She’s probably got him on a juice detox, yoga regimen and seventeen-step skincare routine. But it’s working.

They look beautiful together, and hopelessly in love.

Your hands have knotted in your lap and your jaw is clenched tight.

You’re not jealous.

Well. You’re not jealous of her for who she’s marrying. You might be jealous of… everything else.

Something touches your wrist. It’s Leon, and just the warmth of his fingers on your skin dissolves your acidity.

Your hands unknot as Leon slips his fingers in with yours, his palm a warm and comfortable weight. You hook your free hand loose at his elbow, hugging his arm, and he leans in to press a kiss to your temple, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You lean into it.

At the end of the ceremony, the freshly-minted husband and wife make a bottleneck that guests have to pass through on their way to the reception tent. You’re in line, wondering when ‘congratulations’ will stop sounding like a real word.

There are only seven people in line ahead of you. You’re breathing even, because you’re not anxious. You’re fine.

“Should I tell him he’s got a seed in his hair?” Leon’s speaking low right next to your ear, his eyes on the man in front of you in line. You refocus; it’s the type of seed that travels on the wind with a bit of fluff, like a dandelion. The guy’s hair is dark enough that it’s not hard to spot.

You turn your head to speak in Leon’s ear.

“No. Ten he’ll never notice.”

He smirks.

“Fifteen his wife won’t, either.”

Five people ahead of you.

“Bad bet, she’s hardly looked at him since they stood up. Twenty it’s a random stranger that tells him.”

“Bad bet, you’re a random stranger,” he says, his breath tickling your ear.

Three people ahead of you. You’re biting back a smile.

“Damn.”

Leon’s hand hasn’t left your waist.

“You came!”

Your ex lights up when he sees you next in line, and you’re even more surprised when he goes in for the hug. Leon feels you move towards it on rote and lets you go; the hug is light and short-lived. Your ex’s frame seems smaller than you remember, but maybe that’s because you’ve had Leon glued to your hip. He’s taller than your ex, maybe all in the swoop of his bronze hair, but he’s definitely… bigger.

“God, you look incredible,” your ex is saying, but there’s no depth or heat to it. It sounds just like it would if you were two former friends that hadn’t seen each other in almost a decade, and that hits you… strangely. You were lovers, for fuck’s sake, you were together for more than three years! Why did he invite you here if it wasn’t to gloat? To rub all this in your face? You hadn’t separated on good terms, but there isn’t a shred of animosity you’re getting from him right now. He truly just seems happy to see you.

And, annoyingly, that comes as a relief even while it stumbles you. It’s like you were holding the end of a wire at tension only to find it wasn’t attached to anything. You can’t help but feel a little childish about it, but in your defense, the wedding invite completely out of the blue? That was a crazy thoughtless move. How many other exes had been invited today, and how many had shown? How many other invites were still stabbed into a corkboard somewhere?

So maybe you’ve stretched your legs for nothing. His cojones aren’t brass, he’s just kinda dumb. And you know what? Good for him.

You return to Leon’s bubble and his hand is right back at your waist, casually possessive. You wind your arm around his back while you enthuse – and it is genuine – how stunning and happy the bride and groom look together. Your ex pulls his new wife close and kisses the side of her face, then gestures to Leon.

“And who’s your lucky gentleman?”

Leon lets you introduce him – you're calling the shots – shaking hands before settling in against you again, and you can feel his attention’s on you. You can see them seeing something on his face and you look up at him.

Your tummy backflips.

His eyes are so soft and fond, looking between yours. There’s a shade of something that looks like pride, too, and you wonder if he can feel that the fight’s left your body.

He kisses your forehead, then offers the bride and groom another congrats and beautiful ceremony and we’ll see you inside, opening your exit. You walk out together from the shade of the forest, into the July sun, and the light breeze greets you smelling sweet and hot and floral.

When you’re out of earshot, he speaks.

“What’s our sitrep?”

You sigh, defeated.

“You wanna go, don’t you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You signed on for violence.”

“Maybe at first.” The two of you have to break to walk apart on an uneven stretch of path, so he takes your hand instead. “We leave now, what’re the optics?”

“A shellfish allergy.”

“Weak,” he heckles. He’s right. Leaving now would look suspicious.

You tug his hand, grimly indicating the reception tent when he meets your gaze.

“That’s the hot zone. Last chance to run.”

He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, tightens the lace of your fingers together.

“I don’t give up that easy.”

“How did you two meet?”

Of course, as soon as the seat beside Leon vacates one ass, this one drops into it. You remember her from Thanksgivings and Christmases with your ex’s family, and here she is again with that ominous glint in her eye, wine glass already in hand. You grip Leon’s thigh under the table in warning.

“Hi, Auntie.”

“Hello, dear. You’re looking so well," she says, scrunching her nose condescendingly. "So how’d you dupe this one?”

Leon straightens from his casual lean, facing her better while resting his arm over the back of your chair.

“Aren’t we charming.”

Wine Aunt sets her chin in her hand, one eyebrow cocked as she looks Leon up and down, indiscreet. He’d abandoned his suit jacket a while ago, sleeves rolled up his arms, tie stuffed into his pocket so he could unbutton his collar a little. He does look fucking delicious, but you want to scoop out her slimy eyes for ogling him like that.

“Mmm. Certainly,” she purrs at him. So she’s forfeited her tongue, now, too.

You see Leon give her a subtly disgusted up-down in return before he turns his full attention to you instead.

“Met you at work,” he says to you, and you’re obsessed with the way he’s effectively answering Wine Aunt while also cutting her out of the conversation. He glances up at your hair, brushes it back from your forehead. “It was just your voice at first, lots of phone calls. And then I got to meet you.”

Your tummy’s not just fluttering, it’s kicking you. He’s too good at sounding like this, warm and fond and genuine. It’s starting to pinch behind your ribs.

It’s just a show. You’re playing in it, too.

Wine Aunt’s bringing her glass to her lips, muttering something like isn’t that sweet, expression fully soured. You can see she’s turned away, scanning the tables for her next victim, and your quiet smile at Leon grows a sharpened edge of victory. Then she leaves without another word and you have to bite back a full grin.

“Did she really just try to come on to me?”

“She’s notorious.”

“Mm. I thought about saying we met at an AA meeting, but she wouldn't know anything about that.”

Your eyes sparkle with dark delight. “Leon Kennedy. You are here for violence.”

You both jump when the speakers give a sudden feedback screech, the DJ raising his arm in apology before checking the microphone again. He announces it’s time for the speeches, and Leon exchanges a harrowed glance with you before grabbing both your empty drinks glasses.

“Same again?”

“Stronger.”

You haven’t been to a single wedding where the speeches didn’t set your teeth on edge.

Tonight might be the worst yet. You’re glad, at least, that there’s a literal spotlight somewhere else in the tent, leaving your table in heavy shadow. Both you and Leon look like you're on trial awaiting a heavy verdict rather than listening to weepy, heartfelt sentiments and weak jokes that rarely land.

Your fingers draw aimless lines up and down your drink glass, smearing through the condensation. Your eyes are on Leon’s back; he’s hunched forward, elbows on the table.

You listen to different iterations of the same gist, hear the same buzzwords, over and over.

Proud. Deserve. Love. Peace. Safety. Long life. Happiness. Together.

They all land like darts, piercing you.

Halfway through the father of the bride’s speech, Leon gets up, unreadable. He sets his hand on your back and leans down, his voice low and even.

“I’ll be right back.”

It’s calm, casual. Normal.

The giveaway is when his whiskey goes with him, and the direction he heads.

Not for the bathroom. Not for the bar.

The exit.

The reception tent is set up next to a huge, beautifully manicured garden courtyard, all high shrubs and fragrant bushes and bursting clusters of flowers lining stone paths that stretch and curve and cross over each other, a loose labyrinth. In the middle of it all stands a large stone fountain, its cascade a gentle burble rather than a showy spray, its wide pool full of blooming lilypads and the white and orange flicker of koi fish. Above it is a massive circular pergola, a slat-wooded ring dripping with cafe lights and vining flowers like a great wild halo.

The loudspeakers in the tent become just a shapeless thrum once you’re past the first wall of shrubs, and the summer chorus of crickets and frogs work to drown it out entirely. The sun’s almost down; fireflies are flashing and flickering in the dense foliage as you navigate the paths, heading for the sound of water.

And that’s exactly where you find him.

Leon’s sitting on the edge of the stone pool, head down, whiskey glass hanging from loose fingers. For a moment you just stand quietly and watch him breathe.

“Hey.”

He looks up; straightens and clears his throat, casually sipping at his drink.

“Hey,” he echoes.

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell him, moving in closer. His eyes reflect the cafe lights like little stars as he looks up to meet your approach. There’s a subtle tightness to his expression, a shadow lurking, but if you didn’t know him like you do, you’d never recognize it. He’s too well trained.

“Do what?”

“Hide.”

He doesn’t deny it. He lowers his gaze and downs the last of his drink.

“You’re missing the speeches,” he says instead.

“Chad has the microphone."

He huffs a humorless laugh through his nose. A breeze meanders through the gardens, stirring through his hair. Not really thinking about it, you trace one finger lightly across his forehead, back over his ear, his hair falling softly back into place. He meets your eyes but your gaze is distant.

The both of you have sacrificed so much, willingly or otherwise, for your line of work. That’s why it’s not you at the sweetheart table tonight, and why it probably never will be. You’ve learned how to ignore the empty spaces, to close them off within yourselves so you can keep moving forward, because you can both see the bigger picture and your places within it.

What you do creates space for happy endings, fights to maintain that space. Tries, every day, to broaden it.

You know you’ve both long given up on the idea that the fight will ever be over. After two decades, it’s inescapable: there will always be something lurking in the shadows, growing in labs, lying in wait. The only way this will end for you is in death; as long as you’re alive, you have to keep going. That’s your lifelong commitment.

You can train yourself to endure the emptiness all you want. It’s still fucking lonely.

But if today has proven anything to you, it’s that you’re not alone. For once, you’re not by yourself behind a desk in some dark safehouse while Leon's out who-knows-where, running with Death on his heels. For the first time, he’s here, he’s right in front of you, you can touch him, comfort him the way you’ve always wished you could, hearing him breathe brokenly down the comms on particularly difficult missions.

And what missions weren’t difficult?

“Thank you for being here,” you tell him quietly, distantly. You card his hair back over his ear, still busy in your own head, just liking how it feels. His hair is soft, and his strands of silver look like threads of gold in the warm, soft lighting.

His hand, resting on his own thigh, brushes your leg through the silky fall of your skirt. You’re standing between his legs at the edge of a bubbling fountain, playing with his hair while fireflies dance in the fragrant summer air around you.

Your fingers hesitate, starting to curl like a dying vine near his temple as the awareness sets in. But before you can draw your hand away, he dips his head to brush your fingers against his hair again.

Don’t go.

His eyes close and his head sways back when you comb both of your hands into his hair, nails scratching lightly along his scalp. His hands are settled on your legs now, just leaning there, still rested on his own thighs. His shoulders are loose, tension drained, and his lips are parted.

It’s such a show of trust that it almost overwhelms you. Not only are you blocking sightlines but his head is in your hands, and despite the nooks and shadows of the courtyard all around you, he's got his eyes closed. This is more surrendered than you’ve ever seen him.

You know he’s lethal, body honed not just to handle weapons, but into a weapon itself. He can snap a spine with the heel of his palm. He can crush a skull with his foot, send a body absolutely sailing with the strength of his legs.

But he’s also been one of the kindest, gentlest people you know. He cracks stupid jokes when he knows you’re wound up, but only after checking in with you. He looks at you with such adoration. He touches you with respect and care.

Is all of it really just for the role?

His lashes are a thick, dark sweep over the tops of his cheeks. You run your thumb over his eyebrow, lightly down the bridge of his nose, and he opens his eyes. You can see the green in his irises as he studies you; the dark halo of blue that rings them.

“I like this better," he tells you.

"What?"

He touches his ear, miming an earpiece, then sets his hands on your hips, light. Easily moved or brushed away. You do neither.

Your heart thumps a little faster. This touch is not waist-up.

This isn’t the role.

You lean down, speaking directly against the shell of his ear.

“Don't get used to it, Kennedy.”

You’ve barely finished saying his name before he’s turned his head and caught your lips in a kiss.

You draw back a little, startled, your lips buzzing. His eyes are half-lidded looking up at you, unapologetic.

“No one’s watching,” you check.

“I know.” He looks down at your lips.

Your hands skim his jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin.

“This was never about aiding in my revenge, was it.”

He shakes his head. His thumbs are stroking your hipbones through the silk of your dress.

"I just wanted this," he admits.

Suspended within the summer song of crickets and frogs, under whispering leaves and beside softly burbling water, you lean down and kiss him. His hands slide up to your waist, mouth so tender on yours, kissing you back while the fireflies wink and dance around you.

You’re not alone.

On AO3

When she flicks a kernel at you, hitting your cheek, you peer over at her with narrowed eyes as you start to cycle through the channels again, certain there has to be something worth watching. "What is that supposed to mean?" you ask as you pick up the offending piece of popcorn and set it on the coffee table in front of you, perhaps proving her point by not throwing it back at her.

Sherry grabs her soda from the end table next to her, noisily gulping down nearly half of it before letting out a satisfied 'ah'. "I mean, you were like, what… sixteen when you went to college—" "—fifteen—" "—you can't tell me you weren't soaking it up at those college parties."

Your brows rise as you chuckle, recalling your abysmal social life in college. "Sherry, I hate to break it to you, but my peers had little interest in hanging out with some grubby kid." Settling on a movie you and Sherry have seen too many times to count, you give up your search, tossing the remote on the couch between you. "And besides, I didn't exactly have a whole lot of time—"

"Oh my god," she gasps, interrupting you. "You were a nerd."

Ordinarily, you would consider yourself above reacting to insults—to be fair, you're a doctor, of course, you were a bit of a nerd—but the venom in her voice makes you straighten as your jaw slackens. "I—I was not a nerd!" you stammer, then, with the grumpiness of a petulant child, mumble, "I just had a really heavy course load, and pre-med isn't exactly a walk in the park."

"That sounds like something a nerd would say." She does a poor job of hiding her grin behind her soda, laughing and leaning just out of reach as you try to swat at her. Relaxing back into the seat with a satisfied smirk, you watch it shift into something contemplative as she presses her lips together. Her fingernails tap, tap, tap on the aluminum can.

You wait a moment, tension weaving through your body as you wait for her to ask whatever it is that's suddenly made her so fidgety. When she doesn't take the plunge, you do. "What is it?"

She's silent for a second, then inhales and rips off the band-aid. "Is Leon coming? He's missed the last few visits." You will yourself not to make a face, but it must be doing something, because Sherry's brows draw together and she slides across the couch cushion toward you, asking, "What?"

Truthfully, it's been a while since you last spoke to Leon—probably the longest since you two first met eight years ago.

The strain between you two has been palpable since your confrontation after your return from Spain, so much so that even Hunnigan set aside her strictly professional persona to ask you if everything was okay between you and him.

"Rough patch," is what you told her because at the time, that's what you thought it was. Your anger in the aftermath of your argument didn't last long because, true to your word, you couldn't be mad at him—the situation, maybe, but not Leon. You set aside your stubbornness and reached out, and the two of you tried to carry on as normal, but it was clear that something had fractured—something you're now sure is beyond repair.

The time between movie nights grew longer, and the check-in phone calls grew shorter, until the only time the two of you saw each other and spoke was during the monthly visits with Sherry.

The last four of which he's missed—and she's obviously noticed the trend as well. In the visits you had with her in the first few years after Raccoon City, she would get anxious as the visit was coming to an end, repeatedly ensuring she knew the next day you both would be there to visit her, as well as the contingency date in case both of you were out on assignment on the specified day. Given how her relationship with her parents was and what happened to her during the outbreak, it was no wonder that she exhibited such behavior.

By the fourth year, you insisted to Simmons, her appointed guardian, that she see a therapist. When he resisted the idea, you told him the suggestion was based on your professional opinion, not a personal one. You may also have, in not-so-many-words, said that you would voice your concerns up the chain of command until Sherry was placed in the custody of someone who cared more about her well-being and less about poking and prodding her, using the "good of humanity" as an excuse.

You were certainly bluffing, as you would've likely been told to kick rocks in the most government-official way, but Simmons, at least, seemed to think you held more sway than you actually did back then, because she was in therapy sessions within the next week.

Since then, her anxious attachment seems to have lessened, or at least gotten easier for her to cope with, but both you and Leon realize how important these visits are to her, and in the past, when one of you wouldn't be able to make it, you'd send word through your handlers to the other. You're positive he knows what day it is, given that the visitation schedule is set months in advance.

As she's gotten older, she's been afforded a few more freedoms—she's got her own phone (that is heavily monitored), she's been taking a few college courses (that are also heavily monitored), and she's been allowed to visit you at your apartment (you guessed it, heavily monitored).

But that level of security means there is an agent stationed outside your door and on every floor of the building, as well as several strategically positioned on the surrounding city blocks.

It should make you feel safe to know how well your apartment is currently protected, but it only leaves you unnerved. You're a fish trapped in a bowl, with nosy onlookers tapping on the glass, leaving their smudgy fingerprints all over the surface.

You smooth your sweaty palms over the thighs of your jeans. "No, I don't think he's coming," you answer, willing your voice to remain steady—a practiced precision you've had years to master.

Sherry still sees through it, and the worry on her face deepens. "Is he… upset with me?" she asks carefully, picking at her nails nervously.

You quickly shake your head, grabbing her hands before she can make her cuticles bleed. "No, it's nothing you did, I promise."

Worry shifts to curiosity. "Is… Are you two fighting?"

Your mouth opens to lie, a generic excuse hanging on the tip of your tongue, but you make the mistake of meeting her bewildered stare, and it evaporates. So you shrug your shoulders, unconvincingly, before averting your gaze; the movie you'd seen so many times before becomes even more interesting.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see her adjust in her seat, turning toward you with her arm hooked over the back of the couch. "Does it have to do with that woman from the Harvardville incident?" she asks.

Your head snaps to look at her with your mouth agape. "How do you even know about that?"

She has the mind to feign guilt, smiling sheepishly. "Claire."

You exhale a huff of air through your nose as you roll your eyes, regretting for a moment the part you played in the lie to the federal government that allowed Claire and Sherry to keep in frequent contact. Claire Redfield, the blabbermouth that she is, also called you about what transpired last year. A bioterror attack on an airport that you should have been deployed to in order to help with containment had you not already been on assignment in Eastern Europe.

Leon was sent instead.

From your understanding of the reports you'd read afterward, it culminated in exposing that the WP Corporation had acquired not only the t-Virus but also the G-Virus from a researcher who had escaped Umbrella prior to the Raccoon City incident, the same researcher who had assumed a new identity and was now working for the pharmaceutical company, and who was using the outbreak at the airport as a sales pitch to the leader of Barjirib—a nation in political turmoil.

What you heard off the record from Claire was that she and Leon met an officer who seemed very interested in Leon. She whispered it to you over the phone as if it were a scandal you had the right to know about.

When you sighed into the phone and said, "Claire, he's a grown man; he can do what he wants," she sputtered in response, confused.

"But, aren't you two—"

"We aren't anything."

She must have heard it in your voice, the way your throat constricted and how tears welled in your eyes, because she immediately grew quiet and then changed the subject just as hastily. She hasn't brought it up since. In fact, she hasn't mentioned Leon to you at all.

And of course, there was the rumor mill circulating around STRATCOM about the whole thing despite Hunnigan's best efforts to squash it. You pretended not to notice her sympathetic look when you walked into the break room in time to hear two of the other agents talking about the "hot special forces officer that Kennedy bagged."

To be honest, even a year later, you still don't know whether there's any truth to the gossip. Leon never mentioned it, and you never asked—a very large part of you was afraid of that confirmation and what it would mean. Jealousy was never an emotion you were particularly good at handling, so you avoided it as much as you could, which meant avoiding Leon.

You were practically a ghost around the office when he wasn't on assignment, volunteering for missions you knew would keep you away for weeks at a time. The few times he called to check in, the calls usually went to voicemail until guilt eventually won out, and you answered. Even then, you hurried through the conversation, sticking to one-word answers.

Is it childish?

Absolutely.

You're well aware this only deepened the chasm between you and Leon. Selfishly, you may have hoped he wouldn't let you slip through his fingers so easily—that you were someone he'd fight to keep. You were disappointed when he didn't.

"We're not fighting," you say truthfully, because you're not. You'd actually have to talk to fight.

"But you're upset with him," she notes, as if she herself is trying to make sense of your very confounding feelings.

"I'm—" You pause, brow pinching with thought. "I'm just upset."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sherry offers with a kind smile.

A wave of adoration falls over you as you consider her. She's always been so sweet, and despite everything that's happened to her—everything she's had to endure—she's remained so compassionate. After seeing the worst that mankind has to offer, you hope that she'll always keep that kindness. It is something the world desperately needs more of.

"I'll be okay," you assure, despite the shake in your voice.

She doesn't look like she believes you, but she nods anyway before snatching the remote from the couch. "Okay, but we need to change this because I am not watching Pride and Prejudice again."

Laughing, you grab a handful of popcorn before lounging back into the plush cushions of your couch, letting Sherry pick the movie. She picks a comedy she convinces you is really good (it's not). About halfway through, you get up to grab another soda and ask her if she wants one. Her eyes don't leave the screen as she gives an affirming hum, picking the last few kernels from the popcorn bowl.

The rest of your apartment is dark, save for the glow of the TV. The sounds of the city are muffled outside—just faintly, you can hear police sirens, far enough away that your skin doesn't even prickle at the noise. You quietly sing to yourself, a song that got stuck in your head on your drive into work this morning.

You pull open the fridge door, squinting as the bright light blinds you for a moment before plucking two cans of soda off the shelf. You're debating grabbing the piece of cheesecake you have left over from the Italian place down the street when the phone rings—the shrill sound jolts you. As your heart pounds against your ears, you lose your grip on one of the cans, and it hits the floor with a sharp, metallic clank before erupting into a fizzy, uncontrollable spray all over your kitchen.

"Fuck," you hiss.

"You okay?" Sherry calls from the living room, clearly not worried enough to see what all the commotion is about.

Rrring.

Quickly, you pick up the can, still dribbling everywhere, and set it in the sink, mindful of the wet floor even in the dim light. "Yeah, the phone just scared me," you say.

Slowly, you glance over your shoulder with narrowed eyes at the offending object. As it rrrings again, dread pools in your stomach. No one calls your landline anymore, except for maybe a telemarketer or the odd crank call. It is Friday; maybe some degenerates have nothing else going on.

Rrring.

"You gonna get that?" Sherry asks as she tips her head against the back of the couch to look at where you're standing in the shadows of your kitchen.

Blinking, you stride one, two, three steps across the floor, the linoleum squeaking under your sock-covered feet. With a grimace, you think you've stepped in some soda. You set the other can of soda down on the counter before reaching for the phone. You don't know why your hand trembles as you pick up the receiver and hold it to your ear. "Hello?"

"Hey," the voice on the other end responds. "It's Chris."

You swallow the lump that forms in your throat. It doesn't sound like him—Chris Redfield talks with warmth in his voice; it's hearty and full, wrapping around you and making you feel at home. This person sounds hollow, as if you could yell into them and hear the echo all the way down.

Ice courses through your veins, frozen tendrils that snake throughout your body. Your mouth goes dry as you greet him without any enthusiasm, "Hey, Chris."

He lets out a shuddering breath, and your world tilts on its axis.

Sherry flinches at the loud thump from your kitchen. Her brows furrow as she glances back, not seeing you standing there anymore, and she calls your name. When you don't answer, fear licks up her spine. Carefully, she sets the bowl down and stands, eyes flicking to the front door of your apartment, where she knows one of her guard details, Matthew, is on the other side. He must not have heard the noise; he would have already busted through the door to sweep the apartment.

Moving cautiously toward your kitchen, only feebly lit by your slightly ajar fridge, she blindly reaches around the corner, sure the light switch is on the other side. After a few clumsy passes, she finds it and flips it on. The sight that greets her under the warm fluorescents is you, curled up on the soda-covered floor, your corded phone clutched in your hands. Your face is painfully blank, eyes staring unfocused into the space in front of you.

When she says your name again, her voice barely above a whisper, you don't even blink or look her way. Panic wells up in her like a rising tide. You've always been the lighthouse atop a jutting, sharp cliffside. Steady and unwavering, even in the most treacherous of storms.

To see you so despondent makes her feel like she's adrift at sea.

Kneeling down, she gently touches your shoulder. "What's wrong?" she asks.

You still don't so much as glance at her, but your mouth opens as if you're trying to say something, but the words have lodged in the back of your throat. Looking down at the phone in your hand, she can hear the voice of an unfamiliar man on the other end calling your name.

She pries it from your grip and holds the receiver to her ear. "Hi—Uh, yeah, she'll—she'll call you back, okay?" She reaches up, slots it back onto the hook, hanging up on the man before he can respond, then takes out her cellphone, scrolling through the sparse list of contacts, muttering to you that it'll be all right the entire time.

The spinning ceiling fan above him provides a rhythmic, hypnotic whir that slowly lulls him toward sleep. Exhaustion weighs him down, and despite how it feels like he's sinking into his mattress, there's no comfort in it, not when his body aches and his muscles feel two sizes too small against his bones.

He couldn't even find the energy to get under the covers after barely dragging himself into the shower to wash the grime from his skin. As he watches the fan's shadows stretch and pull with every turn, Leon closes his eyes, ready to teeter over the edge—the world muffling around him.

For just a split second, his brain quiets, thoughts of horrors and death fall to the wayside, disappearing in the background as another memory surfaces. It's one of tenderness and soft lips against his. If he could live in it forever, he would.

Instead, he's abruptly yanked from it as his cellphone rings, pulling him from the memory and the cusp of sleep. Groaning, he rolls to his side, glaring at the phone on his nightstand as it rings a second time, its screen lighting up his room in an eerie blue glow. He debates ignoring it, certain it's Hunnigan calling him in for the debrief he blew off, but at the third ring, he gives up on sleep. Squinting, he snatches the phone and holds it to his face, reading the name that pops up on the screen.

Incoming Call From…

Sherry

"Shit," he whispers as he sits up, his entire body protesting the sudden movement. Hastily, he accepts the call. "Hey, Sherry, I'm sorry, I just got—" She's rambling on the other end, panicked, and when he hears your name in the jumble, he stiffens. "Sherry, wait, wait. What do you mean? What happened?"

"Please, can you just come?" She sounds like a scared little girl all over again, and Leon is already on his feet, tossing on a probably clean shirt and a pair of jeans as he looks for shoes that aren't covered in blood.

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

He makes it in eight.

The agent standing sentry outside the door nods to him, seemingly none the wiser about whatever is going on inside the apartment he's vigilantly protecting, and steps aside. Leon gives three firm knocks, and it's Sherry whose face peeks through as the door creaks open. She glances nervously at the agent before shuffling to the side to let Leon in.

As she shuts the door behind them, she points ahead. "She's just in the kitchen," she says. "She won't talk to me, she's just been staring into space."

When he rounds the corner, his heart falls through his chest at the sight. You're sitting on the floor, knees curled to your chest, and your face is deceptively blank. There's not even a twitch to show you notice his arrival. "What happened?" he asks.

Sherry shakes her head. "I don't know," she says. "She got a call, and I heard a thud and came in here to find her like this. I'm sorry, I didn't know who else to call. Claire is in South America and—"

Lying a comforting hand on her shoulder, he assures her, "It's fine, I'm glad you did."

A tight smile tugs at her lips, and they both return their gaze to you. You haven't moved at all—Leon thinks you haven't even blinked. Slowly, he approaches, not even noticing the sticky floor as he kneels before you. His eyes take in your appearance. When was the last time he saw you—really saw you? Lately, he's more often than not caught a glimpse of the back of your head as you hurry through the office or of your side profile through a conference room window.

More tenderly than he thinks himself capable of anymore, he takes you by the sides of your face, his thumbs tracing the hollow of your cheekbone. The feel of your skin beneath his fingertips is familiar—like a home that no longer belongs to him—and he stoops his head to try to catch your eye, nearly nose to nose with you.

"Hey," he murmurs and whispers your name. It's only then that your stare finally tilts up, catching his.

"Leon?" you ask, your voice laced with confusion, impossibly small. Not like you at all; you're larger than life, a force of nature beyond his comprehension. An unstoppable, unyielding storm that could lay waste to any walls he built, no matter how tall or sturdy he thought they might be.

Smoothing back your hair from your face, he nods. "Yeah," he confirms. "It's me, I'm here."

It's instant, the way your face crumples—a marble statue splintering and shattering all at once. Your brows pinch together as tears flood your eyes, your lip quivering. As you reach up to grasp his wrists, he notices you're trembling, and you inhale sharply, the breath caught somewhere in your chest, leaving you gasping.

"She's gone!" you sob. It's a broken, heart-wrenching sound. Your face contorts with pain and anguish as you hold on to him tighter, as if you're afraid he'll disappear right in front of you. "She's gone, she's gone!"

He's swiping away the tears, but they're falling faster than he can wipe them away. "Who?" he asks.

You can hardly even say her name. You heave between each letter. "Jill!" you choke. Your hands fly to your face, covering it as a ragged wail wrenches itself from you. It's more animalistic than human, like the forlorn howl of a grieving wolf—a sustained, sorrowful noise rife with misery and longing.

Your body convulses with each sob, gasping for breath as you can't seem to get enough to fill your lungs. Leon gathers you into his arms. He holds you firmly, his cheek pressed to the top of your head as he lets you cry and scream, repeating Jill's name until you're hoarse. He doesn't even wince when you claw at his arms because you don't know what else to do with the pain. He endures it for you.

When he glances back at Sherry, he sees her watching the entire scene, a hand pressed to her mouth, eyes glistening with tears, as if the realization has dawned on her that you are human after all.

Two Weeks Later

Leon is out of his element. Tugging at the sleeves of his suit jacket, which are just a tad too short, he glances around the church—dust motes catch in the sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows, and unlit candelabra chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceilings. It smells stale, like decay and aged wood, with a heavy dose of perfume layered on top by a few heavy-handed congregants.

The dozen or so rows of oak pews are full, or nearly so, leaving him floundering for a place to sit, heat crawling up the back of his neck the longer he stands idly at the entrance despite the cold air that still clings to his clothes from the frigid weather outside. Any open seat he sees would require him to disturb an entire row of people to squeeze into, and he's about to resign himself to watching the ceremony from the shadows under one of the balconies at the back of the church when one of the men standing near the dais catches sight of him.

Leon recognizes him instantly by the smile that spreads across his face; he sees you in the way the man's eyes crinkle at the corners and the crooked tug at his lips. He looks different from the pictures hanging on the walls of your apartment, years apart, and far better groomed and dressed than the photos of a fresh-faced college student.

As he comes within arm's reach, he holds out a hand, which Leon takes, the two men exchanging a firm but friendly handshake. "You must be Leon," he says, the smile not falling from his face. "Can't believe it's taken eight years for us to meet—" He fidgets with the boutonniere carefully pinned to his lapel. "—Although, I already feel like I know you if I'm being honest."

Leon smirks despite the slight dread at the thought of what you have told your brother about him, especially in recent years. "Your sister talks about you a lot."

"All deeply mortifying things, I'm sure," your brother jokes.

He mimes zipping his lips. "I can neither confirm nor deny."

Your brother motions for Leon to follow him as he starts walking back up the aisle. "C'mon, I'll show you to your seat."

He hesitates, pointing over his shoulder toward the wall he was just about to fasten himself to. "Oh, that's alright, I was just going to sit in the back out of the way."

He receives an incredulous look in response, the expression far too similar to one you've given him dozens of times over the years. "Don't be ridiculous, you're sitting up front with my sister—" He scans around. "—She's around here somewhere, been running around like a chicken with its head cut off all morning. Besides," he lowers his voice. "I need all the help I can filling out my side of the pew, it's looking bleak."

Leon sees exactly what he means as they reach the front of the church and spot the nearly empty first row on the groom's side, save for a severe-looking elderly man and, presumably, his wife, who gives him a sweet smile as your brother introduces him as your "good friend, Leon" and them as your grandparents. He sits next to your grandmother, with whom he makes polite conversation with until he hears hurried footsteps down the aisle.

"I'm so sorry. The bride couldn't find her veil, and there was almost a meltdown—" You lean down, pressing a kiss to each of your grandparents' cheeks. "Hi, Grandma, hi, Grandpa."

Your grandfather grunts a greeting, one you seem used to, given how you don't let it faze you, while your grandmother coos at you. "Oh, you look so lovely, dear."

Leon feels his breath catch in his throat as he watches you make small talk with your grandparents, and he can't help but agree with your grandmother. He's always thought you were pretty—he'd have to be an idiot not to.

Sometimes he found himself admiring how your eyes change in certain light, or by the way your mouth shapes words as you speak. A barely there smirk on your lips was usually enough to have his heart rattling his ribcage. He's seen you at twenty-three, twenty-six, twenty-nine, and thirty-one, and you've only grown prettier with the years. Even fresh off a twelve-hour, turned seventeen-hour shift, feeling more like a corpse hung out to dry than a person, you were still radiant to him.

Seeing you now, though, is something else entirely. The floor-length dress clings tighter than scrubs or tactical gear, and with your hair curled and pinned up, he feels like he's been struck dead center in the chest. For a moment, it's hard to breathe. From the way heat spreads up the sides of his neck, he's sure his cheeks are tinged red, but he's unable to take his eyes off of you. Instead, his gaze lingers on your lips, painted and glossed, and his mouth goes dry.

When you finally turn your attention to him, he sits a little straighter. Your smile doesn't slip so much as it softens into something less practiced, less poised, like you don't feel the need to put on a performance with him. "How was your flight?" you ask as you take a seat next to him.

"Early," he murmurs. He'd caught the first flight out of D.C. this morning after returning from a three-day assignment on the West Coast at midnight. So worried about being late, he'd changed into his suit in the airport bathroom and driven straight to the church. He smooths his palms down his pants, hoping the sweat gathering there won't leave any streaks. "You—You look nice."

Your brows rise in surprise, as if you're taken aback by the compliment. "That's—thank you," you mutter, shyly averting your gaze. "So do you."

His ears burn, and just as he opens his mouth to reply, the music begins. His mouth snaps shut as the rest of the room quiets. Beside him, you wring your hands together, and while everyone turns to watch the bridal procession march down the aisle, your gaze remains on your brother, watching him the entire time. As the wedding party gathers at the dais, the song shifts to 'Here Comes the Bride,' and your brother's smile widens almost impossibly, eager to see his future wife coming down the aisle.

When Leon chances a glance your way, he notices your eyes have welled up with tears. He can't know what you're thinking right now—but maybe he could hazard a guess. No mother, no father. Just one set of grandparents you keep at a cordial distance. It's just been you and your brother for as long as he's known you. You mentioned your dad once before, in passing, as if he were a bad memory you'd sooner forget.

You love your brother, though. It's as clear as day to anyone with half a brain, and it's never been more apparent than now, as you watch him and his soon-to-be wife exchange vows, desperately trying to keep yourself composed, the telltale wobble of your lower lip making itself known. Your breath shudders in your chest, a slight, nearly noiseless hiccup, as your brother finishes his vows with "Till death do us part."

As you slide your arm through Leon's, he readily lets you lace your fingers through his, squeezing his hand as you try to keep the tears at bay. Only when the bride and groom share their first kiss as husband and wife, with applause erupting in the church, do the tears finally fall from your eyes.

The reception is well underway back at the hotel. The wedding party receives a standing ovation as they strut into the hall to party music, and then the bride and groom enter and share their first dance. Leon doesn't even have to look at you to know that another round of crying has begun, and he slings an arm around the back of your chair, hauling you closer to him as you dab your eyes with a tissue your grandmother handed you from the arsenal she keeps in her purse—apparently it's not the elderly woman's first rodeo.

Only as your new sister-in-law dances with her father does he finally peer over at you. Melancholy paints your features, as if you're watching something that will never be yours. He rubs a thumb along your shoulder, his expression mirroring yours as he stares at you.

When the song ends, you listlessly clap along with everyone else, the corners of your lips trying to tug up into a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Now, we have a very special request," the DJ announces into the mic. "If the sister of the groom could make her way to the dance floor, your brother would like to share a dance with you."

Attention turns to you, and you instantly sit rod straight in your seat, looking at your brother who stands in the middle of the dance floor, gesturing at you to join him. Hastily, you get up and begin to weave your way through the tables toward him. You're already on the verge of tears while your brother smiles at you, holding a hand out for you to take. When you do, you mutter something to him that no one else can hear, his smile widens, and he drags you to him as the music begins to play.

It's something cheesy—the kind of song no doubt played at thousands of weddings, but it still causes the back of Leon's throat to tickle as his eyes sting with tears, watching you and your brother sway together.

"You're lucky I love you," you mutter, feeling the distinct prickle of embarrassment sear up your spine under all the attention, something you'd been adamant about avoiding during the entire wedding-planning process and the exact reason you'd rejected your sister-in-law's request that you be a bridesmaid for her.

"I am," your brother agrees readily. "I was going to give a full slideshow presentation, but I figured you'd strangle me Homer Simpson-style before we got to dinner."

You snort at the image conjuring in your head. "You figured right," you say.

His brows tilt thoughtfully, the grin on his face fading into something gentler—nostalgic. "I hope you know how much I appreciate you," he murmurs, loud enough for you to hear him over the music. You glance away, and he knows you're about to hand-wave him, to move past this entirely too sentimental conversation, but he cuts you off before you can. "I'm serious."

Your eyes meet his, a reflection of your own, and you see tears misted in them. Your brother doesn't cry, you remember, and guilt twists in you that you've been the one to make him cry twice now.

"Everything I am today is because of you—because you stepped up when I needed you to. You've been there for me through everything, supporting me in so many ways I can never repay you for. You didn't have to do any of that."

You cast your gaze downward, focusing on the awkward shuffle of feet between you. "Yes, I did," you mutter. "It's not like I could've just left you on your own."

"You could have," he argues. You're both quiet for a beat, the music surrounding you, though neither of you is paying any mind to it, stepping side to side in an almost, not quite dance, just slightly offbeat. "I know we don't talk about it—"

You go to interject—today is supposed to be a happy day, not one where you dredge up things better left to rot. Unfortunately, you can't stop what's already been set in motion.

"—But I hope you realize none of it was your fault."

It's a gut punch, the air sucked straight from your lungs at his words. Your grip on him tightens only a fraction as your sinuses start to sting, and just at the base of your skull, the beginnings of an itch start.

"It wasn't fair what happened to us—what he did—but we didn't…" He trails off, looking down at you with more sadness than you feel you have the right to. "You didn't do anything to deserve it, and sometimes I feel like you think you did. Like you're trying to make up for what happened to us when we were children, even though you don't hold any responsibility for it."

Smoke-filled laughter rings out amongst the crowd, distant, but still there, just like he said he would be.

"It doesn't matter," you whisper, and the itch turns into a dull throb, pulsating through your ears and straight into your teeth.

"It does," he insists. "You were a child, too, and you've done more than anyone should ask of a child. But I'm all grown up now, and you don't have to keep protecting me. Okay? I'm a big boy. I can bear the burden. You don't have to carry it all on your own."

When you finally gain the courage to meet his gaze, you, perhaps for the first time, see him as the man he is rather than the boy he was, with scraped knees and tearstained cheeks. It's hard to reconcile with the fact that that version of him is now confined to your memories, memories you often wish you could shove into the deepest corners of your mind and set ablaze.

He's the only reason you still cling to them.

Maybe he is right; maybe it's unfair to both of you that you continue to bear the weight of it all on your own. But you can't deny the fear you feel at the thought of letting go—who would you be without it?

"Tsk, tsk, tsk."

Pain radiates through your skull, and for just a moment, you think you see the shadow of someone behind your brother. As soon as you blink, they're gone, and you're left staring at your brother's hopeful face. "Okay," you reply, summoning a relenting look onto your face to mask the lack of conviction in your voice.

Your brother smiles, relief flooding his face like this is a conversation he's been meaning to have with you for a while. "I worry about you, too, y'know? For as much as I know you worry about me."

"You don't have to worry about me," you lie, feeling more guilt for how easily it slips off your tongue.

In typical little-brother fashion, he quickly changes the subject to something you most certainly do not want to discuss right now. "Leon seems nice."

You huff, pinching his arm through his suit, which only makes him laugh. "Don't start."

"What?" he says innocently. "I mean, you tell me a week before my wedding that you're bringing the guy you've been goo-goo for ga-ga over for the better part of the last decade instead of Jill—" He can feel you stiffen under his touch, losing what little focus you have on the dance and nearly stepping on his toes. "What?" he asks.

You trip over your words. "Jill, um—" Your eyes flick to the ceiling, taking note of how pretty the chandeliers look glittering in the lowlight. "There was an… accident. Her funeral was last week."

His mouth drops open as his brows furrow together. "What? Why didn't you tell me? I would have—"

You shake your head, voice trying to remain steady. "It was a small affair, I mean, there wasn't even a body to bury."

"Jesus," he murmurs. "I'm sorry. Are you doing okay?"

"I'm… coping," you say carefully. You weren't. Another lie to add to the pile of guilt.

He murmurs your name like a warning.

A reassuring smile tightens on your lips. "That's why Leon is here—he volunteered to come so I…"

The words die in your mouth, their implication feeling harsher than you intended, but your brother finishes your sentence, regardless, "So you wouldn't be alone?"

You nod. "Yeah."

"If it was hard for you to be here today, you didn't have to come; I would have understood," he says.

You roll your eyes, trying to ease the tension between you. "I wasn't going to miss your wedding," you retort. "You only get married once, hopefully—" "—Hey!—" "—and besides, I think Jill would haunt me if she was the reason I missed this."

"Still, I worry about you," he repeats.

"I know, but you don't have to, I'm fine," you assure.

"Keep on lying, girl," the familiar voice hisses from behind you. "We both know it's all you're good at."

You keep your face neutral as the song comes to a close and applause echoes all around. After you and your brother share a hug, you turn and make your way not back to your table, but to the bar instead. The bartender doesn't question it when you order two drinks—you'd been the one to pay for the open bar, after all. When you feel a presence at your back, you don't even have to look to see who it is. Instead, as the bartender places the two drinks in front of you, you slide one over to Leon, who takes a seat next to you.

One drink turns into three, then into you and Leon giggling together at the bar's corner. When dinner service begins, your chosen entree sits untouched at your table, an unspoken agreement that the two of you would be on a strict liquid diet for the evening. He knew immediately something was wrong when your dance with your brother ended; the stiffness in your shoulders as you retreated had him on his feet in an instant, following you to the bar.

Neither of you spoke as you nursed your first drinks, and it wasn't until halfway through your second that you glanced his way. When your eyes met, the rigidity in your body melted as you leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder. Conversation followed—easier than it had been in years. The more you two drank, the more it felt like old times, before he had screwed it all up.

He can smell the alcohol on your breath, given how close you are as you talk to him. His arm is wrapped securely around the back of your chair, herding you toward him and acting as a barrier between you and the rest of the reception. One of his dumb jokes, the kind you would normally roll your eyes at while pretending not to smile, makes you giggle, and your hand comes up to cover your mouth. His head swims with the sound of your laughter, his gaze fixed on the way your eyes crinkle at the corners as you look back at him like he's the only thing in the room that matters to you right now.

That's how you always made him feel.

As you take another sip of your drink, his focus turns to the lipstick marks on the rim of the glass, and thoughts of you marking him up with your painted lips boil to the surface, bringing a heat that invades his cheeks. He's grateful for the low light at the bar; he's sure you'd see how red his face has gotten.

He wants to kiss you.

His entire body is begging for him to do it, like it'll relieve the pressure that's been building in his chest cavity all night, but the fraction of his brain that's still sober warns him that it'll only make it worse.

"Have I told you how beautiful you look?" he asks suddenly, voice coming out a little louder than he intended.

Your drink hits the bartop a bit harder than you meant, tinking against the wooden surface. You don't even notice the raised brow the bartender sends you. "You might have mentioned I looked good earlier," you reply—your tone is indiscernible, as if you're trying to keep it neutral.

"Better than good," he elaborates, words slurring together in his haste to get them all out in the way he intends them to. "I mean, you always look good, but this is…" He trails off, eyes dropping to the dress's modest neckline. Even the bare hint of your cleavage has him hot under the collar, like some Catholic school virgin. "Beautiful."

It's meant as a compliment, so he doesn't know why you pull away, shifting back in your seat so your legs are no longer nestled between his. The stiffness returns tenfold as an awkward silence settles over the two of you, and you hastily down the rest of your drink to flag the bartender down for another.

It's fortunate, maybe, that your sister-in-law chooses this moment to appear behind the two of you. "You're coming with me," she declares, a mischievous grin on her face. You're drunk enough that you can't hide the grimace that immediately settles on your face at the prospect of whatever she's planning.

Just then, the music fades as the DJ comes over the speakers with an announcement. "If we can have all the single ladies make their way to the dance floor, it's time for the bouquet toss!"

You start to say her name in protest, shaking your head and subtly trying to lean away from her grabby hands, but she's quick, and you have nowhere to run. "Nope," she tuts. "You're not weaseling your way out of this." Helpless, she drags you from the chair with surprising strength and pushes you toward the dance floor, where other women have begun to gather. Then, with all the gall of a bride on her wedding day, she turns and winks conspiratorially at Leon.

Mouth agape, he watches her take her place in front of the group of women, sneaking peeks over her shoulder as the DJ begins the countdown. While the other women around excitedly yell along, looking more like they're entering an Olympic competition than a bouquet toss at a wedding, you only stand there with a pained expression, as if fighting everything in you not to slink away at the first opportunity.

It's a flurry of limbs as everyone makes a mad dash to the front when the countdown hits zero. There's undignified screeching, and Leon is sure he sees more than one person throw an elbow. He thinks he'd rather face a horde of B.O.W.s than… whatever this is.

The bride seems to have expected such a reaction, faking everyone out by waiting an extra two seconds after the countdown ends before heaving the bouquet over her head. Time slows to a crawl as it sails through the air just over their heads and out of reach, and faces morph into disbelief and disappointment. You, meanwhile, are completely unaware of the ballista heading your way, probably thinking staying in the back was a safe bet. When it hits you square in the chest, you flinch, your hands instinctively coming up to catch it.

There's a mix of cheering and goodhearted pouts from everyone else as you gaze down at the bundle of flowers in your hands, as if bewildered by how they got there, nearly dropping it as your sister wraps you up in a hug. The grin on her face tells Leon this was her desired outcome.

In a drunken haze, his mind wanders to an alternate universe where it's you dressed in white, surrounded by friends and family, celebrating the happiest day of your life. He wonders what it would be like to be standing at the end of the aisle as you walk down it and—

His throat constricts.

You murmur something to your sister-in-law, lips tugging up into a strained smile, before you start to stumble away, like the drinks you had at the bar were finally catching up to you. As you make your way toward the doors to the patio off the hotel's reception hall, your shoulders are slumped dejectedly.

He wonders whether this normalcy seems as far out of your reach as it does his, and if that's why he's caught you with such a sad look on your face so often tonight, as if you're catching glimpses of a life that has been firmly locked away behind a door you've lost the key to.

Like a well-trained dog, Leon trails after you the second you step out the door. He finds you leaning against the wall outside, staring up at the darkened sky. It's a clear night, with not a cloud in the sky, and the not-quite-full moon hangs among the twinkling stars. He isn't used to seeing so many of them, but, so far from any city, they stretch for miles like a great black velvet blanket stitched with glittering gems.

His mind searches for the names of some of the stars—a few come to the forefront: Polaris, Sirius, Betelgeuse. But he could hardly point them out if you asked. Maybe he knew them once, when he was younger, and the only monsters he worried about were the ones he thought hid under his bed. But now, after being chewed up and spit out by the worst this world has to offer, there's no awe or wonder as he gazes up at them—just a quiet acknowledgment that they are there and that, one day, when he is dead and gone, they will still be there, dotting the sky like he never even existed at all.

The cold bites at his cheeks as he rests against the wall beside you. "Congrats," he says, his breath blooming white in the chill air.

You blink, brows tilting with confusion, and he nods toward the bouquet. When you look down and realize you're still holding it, you give a half-hearted chuckle. "It felt more like a set-up than anything else." You pluck a loose petal, letting it fall to the ground. "Doesn't mean anything anyway."

"Why's that?" he asks.

"It's just some flowers," you mutter. "It's not like I'll—" Chewing the inside of your cheek, you sigh, rubbing at the exposed skin on your arm that prickles with goosebumps in the cold. "Nothing, forget it."

"You okay?" he asks, reaching out to lay a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"Did you know that you have only ever called me beautiful while we were having sex?"

His brows furrow at the sudden question, and he stops in his tracks, just shy of touching you. "What?"

It's a vomit of words after that, as if you can't stop them from coming out. "Not once in the eight years that we've known each other have you ever called me beautiful just because."

His mouth hangs open, an objection beginning and dying in the same instant in the back of his throat. His drunken brain tries to sort through eight years' worth of memories but comes up with nothing, though he's sure that can't be right. "That's not true."

"It is," you argue, though your tone lacks real bite, as if you've already accepted defeat. "I don't—" You exhale—it's trembling, and he can hear your teeth chatter, like your body is finally realizing how frigid it is out here. "Never mind. I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm bringing this up now." You draw back into yourself, cradling the bouquet now like a lifeline, your gaze dropping to the pretty arrangement, only slightly mussed by the tossing around.

"Hey," he says gently, rounding in front of you and angling his head down to catch your stare. "Talk to me."

You shake your head, eyes avoiding his as if you're embarrassed. "No, it's just me being stupid." He wants to press, but you look so small and tired, standing in the cold, that he doesn't have the heart to. Instead, he shrugs off his coat, throws it around your shoulders, and draws you to his chest, resting his chin on the top of your head.

"You're not stupid," he murmurs, rubbing his hands up and down your arms, trying to warm you up. "Only one of us is allowed to have that title, and safe to say I secured it a long time ago." He hears you give a watery laugh before letting out a shuddering breath. "Wanna head up to the room?" You two have an early flight to catch back to D.C.

You nod into his hold, but don't extract yourself from him right away; instead, you stand there, allowing him to hold you for a few moments longer, before slowly—reluctantly—pulling away. He tags along as you make your rounds, saying goodbye to the other guests. He's more than a little surprised as your brother drags him into a hug, clapping him on the back, and reiterating how good it was to finally meet.

"Take care of her, okay?" he whispers to Leon.

He doesn't hesitate in his answer. "Always."

The cold did nothing to sober you up, as you wobble toward the elevator on unsteady feet, faintly humming along to the song that you can hear reverberating from the reception hall. No doubt the party would be going well into the night.

"We didn't get to dance," Leon notes almost absentmindedly as you press the call button.

"Didn't realize you wanted to," you reply, obviously not pegging him for the dancing type. The elevator dings, and the doors open.

"I want to," he says as he steps in behind you, spinning you around to face him after you push the button for your floor. A surprised noise escapes as your hands find purchase on his shoulders to keep you from faceplanting into his chest.

He keeps you upright, hands firmly on your waist beneath his suit jacket, which you're still wearing, his thumbs tracing circles into the fabric of your dress. "Leon, we're in an elevator," you chide, though the little chuckle that escapes you as he begins to sway you both suggests you're not as against the idea as you'd like to pretend.

"So?" he murmurs as your hands slide to his back, allowing yourself to lean closer into him. "It's as good a place as any."

You roll your eyes, the corners of your mouth tugging up into an amused smile. He can't resist pressing a kiss to the dimple that forms just under the apple of your cheek. Before he can pull away, you turn your head, and your lips brush against his. Neither of you moves to deepen the kiss—as if you're both content to live in the innocence of the gesture.

You stay a hair's breadth apart. The steady, unpracticed shuffle you two settle into is reminiscent of Leon's senior prom, though he imagines you would've never even given him the time of day in high school. He was too awkward, not yet used to his gangly limbs that seemed to have sprouted overnight, and though he's never seen any photos of you from that time, he imagines you were too pretty to even look his way.

Not that he would ever have been brave enough to talk to you, let alone ask you to the prom.

His nose presses into your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. The smell has long since faded from his pillowcases back at home, but sometimes, when he's sitting on his couch, he'd catch a brief whiff of it before it's gone the next moment, leaving him wondering if it was only a trick of the mind.

His thoughts wanders to the future, thinking about what will happen after this, once you guys are back in D.C. and falling back into the unrelenting routine of your jobs. Will you go back to how it's been? The missed calls, plans getting pushed back until they're canceled, and brief glimpses of each other around the office.

His jaw clenches as he holds you tighter. He doesn't want that. He thinks of the last two years, of watching the chasm grow between you, and of how helpless he felt to do anything to stop it. But even in his drunken state, he can't find the courage to say it aloud. It seems so simple.

"I'm sorry, and I miss you," he wants to say.

He takes a deep breath, urging himself to take the leap, to bridge the gap between you before it's too late. Then, the elevator dings again, signaling your arrival. He feels himself deflate, like the spell is broken the moment you pull away from him.

It's warm inside the room, with traces of your chaotic morning strewn about—a makeup bag lying on the desk with all of its contents scattered across the surface, your suitcase open and splayed out across one of the queen-size beds, towels bunched up and tossed into the corner.

With a relieved sigh, you kick your heels off in a random direction, a problem for you tomorrow when you're frantically trying to pack for the 7 A.M. flight. You collapse into a heap on the rumpled sheets of the other bed, and it doesn't seem like you have any intention of undoing your hair or washing your makeup off; instead, you wrap Leon's jacket tighter around you.

He shucks off his own shoes before loosening his tie, then sits on the other side of the bed. Silence fills the room, and Leon almost thinks you've fallen asleep as your breathing steadies, until you reach out and clasp his hand in yours.

"Thanks for being here today," you say, voice tired and slurring.

He rubs his thumb over one of your knuckles, and his response is to shuffle down so he is lying on his side, facing you. Your cheek is squished into your pillow, smearing makeup across the pristine white material.

"You practically begged me to come with you," he jokes.

You look at him incredulously, nose scrunching. "You invited yourself."

He smirks. "Yeah, but if you didn't want me here, you would have said so."

With a huff, you nestle deeper into the pillow. "I would've taken Sherry, but I don't think she could've stopped herself from objecting during the ceremony."

Chuckling, he traces along the lengths of each of your fingers. "She's still got that crush on your brother?"

"She claims she's 'too mature now for childhood crushes', but that doesn't stop her from insisting I call him whenever she visits so she can talk to him." A sly, devious smile forms on your lips. "Besides, Luis was busy this weekend, so you were my only other option."

Leon balks at that, hand shooting to your side to tickle you. The reaction is instant, you curling into yourself to stop his onslaught as laughter tears from your throat. "Take that back," he demands, evading you as you try to swat at him. "I was not a second choice to Luis."

"Sorry you can't—" You squeal as he tickles right under your armpits, trying to roll away from him, but he snatches you by the waist and hauls you back toward him. "—handle the truth!"

You're gasping for breath by the time he finally stops. You can feel the warmth of his body through the suit jacket at your back as he holds you close. "You're ridiculous," he murmurs into your hair, which has mostly fallen from its styling after all your thrashing. "He still has three more years of house arrest, doesn't he?"

You hum in confirmation, picking at a loose thread on the bedsheet. "I'm just teasing," you say, cheeks hurting from how hard you laughed. "Today would have been harder without you here, and you didn't have to come, but you did, so thank you."

There's more you want to say, he can tell by the way you wrap the thread around your finger and snap it from the fabric with a quick snip. He stays quiet, hearing you inhale several times deeply, as if you're about to say something, but then stop yourself.

After a few more tries, you finally settle on the words. "It just doesn't feel real, y'know?" you murmur. "I thought that… we made it out, right? The worst thing that could have happened to us happened, but we survived it." You suck in a quick breath, sniffling as tears rapidly gather in your eyes. "It makes me wonder if you were right to always look at me like I was already dead."

Ice fills his veins; it's not a slow creep but a rush of jutting crystals that poke and prod. A lump forms in his throat at your admission—at how tired you sound. He's brought back to the aftermath of Spain, to how defeated you'd been.

"We're all just on borrowed time anyway," you say in between shuddering hiccups. "Maybe if I'd done the same, if I'd realized that sooner, then—" A cry catches in your chest. "—then maybe it wouldn't hurt this bad."

Your body trembles with each heaving sob. Words spill from your mouth, but they're an indecipherable babble. Leon can only press his lips to the back of your skull, gripping you so tightly he's sure to leave bruises. There's nothing he can say to comfort you—not when tears well in his eyes and his chest feels like it's caving in.

Eight years ago, he asked you whether the two of you would be okay, and you'd been honest in your response, but now he thinks you were wrong.

The deeper you go into Konstantin’s playground, the more the air feels like it’s being sucked out of the room. You round a corner into a room that isn't a lab—not in the biological sense. 

There are no vats here, no dripping fluids. Instead, the walls are lined with sleek, black servers and high-resolution monitors displaying a dizzying array of data.

It’s an archive. But as the screens flicker to life under your touch, you realize they aren't tracking viral loads or mutation rates. They’re tracking people.

"Asset 74-Delta: Psych-evaluation. Disposition: High lethality. Emotional threshold: Minimal."

You freeze, your hand hovering over the keyboard. You know that phrasing. You know that specific, sterile way of grading a human soul as if it were a grade of beef. 

Leon steps up beside you, his shadow falling across the glowing screen. He’s silent for a long moment, his eyes scanning the metrics.

"These aren't BOWs," Leon says, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. 

He points to a series of grainy surveillance clips playing on a loop—children, no older than ten, being put through grueling tactical drills in a white-walled room. "They're training kids. Indoctrinating them. Turning them into weapons before they even hit puberty."

He hits the desk with the side of his fist, a sudden burst of repressed anger that makes the monitors rattle. "It’s a factory for sociopaths. Look at this... they track 'empathy' like it’s a glitch in the software. Something to be patched out."

Patch it out. Lock the girl in the dark room. Don't look at the eyes. 

The echoes of your own training scream in the back of your mind. You feel a cold, oily slick of sweat break out at the base of your neck. 

You’re standing right next to him, pretending to be a horrified observer, while your own 'grading sheet' is probably sitting in a folder three layers deep in this very system.

"Assassins," Leon spits, the word sounding like a curse. "The Connections... they didn't just steal their lives. They erased them. Imagine the kind of person who could do this to a child."

"Yeah," you murmur, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears. "Hard to imagine."

Liars go to hell, the little girl in the dark corner of your mind whispers. And you're a world-class athlete in the lying department.

You find yourself staring at a specific screen. It shows a list of 'decommissioned' assets. Names that aren't names—just numbers and codenames. 

One of them is Ghost. The status is listed as 'Unknown/Defected.' You stare at the blinking cursor next to the word Ghost, and for a second, the room seems to tilt. 

You can almost feel the weight of the sniper rifle in Prague. You can see the Kaiser’s blood staining your boots.

Leon’s voice saying your name breaks through the fog. You realize you’ve been standing perfectly still for nearly a minute, your eyes fixed on the screen with a thousand-yard stare.

He steps into your line of sight, his brow furrowed with concern. "You’re white as a sheet. You okay? This place is... it’s a lot to take in."

You blink, forcing the little girl back into her room. You offer him a jagged, shaky little smile—the kind that’s mostly teeth and no heart.

"Just having a little flashback to my own career day," you quip, though the sarcasm lacks its usual punch. "I think the guidance counselor forgot to mention 'international assassin' as a viable vocation. Probably would've had better benefits than retail."

Leon doesn't buy it. Not for a second. He doesn't move away; instead, he steps closer, his blue eyes searching yours with a terrifyingly gentle intensity. "You’ve got that look again. The one where you're trying to figure out how much of the world is your fault."

You let out a jagged breath, the weight of the secret in your chest becoming almost unbearable. You’re tired of the mask. You’re tired of the lying.

"I'm just... buried under tons of guilt, Kennedy," you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. You look at your hands, the ones he thinks are so capable. "I'm trying to claw my way out of a very deep hole. Sometimes I think the dirt is just going to keep falling back in."

Leon doesn't say anything for a moment. He doesn't ask what you’ve done. He doesn't ask for a confession. He just reaches out and places a hand on your shoulder. He squeezes, his grip firm and warm, anchoring you to the present.

It’s a simple, human gesture, but in this room full of stolen humanity, it feels like a brand. It feels like he’s claiming you, not as an asset, but as a person.

"We'll claw our way out together," he promises, his voice low and absolute. "I’ve got a shovel, and I’m pretty good at digging. We finish this, we stop Konstantin, and we leave the dirt behind. Both of us."

You look up at him, and for a split second, the cracks in your armor are wide open. You see the sincerity in his eyes, the way he looks at you like you’re something worth saving. It makes you want to scream. It makes you want to run.

He’s promising to help a monster reach the surface, you think bitterly. He’s holding the hand that ended lives.

"You're a real Boy Scout, aren't you, Leon?" you whisper, your voice cracking.

"I try," he says, a hint of a tired, awkward smile appearing. "I think I lost my merit badges somewhere, but I still remember the code."

He lets go of your shoulder, but the warmth remains. 

You turn back to the monitors, your fingers flying across the keys with a renewed, desperate energy. You have to find Konstantin. You have to end this. Because the longer you stay in this room with Leon Kennedy, the more you start to believe that his promise might actually be true—and that is the most dangerous lie of them all.

──────•✦•──────

2001, Singapore 

The world of the high-stakes underground doesn't run on money; it runs on whispered legends, and you’ve spent the last five years becoming the most terrifying bedtime story the cartel bosses have ever heard.

You are currently perched on a narrow, precarious ledge twenty stories above the humid, neon-soaked streets of Singapore. 

Your fingers—miracles of science and steady nerves—don't have prints. The Connections saw to that. They burned them off with acid when you were sixteen, a little "welcome to the team" gift that ensured you’d never leave a trace on a glass or a trigger. 

You are a biological blank space. No past to haunt you, no future to plan for. 

Your target is a human trafficker named Vane, a man who thinks he’s safe behind three layers of reinforced plexiglass and a small army of guards. He’s currently laughing, pouring a glass of champagne that costs more than a decent car.

"Target in sight," you murmur into your comms. Your voice is a low, melodic silk that betrays absolutely nothing of the girl who once cried over a stolen chocolate in Moscow.

"Take him out, Ghost," Konstantin’s voice crackles in your ear, distant and demanding. "The client is getting impatient."

"Impatience is such an ugly trait, Konstantin," you whisper back, your finger resting lightly on the trigger. "Tell them to have another shrimp cocktail. Quality takes time."

You don't think about Vane as a person. If you did, you might wonder if he has a mother, or a dog, or a favorite color. Instead, you look at him as a mathematical problem to be solved. 

Velocity, wind resistance, the rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat. You lock the 'Moscow Girl' in her dark corner, clicking the door shut. She doesn't need to see the way a high-velocity round interacts with a human skull.

You exhale, the world slowing down until you can hear the hum of the neon signs behind you. 

Squeeze.

The rifle kicks—a sharp, familiar punch against your shoulder. Through the scope, you watch the plexiglass spiderweb. Vane’s head snaps back, and the champagne glass shatters against the floor, a spray of gold and crimson. He’s dead before he hits the rug.

"Client satisfied," you mutter, already breaking down the rifle with the mechanical speed and precision of a watchmaker. "Send the wire. I’ve got a date with a bathtub and a very long nap."

You earn your nickname—Ghost—because you leave nothing behind. No DNA, no casings, no witnesses. 

You’ve killed in the gilded ballrooms of Paris, the sweat-soaked jungles of the Congo, and the sterile labs of Umbrella-adjacent startups. 

Your renown grows in the shady corners of the web; people trade stories of the specter who can bypass any biometric lock and vanish into thin air.

But sometimes, when the job is done and you’re sitting in a nameless hotel room staring at your smooth, featureless fingertips, a wave of empathy hits you like a physical blow. You think about the senselessness of it all. 

The body count keeps climbing, a mountain of meat you’ve built for the Kaiser, and for what? A bigger bank account you can’t even use under your own name?

You once spent three hours after a hit in London sitting in a park, watching a woman feed pigeons. 

You’d just put a bullet through a man’s heart three blocks away, and yet, you found yourself wanting to go over and help her pick up a dropped crust of bread. 

The gentle part of you—the part Konstantin tried to patch out of your software—is a stubborn little thing. It refuses to die.

"Ghost, report to safehouse Bravo for debrief," Konstantin’s voice interrupts your thoughts.

"On my way, Papa," you say, the sarcasm a bitter tang on your tongue. "Hope you picked up those books I asked for. I’m starting to think the only thing more boring than killing people is talking about it afterward."

You vanish into the crowd, a beautiful, striking woman that no one actually sees. 

You have no fingerprints, no past, no future. Just a price tag that keeps going up, and a soul that is slowly, quietly, starting to rattle the bars of its cage.

──────•✦•──────

2011, Bolivia

The ventilation control room is a cramped, metallic box that smells of stale air and scorched copper. It’s the first time in hours you haven’t had a firearm grafted to your palm, and the silence that follows the mechanical whir of the fans is almost physical. It presses against your eardrums, heavy and suffocating.

Leon is slumped against a bank of monitors, his head tilted back. The blue light from the screens leaches the color from his skin, making the shadows under his eyes look like bruises. He looks human. Dangerously human.

Careful, your brain whispers. If you look at him too long, you might start thinking this is a team-up and not a slow-motion car crash.

You’re sitting on a stack of floor grates, your legs dangling. To fill the void, you find yourself talking. 

Not about the mission, not about the gore on your boots, but about a dog.

"Have you ever heard of Laika?" you ask. Your voice sounds strange in the small room—softer than you intended.

Leon cracks one eye open, shifting his weight. "The Soviet space dog? Vaguely. High school history or a trivia night I drank through. Why? You planning a career change to the space program?"

You offer a small, jagged smile, but your eyes stay on your hands—those smooth, fingerprint-less tips. "One of the scientists, Vladimir Yazdovsky... he took her home before the launch. He wanted her to play with his kids. He wanted her to have something good before he put her in a metal tin and shot her into the vacuum to suffocate."

Leon frowns, his brow furrowing in that way that makes him look like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. "That's... grim. Even for you."

"I was just wondering," you continue, leaning back against the wall. "Did the dog think she finally found a home? When she was chasing those kids in the garden, did she think the hunt was over? Or do you think, deep down in those animal instincts, she knew the truth? That the hand giving her the treats was the same one that was going to lock the hatch?"

Leon exhales a long, weary breath. He rubs his face, the stubble rasping against his palm. "It’s just a dog. It was a different time. It was for science. Progress usually requires a sacrifice, even if it’s a shitty one."

The word science hangs in the air like a bad smell.

"Science," you repeat, the word tasting like copper on your tongue. 

You look at the monitors—the ones displaying the twisted, gnarled remains of the people in the laboratory below. 

"That's probably the same justification the people who make these BOWs use. 'It’s for the future. It’s for progress. It’s just a biological asset.'"

Leon shifts, his eyes fully open now, fixed on you. "That's different. We’re talking about monsters. Not a stray off the street."

"Are we?" You tilt your head, your expression playful but your eyes cold. "The Connections pick up strays all the time. They give them names, they give them 'homes,' and then they send them out to see how long they last before they break. It’s all very scientific."

You feel the weight of the feral animal pressing against your ribs. 

You think of the chocolate Konstantin gave you in the snow. You think of the books. You think of the way he called you a good girl after you snapped your first neck.

You’re projecting again, your brain chides. Stop trying to make the government agent feel your feelings. It’s messy.

"The dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn't," you say softly, more to yourself than to him. "It’s still a killer. The tears don't change the body count. They just make the killer feel better about the blood on their fur."

Leon stands up, the leather of his holster creaking. He walks over and stands in front of you, his shadow blotting out the blue light of the monitors. He looks like he wants to say something—something heroic, something very 'Kennedy.'

"You aren't a dog," he says, his voice low and firm.

"Maybe not," you chirp, the sarcasm snapping back into place like a well-oiled bolt. "I’m much more expensive to maintain. And I have better hair."

You hop off the grates, brushing the dust from your trousers. The moment of vulnerability is over, tucked back into the dark corner where it belongs. You grab your rifle, checking the chamber with a satisfying click.

"Come on, Boy Scout," you say, flashing him a razor-sharp smile. "The 'science' isn't going to blow itself up. And I’d hate to keep Konstantin waiting for his performance review."

Leon watches you for a beat longer than necessary, his blue eyes searching yours for the girl who just talked about space dogs. 

You don't let him find her. 

You turn toward the vent, already calculating the distance to the next junction, the violent animal inside you firmly back in control. But as you crawl into the narrow shaft, the heat of his presence behind you feels a lot like a comfort you aren't allowed to have.

──────•✦•──────

The industrial sector of the complex is a vertical nightmare of rusted iron and churning machinery, steam hissing from burst pipes like the breath of some dying titan. Leon tracks your movement as you ghost along the upper catwalk, his brow furrowing. 

He still can’t pin you down. You handle a rifle with the terrifying grace of a professional reaper, yet he’d watched you pause five minutes ago to close the eyes of a failed experiment—a disfigured remains of a man—with a gentleness that felt entirely too real.

Who are you? he wonders, his boots clanging softly on the metal grates. One second you’re a cold-blooded phantom, the next you’re the only person in this hellhole with a pulse that isn't a monster.

The answer is cut short by a structural groan that vibrates through the soles of his boots. From the shadows of the support pillars, a group of Lickers detaches themselves from the ceiling—blind, skinless horrors with tongues like muscular whips. 

They don't scream; they just launch.

"Leon, look out!" you shout, and the world turns into a blur of high-velocity lead and screeching metal.

Leon slides into a crouch, his gun barking as he takes the head off a lunging creature, but the weight of the BOWs slamming into the supports is the final straw for the aging catwalk. 

With a sound like a gunshot, the rusted bolts shear off. The section beneath your feet gives way, tilting violently toward the darkness of the lower pits—a churning sea of "failed" experiments and reaching, rotted hands.

Leon lunges, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

He doesn't think. He doesn't calculate the risk. 

He just throws himself across the widening gap, his fingers locking around your wrist with a grip that could crush bone. With a grunt of pure, stubborn effort, he hauls you upward, his boots skidding on the remaining steady ledge as he yanks you hard against his chest to keep you from sliding back into the abyss.

The impact is jarring. You hit him with a thud of tactical gear and soft breath, and for a long, heavy moment, the only sound is the distant hiss of steam and the frantic thrum of two hearts beating in sync. 

He’s holding you so tight he can feel the heat of your skin through your shirt, your face tucked into the crook of his neck.

Adrenaline is a hell of a drug. It makes the world sharp, high-contrast, and entirely too small.

Leon’s breath is coming in ragged hitches. He looks down at you, his blue eyes wide and dark with a sudden, localized panic that has nothing to do with the monsters. You’re looking up at him, your lips parted, your hair a mess in the dim red emergency lights. 

The proximity is a physical weight, a magnetic pull that he’s too exhausted—and too wired—to fight.

To hell with the mission, the feral animal in his chest whispers. To hell with the static.

He leans in. It’s desperate, a collision of two people trying to prove they’re still alive in a place designed to kill them. When his lips finally crash against yours, he tastes the salt on your skin and the faint, metallic tang of adrenaline, but beneath that, there’s a staggering warmth he wasn’t prepared for.

His hand, still trembling slightly, finds the curve of your jaw, his thumb dragging across your cheek as he tilts your head back to deepen the contact. He groans into the kiss—a low, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated relief—as your tongues tangle in a frantic, messy rhythm that makes his head spin.

For a heartbeat, the jungle, Konstantin, and the DSO don't exist. There is only the scorching pressure of your mouth against his, the soft, broken sound you make against his lips, and the way your fingers curl into the fabric of his tactical vest, pulling him closer as if you’re afraid he’ll turn back into a ghost if you let go.

Then, the "DSO Leon" kicks the "Human Leon" in the shins with the force of a tactical boot.

He pulls back sharply, the sudden absence of your heat feeling like a physical blow. His face flushes a deep, embarrassed crimson that he’s thankful the shadows mostly hide. 

He lets out a breath that sounds like a punctured tire, his hands lingering on your shoulders for a second too long—the thumb of his right hand involuntarily stroking your collarbone—before he awkwardly clears his throat and takes a staggering step back.

"Sorry," he blurts out, looking everywhere but at your eyes. "That was... uh... highly unprofessional. Even for a guy who usually spends his Tuesdays being chased by monsters."

He steps back, almost tripping over a discarded pipe, his usual poise replaced by a fumbling, clunky kinetic energy. He checks his gun for the third time in ten seconds, his fingers trembling just a hair.

"Must be the humidity," he mutters, a dry, self-deprecating smirk flickering across his lips. "It does weird things to my head. Or maybe I just really needed a distraction from the pit of doom."

He offers you a hand, his gaze finally meeting yours again—soft, guarded, and undeniably curious. "You okay? Aside from the near-death experience and the... awkward workplace conduct?"

He wants to ask you a thousand questions. He wants to know why a killer kisses like someone who’s been starving for a gentle touch. But instead, he just adjusts his holster, the "static" in his head momentarily silenced by the memory of the heat of your skin.

"We should probably keep moving," he says, his voice regaining some of its steady, mission-ready baritone. "Before the local residents decide to come up here and ask for an encore."

──────•✦•──────

The central lab is a masterpiece of clinical arrogance. It’s all white tiles, humming centrifuges, and that sterile, recycled air that makes your lungs feel like they’re being packed in cotton. 

But you aren't focused on the architecture. You’re focused on the fact that your lips still feel tingly, and your heart is currently trying to perform a drum solo against your ribs.

Focus, you absolute idiot, your inner monologue snaps, sounding remarkably like Konstantin on a bad day. You’re in the heart of a bio-weapon factory, and you’re blushing like a schoolgirl because a federal agent with nice hair decided to kiss you. Get it together.

Leon is moving beside you, his gun raised. He’s being very quiet—the kind of quiet that says he’s also replaying those ten seconds of "unprofessional conduct" on a loop. Every time his shoulder brushes yours, you both jerk away like you’ve been shocked. 

It’s pathetic. It’s distracting. It’s going to get you killed.

"Looks like the brain of the operation," Leon mutters, gesturing to a massive, multi-screen console at the center of the room. He sounds a little too focused, his voice a pitch higher than usual. "Quiet. Too quiet. I've seen enough movies to know this is the part where the villain explains his evil plan over the speakers."

Right on cue, the PA system crackles to life. The sound is sharp, biting through the hum of the computers.

"I must admit, I’m impressed you made it this far," Konstantin’s voice echoes, rich and smooth, dripping with the kind of paternal condescension that makes your skin crawl. "Though I suppose I shouldn't be. I did raise you to be the best, after all."

Leon’s head whips toward you, his eyes narrowing. "Raise you?" he whispers, the word a question and a demand all at once.

You don't look at him. You can’t. You stare at the speaker on the wall, your fingers tightening around the grip of your rifle. The Ghost is back, locking the girl who just got kissed into the furthest, darkest corner of the cellar.

"Ah, the prodigal daughter returns," Konstantin continues, his laugh a dry, paper-thin sound. "Tell me, little wolf, did you miss the kennel? You look pathetic standing there next to a government lapdog. Is that what you’ve become? A pet?"

The word lapdog hangs in the air, cold and heavy. You feel Leon’s gaze burning into the side of your face—a mix of confusion, betrayal, and a sudden, sharp realization that the puzzle pieces don't fit.

You take a step toward the console, your movements fluid and predatory. You reach out and thumb the "talk-back" button on the desk.

"You always did talk too much, Konstantin," you say, your voice coming out as a low, dangerous purr. The playfulness is gone, replaced by a blunt, jagged edge. "And for the record? Lapdogs are the ones that go for the throat when you least expect it."

There’s a beat of silence on the other end. Then, Konstantin sighs—a sound of mock disappointment.

"Always so temperamental," he muses. "But I suppose I can’t have you interrupting the final phase. Since you're so fond of dogs, why don't you play with my latest litter? Consider this your final exam."

"Konstantin, wait—" you start, but the comms line cuts to static.

Suddenly, the floor beneath you begins to vibrate. At the far end of the lab, four massive, reinforced steel canisters hiss and begin to rise from the floor. The gas inside them vents into the room, obscuring the view of whatever is waking up inside. You hear the sound of glass shattering, followed by a roar that sounds like a choir of the damned.

The compound's apex BOWs. Things that were never human, designed for the sole purpose of ending whatever life they encounter.

"Leon!" you bark, finally looking at him.

He’s standing there, his gun lowered just an inch, his expression a mask of dawning horror. He’s looking at you and for the first time, he doesn't see an angel. He sees the "prodigal daughter" of a monster.

"You knew him," Leon says, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth from the catwalk. "He raised you."

"Later!" you scream as the first creature—a mass of elongated limbs and glistening, black chitin—bursts through the mist. "Shoot now, judge me when we aren't being eaten!"

Leon’s instincts kick in, but there’s a new stiffness to his movements. He raises his gun and fires, the roar of the gun filling the lab, but the bridge between you has just turned into a tightrope over a volcano.

This is it, you think bitterly as you dive behind a lab bench, rounds whistling over your head. The mask is off. The secret is out. And I’m pretty sure 'sorry' isn't going to cover this one.

Alivia realized she should have trusted him the entire time.

Not because he wasn’t capable—it was never that—more about the fact that he got every little detail spot-on to what she must have sleepily murmured to him one random night when they were only two weeks into dating.

Something about puffins, she vaguely remembers mentioning. Maybe a cabin? She genuinely can’t pinpoint what she could have said in those two minutes before falling asleep that gave him a clear picture. 

Either way, here she was, three months later, physically and mentally exhausted from paperwork and meetings in the Oval Office and rotting laboratories and a million other things that come from being an overworked Division agent. 

But, at least she was standing in front of this light teal shingled cottage. 

It was one of about fifteen or sixteen that formed a community. A path was laid with sun-bleached gravel that crunched beneath her sneakers as she walked towards the rental: flat stones served as a guide for each one, shaded just so by surrounding trees and shrubs, creating sea-glass-like patterns along the grass. 

A hand moved to sit loosely on her hip, taking in the structure: black French door to match the darker roof tiles, window boxes holding magenta petunias that her mom would have absolutely obsessed over to her father. Two white rocking chairs sat side by side on the tiny porch just outside the entryway, and she could definitely picture Leon voicing complaints about how low to the ground they were while getting into one of them (landing on your back during missions makes your body cash checks faster) while she giggled quietly. 

It was perfect. She absolutely hates him for it, too. 

“You gonna keep standing there and cheesing, or go grab your bag?” 

She quickly turned her head to see him walking up, duffel bag straps in hand. He looked…right, in this place. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair, white t-shirt rumpled from sitting in the driver’s seat for hours, jeans just baggy enough that they didn’t sit wrong. It was annoying, really, how he looked so handsome even after spending eight hours on the road. But if there was one thing Alivia has learned over the past seven years (and 4 months into their relationship, she adds), it’s that Leon S. Kennedy looks good no matter the circumstance. Even while bleeding out somewhere in Europe. Especially in some cliché domestic setting like Kennebunkport, Maine. 

“I thought you–” She had started before a smirk curved his lips, eyes narrowing at her while holding up her own bag, which was in his other hand. “Asshole.” She finished dryly. 

He made a faint hum as he stepped in front of her. “Thought you were gonna be nicer to me,” He then murmured while leaning in closer, pressing his lips gently to hers before pulling away just enough. “Considering we’re in your version of paradise.” 

She let out a small, disbelieving laugh, more fond than argumentative. “Didn’t you book this entire thing?” She spoke as she watched him walk up the small steps and start opening the screen door with his shoulder. 

“Not the point,” He called back with a smile before fully going into the cottage. That was enough of a cue to have her follow him inside, taking one brief look at the surrounding pathway and small houses past theirs before doing so.

The cottage was the most Maine-looking thing she had ever stepped into, Alivia thinks. There wasn’t a lot of space: one corner housed a small ivory loveseat littered in navy accents, the tiniest birch coffee table she’d ever seen, and a bentwood chair sat to the side of it with matching cushions to the couch. While windows took up most of the wall space, there was still room for accents like a cathedral-style mirror and an odd-looking mounted fish just above the tiny stove in the kitchenette. The bed was big enough– white comforter, fluffy dark blue shams, warm lamps on each of the nightstands. Storybook, one could say.

She carefully placed her tote bag down on one of the barstools at the short counter, stepping closer towards the tan Welsh dresser. Decorative starfish, unique mugs. She picked up one of the sand dollars on the bottom shelf when Leon walked back towards her.

“You okay?” He said with an exhale while picking his sunglasses up and off his head, brushing his hair back with his free hand, and hooking them onto the collar of his tee. She nodded in response while rotating the shell in between her fingers, a soft smile on her lips. 

“Yeah.” Her voice was soft while she reached to put the decoration back, then looked at him. “Just…still trying to convince myself this isn’t a dream.” 

His eyebrows twitched in that understanding, sheepish way she’d only gotten to know recently. “Me too,” his lips curved just enough to tell her it was honest. It only made her step closer to him, settle her arms around his neck so she could pull him towards her. 

“Thank you,” She murmured as her mouth got closer to his cheek, pressing a kiss there, then a longer one closer to his mouth. 

His hands found her waist immediately, not possessive, just grounding. “Don’t thank me yet, haven’t even been here a full day,” He responded dryly, which made her grin against his stubble. 

“Still,” She chimed, pulling back to look at him. “Big deal. Us. Doing something this civilized.” 

His eyes softened as he looked at her (some argue that he’s just gone, but the jury’s still out on that one). “Yeah,” He replied under his breath. “About time, though.” 

And he was right. After so many years of being in each other’s orbit, the borders of colleagues blurred as they became close friends. So many nights were spent after long missions in her living room, takeout between them, the TV on a random channel for background noise. There were too many days that Leon crashed on her couch because he didn’t have the strength to leave her apartment, the only place he’s known in years to actually feel like a home and not some bare-bones cave like his own. Especially after the Virginia incident last year—Alivia left hospitalized for ten days after being impaled by a huge piece of rebar— there was no way Leon was going to leave the one person who was fluent in his silence. 

They suffer enough on a day-to-day basis. If the world wasn’t going to bring them peace, they’d make their own. 

The corner of her lips twitched, barely a smile, before she spoke again. “Okay, Mr. Kennedy. Should we take a look at that map we got?” 

He let out another small hum as he brought his mouth to her forehead for a kiss, then stepped back to say, “Yes, ma’am,” his tone gentle. 

Untangling arms from one another, they both walked towards the barstools near the counter. Alivia quickly dug into her bag for the folded map of the town that the compound owner had given them when they arrived. She opened it and set it flat on the surface, along with a different sheet of paper and a bright-colored brochure. 

“What is this, a treasure hunt?” His voice was dripping with sarcasm as he watched her fumble with the papers.

“Hilarious. You should go on tour,” She muttered sarcastically, which made him huff out a laugh. “Okay, we’re here.” She put her index finger on the map, right next to the label for the cottages they were staying in. “Town’s up this way.” She then dragged her finger upwards near the bold KENNEBUNKPORT lettering. “Was thinking today we can do that drive on Ocean Avenue, as the woman talked about, the one with the nice views of the coast? And then we can come back, take a walk to get dinner.” 

He reached over and took the plain white paper from the counter, reading through the list of restaurants printed on it. “Sounds like a plan. What’re you in the mood for?” He asked without looking up. 

She gave him a knowing glance, elbows now against the surface as she leaned a little forward. “Not sure.” She took a moment to zone in on the titles of some of the places located in the town, landing on one that was within walking distance, as she had mentioned before. “Is there a place called Allisson’s on that sheet?” 

He turned it quickly to face her, finger next to the top bullet point. “Yeah. Sorted by letter, but it says these are all recommendations, so…” He half shrugged. 

“Wanna do that? Calm walk, no pressure, save lobster rolls for tomorrow?” 

“Seems like a fair compromise,” He agreed a little too easily. 

Alivia squinted at him, a bit skeptical. “You know, this is your trip too. I’d love some input.” 

“My input is, I’m happy doing anything you want to do,” He smiled at her while leaning towards her. “Seriously, Liv. I don’t have any preference.” 

She hummed, her eyes going down his figure before coming back up to meet his baby blues. “Suspicious.”

“Babe.” Voice flat. 

“What?” 

“I know nothing about what’s here. I trust your judgment.” 

“But–”

“–But,” He spoke before she could get any further, “You read more than I did about the area before we got here. C’mon, it’s like you’re playing tour guide.” 

She tried to keep a stance going, but knowing he was (somewhat) right, she sighed. “You’ll tell me if something’s too much?” 

“Mhm.”

“Or if I start getting too excited about–”

“Baby, you should be excited.” His laugh was tiny but there. “I’d be concerned if we got all this uninterrupted time off and you weren’t having a good time, alright? No stress.” Which, hearing him say that was more ironic than comforting. 

“All we do is stress,” She countered with a subtle smirk. “You think that’s gonna change ‘cause we’re eight hours away from the problem?” 

That made him laugh, barely. “No, but we’ll try our best.” He reached over the counter to grab the Mach keys. They had debated for a week about whether or not to take Alivia’s car– mostly because Leon was worried it’d have some mechanical problem (Her car is eight years old, not fifty), but it always handled her trips to her hometown fine. Mileage was low on it regardless, since they weren’t home in D.C. often enough to do daily commutes.

 “You wanna drive or should I?” He spun the keyring on his finger. Her look when he finally glanced up was telling enough. “...Right. Sorry, dumb question.” He half-chuckled. She folded up the map once again and tucked it under her arm, Leon backing up from the counter so she could step towards her tote. 

“You know, Graham’s property is on one of the stretches of road,” Alivia started while grabbing her own sunglasses out of the bag, pushing them up onto her head. 

“Mm.” Leon hummed, listening.

“It’s the start of summer. Ashley could be visiting her family.” She looked over at him, hoping he’d possibly act on the idea. 

Alivia was only finishing her training in the Division when Leon was sent to Spain to rescue President Graham’s daughter, who was abducted by a religious cult. She remembers reading the mission file, how Leon didn’t sleep for over 48 hours, the monitoring they put him under after finding out he was infected with that Umbrella-engineered plaga. 

Alivia was partnered with him shortly after that mission. He was anything but thrilled. She convinced herself it was because of the toll Spain took on him to feel better about how standoffish he was for the next year afterward. You know, as one usually does to survive in an already-failing hierarchy. 

It doesn’t matter now, however. They grew. They changed. They loved each other so fiercely that it was scary at times, especially when neither of them had the words to say it. 

He silently handed her the car keys before responding. “Let’s just keep to ourselves for a little while, okay?”

She nodded in response, fingers wrapping around the fob. She understood; she didn’t want to think about anything related to work either. 

The drive down Ocean Avenue was almost otherworldly; almost, because it was still partly cloudy well into the afternoon, but pretty nonetheless. 

The cottages were just off a longer road that eventually led down towards the water, and with a gear switch, they had gently cruised around thirty miles an hour, maybe less. Families riding bicycles down brick paths alongside the paved street. Boats were docked everywhere within the water’s reach, a large lobster sign on the side of one of the boathouses they passed. Getting closer to the open coastline, tons of cars were parked on the side of the road, people slamming doors to get out for good pictures. 

Leon, banished to the passenger seat, lowered his window as he looked on. The smell of salt water carried through the breeze and mixed with the scent of Alivia’s air freshener.  He didn’t consider himself a beach guy, but the aspect of it calmed his nerves instantly. 

He turned his head from his window to look instead towards the driver’s side, watching all of the large houses go by as they went on. 

Alivia kept her hand loosely on the wheel, the other dropping to the gearshift whenever a longer stretch of road came up. 

Another house, this one with large arched windows and white trim, stood calm against the weathered grey shingles. 

“This whole road’s out of our tax bracket.” She joked as she glanced out her own window. He let out a small hum in reply, nodding his head towards her side. “That house has more windows than headquarters.” 

That’s when she glanced back at him, a small smirk curving her lips. “None of these houses has Hunnigan in them, though.” A huff of breath left his nose at the comment. 

“Strong selling point,” He murmured before looking back at the water hitting against the rocks.

A little more road, a little more wind, way too many things to look at, before there was finally an empty section along the pavement. Alivia took the opportunity to flick the turn signal, pulling into the shoulder slowly before tugging the gear into park. 

“We gettin’ out?” Leon was already unbuckling his seatbelt. 

“Empty bench over there,” She replied, and there was; a singular bench sat in the bed of grass before the rocks got steep and blended into the water. “Wanna go sit?” 

“You askin’ me or tellin’ me?” 

“Both.” 

“Then yeah.” 

She couldn’t stop the smile growing on her face as she got out of the car. 

The car chimed faintly once the doors closed from Alivia hitting the lock button, and she stood straight to pull the hem of her shorts down. She looked great in them—clung to every curve like a second skin—but the moment she’d sit down, they’d always be a problem. She walked in front of the car towards his side while fixing her crooked sweatshirt.

Leon was already giving her a once-over as she pursued him. “You need help over there?” 

She scoffed, giving him a Look. He only shrugged with a smirk in response. “Hey, just makin’ sure,” He spoke before turning towards the grass, walking in front of her towards the bench.

The view was perfect, like everything else in this town, and neither of them really knew what to do with that. From where they were seated, wild grass grew out along the sides, and rocks jutted out below towards the ocean, which disappeared into the mist somewhere in the distance. 

The two were barely inches apart from one another as Alivia looked out towards the waves that took over the boulders slowly, quietly, folding softly as if they had nowhere to be. They didn’t speak for a few minutes, taking in the subtle breeze and the sound of the sea, still in disbelief that they were even there in the first place. 

Because really, it was funny, Alivia thought. Sure, she was able to get a couple of days here and there to surprise her family in Warwick, but it was always a last-minute decision since off days were never guaranteed to stick. Field agent stuff. The only vacation she remembers taking is whenever she was benched for injuries, and those days all blended into one another due to the pain medication. 

She pretends she doesn’t mind it—the time-consuming work—but sometimes the reality eats away at her. Planes, gunfire, new viruses, intense and sick-looking bio-organic weapons she couldn’t even fathom having to explain to her 21-year-old self. There was no gentle way to tell that girl that her life would be flipped upside down moments before she got to walk the stage at her college graduation. That there would be pitches of screams she doesn’t hear outside of football games throughout that arena. That her parents’ graves existed; caskets, however, were empty, because infection makes you unrecognizable to the point that you can no longer be identified as human. 

She thought she had grieved enough over the six months before her enlistment, but sometimes it catches her off guard, even ten years later. A stranger wearing a perfume like her mother’s in Georgetown. An old Ford driving down the street past her apartment like the one her dad kept in the garage. A pattern at the consignment shop that matched one of her mom’s tops. The way that sometimes, while in bed, Leon’s hand comes up into her hair when holding her to his chest, not being able to distinguish between him and her father’s grasp from when she was five and crying from a nightmare. 

He used to try to compare their scar sizes, too. Not physically, just the weight of their trauma, as if he wanted to be number one on the list: the only one to really understand the circumstances. Leon never spoke about it, but she could always tell, especially when they started working together. The guilty conscience never goes away; it instead envelops whatever good may enter your life next, convincing you that you don’t deserve it. He fought it, however; they wouldn’t have ended up here if he hadn’t, would they? 

A brush of his fingertips against her forearm brought her back from the dark pit of her mind. 

She glanced over at him, eyes not matching the smile she gave, before she looked back towards the waves for safety. 

“I didn’t know if I’d be good at this.” Her voice was small as she messed with her fingers, palms still loosely clasped. 

He turned his head. “At sitting on a bench?”

And while she laughed, she shook her head. “...At this. Being somewhere pretty and not waiting for something bad to happen.” 

They let that sit for a moment. But then, he answered, honestly. “Yeah.”

That makes her own head turn, watching him look down towards the rocks. 

He goes, “First ten minutes we got here, I kept thinkin’ I forgot something.” 

“Did you?”

“No. Just not used to leaving the work behind.”

That lands hard. Mostly because he’s right: you don’t just get to survive the mission, sit through the debrief, and leave the job at headquarters; it follows you– hell, leads you to places you will never consider an escape. 

Her weight gives, letting her shoulder lean against his, just enough contact to tell his body that she’s there. 

The next thing to come out of her mouth is, “Forgot how to have a nice day without earning it first.” 

Which only makes him wrap his arm around her, tucking her into his side, and place an affirming kiss at the top of her hair, murmuring, low, “You earned this years ago.” 

Her hand squeezes his side. “You did too.” 

And they let the hurt bleed into the wind. 

The drive back to the cottages was smooth. One moment they’re parking on the gravel and the next they’re walking down a street in the neighborhood surrounding them with the promise of a nice dinner. The restaurant was comfy: similar to any other pub you’d find up north. The waitress tried to convince Leon to try the chowder, but he said he would do so another time. 

They spent their meal stealing bites off each other’s plates and having random conversations about trips to the Jersey Shore that Alivia used to go on as a kid, whether or not they could picture getting married up here (probably expensive), and if Simone (Alivia’s friend) was keeping her new plant alive. Leon asked why she even bought it in the first place. Alivia argued that she was capable of watering it. Leon didn’t bother to bring up the last three plants she had said the same thing about before they went beyond wilting. 

They bickered like they’d known each other for twenty years over the bill, only for Leon to get his card out first. She pretended to be annoyed at the gesture.

They held hands the entire walk back. 

As soon as Alivia pulled back the comforter and climbed into the bed, she knew she was going to fall asleep quickly.

The cottage was only half-lit from the lamps on the side tables, painting the walls and ceiling with warmth that made the room feel more cozy. The sheets were soft, pillows just puffy enough under her head, shams tossed towards the foot of it if they hadn’t already fallen to the floor. She shifted onto her side, arm bent in front of her as she watched Leon, who was standing, digging through his duffel for pajamas. He pulled the pants out from underneath the rest of the clothes he had packed, stuffing the bunch down so nothing would spill before turning back.

“How’s the bed?” He asked as he placed his clothes down on his side, starting to unbutton his jeans. 

“Cold,” she responded, her voice a little sleepy. His hands paused at his zipper for a moment as a small smile appeared on his face, just in awe. 

He shucked his jeans off the rest of the way, tossing them towards his bag before taking a step towards the small bathroom. “Shower will take two seconds, I’ll be right there,” he held up two fingers before gently closing the door behind him. 

Once she heard the latch click, she slowly rolled from her side onto her back, staring at the cream colored ceiling. One of the books she brought sat on the nightstand, but she didn’t bother to reach for it. 

As she heard the shower turn on, she couldn’t help but let her mind wander: this was nice.

Way too nice. They had only been on the coast for around seven hours, and she could already feel herself getting used to it. But she can’t, not really. It’ll be her, their own little bubble for five days before it pops, their work cells ringing again, asking for files and departure times and whether or not they got all of the briefing notes.

The comforter shuffled as she bent her knee under it, her eyes half-lidded while she continued to stare upward. She should probably get up; her buttoned-up pajama top was twisted against her back, she hadn’t taken Advil yet for the ache in her back, and she really needed a hair tie from her bag. But her body wouldn’t move.

The mistake all civilians make (and her friends, despite her not blaming them) is assuming that she and Leon function fine once they’re out of the atmosphere. It always makes her laugh, because yeah, on the surface, it’s like nothing happened; no outbreak, no death, no army, no scout from the D.S.O.; just Alivia Stockton, who dreamed of having a third-grade classroom covered in crayon art. Just Leon Kennedy, who was stoked to become a police officer and help people because he chose to do so. 

But drowning never happens on the surface. 

“Hey.” 

She slowly turned her head. 

He was standing in the bathroom doorway, bare chest and boxers, toweling his hair somewhat dry. His expression shows that he knows he interrupted some deep thought process she was just having.

“Y’okay?” He then says as he reaches to put the towel back on the bathroom rack, then walks back towards the bed. She nods as he puts one knee up, then the other, climbing in sideways across the bed and halfway over her comforter-covered thighs, propping himself up by his elbow. 

She settled more into the pillows as his free hand slowly came up, landing on the hem of her top. She could hear the deep exhale leave his nose as his gaze drifted towards the fabric, but it wasn’t necessarily the shirt itself that he was focused on.

His fingertips then flattened on the right side of her lower stomach. 

“Lemme see my girl,” He murmurs it so quietly she’s not sure it’s real for the first few moments afterward.

That’s when she knows. With a little smile on her face, her hand starts to tug the fabric up a bit for him. He moves it the rest of the way with his own.

His eyes drop to the revealed skin.

Her scar was faded now, the angry red of last year long gone, softened into something pale and lived-in and hers instead of fresh and horrific. Jagged a little at the edges from how they had to lengthen it more from the damage, and a smaller line just above it from the JP drain they had to put in. 

He remembers having to hold that together to keep her from losing blood and shouting through comms for evac. Remembers how he had a ruptured eardrum and was bleeding from the back of his head after the blast, but he still got up and ran to her. Nothing could make him forget the day or two after her surgery, how she was so high on morphine but still not comfortable, him having to tell her every time she woke up that she had taken a hit because her brain couldn’t grasp anything for more than five minutes. 

The only evidence of that now blends perfectly with the rest of the skin of her abdomen. 

Alivia watched his face more than his hands. He went quiet as he looked at the pale line, just in that Leon way; that tiny stillness that said some part of him had stepped back into a room he never entirely left, even all these months later. His jaw was slightly set. His gaze moved slowly along the length of it, careful, as if he was reading proof. Like he was making sure the story ended here, in a clean bed in coastal Maine, and not where it had almost ended that day in 2010. 

Her fingers found his hair without thinking, slipping into the damp strands near his temple. He glanced up at the touch, just briefly, before looking back down. His hand rested lightly against her side, warm and broad and impossibly gentle, and he bowed his head, just enough, to press one kiss to the scar. Lips soft, before he presses another one, slower. The kind of kiss that wasn’t really a kiss so much as a prayer, which is quite ironic for a man who is not religious— dragged quietly against the area.

Alivia’s throat tightened. Mostly because she knows what those kisses mean. Knows they aren’t about the scar itself: they’re about the memory underneath; the blood, the dirt, the waiting. The beep of a heart monitor. The way he looked at her months afterward, like some part of him was still counting her breaths when she wasn’t paying attention. 

When he finally lifted his head, she was still carding her fingers slowly through his hair. 

“Looks good,” he breathed. His voice was low, steady, but she heard the deeper thing inside of it anyway; you’re here, warm to the touch, and I didn’t lose you. 

She looked down at him, eyes soft from the light in the room and his presence. “Yeah?” she whispered.

“Mhm.” He nodded once. Then, because he has no self-control, he bends and kisses it again, as if he’s saying goodnight. That one nearly undoes her.

“You always do that.” A smile was already curving her lips as she said it, and a tiny flicker moved through his mouth afterward. Not quite a smile or smirk. 

“Know.” He says.

“Makes you feel better?” She meant for it to be a joke, but it didn’t land that way. Never does in this context.

He paused just long enough that the truth seeped into his response. “Little.” 

And there it was, small and plain and more devastating than if he’d poured his whole heart out to her in one go. Yes, it still sat in him. Yes, some piece of him still reached back there. Yes, seeing her healed and alive under his hands eased something he couldn’t quite put words to. 

“Then you can look as long as you need," she breathed out.

Their eyes meet for a moment. Maybe two. He then slowly climbs up to her, gently straightening his legs beside hers, before leaning in to kiss her mouth. A little sleepy, not hungry. Just tender, as if he didn’t trust himself with anything bigger. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed once along the side of her shirt before smoothing it down over her scar again, covering it carefully, like he was tucking it in. 

“Pretty,” He murmurs against her mouth, which only makes her grin.

“I get that a lot,” is the safest response she has, and it makes him laugh against her lips, kissing her again, somehow softer than the first one. Alivia hummed into it immediately, quiet and helpless and sweet, and Leon felt the sound all the way down in his chest. His hand stayed cradling her cheek without thinking, thumb gliding back and forth against the softness of her jaw as his mouth parted just enough to deepen the kiss without breaking the innocence. 

After a few more moments, they pulled back slightly, but not before he pressed one more kiss to the corner of her lips, lingering for a second before she reached.

He folds her into him immediately, one arm under her, one arm around her—gathering her to his chest, her forehead pressed to his collarbone. She went loose almost instantly; no resistance, zero teasing, just that tired little melt she only ever gives him when she’s too tired to be her usual, sophisticated self. One of her hands is laid on his ribs while her leg slides over his under the blankets.

“There she is,” he says as he pulls the comforter higher over her shoulder, smoothing it down once before his hand returns to her back, rubbing in slow passes. Between her shoulders, down to the curve of her waist, then back again, like a mantra. It’s the kind of touch that doesn’t ask anything of her except to stay still and let him take care of everything else. 

She makes the tiniest hum, obviously pleased, and nuzzles closer. 

“Yeah, baby,” he whispers into her hair once he lowers his head towards hers. “I’ll hold you.” 

He tucks her in a tad tighter under his chin, one hand slipping into her hair at the back of her head while the other keeps the rhythm on her back. And little by little, she started to give up against him; her shoulders relaxing, fingers unclenching, body just warm and heavy where it's resting against his. 

The last thing he thinks about before everything else fades is how his pajamas are still at the foot of the bed.

The briefing room always felt too small when you were in it with him.

Not physically–there was more than enough space for the dozen agents scattered around the table–but something about the presence of Leon S. Kennedy made the air feel heavier. Maybe it was the reputation. Maybe it was the quiet way everyone deferred to him without realizing they were doing it.

Or maybe it was because you knew him in ways they didn’t.

You sat at the desk, near the middle, arms loosely folded over some of the files that were spread around. Across from you, leaning back against the wall like he had all the time in the world, Leon looked exactly like he always did during briefings: quiet, controlled, giving nothing away.

All sharp edges and professionalism.

It was almost funny.

Because less than two hours ago, he’d been anything but controlled with you. Hands roaming over your body, and soft kisses on your skin as you woke up. 

You swallowed the thought quickly, eyes flicking away before they could linger too long. That was the rule–no staring, no unnecessary attention, no romantic contact. Only a handful of higher-ups even knew about the relationship, and that was strictly on a need-to-know basis. Operational safety, they’d said.

Now, it was second nature.

“…intercept the exchange before distribution,” the handler droned on, clicking through slides that cast a blue glow across the room. “Bio-weapon shipment, suspected to be a modified strain. Both buyer and seller are considered hostile. You are authorized to seize all materials and eliminate all involved parties.”

Standard.

Your gaze flicked briefly to Leon again. He hadn’t moved. Arms crossed, one boot hooked casually against the wall behind him, head slightly tilted as he listened. God, he made it look easy.

“…this will be a three-unit operation.” That caught your attention. You straightened slightly.

Three?

You hadn’t been told that. The handler nodded toward Leon “Leon, you'll take lead.

Your third operative is-”

The door swung open and everyone looked up at the man who stepped inside, not looking the least bit apologetic.

He was younger–maybe late twenties–with an easy confidence that bordered on arrogance. His tactical gear sat comfortably on him, like he was used to wearing it, and he carried himself with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned how badly things could go wrong.

His eyes swept the room once, quick and assessing. Then they landed on you and stayed there. 

“Wow,” he said, voice light, amused. “It’s my lucky day.” You didn’t react. Didn’t give him anything. He stopped beside the table, gaze still fixed on you as it dipped–not subtly–down your body before coming back up again. “I get to work with a legend.”

You gave him a small, polite smile. “Try to keep up.” you replied with a subtle shrug. The man’s grin widened. Then, finally, he glanced past you–toward Leon. Leon hadn’t moved, still against the wall, just watching.

“…and a fossil.” the new guy added, tone teasing, almost playful.

You didn’t look at Leon. You didn’t need to. Leon pushed off the wall slowly, unfolding to his full height with that same unhurried ease that always made people underestimate him.

“Careful” His voice calm as always. “Wouldn’t want to peak during introductions.” A few more suppressed laughs. Tension broke, just slightly. The handler cleared his throat. 

“Agent Hayes,” he said, gesturing to the newcomer. “You’ve already been briefed?”

“On the drive over.” Hayes confirmed easily. “Intercept, seize, eliminate. Standard stuff.” His eyes flicked back to you. “Should be fun.” You ignored the way your skin prickled under his attention but Leon noticed the slight shift. 

●◉◎◈◎◉●

The target point sat on the outskirts of a crumbling industrial zone–abandoned warehouses, rusted fencing, dead security systems.

You crouched behind a stack of rubble–broken concrete, scrap metals, failed experiments–scanning the perimeter through your scope. 

“Two at the north entrance” you murmured into comms. “Armed.”

“Copy that” Hayes’ voice replied smoothly, casual but alert.

“The perimeter looks clean otherwise” you continued. “No visible snipers.”

“Doesn’t mean there aren’t any.” Leon said.

“Wouldn’t be a party without surprises.” Hayes added. You rolled your shoulders back, settling into position, looking through the sniper scope again. 

“Ready when you are,” You said, letting them know you're ready. 

“Move.” Leon ordered. Everything snapped into motion. Leon and Hayes broke from cover at the same time, fast and deliberate, closing the distance to the entrance before the guards could fully register what was happening. Their boots barely making a sound against the cracked concrete. 

The first guard turned too slow. Leon was already there. A quick, efficient takedown. No hesitation, no wasted movement. The man dropped before he could even shout.

Hayes handled the second with equal speed, though his style was a touch louder, more force behind it, a little flashier. Still effective. The guard hit the ground hard, weapon clattering beside him.

“Entrance clear.” Hayes spoke into comms. You kept your scope trained, steady and patient, sweeping across the terrain and building.

Then a third man stepped out from behind a rusted support beam, rifle half-raised, eyes locked into Leon. You didn’t hesitate. 

A single shot.

The crack of your rifle split the air. The man dropped instantly, crumpling where he stood.

“Third down,” you said calmly.

A brief pause.

“Damn. Remind me not to get on your bad side.” Hayes said, low and impressed. You ignored it, already rising from your position.

“Area’s still clear. No additional movement.” You descended quickly, boots finding familiar footing through debris and broken ground. 

Leon's gaze flicked to you, only briefly, but cautiously. You gave a small nod. Even after all the years, missions, him knowing what you're capable of, nothing ever stops him from checking in with you. Hayes glanced between the two of you, but it was gone just as quickly as it came.

Both men stepped towards the door and you followed without a word, slipping into formation beside them. 

“On me.” And just like that, you pushed inside.

Inside, the warehouse was dim, lit only by scattered overhead fixtures that flickered intermittently. Voices echoed from deeper within. 

You signaled the others.

Three.

Two.

One. 

You moved.

The takedown was fast, controlled chaos.

Gunfire cracked through the space, sharp and deafening. You dropped low, sweeping one target off his feet before disarming him, pivoting to fire at another rushing in from the side.

Where Hayes was loud, Leon was quiet. Where Hayes forced openings, Leon created them. Every movement was deliberate, every shot placed with lethal precision. You caught glimpses of him between targets. 

“Behind you!” Hayes’ voice snapped your attention back just as a man lunged from the side. You reacted instantly, twisting out of reach and driving your elbow into his throat before taking him down.

“Got it,” you said.

“Nice” he murmured, stepping closer than necessary. “You’re even better up close.”

“Focus,” you said.

He chuckled softly, and from across the room, Leon watched. He didn’t say anything but the next time you moved, he was there. His hand brushed your arm as he guided you back slightly, positioning himself between you and the few remaining targets. His hand lingered a second longer than it needed to.

Hayes noticed. You saw it in the way his expression shifted–just briefly. The remaining targets went down quickly after that. You exhaled slowly, lowering your weapon.

“Package secured.” you reported, moving toward the case in the center of the room. “Bio-weapons confirmed.”

“Extraction’s inbound.” Leon said. “Lets head out.” He lifts the heavy case with ease and headed towards the door.

“Not bad for someone who was taught by an old man,” He said lightly.

“Not bad for someone who showed up late.” you replied, with a shrug, and he grinned.

“Guess I made a good first impression.” From the smirk on his lips you could tell he was proud.

“Jury’s still out.”

He laughed. The distant thrum of helicopter blades began to build overhead. You moved toward the designated point, stepping out into the open yard as the helicopter descended, wind whipping around you.

Hayes moved in close again as you waited for the rope drop. When it did you grabbed it without hesitation, climbing up. Hayes followed, then Leon last.

The ascent was quick, the ground shrinking beneath you as the helicopter pulled away from the site.

Inside, the noise was loud enough to drown most conversation. Yet still Hayes tried. He leant forward in his seat.

“Drinks after this?” he called over the roar.

“Not usually my scene.” You shook your head.

“Didn’t say no.” He tilted his head slightly when you look over at him. You shook your head again, in a sense of disbelief, he wasn't giving up.

Leon didn’t look at either of you but his jaw tightened. The rest of the ride passed in relative silence.

●◉◎◈◎◉●

Back at base, the debrief was brief–Successful mission. Minimal complications. Objectives completed–Exactly what was expected.

As people shuffled out the room Hayes lingered. You acted like you didn't see him, gathering your gear, keeping your movements purposeful, aware of him approaching before he even spoke.

“So…” he said, stopping just within your space again. “You always turn down offers or?”

You slung your bag over your shoulder. “I don’t mix work and…whatever this is.” you said, gesturing between the small space between you. He studied you for a moment.

“Fair enough. I’ll wear you down eventually.”

You didn’t respond because Leon stepped in, joining the conversation. Standing close enough that your arms nearly brushed.

“Briefing’s over” Leon said coolly. “Surely there's somewhere else for you to be.”

Hayes looked between the two of you, a slight squint before going back to norm, like something clicked.

“Right,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.” He gave you one last look. “I’ll see you around.” Then he walked off. You waited until he was gone before you let out a slow breath.

The room had emptied, leaving just you and Leon now. Silence stretched between you for a moment. 

“That guy’s a problem.” Leon muttered. You huffed a quiet laugh.

“He’s harmless.” You counter. Leon turned his head slightly, finally looking at you properly. You do the same before moving in front to look at him properly.

“He’s not harmless,” he said. “He’s reckless.” 

“And you’re not?” You tilted your head. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.

“Not like that.”

“You were jealous.” You stepped a little closer, lowering your voice. His expression didn’t change but you felt it. 

“I was adjusting the situation,” he said, tone steady. You softly laugh, just an exhale through your nose. 

“Right. Just happened to put yourself between us.” You moved a fraction closer, testing, watching him. His gaze dropped to you, slow, deliberate. It made something tighten low in your chest.

“Didn’t think you were the territorial type at work.” You tilted your head slightly.

“I’m not.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Silence stretched for a moment. 

“He was pushing.” Leon said finally, quieter now. “Seeing what he could get away with.”

“And?” Your eyes searched his. It was normally like this, having to prompt Leon to get more of an answer when talking about feelings. His jaw flexed, just slightly.

“I didn’t like it.” He admits, slow.

“Didn’t think it’d bother you that much.” His gaze dipped for half a second, then came back sharper.

“It doesn’t,” he said. You raised a brow.

“Leon.” A beat.

“…It does.” That pulled a faint smile from you. “Don’t get used to it,” he said, voice rougher now. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” You held his gaze, placing a hand on his chest. 

“We’re in public.” he reminded you quietly. You hummed.

“Barely.” You fob it off. “I meant what I said.” you flutter your lashes softly. “He doesn’t mean anything.”

“I know.” And he did. That was never the issue. The issue was everything else. The secrecy. The lines you couldn’t cross. The way you had to pretend none of this existed the second anyone else walked into the room.

You shifted back, moving your hand off of his chest. 

“Let's go home,” you said softly.

“Yeah.” He grabbed his bag and you walked out to the carpark, getting into your separate cars to go to the same location.

●◉◎◈◎◉●

The drive home was done in silence. The familiar streets blurred past Leon’s windows, city light and nightlife, but his mind wasn’t on the road. It was back in the warehouse, in the briefing room, on the helicopter. It was on Hayes.

He’s harmless, you’d said.

Leon’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, the new leather creaking under his fingers. He knew better. Men like Hayes weren’t harmless. Confident, entitled, seeing something they wanted and assuming the path to it was clear. He’d seen the look in Hayes’ eyes when he’d watched you move, when he’d stepped into your space. It wasn’t just professional admiration. It was hunger. A young, brash hunger that didn’t hide itself.

And why should it? Hayes was young, and talented. He had the physicality of someone whose body hadn’t been carved by decades of scars. He had a smile that was quick and still real. He could offer the kind of simple, open affection that Leon’s life had long since burned out of him.

The age difference had never felt so wide before. It was just a number, a fact. But tonight, it felt like a weight. Hayes’ teasing ‘fossil’ comment echoed in his mind, not as an insult, but as a reminder. Leon was a veteran of a war that reshaped him, built from trauma and resolve. You were… life. A vibrant, brilliant life. You cooked meals that filled the quiet apartment with warmth. You fell asleep on his chest, your breathing soft against his skin. You pulled him into slow dances in the kitchen when a good song came on the radio, laughing when he stepped on your feet.

These were the precious things Hayes likely still took for granted. The things Leon clung to with a quiet, desperate kind of devotion he could never say out loud. What if, one day, you wanted something easier, choosing a man without ghosts over one who carried a cemetery inside himself?

He pulled into the underground garage of your shared building, the engine turning into silence. He saw your car already parked, and the sight was both a comfort and a fresh twist of anxiety. You were home, and safe. You were his. But for how long?

The apartment was quiet when he entered, the only sound was the distant rush of water from the shower. You always showered first after a mission. Wash away the grime, the tension, the scent of violence and fear. He did the same. It was a way to leave the operational persona at the door.

He went to the second bathroom, stripping off the tactical gear with practiced efficiency. The hot water was pure relief, over knotted shoulders and the scattering of old scars. He scrubbed at his skin as if he could erase the memory of Hayes’ smirk, the proprietary glance he’d given you. He leaned his forehead against the cool tiles, letting the steam envelop him.

By the time he emerged, dressed in soft sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, the apartment smelled of garlic, ginger, and soy. You were in the kitchen, moving with a softness that was the direct opposite of your strict precision in the field. Your hair was damp, curling at the ends, and you wore one of his old sweaters that swallowed your frame.

“Stir fry okay?” you asked without turning, sensing his presence.

“Perfect,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. You glanced over your shoulder, a soft smile on your lips. 

“Long shower.” You commented, not pushing for anything, just an observation.

“I needed it.” He had moved closer, placing a kiss on your cheek.

Dinner was had in comfortable silence while the tv played a nature documentary. Moving to the couch once you cleaned together.

You sat on the chaise, Leon settled behind you, his legs bracketing your body. You leaned back into him with a sigh, your head coming to rest on his shoulder. His arms came around you naturally, one hand splayed over your stomach, the other coming up to idly stroke your damp hair.

This was the peace he fought and killed for.

The documentary droned on. An older lion, challenged by a younger, stronger male from a rival pride. The narration felt targeted. The older male, though experienced, may no longer have the sheer physical power to defend his territory…

“Does it ever bother you?” The question was out before he could stop it.

You tilted your head back to look up at him, your brow furrowed. “Does what bother me?”

He hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. He gestured vaguely, his hand leaving your hair to indicate the space around you, then coming to rest on his own thigh. “This. Me. The… gap.” You shifted, turning within the circle of his arms so you were half-facing him, your expression now one of confusion. 

“What are you talking about?” You questioned it, but he couldn’t meet your eyes, he just looked at the television. 

“The age difference. I don’t have that… easy energy anymore.” He looked down at you, his blue eyes stark with a vulnerability he showed to no one else. “You cook for me. You fall asleep on me. You drag me into dances when I’d rather just stand and watch and I love it. I love all of it. But it’s your youth you’re spending on me. What happens when the newness of it wears off? When my quiet feels like silence? When my scars feel less like history and more like… baggage?”

Your expression had softened from confusion into something unbearably tender. You brought a hand up, your fingers tracing the line of his stubbled jaw. “Leon…” you whispered yet he pressed on. 

“One day, you might want someone who can give you a life that isn’t measured in mission cycles and security clearances.” He captured your hand, holding it against his cheek, turning his face into your palm. “The thought of you losing that feeling for me… of you looking at me one day and just seeing an old agent… it terrifies me more than anything else ever could.”

You looked at him for a long moment, your eyes searching his, seeing the raw truth of his fear. Then you moved. You pushed yourself up, kneeling before him, your hands coming to cup his face, forcing him to hold your gaze.

“Listen to me,” you said, your voice firm yet soft. “The moment I stop feeling the way I do the moment my heart doesn’t skip when I see you, the moment I don’t crave the weight of your arms, orI don’t look at your scars and feel proud of the man who made it through… that’s the moment I take my last breath because loving you is the one thing I know I’ll never let go of.”

A soft breath escaped him. He didn’t speak; his words were inadequate for what he felt. Instead, he moved forward, capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that was nothing short of electric.

It wasn’t gentle. It was all the words he couldn’t say poured into the meeting of lips and tongue. You met him with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if you could fuse your bodies together.

He broke the kiss only to whisper your name against your lips. Then his mouth was everywhere–on your jaw, down the column of your throat, nipping at the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder. He pulled the oversized sweater over your head. His hand came to palm at your breast, his thumb circling your nipple until it pebbled into a hard point. A sharp gasp escaped you when he pinched, and the sound went straight to his cock, which was already straining painfully against his sweatpants.

“Leon!” you breathed, arching into his touch.

In one fluid motion, he stood, pulling you up with him. He didn’t carry you to the bedroom; the distance was too great. He needed you now. He laid you back onto the chaise, your legs hanging off the end.

He yanked your panties off with urgency, and worshiped every inch he uncovered. He knelt down between your legs, kissing your stomach, then over your hips, and your thighs. His stubble lightly scratched along your skin. 

When his mouth finally found your core, you cried his name out softly. He didn’t tease. His tongue worked with a hungry, single-minded intensity, circling your clit before dipping lower. He savoured the taste as if it were the antidote to every poison he’d ever ingested. 

His hands held your thighs apart, his grip firm and unyielding. You tried to buck against the overwhelming sensation, but his hold was immovable. He pinned you to the couch, forcing you to feel every devastatingly perfect movement. He established a brutal, perfect rhythm. Long, languid strokes of his tongue from your entrance to your clit, gathering your wetness, then plunging back inside, fucking you with his mouth. You could hear the wet sounds filling the room, your own cries were layered over the top–whimpers, soft sobs, and repetitions of his name.

“Please…” you managed to gasp, though you didn’t know what you were begging for. He answered by shifting his focus, zeroing in on your clit. His tongue became a rapid, fluttering point of fire, circling and flicking so fast it was almost a blur of sensation. You moaned, your hands flying to his hair, not to push him away, but to pull him closer, grinding yourself against his face in a frantic search for release.

His hair was soft between your fingers, a stark contrast to the harsh, demanding pleasure he was wringing from your body. Just as you felt the first sign of an orgasm gathering deep in your belly, he stopped. You let out a soft cry. Your hips jerked up uselessly against the empty air.

He lifted his head, breathing heavily, his lips swollen and wet. He didn’t say a word. He simply watched the desperate frustration on your face, the slight tremor through your body.

Then, he lowered his mouth again, but not to where you needed. He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh, his teeth nipping at the skin. He then traced the spot with his tongue, a soothing counterpoint to the sting. He moved to the other thigh, repeating the process, his hands still vise-like on your legs, keeping you achingly open.

“Look at me.” he commanded. You forced your eyes open, not realizing you’d closed them. Looking down the length of your body, to where he knelt between your thighs. The sight was erotic–his broad shoulders, the focus on his face, his mouth hovering so close to where you ached for him. He held your gaze as he slowly extended his tongue and gave one long, slow, flat lick from your entrance all the way up to your throbbing clit. You whimpered, your hips lifting off the bed.

He dove back in with renewed fervor. This time, he introduced his fingers. You felt the blunt pressure of one, then two fingers at your entrance, testing, circling, before pushing deep inside you in one smooth stroke.He crooned his fingers, finding the spot that made you see stars. He worked them in and out, in a counter-rhythm to his tongue on your clit.

The dual assault was too much. It was everything. The coil of pleasure, so tightly wound before, now snapped with ease. You shattered around his fingers, rhythmically, and his mouth never left you, feeling every pulse and spasm. He worked you through it, his tongue gentling to soft, lapping strokes, his fingers slowing to a gentle pumping, drawing out the aftershocks until they were tiny, sensitive shivers.

When the last tremor subsided, he finally withdrew his fingers. He placed one last tender kiss on your oversensitive clit, making you flinch with a residual jolt of pleasure. Then he released your thighs, his fingers leaving faint, red imprints on your skin. He moved up your body slowly, kissing his way up your stomach, between your breasts, along your collarbone. He was heavy and warm as he settled over you, his arousal a hard pressure against your thigh.

His breath was hot and ragged against your lips.

“You are everything to me.” he whispered, the words gravelly and raw, as if it was dragged from a place deeper than his soul. He didn’t wait for a response. He kissed you again, a consuming kiss that let you taste yourself on his tongue. 

Your hands came up, sliding under the soft cotton of his t-shirt, mapping the hard planes of his stomach, the ridges of old scars you knew by heart. You pushed the fabric upward, and he broke the kiss just long enough to yank it over his head and toss it aside.

Your fingers went to the waistband of his sweatpants, but he caught your wrists, pinning them gently but firmly above your head on the couch cushion. Holding your wrists with one strong hand, he used the other to push his sweatpants and boxer briefs down over his hips in one impatient shove. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and beautifully hard, the tip already glistening. He kicked the clothing away, leaving him naked.

He released your wrists, but only to settle his weight more fully over you. He was so warm, so solid, so real. You wrapped your legs around his hips, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him closer until the hard length of him nudged against your entrance.

He slowly rocked his hips, dragging his cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered your name like a mantra.

“I need to see you.” he rasped, more to himself, lifting his head. He braced himself on his forearms, caging your face, his eyes locked on yours. “I need to watch you take me.”

You nodded, breathless, beyond words. You reached between your bodies, your hand wrapping around his length, guiding him to you. The broad head pressed against you, and you both let out a shuddering sigh. With agonizing slowness, he pushed forward.

He watched your face intently, every flicker of pleasure, every wince of overwhelming sensation. He sank deeper, inch by torturous inch, until he was fully sheathed, his hips flush against yours. For a long moment, he didn’t move. He just stayed there, You could feel the tremble in his muscles, to hold still.

“Leon…” you breathed, your voice trembling. You shifted your hips, a tiny, instinctive movement, and it broke his stillness. A low groan tore from his throat. He began to move.

His first thrust was a deep, deliberate roll of his hips, withdrawing almost completely before sinking back in with the same measured pace. It wasn't frantic, it was worship. Each stroke was long, deep, and achingly slow. He was making love to you with a focused, tender intensity that was somehow more overwhelming than any display of brute force.

“So perfect.” he whispered, his voice thick. “So tight for me. Taking me so deep.” He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next thrust, he hit a spot that made you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders. A faint, satisfied smirk touched his lips. “There it is.”

He found that angle and held it, each slow, penetrating thrust now brushing directly over that sweet, sensitive spot deep inside you. Pleasure began to coil again, low and hot and insistent, but it was a different kind of build–deeper, slower, more consuming. It wasn’t a race to the peak; it was a deliberate climb up a mountain, and he was ensuring you felt every single second.

One of his hands slid down your body, his fingers finding the swollen nub of your clit. He didn’t rub frantically; he simply pressed the pad of his thumb against it, as he continued his deep, smooth thrusts. The dual stimulation was maddening in its perfection. Your moans became continuous, a soft, broken melody that filled the space between your ragged breaths.

“That’s it” he encouraged, his own breath coming in hot gusts against your cheek. “Let me hear you. Let me feel you cum around me.”

His pace began to increase. The slow, deep rolls became more urgent, the slide of his body in and out of yours creating a wet, rhythmic sound. The pressure of his thumb on your clit became a deliberate, circling motion, perfectly timed with his thrusts. Your legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper.

“I’m… Leon, I’m going to…” you choked out, the words fracturing into a gasp.

“Look at me.” he commanded again, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own climax. “Come for me. Let me see it.”

You held his gaze as the wave broke. It crested not with a violent crash, but with a deep, rolling swell of pure pleasure. Your body clenched around him in powerful pulses, milking his length, drawing a ragged groan from his chest. Your vision whited out at the edges, but you kept your eyes open, locked on his, and you saw the exact moment your pleasure triggered his own.

His control shattered. With a final, deep thrust that buried him as far as he could possibly go, he threw his head back, a raw, guttural groan tearing from his throat. His nose scrunching softly, as he gritted his teeth. You felt the hot rush of his release deep inside you, each jet synchronized with the contractions still rippling through your own body. 

Slowly, the tremors subsided. His weight settled upon you, a warm, comforting heaviness. He was still inside you, as his breathing gradually slowed from ragged gasps to deep, even draws. He turned his head, his lips finding your shoulder, placing a soft, lingering kiss there.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The only sounds were the whisper of the television and the syncopated rhythm of your hearts slowing together. The couch was nothing but a mess of discarded clothes and tangled limbs, but at that moment, it felt like the most sacred of places.

Slowly, he lifted himself carefully off you, the loss of his warmth and weight made you shiver. But he didn’t go far. He gathered you into his arms, shifting both of you so you were lying side-by-side on the couch, your back curled against his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you. He pulled the soft throw blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over both of you.

He nuzzled into your hair, his lips brushing your ear. “I love you.” he whispered, the words simple, final, and carrying the weight of the entire universe.

You covered his hands with yours, lacing your fingers together over your stomach. 

“You’re thinking again.” you murmured, not even opening your eyes. A soft huff of breath left him, almost a laugh. 

“That obvious?”

“Always.” There was no bite to your reply. Just familiarity. You shifted slightly, pressing back into him more fully, your head tilting just enough to brush your lips against his jaw. “I’m here.” you added quietly, making his hold on you tighten, just for a second.

“I know,” he said, though it came out rougher than he intended. But you felt the truth in it. He did know. He just… needed to keep knowing. You turned in his arms until you were facing him properly. Your hand came up, resting over his heart which was still beating a little too fast.

“You don’t have to compete with anyone,” you said softly, your eyes searching his. “Not him. Not anyone. There’s no comparison to make.” His gaze flickered, like the instinct to argue was there, but he didn’t even open his mouth. “I’ve seen what’s out there, Leon.” you continued, your voice gentle but unwavering. “I chose you anyway. Not because you’re safe, or easy, or convenient…” Your fingers curled slightly against his chest. “But because you’re you.”

You saw that it meant something to him in the way his expression shifted, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

“You’re the one I come home to, or…with.” you added, quieter now. “The one I think about when things get bad. The one I want beside me when things are good.” A small, almost shy smile touched your lips. “You’re it for me.” And for a moment, he just looked at you.

Like he was trying to memorize every word, every expression, every piece of you that was offering him something he still didn’t fully believe he deserved. Then his hand came up, covering yours where it rested over his heart, pressing it more firmly there.

“Yeah?” he asked, softer now.

You lean down and kiss him again.

You lean back slightly in his lap, the movement slow but deliberate, and Leon follows immediately.

He doesn’t even seem to think about it.

One second you’re hovering over him, the next he’s sitting up with you, chasing your lips like he can’t quite stand the space between you.

His mouth finds yours again before you fully settle, the kiss warm and insistent. One of his hands slides up to cradle your jaw, fingers firm but careful as he tilts your face toward him.

The other hand moves almost absently under the hem of your shirt. His palm spreads across the warm skin of your back, calloused fingers splaying gently along your spine as if he’s confirming that you’re really there.

The contact sends a quiet shiver through you.

You thread your fingers into his hair again, the strands still slightly damp from the shower. You angle his head just enough to deepen the kiss, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you at all.

For someone who’s spent most of his life holding the world at arm’s length, Leon kisses like a man who’s been starving.

Your brain registers that distantly.

The more immediate problem is the way your chest tightens when he exhales softly against your lips.

You think dimly—somewhere beneath the warmth and the rush of adrenaline and the steady beat of his heart under your hand—that this might be a terrible idea.

Not because you don’t want it.

Quite the opposite.

Because now that you’ve gotten a taste of him like this, you’re pretty sure you’ll never get enough.

Eventually you pull back just enough to breathe. Your forehead rests briefly against his as both of you catch your breath. His hand is still resting under your shirt, warm against your back, his thumb absently tracing slow circles along your skin.

You can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. Your lungs are still working a little harder than usual.

The moment stretches quietly between you. Then his hand slips back up to your face. Leon brushes his thumb gently along your cheek. The gesture is slow, almost thoughtful.

You lift your head slightly. And that’s when you see his expression.

Those blue eyes of his—usually so sharp, so guarded—look impossibly soft in the dim light.

There’s still exhaustion there. Still the faint shadows of whatever hell he crawled out of before showing up at your door. But underneath it is something else entirely.

Something warm. Something vulnerable.

He looks up at you like you’re the only stable thing in his universe.

Which is frankly ridiculous. You’re a slightly sleep-deprived surgeon with a deeply questionable relationship with sarcasm.

But the way he’s looking at you right now makes your chest tighten anyway.

You take his face in your hands, your palms framing his jaw, thumbs brushing over the rough stubble he hasn't had time to shave. For a second, you just look at him, the surgeon in you fighting the woman who just wants to melt into his touch. The medical brain is a persistent little fly. It doesn’t care about the mood. It cares about internal bleeding and hidden hematomas.

"Leon," you say, your voice dropping into that low, insistent tone you usually reserve for uncooperative patients. "Don't lie to me because I will find out anyway. Are you injured? Anywhere? I’m talking deep tissue, cracked ribs, anything that’s going to make me regret what I’m about to do in five minutes."

He lets out a breath that’s half-sigh, half-chuckle, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment as he leans into your touch. "Just scrapes and bruises this time," he murmurs, his voice gravelly and sincere. "Nothing a few Aspirin and some sleep won't fix. I promise."

You hold his gaze, squinting slightly as you perform a visual triage in the dim light of the living room. You’re looking for the tell-tale guarding of the abdomen, the shallow breath of a rib fracture, the dilated pupils of a concussion. He looks wrecked, sure, but he isn’t breaking.

"Good," you huff, the tension in your shoulders bleeding out. "Because explaining to my coworkers why my ‘friend’ landed in the ER would be a conversational nightmare I’m not prepared for."

"I'll try to keep my organs inside my body for the sake of your professional standing," he quips, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Appreciate it," you mutter.

But the sarcasm is a thin veil, and it’s tearing fast. 

The urgency from before returns, sharper now, a physical ache that demands proximity. You lean down, your lips finding the sensitive cord of his neck. You don’t just kiss him; you press into him, your teeth grazing his skin in a soft, punishing nip that makes him hiss through his teeth. 

It’s a territorial thing, you realize—a primal need to mark the fact that he’s alive, that he’s here, and that he belongs in this quiet apartment instead of some godforsaken ditch halfway across the world.

The air between you shifts, growing heavy and hungry, thick with the scent of his soap and the lingering, metallic tang of the rain. 

Leon groans, a low sound that vibrates against your chest. His hands slide from your waist to your hips, pulling you flush against him. He catches your lips again, but the gentleness from a moment ago is gone, replaced by a slow, possessive glide of his tongue against yours that makes your toes curl. 

You gasp into his mouth, the sound swallowed by him, and for a second, the room feels like it’s spinning.

Your hands find the hem of his t-shirt. You’re usually a marvel of manual dexterity—you can suture a tear in a tear duct without blinking—but right now, your fingers feel like lead. You tug at the fabric, a little uncoordinated and impatient, your knuckles brushing against the warm skin of his stomach. Leon gets the message immediately. He pulls back just enough to yank the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, discarding it somewhere on the floor without taking his eyes off you.

Then, there he is.

Your hands slide across his bare chest, the heat of him startling even though you knew it was there.  You trace the map of him with a reverence that borders on religious. Your fingertips follow the jagged line of an old gunshot wound near his shoulder, then drift down to the faded puckered skin of a blade scar across his ribs. 

Every mark is a story of a day he almost didn't come home, a testament to the sheer, stubborn will it takes to stay alive in his line of work.

It’s a lot to process—the doctor in you wants to catalog the mechanism of injury for every scar, while the woman in you just wants to press her face against his heartbeat and stay there until the world stops being so violent. 

You move slowly, trying to memorize the texture of him by heart, as if by learning the topography of his skin, you can somehow keep him tethered to the earth.

"You're staring," he whispers, though he doesn't pull away. He looks almost self-conscious under your scrutiny, his muscles tensing beneath your touch.

"I'm a plastic surgeon, Leon," you remind him, your voice a soft, blunt rasp as your thumb traces a particularly deep scar near his sternum.

 "I spent three years of fellowship learning how to make things look like they never happened. But these..." You look up at him, your eyes softening despite your best efforts to remain detached. "I think I prefer the truth."

He doesn't say anything to that. He just reaches up, his hand tangling in your hair to pull you back down into a kiss that tastes like a promise.

You lean back just an inch or two, your hands still resting flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, rhythmic thrum of his heart beneath your palms. You let your gaze wander over the sharp line of his collarbone and the way the dim lamplight catches the gold in his hair before meeting those tired, ice-blue eyes.

"You’re beautiful, Leon," you murmur. The words are soft, stripped of any defensive irony, and they hang in the quiet space between you like a confession.

For a man who has stared down biological nightmares and stared into the abyss of global conspiracies without blinking, this—this simple, quiet bit of praise—seems to be his undoing. Leon’s throat hitches, and he looks away, his gaze dropping to the edge of the mattress. 

In the shadows, you could swear a faint heat is creeping up his neck, a genuine flush that makes your own chest tighten.

It’s almost absurd. He’s a legendary agent, a survivor of a dozen apocalypses, and he’s blushing like a teenager because a girl in wrinkled scrubs called him handsome.

"Hey," you whisper, reaching up to catch his chin between your thumb and forefinger. You gently, insistently, tilt his face back until he’s forced to look at you again. A playful, crooked smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. 

"Don't give me that look. It’s a professional medical opinion. Completely objective. You aren't allowed to argue with the doctor; it's against hospital policy."

Leon huffs a quiet, breathy laugh, shaking his head faintly as if he can’t quite believe his luck—or your audacity. "Hospital policy, huh?" he rasps, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with a low, delicious gravel.

"Strictly enforced," you confirm.

He doesn't argue. Instead, he closes the distance again, his movements possessing a renewed, hungry focus. One hand slides up into the hair at the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling firmly in the strands to angle your head, guiding you into a kiss that is deeper, more certain than anything that came before. 

As his tongue glides slowly against yours, his other hand leaves your waist. You feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of your top as he slides it up your side, his touch hesitant for a fraction of a second—that lingering, awkward Leon Kennedy caution—before he finds the curve of your breast. He kneads the soft flesh gently through the cotton, his thumb grazing the peaking center, and the sensation sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.

You arch into him instinctively, your back bowing as you gasp into his mouth, the sound half-sob and half-sigh. Your fingers dig into the muscles of his shoulders, clinging to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you from floating away.

The friction of his calloused skin against your ribs, the solid, unyielding heat of his lap beneath you, and the sheer, overwhelming need radiating off him makes your head swi

You raise your arms in a silent, fluid request, the movement pulling the hem of your top upward. Leon doesn't hesitate this time. His large, warm hands catch the fabric, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of your ribs as he tugs the shirt over your head. 

The sudden contrast of the cool apartment air hitting your heated skin makes your breath hitch, but the chill is short-lived. Leon is looking at you now with an intensity that feels heavy enough to leave a physical mark.

His eyes track the line of your throat, the curve of your shoulders, and the way your chest rises and falls with your own jagged breathing. t’s a look of raw, unadulterated hunger, tempered only by that slight, endearing hesitation that seems to haunt his every move with you.

"Your turn," you breathe, a faint, shaky smirk playing on your lips as you try to ground yourself. "You’re the one staring now, Leon. I’m starting to think you’re conducting a very unprofessional physical exam."

Leon lets out a low, rough chuckle that vibrates right through the couch and into your bones. "Just gathering a second opinion," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a dangerous, velvet register.

He doesn't wait for a rebuttal. He leans in, his mouth crashing against yours for one more searing, open-mouthed kiss before he begins a slow, deliberate descent. 

He trails his lips down the column of your neck, his stubble grazing your skin in a way that makes your nerves feel like they’re on fire. Then, he finds the soft junction where your neck meets your shoulder and bites. 

Just a sharp pressure followed by a dragging, insistent pull of his lips that you know, with clinical certainty, is going to be a bitch to cover with a high-collared scrub top tomorrow.

You don't care. 

You sigh softly, your head tipping back to give him better access, your fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there.

As you shift in his lap, trying to get even closer, you become acutely aware of the rigid, heavy length of his arousal pressing firmly against your inner thigh. 

You can feel the heat and the slick moisture spreading through the thin fabric of your shorts, soaking into the material as your body reacts to him with an intensity that’s almost embarrassing.

Every time he breathes against your skin, every time his hand kneads your hip, you feel that pulse of electricity center itself right between your legs. 

"Leon," you moan, the name breaking on a ragged exhale as his mouth moves lower, his breath hot against your collarbone. 

Your hips tilt into him, an unconscious, pleading motion. "Please. Tell me you’re not going to make me wait much longer, because I’m about ten seconds away from losing my mind."

You feel him pause, the hot, erratic puff of his breath ghosting over your collarbone like a physical touch. For a heartbeat, the only sound in the room is the distant, fading rhythm of the rain and the much louder, more frantic drumming of your own pulse in your ears.

"Impatient," he murmurs against your skin, his voice vibrating with a playful, low-timbred huskiness that makes your stomach flip.

"Pot, meet kettle," you managed to huff out, though the witty retort loses some of its bite when your voice cracks on the last syllable.

Leon doesn't give you the satisfaction of a comeback. Instead, he shifts his weight, his mouth beginning a slow, agonizingly deliberate descent down the slope of your breast. 

You hold your breath, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, until he finally closes the distance. When he catches the peaked, aching center of your nipple into the heat of his mouth, sucking lightly, a sharp, silvery jolt of electricity shoots straight to your core.

A ragged whimper escapes you—a sound you didn’t even know you were capable of making—and your fingers instinctively tangle into the damp, blonde strands of his hair, pulling him closer, anchoring him to you. 

As if he can sense the exact moment your knees go weak, his hand slides up to cup your other breast. His palm is a steady, scorching weight, providing a grounding contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. His thumb begins to run over your other nipple, the calloused pad of his finger dragging lightly over the sensitive peak in a rhythmic, torturous friction that makes you cry out into the quiet of the room.

"Leon," you breathe, your head falling back. 

You arch into his touch, your body acting on a purely predatory instinct to get as much of him as possible. The friction of your damp shorts against his thigh is becoming a secondary, pulsing ache that you can no longer ignore.

It's nearly unbearable now, a sharp, white-hot pull that demands more than just fabric-muffled contact. 

You grind your hips down into his lap, a slow, heavy press and you’re rewarded instantly. Leon lets out a broken, guttering moan against the skin of your breast, his fingers digging into your hips with a sudden, bruising strength.

You can’t take the distance anymore, even the few inches of him being buried against your chest. You reach down, cupping his face and tugging him upward until his mouth meets yours in a rough kiss. 

He swears softly into your mouth—a low, dark "Fuck"—as he pulls you so close your ribs feel like they might fuse together.

The kiss is feral. It’s the kind of kiss that happens when two people have spent months pretending they weren't dying to do exactly this. 

Your hands are everywhere—tugging at the damp strands of his hair, clutching at his shoulders, tracing the hard, tensed planes of his back. Your tongues tangle, a slick, rhythmic dance that matches the desperate movement of your hips. You catch his lower lip between your teeth, tugging just hard enough to make him growl, your own breath coming in ragged, whimpering gasps that echo in the quiet bedroom.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against your lips, his voice sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel. "So fucking beautiful like this."

The compliment is sweet, but your patience has officially reached its expiration date. You’re hyper-aware of the heavy, damp heat soaking into your shorts, the fabric clinging to you in a way that’s becoming a distraction. 

You need him. Not through layers, not through carefully placed hands, but him.

With a burst of sudden, restless energy, you scramble off his lap. Leon lets out a small, pathetic whine—a sound so uncharacteristic of the composed DSO agent that it would be funny if you weren't currently vibrating with need. 

You don't give him time to mourn the loss of contact. You fall back onto the mattress and immediately reach out to snag the waistband of his jeans, tugging him toward you.

He follows you instantly, hovering over you, his arms braced on either side of your head. 

His hair is a mess, his lips are swollen and red, and his eyes are dark with a hunger that makes your stomach do a slow, heavy flip.  You reach up, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down until your lips are brushing against the shell of his ear.

"Leon," you whisper, your voice a shaky, demanding rasp. "Stop being a gentleman. Touch me. Properly. Right now."

You can feel the shudder that ripples through his entire frame at the words. He doesn't need to be told twice. His hand slides down, his fingers hooked under the elastic of your shorts, and the look he gives you is so intense, so utterly focused, that it feels more intimate than the kiss.

“Hips up, sweetheart,” Leon murmurs, his voice dropping into that low register that usually commands a room, but here, in the quiet shadows of your bedroom, it just makes your knees go weak.

You comply instantly, arching your back off the mattress with a shaky breath. He handles you with a mix of practiced efficiency and a lingering, reverent hesitation, shrugging your shorts down and off. The cool air hits you for a split second before the heat of him replaces it. 

He leans down, pressing a lingering, searing kiss to the sensitive skin on the inside of your knee.

It’s such a small, surprisingly tender gesture that it catches you off guard, forcing a soft, broken sound from your throat. Then, his hand begins its ascent.

The contrast is almost too much to process—the rough, hard-earned calluses of a man who spent his life gripping cold steel and fighting for survival, now dragging slowly over the silk-soft skin of your inner thigh. 

You shiver violently, your legs trembling as he nears the center of the ache. When his palm finally settles against your core, the contact is electric. He doesn't pull away; he rests there for a heartbeat before his fingers begin to move in a slow, deliberate circle.

He’s not just touching you; he’s exploring, spreading the slick, honeyed evidence of how much you want him across your sensitized skin.

“Leon,” you moan, the name breaking into a needy, high-pitched plea. 

You reach for him, your fingers digging into the corded muscles of his forearms. Clinging to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you from shattering into a million pieces. 

He huffs a rough, dark laugh against your skin, his thumb catching on your clit with a precision that makes your vision go momentarily white. He shifts, hovering over you, his eyes dark with a heady mixture of pride and hunger.

“Look at you,” he whispers, his voice thick with a sudden, raw vulnerability. “You’re already soaked, and I’ve barely even touched you properly yet.”

“Shut up,” you gasp, though there’s no heat in the command, only desperation. “Less talking, more… everything else.”

He doesn't give you the chance to complain further. He surges upward, his mouth crashing back onto yours in a kiss that is even more heated than the last. It’s a messy, frantic collision of lips and tongues. 

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him into the cradle of your hips, wanting to bridge every single millimeter of space left between you.

He doesn't keep you waiting. His hand shifts, a single finger brushing slowly, tentatively between your folds, and the sensation is so acute you practically bolt off the mattress. A high, thin whimper breaks from your throat, your hips rocking up against his palm in a reflexive, needy search for more. 

He lets out a shaky breath, his fingers dipping briefly inside you—just a teasing, shallow intrusion that makes your breath hitch—before he pulls back. He doesn’t move away; instead, he uses the slick, hot evidence of your arousal to coat his thumb, circling your clit with a slow, agonizingly deliberate pressure.

You moan directly into his mouth, the sound muffled by his lips, and your hands fly to his head. Your fingers tangle in those blonde strands, tugging just enough to let him know you’re losing your mind. 

"Leon," you breathe against his lips, the name a jagged, desperate plea.

He doesn't answer with words. He doesn't have them. Instead, he plunges two fingers back into you, deep and sudden. The sensation is overwhelming; you whimper, your eyes squeezing shut as he begins to move, his knuckles dragging along your soft, pulsing interior. It’s a rhythmic, heavy friction that targets every nerve ending you possess.

There’s a slight clumsiness to his movements, a hint of the man who hasn’t let himself be this vulnerable with another human being in years. He’s touch-starved in a way that’s almost painful to witness—he’s holding onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him from drifting into the abyss. 

Every time he adjusts his grip, every time his thumb hitches on your skin, you feel that underlying tremor in his hands. He’s terrified of breaking you, even as he’s clearly desperate to consume you.

"Is that... okay?" he rasps, his forehead leaning against yours, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that’s almost too much to bear.

"If you stop," you gasp, your hips stuttering against his hand as you try to find the rhythm he’s setting, "I will actually kill you, Leon. Keep going."

He lets out a rough, breathless chuckle, and the last of his hesitation vanishes. He increases the pace, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that one spot that makes your vision go fuzzy at the edges. You arch your back, your fingers digging into the muscles of his upper arms.

You go pliant and boneless beneath him, your limbs heavy and humming with a sensory overload that has your brain feeling absolutely fried. You’re a mess of tangled sheets and heated skin, and Leon seems to sense the exact moment you stop fighting the sensation and start drowning in it.

He doesn't miss a beat. He returns to the crook of your neck, his mouth hot and demanding as he alternates between soft, soothing kisses and sharp, possessive bites. Each time his teeth graze your skin, a fresh jolt of lightning shoots down your spine, making you arch your back and moan with a needy, pathetic edge that you’d usually be too proud to let anyone hear.

Your chest is heaving, your lungs struggling to keep up with the frantic pace your heart is setting.

Below, his hand is a steady, rhythmic torture. His fingers thrust in and out of you with a newfound confidence, the wet, sliding sound of his intrusion echoing in the quiet of the room. His thumb remains anchored to your clit, circling with a relentless, heavy pressure that keeps you hovering right on the edge.

"Fuck," you choke out, the word vibrating against his ear, raw and unpolished. "Don't stop. Please, Leon, don't you dare stop."

He lets out a low, guttural growl, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. "I'm not going anywhere," he promises, his voice thick with a sudden, dark resolve.

He redoubles his efforts, his thumb pressing harder, his fingers sliding deeper, moving with a frantic urgency as if he’s trying to make up for every month of "just friends" and every night he spent alone in his own apartment thinking about you. 

You're both chasing it now—the release, the confirmation, the desperate need to prove that you’re both alive and that this—this heat, this sweat, this honesty—is the only thing that's real.

You thread your fingers through the damp, golden-blonde strands of his hair, pulling him up just enough so you can look into those blown-out blue eyes. Your brain is a static-filled mess of endorphins and adrenaline, but the surgical part of you—the part that takes charge in a crisis—kicks in with a sudden, sharp clarity of desire.

"Leon," you whisper against his lips, your voice a ragged, demanding thread. "Sit up. I want to ride you. Now."

He freezes for a split second, his breath hitching in that way that tells you exactly how much your bluntness affects him. Then, a slow, dark smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth—the look of a man who is more than happy to follow orders for once in his life.

"Yes, ma'am," he rasps, the words vibrating with a low, delicious gravel that sends a fresh shiver down your spine.

You lean in, meeting his mouth in a kiss that’s heated, desperate, and admittedly a little clumsy. Your teeth clink against his, your tongues tangling with a frantic sort of rhythm as you both try to compensate for the months of polite distance and "just checking in" phone calls. 

It’s messy and honest, the kind of kiss that only happens when two people are too far gone to care about grace.

Leon pulls back, his chest heaving as he moves to the edge of the bed. You watch, your throat feeling suspiciously tight, as he shucks his pants with a focused efficiency that’s slightly betrayed by the slight tremor in his hands. 

He sits back against the headboard, his broad shoulders framing him against the dim light of the room. He reaches out, his large hands find your waist, and he guides you toward him, his thumbs tracing the line of your hipbones.

"Come here," he murmurs, his voice a low, inviting command.

You don't need to be told twice. You crawl toward him, the cool air of the room forgotten the moment you feel the scorching heat radiating off his skin. As you straddle his lap, the friction of your sensitized skin against his rougher texture makes you gasp. 

You're acutely aware of the rigid, heavy weight of him between your thighs, and the way his hands tighten on your hips, his knuckles white with the effort of keeping himself steady.

"You're sure?" he asks, that lingering, awkward Leon-caution flickering in his eyes for one last second. "I don't... I don't want to hurt you."

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, reaching out to cup his face, your thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones. "Leon Kennedy," you murmur, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. "You aren't going to break me. Now, shut up, please."

You move with a deliberate, painstaking slowness, your hands braced against his shoulders as you guide yourself down. 

The sensation is immediate and overwhelming—a heavy, stretching fullness that makes your breath catch in the back of your throat. 

You pause halfway, your eyes fluttering shut as you focus on the stretch, your internal muscles clenching instinctively around him. Leon’s hands are gripping onto your hips, his knuckles white as he helps steady your descent, his own breathing coming in harsh, jagged hitches.

When you finally sink all the way down, feeling him bottom out against your cervix, both of you let out a sharp, synchronized hiss of needy air. The contact is electric—blunt, honest, and entirely too much.

"Fuck," Leon rasps, the word breaking into a groan as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. "You feel... so good, sweetheart. Too good."

He nips at the sensitive skin of your shoulder, a sharp, possessive little sting. You exhale sharply, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back. 

Your heart is hammering against your ribs, and for a moment, you just stay there, absorbing the weight and the heat of him, letting the fullness settle into your bones.

Then, you begin to move. It’s not a fast rhythm—not yet. You trace lazy, grinding circles against him, testing the friction, feeling the way he pulses inside you. 

Your head falls back, your exposed throat baring itself to the dim light of the room as your breathing becomes a series of unsteady, broken sighs.

Leon lets out a small, high-pitched whimper—a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender that vibrates through your entire frame. It’s so raw, so stripped of his usual guarded stoicism, that it makes your chest ache with a sudden, fierce affection.

You reach down, taking his face in your hands and forcing him to look up at you. His blue eyes are clouded with a heady mix of lust and a deep-seated vulnerability.

"Keep whining like that, pretty boy," you murmur, your voice a low, teasing rasp. "I think I like it more than the brooding."

You could swear you see a fresh, dark flush creep up his cheekbones, a genuine blush that softens the hard lines of his face. 

He doesn't have a witty comeback this time; he’s too far gone. Instead, he reaches up, his hand tangling in your hair to pull you back down into a kiss that is a frantic, clumsy collision of teeth and tongues.

You meet his hunger with your own, your hips picking up the pace, the lazy circles turning into a rhythmic, bone-deep desperation that neither of you has the energy to fight anymore.

You begin to bounce, your hips finding a frantic, driving cadence that has Leon’s hands tightening on your waist until his fingerprints are practically branded into your skin.

Each time you drop, his hard length bottoming out against your cervix, it sends a jolt through your system—a sharp, dizzying cocktail of slight ache and overwhelming pleasure that makes your vision spark. A series of loud, uninhibited moans and broken mewls rip out of your mouth and echo off the bedroom walls.

You’re being loud. Historically, "undignified" loud. But as you throw your head back, your pulse thrumming in your throat, you realized you’re too far gone to care if the neighbors hear or if your professional reputation is currently evaporating.

Leon’s hands are a restless, wandering fire. They slide from your hips to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, before moving up to knead your breasts with a heavy, possessive pressure. 

His palms are memorizing your curves as if he’s trying to store the sensation away for the next time he’s stuck in a cold extraction zone.

He surges upward, his mouth crashing into yours in a desperate, hungry kiss that tastes like salt and heat. 

His arms wrap around you, cording with tension as he starts thrusting up to meet your every downward move head-on. The friction is incredible, and the sound—the wet, rhythmic squelch of him burying himself deep into your dripping, over-sensitized folds—is the only thing you can hear over the roar of blood in your ears.

"Leon," you sob into his mouth, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your nails probably leaving half-moons in his skin.

He doesn't answer with words. He can't. He just groans, a deep, desperate sound that starts in his chest and ends against your tongue. 

He’s matching your pace perfectly, his movements losing their precision and turning into something raw and primal. Every thrust is a confirmation; every time he fills you, it’s a reminder that the world hasn't taken him yet, and that for this hour, in this bed, he isn't a weapon—he's just yours.

You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, locking him in, your inner muscles clenching around him in a rhythmic, involuntary pulse that makes him swear into the crook of your neck.

 You’re both sweating now, your skin sliding against his, the heat in the room rising until it feels like the air itself might catch fire. You’re close—so terrifyingly close to the edge—and you can feel him vibrating with the same frantic, terminal urgency.

The rhythm transcends desperate and borders on the truly frantic, a blurred collision of skin, sweat, and the heavy, rhythmic thud of his hips meeting yours. 

“I love you,” he rasps, the words torn from his chest, sounding raw and unpracticed as he surges up to meet you. “I love you so much.”

“I love you,” you sob back, the confession breaking into a jagged, high-pitched moan as he hits that sweet spot deep inside you again. 

You clench around him instinctively, your internal muscles pulsing in a rhythmic, tight grip that makes him growl, his head falling back against the headboard for a brief, breathless second.

You’re a mess of whimpers and broken gasps, clinging to his broad shoulders like a survivor in a storm. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, the scent of him—salt, heat, and that faint, lingering trace of the rain—filling your senses until your head is spinning. But you can't stay away for long; you lean up again moments later, your mouth seeking his in a series of frantic, open-mouthed kisses that taste of salt and desperation.

Leon is murmuring soft, broken praise against your skin, his voice a low vibration that you feel more than hear. “Good... you’re so good for me... so beautiful,” he breathes, his hands sliding from your hips to your back, pulling you so tight against him that there isn't a single millimeter of air left between your heartbeats.

He buries himself into you one last time, a deep, heavy thrust that seems to touch your very soul, and the world finally tilts on its axis. 

Your back arches, a high, broken moan tearing from your throat as your internal muscles seize around him in a series of rhythmic, crushing pulses. It’s an overwhelming, systemic sensory overload that makes your brain go completely static, leaving only the frantic, electric hum of your own pleasure.

You dig your nails into the hard muscle of his shoulders, your grip desperate and uncoordinated, as if you’re trying to anchor yourself to the earth while your soul tries to leave your body. 

Leon doesn’t pull back; he leans into it, his mouth moving down the sweat-slicked column of your neck in a series of stinging, possessive kisses. He gives one last, deep, staggering thrust—burying himself so completely within you that it feels like he’s trying to merge his skeleton with yours—and then he stills, his entire body going rigid.

He spills into you with a heavy, pulsing heat that you feel deep in your marrow. A low, guttural sound starts in his chest, but he bites down on the curve of your shoulder to stifle the high, pathetic little whimper that threatens to break out of him. It’s the sound of a man finally letting go of a decade’s worth of tension, and it vibrates through your bones like a tuning fork.

For a long, suspended minute, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the frantic, overlapping rhythm of your breathing—two sets of lungs struggling to remember how to function. You’re slumped against him, your forehead resting on his shoulder, your chest heaving against his in a heavy, damp syncopation.

You’re still twitching, small, involuntary aftershocks rippling through your thighs and your core, making you clench around him in little phantom pulses. 

Leon’s arms are steady around your back, his hands splayed wide, holding you with a fierce, protective urgency.

“Leon,” you breathe, the name coming out as a shaky, threadbare whisper. You don’t have the energy for sarcasm, and for once, the dry, witty commentary in your head has been completely silenced.

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, his voice thick and wrecked. He shifts just enough to press a lingering, salt-tasting kiss to your temple, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You close your eyes, letting your weight settle fully into him, feeling the steady, thudding reassurance of his heart against your own. You’re a mess of tangled limbs, sweat, and shared history, and as the adrenaline begins its slow, shimmering retreat, you realize that for the first time since that Code Yellow sounded, the quiet doesn't feel like a threat. It just feels like home.

He moves with a tenderness that feels almost alien compared to the frantic, borderline-violent urgency of moments ago. 

Leon carefully untangles himself from you, and as he pulls away, you let out a low, involuntary whine—a sound of pure, unadulterated protest at the sudden absence of his heat. It’s a physical ache, that hollow sensation of him leaving you, and for a split second, the cool air of the bedroom feels like an intruder.

"I know, I know," he rasps, his voice a honeyed, broken growl. "I’m right here."

He doesn't let the space last. He lays you gently back onto the mattress, but before your head can even fully sink into the pillow, he’s pulling you against his chest, tucking your smaller frame into the protective curve of his body. He’s still breathing hard, his ribs expanding against yours in a heavy, jagged rhythm, but his focus is entirely on you.

He begins to plant a trail of soft, feather-light kisses across your face—your temple, your cheekbone, the tip of your nose—before settling back into the crook of your neck. 

"You're perfect," he murmurs against your skin, the words vibrating through your collarbone. "Absolutely perfect. I don’t know how the hell I got lucky enough to find you in that madhouse."

You’re still reeling, your lungs struggling to catch up, your fingers still curled tightly into the muscles of his forearms as if you’re afraid he’ll dissipate into smoke. 

"You're stuck with me now, remember?" you manage to breathe out, the sarcasm finally flickering back to life, though it’s faint and fragile. "Medical... medical necessity."

Leon lets out a soft, huffed laugh, his chest vibrating against yours. He shifts, pulling the duvet up over both of your sweat-slicked bodies, shielding you from the world outside. He ducks his head, his nose brushing against yours as he looks at you with a gaze so heavy with affection it makes your throat ache.

"I love you so much," he whispers, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence that makes you feel like the most precious thing he’s ever held. "More than I probably know how to say."

"I love you too, Leon," you reply, your voice cracking just enough to betray you. 

You bury your face in his chest, listening to the frantic, slowing thrum of his heart—a steady, biological proof that he’s alive, he’s here, and he’s yours.

He begins a slow, soothing motion, his hand gliding up and down the length of your spine in long, grounding strokes. His other hand finds your hair, his fingers threading through the damp strands, untangling the mess you made of it during the heat of it all. It’s a quiet, domestic rhythm that feels like an anchor.

You close your eyes, the exhaustion finally starting to pull at you, safe in the knowledge that for the first time in a very long time, you don't have to be the one doing the saving.

Leon untangles himself with a lingering, reluctant friction, his hand sliding away only after a final, reassuring squeeze of your hip. "Stay here, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice still a low, gravelly wreckage of its former self. "Just give me a second."

You watch him move across the room, the dim light catching the hard, scarred lines of his back. You’re too far gone to do anything but melt into the mattress, your limbs feeling like lead weights and your brain humming with a fuzzy, post-coital static. 

When he returns, he’s carrying a glass of water and a fresh, warm towel. He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and hands you the glass. You take a long, desperate sip, the cool water hitting your parched throat like a miracle. Then, he begins to clean you up.

It’s the gentleness that gets you. He uses the towel with a focused, almost clinical precision, but there’s a reverent softness to the way he wipes the sweat and the spent heat from your skin. You let out a long, contented sigh, your eyes fluttering shut. 

In your world—the world of 24-hour call shifts, arterial bleeds, and being the "cool head" in the OR—you are always the one doing the taking care. You are the one who cleans the wounds and stabilizes the wreckage. Being on the receiving end of this much quiet, domestic devotion makes your throat feel suspiciously tight.

"You're too good at this, Leon," you whisper, your voice sounding small and fragile even to your own ears. "It’s a little bit annoying. I'm supposed to be the one with the bedside manner."

He lets out a soft, breathy chuckle, tossing the towel aside and settling back onto the bed. 

He doesn't just lie down; he maneuvers himself around you, pulling you back into the cradle of his chest until you’re a tangle of heavy limbs and shared warmth. He’s completely boneless, his usual high-alert tension evaporated into the quiet of the room.

You lean back slightly, your head resting against his shoulder as you slide your fingers into the damp, blonde hair at the base of his neck. You begin to scratch lightly at his scalp, your nails dragging in slow, rhythmic arcs. Leon absolutely melts. 

You can feel the precise moment his remaining muscles give up, his entire frame sagging against you with a deep, shuddering exhale. It’s a physical surrender, the kind of trust that a man in his line of work rarely gets to experience.

"See?" you whisper, your voice softer than it’s been all night as you guide his head down until his forehead is resting in the crook of your neck. 

Your fingers never stop their slow, hypnotic movement through his hair. "We're both fine. We're here. We're together. No outbreaks, no DSO bullshit. Just us."

Leon shifts, his arm tightening around your waist as he tucks his face further into your skin, his breath hot and steady. "If you keep doing that," he mutters, his words slightly muffled against your shoulder, "I’m going to fall asleep right here. I’m serious."

A tired, playful smirk touches your lips. You don't stop the scratching; if anything, you slow it down, making it even more deliberate. 

"Oh, really?" you tease, your voice a low hum. "Thirty years of tactical training, and all it took was a scalp massage? I think I finally found your off switch, Agent Kennedy. A major security flaw."

"Don't you dare," he grumbles, though there’s no heat in it, only a profound, sleepy contentment. He nuzzles closer, his nose brushing against your collarbone. "Just... don't stop."

You don't. You keep your fingers moving.

Outside, the rain has stopped completely, leaving the world hushed and still. Inside, there’s only the sound of two hearts finally finding a rhythm that isn't dictated by fear. 

The scratching of your nails against his scalp slows as you feel the last of his resistance crumble. 

Leon’s breathing, which had been a ragged, stuttering thing since he first burst through your door, finally begins to lengthen. It turns deep and rhythmic. You feel his weight shift as his chin drops further into the crook of your neck, his body becoming a warm, solid press against your side.

Leon Kennedy is finally out.

You stop the movement of your hand, but you don't pull your fingers away, leaving them resting gently against the nape of his neck. 

You tilt your head just enough to look at him. In the weak, filtered light of the streetlamps outside, the hard, weary lines of his face have smoothed over. The furrow between his brows—the one that seems permanently etched there by decades of looking at things no human should ever have to see—is gone.

He looks... peaceful. It’s a jarring sight. This is the man the government sends in when the world is ending, the one who carries the weight of Raccoon City and a thousand other nameless horrors on his shoulders. 

And yet, here he is, draped across you like he’s finally found the only place on earth where he doesn't have to keep one eye open. He’s soft, he’s relaxed, and most importantly, the steady rise and fall of his chest against your ribs is proof that he’s alive.

The clinical part of your brain tries to keep watch, a lingering habit from too many nights on call, but even that is failing you now. The warmth of the duvet, the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat, and the sheer, bone-deep relief of having him back in your arms are a powerful sedative.

Your own eyelids feel like they’re weighted with lead. You shift just slightly, tucking your nose into his hair, the scent of him acting as the final push you need. Your fingers curl slightly into his hair one last time before your grip loosens.

"We're okay," you murmur, the words barely a breath, meant more for yourself than him.

You let your eyes close, your own breathing syncing up with his, and you drift off into a sleep that, for the first time in a very long time, is completely free of nightmares.

You’re still holding him when the world goes dark, and for tonight, that’s all that matters.

──────•✦•──────

The morning light filters through the blinds in thin, dusty slats, painting stripes of pale gold across the rumpled duvet and the tangled mess of limbs that constitutes his current, and far preferred, reality. 

Leon wakes slowly, the transition from a deep, miraculously dreamless sleep to consciousness feeling less like a tactical snap-to-alert and more like a gentle surfacing. 

Usually, waking up involves a split-second inventory of his surroundings—locating the nearest exit, checking the weight of the holster on the nightstand, and bracing for the inevitable phantom ache of old injuries—but today, the only inventory he cares about is the warm, steady weight of you against his chest. 

You are curled into his side, your breathing a soft, rhythmic puff of air against his collarbone that makes his heart do something inconveniently sentimental.

He remains incredibly still, his chin resting atop your head, savoring the sheer, domestic quiet of it all. It’s a stark contrast to the sterile, flickering fluorescent lights of a DSO safehouse or the mud-caked desperation of a trench in some corner of the world that God forgot.

He feels a sudden, sharp ache in his chest—not from a broken rib or a close call with a Tyrant, but from the terrifying realization of how much he has to lose now. 

He’s spent thirty years convincing himself that attachments are just liabilities, but holding you like this, he knows he’s never been more wrong. 

He shifts slightly, the movement careful and deliberate, and presses a lingering kiss to your temple, the scent of your shampoo—something floral and clean—overpowering the lingering, metallic memory of the mission he left behind.

You stir against him, a low, sleepy murmur vibrating through his skin as you nuzzle deeper into the crook of his neck, seeking out his heat.

"Five more minutes," you mutter, the words muffled and thick with sleep, your fingers curling blindly into the hair at the base of his neck. 

Leon huffs a quiet, breathy laugh, his chest vibrating against yours. He reaches up, his thumb tracing the soft curve of your cheekbone, his touch light and reverent as if he’s still half-convinced you might vanish if he applies too much pressure.

When your eyes finally flutter open, blinking against the morning sun, you offer him a lopsided, tired smile that hits him harder than a flashbang. 

"Morning," you croak, your voice a beautiful, grainy mess. 

Leon’s thumb continues its slow, rhythmic path across your skin, his blue eyes searching yours with an intensity that usually unnerves people, but here, it’s just full of a quiet, terrifying devotion. 

"Morning," he replies, leaning down to catch your lips in a soft, slow kiss that tastes of sleep and shared history. He pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours. 

"I talked to Hunnigan yesterday. Or well, I told her I’m taking some time off. Mandatory 'me' time. Although I suspect she’ll just call it 'extravagant slacking' on my next performance review."

He watches the way your eyes light up, the sleepiness replaced by a genuine, sharp spark of surprise. 

"You? Taking time off?" you tease, your hand sliding up to cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over his stubble. "Is the world not ending? Did someone forget to tell the BOWs to take a vacation?" 

Leon smiles, a real one that actually reaches his eyes, making the fine lines at the corners crinkle. 

"Let 'em have a few days. I figured we could do something radical. Like eat breakfast at a normal hour or watch a movie that doesn't involve a tactical breakdown of their escape routes. Maybe even leave the house without a sidearm, though let’s not get crazy."

You laugh, the sound a bright, grounding melody in the quiet room, and nuzzle closer to him, wrapping your arms around his waist as if you’re trying to fuse your skeletons together. 

Leon closes his eyes, wrapping his own arms around you completely, tucking your head under his chin. 

For the first time in more years than he cares to count, the constant, low-level hum of adrenaline in his veins has gone silent. He isn't the hero, he isn't the agent, and he isn't the survivor. 

He’s just a man in a sun-drenched bedroom, finally feeling a sense of peace that he’s realized is far more addictive than the rush of a mission. 

He holds you tighter, breathing you in, and decides that whatever the world throws at him next, it’s going to have to wait. He's busy.

──────•✦•──────

Soon enough, Leon feels the familiar, restless itch beginning to prickle at the back of his neck. It’s a phantom sensation, the biological byproduct of a life lived waiting for the other shoe—or a mutated bio-weapon—to drop. 

He looks at you, still tucked securely against his side, and the sheer, terrifying domesticity of the moment makes his chest tighten with a sudden, sharp anxiety. 

He’s spent three decades as a professional ghost, a man whose only permanent address was a series of interchangeable safehouses and whose only long-term commitment was to a handgun. 

The idea that he can just have this—this quiet, this warmth, this person who smells like expensive soap and hasn't once asked him for a sitrep—feels like a trap he hasn't spotted yet. 

He clears his throat, the sound rough and awkward in the silent room, and his fingers stop their rhythmic stroking of your hair.

"I can't exactly give you a 'white picket fence' life," he starts, the words feeling heavy and clumsy in his mouth. 

He avoids your eyes for a second, staring instead at the way the light catches a scar on his own forearm. 

"I love you. I think you know that by now. But I’m not exactly a 'dinner's on the table at six' kind of guy. My lifestyle... my career... it’s a lot to ask of anyone. If it’s ever too much, if the silence or the 'classified' bullshit becomes a burden you didn't sign up for... I’d understand if you needed to walk." 

He feels like a teenager again, stumbling over a confession he’s practiced in his head a thousand times, his inner monologue dryly noting that for a top-tier federal agent, he’s remarkably bad at basic human communication. 

Great, Kennedy. Real smooth. Why don't you offer her a tactical exit strategy while you're at it?

You shift against him, propping yourself up on one elbow to look at him with an expression that suggests you think he’s officially lost his mind. There’s a flicker of that sharp, surgeon’s focus in your eyes, the kind that usually precedes a very blunt anatomical correction.

"Leon, I'm a big girl. I went through med school and residency; I’m not exactly known for being slow on the uptake," you say, your voice dry and peppered with that familiar, comforting sarcasm. 

"I accepted a long time ago that I’m going to go slightly insane every time you’re gone. I also figured out that 'classified' is just your go-to excuse whenever you don't want to tell me something embarrassing. I’m not stupid."

Leon huffs a quiet, surprised laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction, but he sobers up almost instantly. The humor is a nice shield, but the reality of his world is a different beast entirely. 

"It’s not just the stories," he says, his voice dropping to a low, somber register. He reaches out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a desperate kind of reverence. 

"If someone—the wrong kind of people—ever learned about you... you could be in danger. Real danger. They wouldn't just kill you; they’d use you to get to me. I’ve seen it happen. I don't think I could survive being the reason you ended up on an operating table." 

It’s the closest he’s ever come to admitting he’s terrified, his mind flashing briefly to the ghosts of Raccoon City and the faces of those he couldn't pull out of the fire.

You don't even blink. Instead, you let out a huff that’s almost a laugh and lean back into the pillows, looking entirely unimpressed by his grim prognosis.

"Leon, relax. Honestly, if you've ever watched even ten minutes of Grey’s Anatomy, you’d know that a hospital is statistically the most dangerous place on the planet. I’ve survived the cafeteria meatloaf. I think I can handle a few 'shadowy figures' if they ever show up." 

You reach out, poking him lightly in the chest right over his heart. 

"You can't spend your entire life worrying about what may or may not happen ten years down the line. That’s a terrible way to live, even for a professional brooder like you."

He looks at you, and for a moment, the DSO agent disappears, replaced by a man who is simply, profoundly tired of being alone. 

"I just... I can't let you go," he whispers, the admission feeling like a surrender. "I tried to be the noble one. I tried to stay away. It didn't work."

You sigh, a soft, exasperated sound, and pull him back down until his face is inches from yours. "Then don't. Just for once, Leon, let yourself have something nice without wondering when it’s going to blow up in your face."

Leon chuckles, a genuine, self-deprecating sound that finally breaks the last of his restless anxiety. 

"To be fair," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours, "things around me do tend to blow up. Usually with a lot of C4 and very little warning."

"I'll take my chances, you miserable bastard. I love you," you mutter, though the insult is wrapped in so much affection it feels like a caress.

"I love you too," he replies, the words no longer feeling like a liability. 

He kisses you then, a slow, gentle pressure that isn't about desperation or survival, but about the quiet, incredible fact that for the first time in his life, he has a reason to actually come home. 

The world is still dangerous, the mission will eventually call, and the shadows aren't going anywhere—but as he pulls you closer, Leon decides that for today, the only thing he’s going to investigate is how long he can stay exactly where he is.

“That was stupid,” Leon says, hauling you into him. The words aren’t unkind, but they’re not gentle either. You stumble against him.

“Have I been known to be anything else?” you ask. He grunts. “Besides, I’ve got you to take care of me,”

He doesn’t respond. He finds a quiet spot, a reclusive corner where he can assess the damage. There’s a wicked gash along your side, cutting from near your navel up towards your ribs. It makes your vision tunnel when you finally lay eyes on it. You hadn’t known how bad it was. His fingertips are gentle around the surrounding skin.

“You’re lucky evac is two minutes out,” he says. His voice is hushed, like he’s telling you a secret. Maybe he is.

“Yeah?” you ask, a breathy noise that you’re not certain you could recreate. The sound is deep, rooted in desperation and blood loss. Leon’s eyes flick up at you from where he’s crouched, icy gaze cutting through his lashes. He looks pretty like this, bent low in front of you, looking at you with something you can’t place. It makes you shiver.

“You’re losing blood,” he says. You nod.

“Gonna give me yours?” you tease. Your vision tunnels a bit, and you slump forward. Leon catches you, pulling you flush against him. He smells like sweat and cedar and smoke, something that nearly lulls you into sleep. You hear a distant rumble as the building continues to crumble.

He helps you out of the derelict building. You’re barely even walking, just sort of stumbling beside him as he carries most of your weight, and you feel strangely guilty for making him do all the work. The helicopter’s blades never slow as it touches the ground. Leon helps you into your seat, guiding you gently. He’s soft as he slides the headphones over your ears, even going as far as to smooth a piece of hair out of your eyes. You can hardly keep them open.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs. It feels like a promise. “Can’t have you dying on me, now,”

“That would ruin your whole week,” you say, trying to smile. It’s a weak attempt at a joke, and he knows it. You can see tension make its home under Leon’s skin. It rears its head with every pull of muscle, every furrowed brow.

“We’ll be home soon,” he says. You nod. You’re not sure if he’s reassuring you or himself.

When you do finally land, you’re pulled away from him for medical attention. You fight as best as you can, attempting to sit in on the briefing, but Leon levels you with a gaze you’ve never seen him wear, and you accept defeat. There’s two medics standing idly in the room, and they turn to see you hobble in, eyes widening.

“What the hell happened?” one of them asks. You shrug, sitting down on the bed.

“Caught something sharp,” you say. They lift your shirt, which is in ribbons. A shock of pain rips through you, and you stifle a groan.

They work quickly, giving you a tetanus shot. You wince as the needle sinks beneath your skin. The pain only adds to the rest of it searing through your muscles. Now that you’re sitting, adrenaline having dissipated, everything hurts. The gash oozes blood, which makes you feel dizzy. Your back hurts, your legs hurt, your side hurts. Every time they touch you, you suck in a breath.

Finally, you’re stitched up. They tell you to take it easy for a week, shove pain meds into your hands, and send you out the door. Leon leans against the opposite wall, watching his boots. He looks tired, run down. He’s covered in dirt. Black streaks smear across his cheeks, his biceps. His hair falls like a golden frame over his eyes. You sigh.

He looks up then, watching you. He scans over your body, checking for any lingering injuries the medics managed to miss. You offer him a weak smile.

“No hospital?” he asks, pushing off the wall to meet you where you stand. His steps are heavy, tired. You shake your head. “Good. Let’s get you home,”

You follow him out of the building. It’s winding turns and desolate hallways until fresh air smacks you in the face. You take a deep breath, trying to let the residuals of the mission fall off of you. Leon’s car faces you, a beat up old Buick–he refuses to get anything newer–and it stares at you like it knows something you don’t. You fit easily into the passenger seat, like you were made for it. You lean back against the headrest. You feel suddenly exhausted, like a two ton weight rests in your chest. You just want to sleep. The drive to your apartment isn’t long, and you’re counting down the seconds until you’ll be able to slip into the shower and let the day wash down your back.

Leon helps you upstairs. You try to protest, tell him that the elevator isn’t going to exert you any more than the walk to the building itself, but he refuses to listen. He follows silently behind you until you reach your door. He’s like a shadow as you enter the apartment, still bathed in the darkness of night. You hate to do it, but you turn on the light, flooding the room and making you wince. Leon holds your arm to keep you steady as you toe off your shoes.

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” you say, not looking at him. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been hurt,”

He doesn’t say anything for a long, pregnant moment. But then, “I would like it to be the last, preferably,”

You huff a weak laugh, something hoarse and weary. “You and me both, partner,”

He follows you from room to room, picking things up as you drop them. Your right arm is effectively useless because any movement on that side sends shockwaves of pain through your entire body. You sigh heavily, fighting back tears. Leon stands in the threshold of your bathroom, holding your bundle of clothes and hairbrush. He looks at you with something you can’t identify–not quite pity, but something adjacent. He looks so pretty, so collected, even in his dirty state. You clutch your side.

“I can take it from here,” you say, breathless. “I’ll see you in a week,”

Leon stares at you. His fingers fidget with the hem of your sleep shorts. He opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it again. Then, “Do you want help?”

You blink at him. You hadn’t considered he’d be willing to help you. You hadn’t thought so far ahead as to know what you’d do to get out of your clothes.

With a breath, you say, “Yes, please,”

He nods wordlessly. Your clothes find their home as a heap on the sink counter. He pats the top of it once as if casting a spell to make them stay put. He turns to you then. He’s broad, forces you to dial in on him. His hands linger at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

You lift your left arm above your head, a silent encouragement to get him to touch you. His hands fall on you like a caress. Gently, he lifts your shirt up. His knuckles brush against your side, making your breathing hitch. He’s not watching you, fully focused on his task, but you can’t look away from him. He looks so focused, like one wrong move would paralyze you. He catches one end of the shirt in your armpit, pulling the other side out so you can slip your arm through. He helps ease your head through the collar, then pulls it off entirely via your other arm. He breathes in heavily through his nose at the expanse of skin he’s revealed. Then he takes a step back. You swallow thickly.

“I need…” you mumble, brain rotting inside your skull. “I can’t reach-”

“I got it,” he says. The words sound broken on his tongue.

You spin for him, presenting the clasp of your bra. You purse your lips when his warm hands make contact with the smooth skin on your back. He makes surprisingly quick work of it. Within seconds, you feel it loosening around your ribs, a small blessing. You breathe out something heady and heavy.

“I’ll be out there if you need anything,” Leon says. He leaves little room for argument by bustling out of the room as quickly as he can. You blink.

The shower water is hot on your skin, but it feels good. You can feel the tension slipping down your shoulders in rivulets. Somehow, you manage to wash yourself one handed, which you feel mildly proud of. The steam loosens you. It’s only when you step out of the water that you remember that you have to put a shirt on.

You struggle for what feels like hours. Every movement pulls on your stitches. You’re near tears when you finally call out for Leon.

“Yeah?” he asks, cracking the bathroom door. You sniffle.

“I can’t…” you say, taking a breath to recollect yourself. “I can’t get my shirt on,”

“I’ll help,” he says. His voice is so soft, so intimate. He enters quietly, staring at anything that isn’t you.

The shirt looks miniscule in his hands. Carefully, almost reverently, he eases the collar over your head. His gaze still lingers just past your shoulder. You frown. You slip your good arm through the sleeve.

Leon finally looks at you. You nod, letting him know it’s okay to put his hands on you. You see the turmoil in his eyes, the need for consent.

“You can touch me,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He nods once.

He grips the hem of the shirt, pulling as far down as the fabric will let him. Then, softly, he helps guide your arm through the sleeve. His fingers brush against you again, just along the curve of your breast, but the touch is electric, crackling with something unsaid. The moment is so intimate, so personal, you could burst into tears. Then the shirt is fully on your body. You wonder if Leon can hear your heart hammering against your chest. If he can, he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

“Thanks,” you say, breathless. He nods. “I can handle the rest,”

“You sure?” he asks. There’s no suggestion in his tone, and that almost makes it worse. You breathe heavily through your nose, nodding.

He stands there as you fumble with your hairbrush. Your lips are pursed as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You’re barely halfway through the tangled strands before he stops you.

“Let me help,” he says–no begs. You glance at his reflection. He looks as wrecked as you feel. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, gaze unblinking as he waits for you.

“Okay,” you say softly, voice hollow and breathy as you pass him the hairbrush.

He’s gentle as he works the brush through your hair. His gaze remains focused on the wet strands, but yours is on him. His brow furrows slightly, that bottom lip pulled snugly between his teeth as he pulls on a particularly tough tangle. His eyes look so blue in the yellowing light above the mirror. The care he takes with you is enough to make you sick. His hands are frustratingly warm as they bump against the back of your neck. He never once pulls or yanks, never scrapes the bristles against your skin, never gets frustrated. He works until it is done, unwaveringly, and you didn’t expect anything less. The moment is so soft, so delicate, you’re afraid that something might break when you pull away.

“I think I got it,” he says, soft as a whisper against you. You nod.

“Thank you,” you say. You stay idle for a moment, just watching him. He looks so unsure.

You think, in another lifetime, miles and miles away from here, that you could’ve loved him. He’s funny when he wants to be, charming in a boyish sort of way. You count on him, but he doesn’t let it get to him. He gives because he thinks it a privilege that you let him. You reach up to wipe away some of the dirt still smudged on his face. He stiffens beneath your fingertips, not prepared for such affectionate contact.

He swallows thickly. You remove your hand, and you see him relax just a fraction.

“Do you need any more help?” he asks in an almost broken way. You shake your head. “I’ll see you later, then?”

“Yeah,”

He ducks his chin at you, then shuffles out of the bathroom. You hear the front door open and click shut a moment later, leaving you alone in your apartment.

...

Leon is not sure that he would describe himself as kind or good. But on his drive home, as he thinks about your withered form presented to him in the dim light of your bathroom, looking up at him through your lashes like he was something holy, he starts to think that that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he is kind or good because you kept looking at him like he was all you ever needed. He can still feel your skin against his fingers, sending shivers down his spine. 

He’d frozen up. He knows that he probably looked ridiculous, like a flushed school boy who had just stumbled into the girl’s locker room by accident. Your skin had been so soft. The expanse of flesh he’d discovered beneath your tattered shirt lives in his brain as he shuffles into his apartment. The space is dark and empty. He has very few personal items, unlike you. His space looks abandoned, which he guesses it usually is. He really only uses this place to sleep and eat sometimes. 

He crashes onto his couch, still unshowered and unclean. He just needs a moment, he tells himself. Just one moment, to collect the memories of you like precious items to set on his vacant shelves. The way you shivered against him when he brushed your side, the way you watched him, doe eyed, in the mirror as he brushed your hair, the humidity of the room clinging to you; they all go, framed and perfect, on shelves in his mind. He breathes out, something heavy and soft all at once. 

He’s unfamiliar with this feeling. He doesn’t know how to embrace it, so he decides that he shouldn’t. He’s not sure he deserves something as sweet and gentle as you. You’re better than him, in almost every way. You don’t let the job wear you down, you take pride in what you do. You tease him. The mercy and compassion you give him are foreign in his brain. And he feels so selfish for accepting every last scrap. He eats up the way you look at him, the way you laugh at his weak attempts at jokes, the way you worry after him even with a ten inch gash on your side that very easily could’ve gutted you. He is gluttonous and greedy and selfish. You are consuming him, and he is letting you. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t let you plague him this way. He knows that it could all too soon be ripped away from him, but in this moment, in the dim light cast by the moon streaming through his curtains, he doesn’t care. A shudder rakes through his body, from head to toe. 

It would be all too easy to blame you. He could curse you for whatever spell you’ve cast to make him stupid in this way. But he knows the fault is his and his alone. It’s his fault that he mistakes your casual compassion for anything more. It’s his fault that he devours whatever good comes his way, just to corrupt and blacken it. And he doesn’t want to do that to you. He doesn’t want to see where this will end, even if he has before and knows it as intimately as he knows every other aspect of death and decay.

He tips his head back against the couch. There’s a crack in his popcorn ceiling, cutting through the expanse of white like a vein. 

He knows he’s cut open and bleeding at your feet. He’s wounded in a way that doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t want you to help him. Not because he doesn’t ache to feel your gentle hands smooth over his scarred flesh, working out the evil with every electrifying touch, but because he does, and that would make you the universe’s top priority. 

He is cursed, a bad day after a worse one. And he knows that if he were to let you have him the way he wants, you’d become cursed too. Cursed with him and his aches and pains, his scars and bruises, his anger and resentment. 

When he settles beneath the sheets that night, he dreams of you. He dreams of your soft skin against him, your laughter, your easy smiles. He dreams of the life he could have were it not for his exceedingly awful luck.

He could save you. He could prevent you from ever coming nearer. But that somehow feels like a worse, more torturous ending. And he is nothing if not selfish.

...

The next time you see Leon, it’s nearly a week later. The swelling on your side has gone down and most of the pain has subsided, but it’s still tense and unforgiving, especially so early in the morning. There’s little light coming through the curtains thanks to the steady stream of rain pelting the earth.

His hair is soggy, casting thick shadows over the high points of his face. There’s crystal droplets on the shoulders of his jacket, ones you want to reach out to shake off, but you refrain. He smiles at you, that gentle half smile he only ever wears when he’s half exhausted. 

“Came to check on you,” he says softly, words turned plush on the corners of his lips. You smile.

“Unfortunately, I’ve succumbed to sepsis. You’re seeing a ghost,” you joke. He rolls his eyes and pushes past you into the apartment.

He shakes off like a dog as he hangs his coat on the hook. A few rogue water droplets smatter your face. You take a moment to observe him. The lines of his body are rigid like there’s something pulling him taught. For a moment, you ache to reach out and smooth your palms over his muscles, to help him relieve some of that tension. You wonder if that’s something that would be okay, if he would welcome your touch. There is a line that stands between you, and you’re not sure which side of it you reside on. 

“Anything interesting happen in the week that I’ve been gone?” you ask, leaning against the back of the couch.

Leon hums, pursing his lips as he thinks back on the last few days. “There’s a new coffee machine in the break room,”

You huff a laugh. “Can’t wait to try that baby out,”

Silence stretches thick between you, like a rope that’s been left out in the rain. You watch him move with careful precision, finding where would be the best place to exist within. You wonder why he never seems to relax, even in your space. You wonder if he knows how much you care. Subconsciously, you run the pads of your fingers over your injury. It’s a rough stretch of skin now, bubbled with scar and scab. You frown.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, suddenly standing again to get to your side. He catches your wrist where it hovers near the tear.

You shrug. “Only when I think about it,”

He purses his lips and emits a low hum, giving you a once over. “Have a fever at all?”

You shake your head. He nods, once and curt, before dropping your wrist and stepping away from you. 

“Do you need any help?” Leon asks, avoiding your gaze by scanning around the room. “Any chores that have been neglected? Any errands I can run for you?”

You feel the corner of your mouth tick up in a small smile. Shaking your head, you say, “No, Leon. I’ve been able to manage on my own,”

“I know,” he says. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing on the soft flesh there in thought. Then, soft as a whisper, he says, “I was worried about you,”

You feel your heart catch in your throat. You think back to the way he looked at you that night, like you were broken before him and he couldn’t do anything to fix you. You think about how gentle he was with you, how careful he was like you were bursting at the seams. You see his cheeks turn a tinge of pink as the silence stretches thick between you. You reach out, placing a flat palm against his chest. There’s no sound in the apartment, just the rain outside and your own heavy breathing.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Leon,” you say, just as soft. “I know you’ll always take care of me,”

He swallows, something heavy and unsaid, and nods. “I will,”

It feels like a promise. It feels like a vow.

With an intake of breath, you say, “Anything on our docket?”

Leon purses his lips. “Not on yours,” he says. You frown. “You’re on light duty for a while,”

You twist your face up in a nasty expression, which makes Leon smile a fraction. “I don’t like that,”

“That’s what I figured you’d say,” he says. He moves around you to finally sit down. You’re almost surprised as he gets comfortable on your couch. You move to join him. “I tried to tell Hunnigan you wouldn’t go down easy,”

“I can’t imagine I have much choice,” you say, grumbling. “Did they say for how long?”

Leon shakes his head. “Could be a while,”

You groan.

“Hey,” he says, gently. “You took a hard hit. It’s either office duty or a grave,”

You scowl at him, and he flashes you a smile. “Promise me you won’t get yourself killed while I’m gone,”

He makes a motion over his chest. Cross my heart.

The next week, Leon is shipped out to God knows where. They won’t tell you, probably afraid you’d commandeer a craft to chase after him. You’re checking in with Hunnigan by the hour, who tells you you’re being paranoid. How can you not be? He’s out there, alone, doing something, something dangerous, and you’re stuck writing reports and drinking watered down coffee from the new machine in the break room. He could be hurt, he could be dead, and you would never know the difference. It makes you sick, it makes you scared.

“Separation anxiety?” Sherry asks, taking a seat beside you. You’re staring at a monitor, feeling like your eyes are melting out of your head.

“Shut up,” you retort, making her laugh. “I just worry about him,”

“Y’know, I think I had this exact conversation with him a couple weeks ago,” Sherry says, grinning at you. You scowl at her. “You two act like if you’re not attached at the hip, you’re basically dead,”

“That’s what it feels like,” you murmur. You sigh. “You don’t get it,”

“Maybe not,” Sherry says, shrugging. “But I do know what it’s like to feel,”

You blink at her. “Don’t you have somewhere else to go be annoying?”

Sherry jabs a finger into your side, making you yelp. “Don’t be mean to me just because you’re grumpy,”

You huff.

You are not grumpy.

...

Leon feels half dead on his feet as he trudges up the stairs of your apartment building. He’s been gone almost two weeks, with little to no contact with you. It feels like it’s killing him. He feels like it’s sucking out his will to live. He just wants to see you.

He knocks gently on your door. It’s late, just past midnight, but he knows you’re still awake, always the night owl. You open it a second later, wearing a shirt three sizes too big and an old pair of sweatpants; he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful. You give him a once over, scanning him for injuries, and when you don’t appear to find any, you crash into him. He lets out an oomph as his arms settle around your waist. You smell like home, and he feels his heart crack open a little.

“Worried about you,” you whisper into his shoulder. He holds you a little tighter.

“Not over yet,” he says, and you pull away, squinting at him. He shrugs his jacket off to reveal a nasty cut along his bicep. He smiles sheepishly at you.

You sigh, and it’s like the greatest symphony ever written. “Grab a seat at the table. I’ll patch you up,”

His pain ebbs as he sits. You return to him moments later with a first aid kit and a scowl. Your soft hands against his skin are what keep him tethered to the earth. Pain threatens to eat at his muscles and sinew, to consume him. But you’re gentle, easing through it like a softbed creek, curving over already smooth stones.

“Did you even try to get out of the way?” you murmur. You don’t look at him, but he’s watching you. He sees the twitch at the corner of your mouth as you clean the wound, the pull of your brows in concentration. You look so beautiful like this, like a pink sunrise, a reminder that good is out there.

“Sort of,” he mumbles back. You frown at him. “I didn’t really have time,”

You hum. Once the wound is thoroughly disinfected, you prime the needle for stitches.

“This will hurt,” you say, sinking the steel beneath his flesh. He doesn’t react. You make quick work of the area, making sure to tape over it to protect the stitches. When he’s all patched up, you pat his other arm, saying, “Try to make time so that this doesn’t happen again,”

He nods, watching you. You’re a breath away, inspecting him for any other injuries he may be sequestering. He reaches up hesitantly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He feels giddy at the way your eyes widen.

“Pretty,” he says, so softly he’s not even sure you hear it. He wonders if he’s concealing the deep, desperate love he has for you, or if he’s bearing it all with his gaze. At this point, he’s not sure he cares. 

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Kennedy,” you say, smiling at him. “I’m still mad at you,”

Soft as a whisper, he says, “I think I can handle that,”

Without much further thought, Leon closes the gap. You let out a little squeak when his mouth meets yours, but you almost melt into him. He’s so relieved that he could cry. Your hands find purchase along the curve of his jaw, his own grasping at the loose fabric of your shirt. You sigh sweetly into him, coating his nerves in a saccharine so destabilizing he can’t help but return it. When you fall into his lap, parting your lips and winding your arms around him, he’s afraid he’s died and gone to Heaven. And when your tongue finally meets his, he groans, something deep and guttural and unbecoming.

You pull away, a string of saliva hanging from your kiss bitten lips. You rest your forehead against his. His every perception centers on you; your hands on his chest, your nose bumping his as your chest heaves, your smell, the skin of your neck, open and exposed for him. He wants you, needs you like you’re the only thing that can save him. And when you kiss him again, a fire burns anew in his chest. Your hands are everywhere; his arms, his shoulders, his chest, and they find a home winding into his hair. A gentle tug against his scalp has his hands tightening their grip on your hips, begging you to still.

“Leon,” you murmur against his mouth, heady and soft all at once. 

“I’m here,” he says, and he means it. He has never been more present. And then he’s standing, lifting you with him to place you back on the floor. You stare at him, pupils blown wide, gnawing on your bottom lip.

He pulls you flush against him because he can’t help himself. He is nothing if not selfish, nothing if not gluttonous and greedy, and now that you’ve given him this small victory, he wants to see if he can keep winning you. He sees the quiet desperation in the deep color of your eyes, the way you’re watching him with your full, rapt attention.

“You can touch me,” you say, voice low and barely audible. He wants to eat you alive.

He wastes little time after that, mouth crashing against yours with renewed energy. His heart swells in his chest when you cling to him all the same. Your fingers dig into the tops of his shoulders. He taps his fingers once against your thigh, signaling you to jump. He catches you, carries you close against him until you’re laid out against the sheets. He doesn’t stray far, following you into the linen, soft and sweet.

He watches you for a moment, taking it all in. You’re smiling at him, grinning really as he hovers above you. You brush your fingers against his cheek, smoothing away whatever doubt may be lingering. He ducks his head, pressing feather light kisses to the column of your throat, making your breath hitch there. He doesn’t get far, not when you pull his mouth back to yours, grasping at his shirt in an effort to rid him of it. Leon is a compliant man, flashing you a grin as he pulls back to yank it off. He wonders if your cheeks warm like his, if you can hear the hard hammer of his heart in his chest.

...

Leon is all rigid muscle, sinew pulled tight and corded along his arms, the plans of his stomach, his shoulders. You feel almost animalistic, feral. You run flat palms over him, feeling him twitch and tremor under your touch.

“Pretty,” you say, soft as a whisper. He huffs a laugh.

You push him back slightly, only giving yourself enough room to sit forward to pull off your own shirt. You watch him swallow thickly as it gets discarded somewhere across the room. His hands are soft, gentle against the revealed skin as he kisses you again. Feather light touches across your waist, your stomach. Rough and callused palms against your breast, thumb finding your nipple. You arch into him at the contact, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

You’re aching, cut open and bleeding. His hands leave goosebumps and fire in their wake as he lays you back against the sheets, tracing his lips down your torso, stopping at the waistband of your pants. He looks up at you, chest heaving. You nod, a gentle duck of your chin. Your breath catches in your throat as he slowly–painstakingly slowly–tugs your pants down. He lets his hands wander over your exposed thighs, hopefully ignoring your choice of underwear. Light touches against your hips cause them to fall open. You wonder if you look as vulnerable as you feel. He presses the gentlest kisses to the insides of your thighs, head bouncing between them.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, a mumble against your skin. It sends shivers down your spine.

When he presses an open mouth kiss to the apex of your thighs, you think you black out for a second. A breathy gasp echoes off the walls. He tugs your underwear out of the way to flatten his tongue against you. The sound you make is unbecoming, head dropping back against the pillows. He wastes little time, sucking and kissing and licking as he finds his rhythm, finds what you like, what makes you the loudest. He eats you out like it’s a game, like he’s determined to get the highest score. Your vision is nearly white, fingers buried in his hair. When you tug on it a bit, he groans, deep and sultry, sending shocks to your brain. 

Your thighs begin to shake when he pulls your clit between his teeth, a breathy moan escaping you. He locks an arm across your hips to keep you in place. You’re shamelessly grinding against his face, chasing release. You keen high and whiny as he slides two fingers into you.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says, low and heavy. “Make a mess on me,”

He curls his fingers against you. The stretch and tempo and timbre of his voice were nearly enough to send you over the edge, but what does you in is seeing him lean back to watch you, stubble brushing the inside of your thigh. You clench around his fingers as you come, writhing and panting like an animal. You watch him lick his fingers clean before you’re clawing for him, pulling his mouth back up to yours. You groan as you taste yourself on his tongue. Your fingers fumble with the clasp on his belt, fighting to free him of it. You feel him chuckle against you as he reaches down to help you. He pulls away a bit to shuck off his trousers.

Your mouth waters when his cock springs free from his boxers, thick and flushed and dripping. Instinctively you reach for it, but he stalls you, gently grasping your wrist. You frown up at him.

“Won’t last very long,” he says by way of explanation.

“Next time, then,” you say, chest heaving. He grins at you, climbing over you again.

His kisses are addictive, you decide. You’re not sure how you ever went without them. They’re all consuming, send you spinning. You’re flat on your back again, pulling him as close as you can, running your hands down the expanse of his chest. He lines himself up with your entrance, gently pushing himself inside. The stretch is devastating. You break the spell of his kiss to gasp, jaw slack. His chest heaves as he buries himself in you, arms flexing on either side of your head. He stalls once he’s fully seated inside you. You smooth his hair away from his face, thumb swiping against his cheekbone. You feel so full; of him, of want, of love.

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse and heavy. You grin at him.

“Never been better,” you say.

You lock your legs around his waist, begging him to stay close to you. He drops his head, turning into your palm more as he begins to slowly pull out of you. The drag of him against your walls has you keening. He almost pulls out fully before pushing back in, setting a languid pace that has you boneless. One hand smooths up your side, cupping your breast. You pull him back down to you, mouth meeting his in a devastating kiss. He sighs heavy against your lips, a whimper so delicious it has you rolling your hips just to hear it again. He moves to bury his face in your neck, pressing gentle kisses to the skin there.

“So pretty,” he mumbles. You sigh. “Like you were made for me,”

The praise has you scratching your nails lightly down his back, earning you another pretty noise. His thrusts pick up their pace but never lose their softness. He ruts into you like a man consumed, mumbling against your sweat slick skin.

“Dreamed of this,” he says. His hands wander over you, fingertips gentle against your injury. “Dreamed of you. My pretty girl,”

There’s a pressure building in your stomach, a coil wound tight, threatening to burst every time he opens his mouth.

“Yours,” you say. “Always have been,”

His thrusts turn shallow, deep. He says, “Doin’ so good, fuckin’ perfect,”

You clench around him, huffing a breathy moan. “Leon,”

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right here,”

His thumb finds your clit, and you’re seeing stars. White hot pleasure radiates throughout your body, threatening to consume you. He picks up the pace, chasing his own release. He thrusts one, two, three more times before he’s groaning in your ear and filling you up. He collapses against you, chest heaving and panting. Your fingers wind into his hair, toying with the ends. Every now and then you feel him press kisses to the column of your throat. 

“Leon,” you whisper. He hums. “I think your stitches split,”

He laughs then, a bright, airy sound that splits your chest open with want. He pulls back to look at you, and you note the way his eyes brim with adoration. You feel suddenly shy.

“You gonna patch me back up?” he asks, soft against you. You grin.

“Yeah,” you say, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “I will,”

The jungle goes quiet in the worst way—like something has inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.

Leon notices it before the first shot ever lands. Years of instinct have trained him to recognize the absence of noise as its own kind of warning. No insects. No birds. No distant machinery from the supposed “research outpost” they were sent to extract a scientist from.

Too clean.

Too staged.

“Hey,” he mutters into his comm, voice low, controlled. “Anyone else getting that ‘we walked into a horror movie’ feeling?”

Static answers him.

Then—

Gunfire cracks through the trees, sharp and immediate, tearing through the humidity. Bark explodes inches from his head as he drops, rolling behind a thick root system, boots digging into wet soil that smells like rot and iron.

“Yeah,” he breathes, already moving, “that tracks.”

The intel was wrong. Not just wrong—weaponized.

He peeks over cover, eyes tracking movement through the foliage. Not militia. Too coordinated. Too quiet. And then he sees it—

One of them moves wrong.

Fast, but not human-fast. The kind of twitchy, jagged motion that sets every alarm bell in his body screaming.

“Of course it’s bioweapons,” he mutters under his breath, already reaching for a grenade. “Why wouldn’t it be bioweapons?”

He moves before the second wave hits, because standing still gets you killed. The world compresses into angles and timing—snap of gunfire, recoil, the metallic taste of adrenaline crawling up the back of his throat. He drops one, pivots, knife flashing in his hand as something lunges too close—

Too strong.

The impact slams him backward into a concrete wall hidden beneath creeping vines. His shoulder screams, but he doesn’t have the luxury of diagnosing it. The creature—humanoid, barely—lets out a distorted, choking sound as it claws for his throat.

“Yeah, no,” Leon grits out, jamming the knife upward under its jaw and firing point-blank.

The body goes slack.

He shoves it off, breathing hard, ears ringing now—not just from gunfire, but from the creeping realization settling into his bones.

Trap.

Extraction was never the mission.

He scrambles for his comm again. “Command, this is Kennedy. We’ve got advanced B.O.W. presence, repeat—this is not a simple extraction—”

A deafening explosion cuts him off.

The ground disappears.

For a split second, there’s nothing—no up, no down—just the violent sensation of being thrown, his body weightless before gravity remembers him all at once.

Then everything collapses.

Concrete. Steel. Heat. Sound.

Pain.

──────•✦•──────

When he wakes up, it’s dark.

Pitch-black.

Leon inhales sharply and regrets it immediately. His ribs protest, sharp and deep, like something cracked or bruised too close to vital. Dust coats the back of his throat, dry and choking. The air is thick, unmoving, pressing in on him from all sides.

“…great,” he rasps.

His voice sounds small here. That’s never a good sign.

He tries to move and something shifts above him—a groan of unstable debris that freezes him instantly.

Okay. Assessment.

He’s pinned. Not fully crushed, but trapped. One arm free. One leg—he tests it carefully—responsive, but not without pain. Head intact, mostly. Bleeding—yeah, definitely bleeding. He can feel it now, warm and slow along his side.

“Been worse,” he mutters.

For a moment, he just lies there, breathing shallow, controlled, forcing himself to stay calm. Panic wastes oxygen. Panic gets you buried for real.

His hand fumbles for his flashlight. Dead.

“Of course you are,” he sighs.

Silence settles again. Heavy. Suffocating.

And in that silence, with nothing to shoot at, nothing to fix, nothing to do—

His mind betrays him. It goes to you.Not gradually. Just—

You.

Your apartment. The soft hum of your fridge in the middle of the night. The way you stand at your kitchen counter, half-awake, making coffee like it’s a ritual instead of a necessity. The way your hand rests on his shoulder sometimes without thinking—like it belongs there.

The way you look at him. Like he’s something worth coming home to.

Leon squeezes his eyes shut, jaw tightening.

“Yeah,” he murmurs into the dark, voice rough. “Now you wanna think about that.”

Because here’s the problem. Here’s the really, really stupid part. He never said it.

Not once.

Not when you fell asleep on his chest. Not when you traced the scar along his ribs like you were cataloging damage you intended to fix. Not when he stood in your doorway after a mission, just… looking at you like an idiot because he didn’t know how to say it without breaking something.

I love you.

Simple. Three words. Apparently impossible.

“Good job, Kennedy,” he mutters, a humorless breath leaving him. 

The darkness presses closer. His chest tightens—not from injury this time, but something sharper. Colder. Because if this is it—

If this is where it ends—

You’ll never know.

And that thought? That does something more than fear. It focuses him. Sharply. Violently.

“No,” he says, more firmly now, voice low but steady. “No, we’re not doing that.”

His hand presses against the rubble pinning him, testing weight, angles, pressure points. Pain flares instantly, white-hot, but he leans into it instead of away.

You’re in D.C. right now, probably finishing a shift, complaining about someone incompetent in the OR, rolling your eyes in that way that means you care more than you admit.

You’re real. You’re alive. And he is not dying in a hole halfway across the world without telling you—

He exhales slowly.

“Get back,” he mutters. “That’s the plan.”

It’s not heroic, or poetic. It’s  the only thing that matters.

He shifts again, ignoring the way his vision swims, bracing his good arm against a fractured beam. The debris groans, threatening to collapse further, dust raining down into his face.

He pushes. Nothing. Again. Pain spikes harder this time, his arm trembling under the strain.

“Come on,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

He thinks of your voice. The dry, unimpressed way you’d look at him right now.

“You’re really going to die because you didn’t think this through?”

That almost makes him laugh.

“Okay, fair,” he mutters. “That does sound like me.”

He adjusts his angle. Smaller movement. Better leverage. Push. Something shifts. Not much—but enough.

Hope is a dangerous thing. He grabs onto it anyway.

“Yeah,” he breathes, more to himself than anything else. “That’s it.”

Again.

The beam lifts just enough for him to drag his leg free, biting back a sharp curse as pain lances through it. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t think about what might still collapse on top of him.

Because now there’s an exit. Somewhere. There has to be. And he is getting out.

He claws forward through the dark, through dust and debris and the metallic smell of his own blood, each movement slow and deliberate and fueled by something far more dangerous than survival instinct.

Determination. Singular. Absolute. Get back to you. That’s it. That’s everything. And somewhere above him, faint but real—

Light.

──────•✦•──────

Leon doesn’t remember the exact moment he breaks through to open air—only the feeling of it.

The pressure changes first.

The suffocating weight of dust and concrete gives way to humidity, thick and wet against his skin, dragging real air back into his lungs like something he has to relearn. He stumbles forward out of the collapsed structure, boots slipping in mud and debris, one hand braced against a cracked wall that threatens to give out behind him. 

For a second, he just stands there, bent slightly at the waist, dragging in slow, controlled breaths like he’s convincing his body it’s allowed to keep going. 

“Okay,” he mutters hoarsely, wiping grime and blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Step one: not dead. Strong start.”

The jungle has come back to life, but wrong. The sounds are there again—distant insects, something rustling too fast through the undergrowth—but it all feels sharper now, like the world has teeth again and is waiting for him to slip.

His comm crackles weakly.

“…Kennedy—status—”

He freezes for half a second, then yanks it closer to his mouth. “Yeah, still annoyingly alive,” he answers, voice rough but steady. “Extraction still on the table, or did you guys write me off already?”

There’s a pause, static hissing, and then—relief bleeding through the operator’s voice. “Copy that. LZ is hot but secure. You need to move, agent. We’ve got limited window.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, pushing himself upright despite the protest in his ribs. “Story of my life.”

Move. Right. That’s the problem.

Because now that the adrenaline has dipped just enough to let reality catch up, every injury announces itself at once. His side burns where blood has soaked through his gear. His head—

Yeah. His head is not great.

“Cool,” he mutters under his breath. 

But there’s no hesitation. There never is. He starts moving.

The jungle fights him for every step, thick undergrowth snagging at his boots, branches clawing at his arms like they’ve got opinions about him leaving. The air is heavy, damp enough that every breath feels like dragging water into his lungs. His vision blurs at the edges once, twice, but he blinks it back, jaw tightening.

Not here. Not now.

“Just a walk in the park,” he mutters, pushing through another wall of foliage. “Little cardio. Doctor’s orders.”

Your voice slips into his head uninvited. You don’t do cardio, you get shot at.

“Yeah,” he exhales, a faint, tired smirk pulling at his mouth. “Same thing.”

Gunfire erupts somewhere off to his left—distant, controlled bursts. Friendly. Probably.Or at least not immediately his problem.

He angles toward it anyway, instincts guiding him more than conscious thought now. His body knows the rhythm of extraction zones, the pattern of movement, the subtle cues that mean safety is close enough to reach if he doesn’t screw it up.

A shape crashes through the underbrush ahead of him. Leon’s gun is up before his brain fully processes it.

Not human. Not entirely.

“Of course,” he breathes, already moving.

The thing lunges, faster than it should, limbs jerking in that unnatural, puppet-like way that makes his skin crawl. He fires once—twice—adjusts for the way it keeps coming anyway, and then sidesteps just enough to drive his shoulder into it, sending both of them crashing into the dirt.

Pain detonates through his side. He ignores it.

“Stay down,” he grits out, finishing it with a final shot, chest heaving as silence slams back into place around him.

For a second, he just kneels there, breathing hard, gun still raised even though there’s nothing left moving.

Then—

Rotor blades. Distant at first. Then louder. Real.

Leon lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Oh, thank God.”

He pushes himself up again, every movement slower now, heavier, but there’s something driving him forward that has nothing to do with training anymore.

You. It’s always you.

The clearing opens up ahead, carved brutally into the jungle, dirt churned into mud by the downdraft of the helicopter hovering just above the ground. Floodlights cut through the haze, harsh and blinding after hours in the dark, silhouetting figures moving with practiced urgency.

One of them spots him.

“Contact front—Kennedy!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Leon calls back, lifting a hand in something that might be a wave if it weren’t so uncoordinated. “Miss me?”

They rush him the last few steps, grabbing his arm before he can pretend he doesn’t need the help. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t have the energy to.

The moment his boots hit the ramp of the chopper, the world tilts slightly sideways.

“Easy,” a medic’s voice cuts in, firm but not panicked. “Sit him down.”

Leon drops onto the metal bench with a grunt, elbows braced on his knees as he leans forward, catching his breath. The inside of the helicopter smells like fuel and antiseptic, loud and alive in a way that feels almost surreal after the silence he clawed his way out of.

“Man,” he exhales, dragging a hand through his dust-caked hair. “You guys really know how to roll out the red carpet.”

The medic snorts faintly, already running quick, efficient hands over him. “Hold still.”

There’s a brief pause as the medic assesses, fingers pressing along his ribs, checking his pupils with a small penlight.

Leon squints. “You trying to blind me or is that just a bonus feature?”

“Probable concussion,” the medic says, ignoring him with the ease of someone used to this exact brand of commentary. “Couple lacerations, bruising, subluxed shoulder. Nothing critical.”

Leon blinks at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He lets out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall of the chopper, head tipping slightly as the tension bleeds out of him in uneven waves.

“Huh,” he murmurs. “I was expecting at least a dramatic diagnosis. Internal bleeding, tragic backstory, something.”

“You want me to find something worse?” the medic shoots back dryly.

“No, no,” Leon lifts a hand weakly. “Let’s not get ambitious.”

The chopper lifts, the ground dropping away beneath them, jungle shrinking into a dark, endless sprawl of green. The vibration settles into his bones, steady and grounding, a stark contrast to the chaos he just crawled out of.

For the first time since the explosion—

He’s still.

And his mind… Goes right back to you. Of course it does.

He stares at nothing in particular, eyes half-lidded as the noise of the rotors fades into the background, replaced by quieter things. Smaller things.

You standing barefoot in your kitchen, stealing the first sip of coffee before it’s even finished brewing.  

The way you sit cross-legged on the couch, completely absorbed in something, brow furrowed in concentration like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

The way you patch him up without making a big deal out of it, your hands steady and warm and familiar, like this—like him—is just another thing you know how to fix.

“Yeah,” he breathes quietly, almost to himself.

Because it’s not the big moments. It never was.

It’s the way you roll your eyes at him when he makes a terrible joke but still smile a second later. It’s the way you let him stay without asking questions he doesn’t know how to answer. It’s the way you look at him like he’s—

Worth something.

Leon huffs a quiet, tired laugh, dragging a hand over his face. “Man,” he mutters under his breath. “You really picked a great time to figure that out.”

Because now there’s no ignoring it. No pushing it off to later.

Later almost didn’t happen.

He shifts slightly, wincing as his ribs remind him they exist, but he barely registers it. His thoughts are somewhere else entirely now, circling the same problem from every angle like it’s a tactical situation he can plan his way through.

How the hell does he say it?

It shouldn’t be complicated. Three words. He’s faced down worse things than this. Significantly worse. And yet—

“Hey,” he mutters quietly, testing it under his breath, like he’s rehearsing for something he’s not sure he’s allowed to have. “I, uh—”

He stops. Grimaces.

“Wow,” he breathes, shaking his head faintly. “That was bad.”

The medic glances over. “You talking to me?”

Leon exhales, leaning his head back against the metal wall. “No. Practicing not sounding like an idiot.”

“…Good luck with that.”

“Yeah,” Leon sighs. “Appreciate the vote of confidence.”

He closes his eyes for a second, letting the steady rhythm of the helicopter settle him, but the thought won’t go away.

You. Always you.

The idea of standing in your doorway again, seeing you look at him the way you do—

And saying nothing.

Again.

His jaw tightens.

“No,” he murmurs, quieter now, more certain.

Not this time.

He opens his eyes, staring out at the horizon as it stretches endlessly ahead of them, something steady and unshakable settling into his chest despite the exhaustion, despite the ache, despite everything.

He made it out. He’s going back. And when he sees you—

He’s not leaving those words unsaid again.

──────•✦•──────

It’s raining.

Not the polite kind of rain that taps gently against the window. This is the ugly, aggressive kind—the kind that slants sideways under the streetlights and rattles against the glass like it has a personal vendetta against the city.

You’re halfway through making tea when the knock comes.

Three sharp raps against the door.

You pause, kettle in hand.

For a split second your brain runs through the usual possibilities. Neighbor. Delivery. Some poor idiot who confused your apartment with the one downstairs.

Then the knock comes again—harder this time.

You set the kettle down slowly. You open the door.

And Leon is standing there.

For half a heartbeat your brain does something deeply unhelpful, like freeze-frame the image: him in the dim hallway light, soaked through to the bone, his jacket dark with rain, water dripping from the ends of his hair and down the sharp line of his jaw.

Then he moves.

He steps forward so fast you barely have time to process it before his arms wrap around you.

Hard.

Not the casual half-hug he sometimes gives you when he shows up after a long day. Not the quiet, steady kind that says I’m here.

This is different. This is desperate.

The door thuds shut behind him as he pulls you flush against his chest. For a moment you’re too startled to react.

Leon Kennedy does not do desperate. Leon Kennedy does controlled, mildly exhausted, and occasionally sarcastic.

He does not do this.

His arms tighten around you, fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt like he’s trying to anchor himself to something solid.

And then you feel it.

He’s shaking.

Not subtle either. His whole body trembles in quick, tight bursts, like adrenaline hasn’t quite finished burning through his system yet.

Your brain flips instantly into clinical mode. You tilt your head slightly, voice calm.

“Are you hurt?”

No response. Instead he buries his face in the crook of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, uneven.

For a second you just stand there, feeling the weight of him against you, the rain soaking into your shoulder where his jacket presses against it.

You slide one hand up his back slowly. He’s solid muscle under the damp fabric, tense like guitar strings.

“Leon,” you murmur, quieter now. “Did you get shot?”

He huffs something that might be a laugh.

“No.”

Your other hand comes up automatically, resting against the back of his head. His hair is damp and cold under your fingers. You brush it back slightly, smoothing it away from his forehead.

“Stabbed?”

“No.”

“Exploded?”

“…Not directly.”

You sigh.

“Fantastic. That really narrows it down.”

For a long moment he doesn’t say anything. He just stays there, face tucked against your neck like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.

Then his voice comes out low and rough.

“I just needed to make sure you were okay.”

You blink. That was… not the answer you were expecting. Your brain runs through that sentence again like it’s looking for the hidden clause.

You tilt your head slightly.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He exhales slowly, the breath brushing your collarbone.

“I just needed to see you.”

Well. That does something unpleasantly warm to your chest. Which is frankly rude, because you were planning on maintaining your usual professional emotional detachment tonight.

You rest your chin lightly against the top of his head.

Internally, you’re already running a quiet checklist. He’s soaked. He’s shaking. His breathing is uneven. Pupils probably dilated if you could see them properly.

Translation: adrenaline crash. Or panic. Or both.

Given Leon’s job description, it could honestly be either.

You slide your hand down his back gently.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Well. Congratulations. I am alive and mostly intact.”

He doesn’t move. You shift slightly, nudging him back a step.

“Leon.”

Reluctantly, he lifts his head. His eyes are darker than usual in the low light, exhaustion carved into the lines around them.

You take a second to study his face. No major visible injuries. No blood. No swelling.

Good.

Your hand lifts automatically, brushing the damp hair away from his forehead again.

“You look like hell,” you tell him gently.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He’s still holding you. Both hands planted firmly on your waist now, like if he lets go you might evaporate into thin air.

You raise an eyebrow.

“You planning on letting go at some point or are we committing to this as a lifestyle?”

Something faintly amused flickers across his face. But his hands don’t move.

“…Not yet.”

You study him for another second. Then you sigh quietly.

“Alright.”

You slide one arm around his back, the other resting lightly against his side. His shoulders drop a fraction.

That tiny shift tells you everything.

Whatever happened on that mission—whatever nightmare scenario the DSO threw him into this time—it rattled him harder than usual. Which, considering the man survived Raccoon City, is saying something.

Your fingers trace a slow, absent line along the back of his jacket.

“You want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Another moment passes. Rain continues to hammer against the windows. Finally you nudge him gently.

“Come on.”

He frowns slightly.

“Where?”

“Inside my apartment like a normal human being.”

Reluctantly, his hands loosen. You take his hand lightly and guide him toward the living room. He follows without protest.

Which is mildly concerning. Leon Kennedy usually argues about something. You steer him toward the couch.

“Sit.”

He does. Again. No argument. Your internal alarm bells ring quietly. You step back to look at him properly.

He’s drenched. Rainwater has soaked through his shirt, clinging to the hard lines of muscle across his chest and shoulders.

Your brain immediately decides this is extremely unhelpful information to notice. You ignore it. Mostly.

You reach down and gently push his damp hair back again. His eyes close briefly under your touch. That… does something unpleasantly soft to your chest.

You clear your throat.

“Okay.”

You cross your arms.

“First of all, you’re dripping on my couch.”

“Sorry.”

“Second, you look like you wrestled a hurricane.”

He rubs a hand over his face.

“Something like that.”

Your gaze softens a little. Without really thinking about it, your thumb brushes lightly across his temple, pushing another stray lock of hair aside.

His eyes open again, meeting yours. There’s something raw in them. Something you don’t usually see. It makes your chest ache in a way you’re not thrilled about.

So you default to sarcasm.

“Well,” you say gently, “since my living room is not technically a field hospital…”

You nod toward the hallway. “Go take a shower.”

He blinks. “A shower.”

“Yes, Leon. You’re familiar with the concept.”

“I know what a shower is.”

“Good. That saves time.”

You tilt your head toward the bathroom again. 

He hesitates. His hands tighten briefly on your waist again before he seems to realize he’s doing it. You soften your voice.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He studies your face for a moment, like he’s verifying that statement. Then he nods slowly.

“Okay.”

You step back, giving him space. “I’ll make you something to eat.”

He stands reluctantly. Still looking like a man who’s not entirely convinced you won’t vanish the moment he turns his back.

You raise an eyebrow. “Go.”

He exhales softly. “Yes, doctor.”

You watch him disappear down the hallway toward the bathroom. The moment the door closes, the apartment falls quiet again. Only the rain against the windows.

You lean back against the kitchen counter. And let out a slow breath.

Your brain mutters dryly.

Congratulations. You’ve somehow become the emotional support civilian for the most traumatized government agent in North America.

You rub your face. Then you reach for a pan. Because if there’s one universal rule in medicine, trauma, and life in general, it’s this:

People handle the apocalypse a little better when they’ve eaten.

The shower runs for a long time.

You hear it through the thin bathroom wall while you move around your kitchen, the quiet domestic sounds of your apartment filling the space—cutting board, the low hiss of a pan heating on the stove, the soft hum of the refrigerator.

Ordinary sounds. Normal sounds. The kind of sounds that usually feel boring. Tonight they feel… deliberate.

You crack two eggs into the pan and stare absently at them while they cook. Your brain, traitor that it is, keeps drifting back to the way Leon looked standing in your doorway.

Soaked. Shaking. Like a man who had been holding himself together with duct tape and stubbornness for several thousand miles.

You frown slightly, flipping the eggs.

He’s come to you injured before. Bleeding, bruised, stitched up in your bathroom like a particularly dangerous stray animal that keeps wandering back to your porch.

But shaken? That’s new.

Leon Kennedy usually holds himself together with an almost irritating amount of composure. Even when he’s exhausted, even when he’s clearly carrying something ugly behind his eyes, he still moves through the world like he’s the one thing in the room that isn’t going to break.

Tonight he looked like someone had finally managed to crack the armor.

You plate the food automatically. Toast. Eggs. Whatever vegetables were left in your fridge that could reasonably pass for a meal.

Your brain pipes up again. 

Congratulations. You’ve domesticated a government agent.

You set the plate on the counter. The shower shuts off. A few seconds later the bathroom door opens.

You glance up. And—well. Your brain takes a moment to reboot.

His hair is damp, pushed back messily from his face. He looks… human again. Still exhausted. Still a little pale. But human.

You lean your hip against the counter, folding your arms. “Better?”

He nods slightly. “Yeah.”

His voice is rougher than usual, like the steam knocked something loose in his lungs.

You push the plate toward him. “Eat.”

He looks at it, then at you. “You didn’t have to—”

“You’re welcome,” you interrupt calmly.

A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He sits down at the counter and starts eating, slower than usual, like his body is still catching up with the fact that it’s allowed to relax.

You watch him for a moment. He finishes about half the plate before he looks up. Your eyes meet. There’s a pause. Then, quietly, he asks,

“Can I stay here tonight?”

The question is soft. Careful. Like he’s bracing for the possibility that you might say no. Your chest tightens a little. Because this isn’t Leon asking for a place to crash at.

This is Leon asking for permission to exist somewhere safe for a few hours.

You don’t make him wait.

“Yeah,” you say simply.

Relief flickers across his face so quickly it almost disappears. He sets the fork down slowly.

“Thanks.”

You shrug. “Don’t get sentimental. You already know where the spare towels are.”

That earns you a small, tired huff of laughter. You push off the counter.

“Come on.”

He stands immediately.

There’s something oddly obedient about the way he follows you down the hallway, like his brain has decided that staying within a three-foot radius of you is currently the safest place on earth.

Your bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft spill of streetlight through the curtains.

You turn back toward him. For a second he just stands there, looking slightly unsure of what to do with himself. Which is frankly bizarre.

Leon Kennedy can infiltrate bioterrorist compounds and fistfight monsters the size of SUVs, but apparently the concept of a bed has him stumped.

You sigh.

“Leon.”

“Yeah?”

“Bed.”

You gesture toward it. He exhales slowly, then nods. You climb onto the mattress first, sliding under the blankets.  He hesitates for exactly half a second before following. The mattress dips under his weight.

For a moment he lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling like someone who isn’t entirely convinced he’s allowed to relax.

Then you reach over, grab the front of his shirt and pull. He doesn’t resist. Not even a little. He rolls toward you easily, his arm coming around your waist automatically as your bodies settle together.

The movement is instinctive. Familiar.

You press closer, your forehead brushing lightly against his collarbone. Leon exhales. A long, slow breath that shudders slightly on the way out. His arms tighten around you.

Like he’s making sure you’re really there.

You slide one hand up his chest, resting it over his heart. It’s beating fast. Still running on the last scraps of adrenaline. Your thumb traces slow circles through the fabric of his shirt. Gradually, you feel his breathing start to slow.

You tilt your head slightly, your lips close to his shoulder.

“I’m here,” you whisper.

His grip tightens slightly.

“You’re here,” you add softly. Your hand presses lightly against his chest. “We’re fine.”

For a long moment neither of you move. The rain continues tapping against the windows. His chin rests lightly against the top of your head.

Then, after a few quiet seconds, he murmurs against your hair,

“…Yeah.”

His hand slides slowly up your back, fingers spreading gently between your shoulder blades. You just let him hold you.

The faint glow of streetlights slips through the curtains in thin bands of gold, stretching across the floor and climbing the edge of the bed.

You tilt your head slightly, studying the faint shadow where his neck meets his shoulder. The dim light catches on the line of his jaw, the curve of his collarbone just visible beneath the collar of his T-shirt

You’re not entirely sure when the two of you ended up this close.

Still.

You shift just enough to press a gentle kiss against his shoulder, right where it meets his neck. The gesture is instinctive, soft. Barely there.

But Leon reacts immediately. His breath catches. Then he exhales a slow, shaky breath that brushes warm across the top of your hair.

Your lips linger there for a moment before you settle back against him. For a few seconds neither of you speaks. Then his hand moves.

His fingers slide lightly into your hair, careful and deliberate, like he’s cataloguing every strand. He tucks one loose piece behind your ear, his knuckles grazing your temple. His calloused thumb settles briefly against your cheekbone. The touch is gentle, almost reverent.

He studies your face in the dim light. And when he finally speaks, his voice is rough.

“I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

You go still. Your brain immediately tries to deflect with sarcasm.

Well obviously you’d spiral into emotional devastation and questionable whiskey purchases.

But the look on his face stops the joke before it leaves your mouth. There’s nothing casual about it. No teasing. No careful emotional distance.

Just honest, unfiltered fear. Which is… deeply inconvenient for your usual coping strategies.

You sigh quietly. Your hand slides up from his chest, fingers brushing lightly along his jaw.

“You’d probably be very annoyed,” you say gently.

He huffs a quiet breath that might almost be a laugh. “Annoyed.”

“Yeah.”

Your thumb traces the edge of his stubble. “Government paperwork alone would be a nightmare.”

His eyes soften. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m a doctor,” you reply mildly. “Clinical detachment is a professional skill.”

He watches you for another moment. Your sarcasm doesn’t quite land the way it usually does. Because you can still see it in his expression. That lingering fear.

The kind that only shows up after someone has spent too many hours staring death in the face.

You shift closer to him. Just enough that your foreheads nearly touch. Your voice softens.

“Hey.”

His eyes flicker back to yours.

“I’m not exactly running tactical raids in Eastern Europe,” you point out.

“That doesn’t mean the world can’t still take you.”

The words come out low. Quiet. You study him for a moment. Your fingers slide up into his hair, brushing it back gently from his forehead.

“You’re catastrophizing,” you tell him softly.

“Occupational hazard.”

“That’s fair.”

Your hand drifts down to rest against the back of his neck. Warm skin under your palm. You tilt your head slightly, your voice dropping just a little.

“Leon.”

“Yeah?”

“I survived a bioterror attack inside a hospital.I'm not that fragile,” you remind him.

His mouth twitches faintly. “You also collapsed in the lobby.”

“Not my best moment,” you wince slightly.

“That’s one way to describe it.”

You brush your thumb along the edge of his jaw again.

“Point is,” you continue quietly, “I’m still here.”

His gaze lingers on your face. You can see the moment the words settle somewhere inside him. Your forehead rests lightly against his.

“You’re here,” you add.

His arms tighten slightly around you.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

For a moment the two of you just breathe together. The room is warm. The rain outside has softened to a distant hush.

Your thumb traces slow, absent patterns along the back of his neck. Then your inner voice—incapable of leaving emotional moments alone—pipes up again.

Well. You’ve reached the stage of the relationship where the emotionally unavailable government agent admits he’d be devastated if you died.

You exhale quietly through your nose.

Leon is still half-convinced this is a hallucination.

Not the bed. Not the apartment. Not even the quiet rain tapping softly against the windows like it’s trying very politely not to intrude.

You.

You’re real—he knows that. He can feel the weight of you against him, the warmth, the steady rise and fall of your breathing. But his brain, still somewhere under rubble and blood and the suffocating dark from a few hours ago, keeps trying to file this under too good to be true.

Which, historically, is never a great category to be in.

He’s lying on his side, one arm wrapped around you. His body aches in that familiar, bone-deep way—bruises, scrapes, the lingering pull of injuries he’s already half ignoring. But none of that registers as strongly as the fact that you’re here.

Alive.

Unhurt.

Close enough that he can count your eyelashes if he wanted to.

He doesn’t. That feels like crossing into unsettling territory. He has some standards.

Your hand is resting lightly against his chest, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like you’re making sure he’s still there too.

Fair. He almost wasn’t.

The thought hits sharper than anything else. He swallows it down.

Then you move.

It’s small. Subtle. Just a shift closer, your face tilting toward his, your gaze flicking up to his mouth like you’re thinking—considering—and Leon’s brain immediately panics.

Oh.

Oh no.

This is—this is happening.

His first instinct is to freeze. Which is deeply unhelpful for a man who has fought literal bioweapons but is now being taken out by proximity and emotional vulnerability.

You lean in before he can overthink it—before you can overthink it—and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Not demanding. Just… there.

And Leon—

Leon stops.

For a fraction of a second, everything in him locks up. Not because he doesn’t want it. That’s not even remotely the problem.

The problem is that he wants it too much.

The problem is that his brain immediately flashes to a dozen worst-case scenarios—this goes wrong, he ruins it, you pull away, this fragile, carefully balanced thing between you shatters because he misreads one moment—

The problem is that the last time he thought I should say something, he was pinned under concrete, and pretty sure he was going to die with your name sitting uselessly in his throat.

So yeah. Little bit of pressure. No big deal.

His hand moves before he can talk himself out of it. Slides up your back, fingers spreading, pulling you closer—not forceful, just… certain. Like he needs to close whatever microscopic distance is left between you.

His forehead drops against yours automatically, muscle memory he didn’t know he had until now.

Your breath is warm against his lips. He exhales. It comes out unsteady. He hates that you can probably feel that. You don’t comment on it. Of course you don’t.

Instead, your hand shifts—settling over his where it rests against your side—and then your fingers lace through his.

Gentle. Deliberate. You squeeze once.

“It’s okay,” you murmur softly. “I’m here.”

Leon’s chest tightens so fast it almost knocks the air out of him. Yeah. He’s going to need a minute with that one.

His eyes flick over your face like he’s conducting an assessment—habit, instinct, something ingrained so deeply he doesn’t even think about it anymore. He checks for things he knows aren’t there. Injuries. Fatigue. Something wrong.

You look… tired, maybe. But you look real. Alive.

And the words I almost didn’t make it back to you sit right behind his teeth, heavy and sharp and completely useless.

Because you’re here. Because he is.

Because somehow, against all statistical probability and a truly unreasonable number of poor life choices, he made it back.

And now—

Now he has to decide if he’s going to do the thing he’s been avoiding for months.

He hesitates. Of course he does.

Leon Kennedy, professional idiot, veteran of multiple global biohazards, suddenly unsure how to handle talking.

Great.

His gaze flicks to your mouth again. You’re still close. Still here. Still not pulling away. And the thought hits him—clear, sharp, unavoidable: 

If you don’t do it now, you might never get another chance.

He’s had that thought before. It didn’t end well.

So he moves. He leans up and kisses you. Properly. And the second his lips touch yours, something in him just— 

Goes. Like a dam finally cracking after being held together by duct tape and sheer stubbornness.

The kiss is not smooth. Not anything he’d even remotely describe as cool. It’s urgent. A little desperate.

All the things he doesn’t say packed into one moment because apparently that’s his preferred communication style now.

Your response is immediate.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, and something in his chest loosens at that—something tight and ugly that’s been sitting there since the mission.

His hand tightens at your waist, reminding himself of the fact that this is real, that you’re not going anywhere, that he’s not imagining this because of blood loss or a concussion or—

Yeah. Okay. Stop.

Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging him closer, and that—

That almost does him in. He exhales into the kiss, a quiet, broken sound he’s not even going to acknowledge.

It’s not anything like the version of himself he presents to literally everyone else. It’s raw. Messy. Honest in a way that makes him feel like he’s standing in the open without armor.

And somehow, you don’t flinch.

You shift over him, moving without hesitation, and suddenly you’re in his lap, the mattress dipping under the change in weight, the blankets tangling around your legs.

Leon’s hands land on your hips like it’s instinct. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he hasn’t been carefully not doing this for months.

Still here.

Still here.

Still here.

Your fingers brush through his hair again, pushing it back from his forehead, and he leans into it without meaning to—automatic, reflexive, like his body knows before he does.

You kiss him like you mean it. Like you were just as scared. That thought lands heavier than anything else.

His grip tightens slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to… keep you.

Your breathing stutters when you finally pull back, just enough for air, your forehead pressing against his again. Your noses brush. Everything slows.

Too fast. This is moving too fast.

He should say something. Something normal. Instead, his brain comes up empty.

Great.

“We’re okay,” you whisper.

Your voice is softer than he’s used to. Less bite, less edge. It does something weird to his chest.

He stares at you. And there it is.

The problem.

The thing that’s been sitting in his throat since he clawed his way out from under that rubble, coughing up dust and one very specific, very inconvenient realization.

He almost didn’t make it back. And if he hadn’t—

You wouldn’t know. You’d just… wait. Or worse, get a call.

God. His stomach twists.

Say it.

Now.

His brain immediately counters: absolutely not. Terrible idea. 

He’s not good at this. He knows that. He can improvise under fire, disarm explosives, navigate political minefields with a half-decent poker face.

This?

This is worse. Because this matters. Because you matter. And because if he screws this up—

He swallows. His chest feels tight again, but not from injury this time. From pressure. From the very real, very immediate understanding that if he doesn’t say it now, he might not get another chance.

He’s had enough of those. Enough things left unsaid. Enough ghosts.

His hand comes up, almost hesitant, settling at the back of your neck. Thumb brushing along your jaw like he’s grounding himself.

“You’re…” he starts, then stops.

Smooth, Kennedy. Real smooth.

He huffs out a quiet, almost self-deprecating breath.

“Hang on,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “I’m—this isn’t exactly my area of expertise.”

Understatement of the century.

He looks at you again. And yeah. That’s it. That’s the thing he dragged himself out of hell for.

His voice, when it comes out this time, is rough. Unpolished. No clever line to cushion it.

“I thought—” He stops again, jaw tightening briefly. “Back there… I thought I wasn’t gonna make it.”

There it is. Start with the obvious. Ease into it.

You don’t interrupt. Of course you don’t. You just watch him, steady, patient. That almost makes it worse.

“I kept thinking—” he continues, quieter now, “you wouldn’t know. And that…” He shakes his head once, frustrated. “That didn’t sit right.”

That’s one way to put it. He exhales, sharper this time.

“Point is,” he says, a little too blunt, because subtlety is officially off the table, “I don’t want to not say it.”

A beat. Then—

“I love you.”

It comes out rough. Not pretty. Not practiced. But it’s real.

And for a split second after, he just… waits.

Which is deeply unfair, considering he’s faced down literal monsters with less hesitation than this. Now he’s bracing like you might hit him. Emotionally. Probably.

He’d take a B.O.W. over this, frankly. At least those follow predictable patterns.

Your hand comes up, fingers sliding along his jaw, steadying, grounding. Here it comes. You study him—too closely—and he resists the urge to look away. Barely. Stay put. Take the hit.

Instead—

“I love you too.”

Oh.

Oh.

That—

That was not the worst-case scenario.

Something in his chest cracks open so fast it almost hurts. Relief hits him like a physical thing, sharp and immediate, knocking the breath out of him in a completely different way than before.

He exhales, a shaky, quiet thing, and then his hands are moving again, sliding up your back, pulling you closer like he needs to make absolutely sure you’re not about to disappear.

“Yeah?” he manages, a little quieter now, a little disbelieving despite himself.

Smooth. Again.

You don’t seem to mind. Of course you don’t. You huff a quiet breath, almost amused, your nose nudging his.

“Yeah, Leon.”

“Good,” he says, because apparently that’s the best he can do.

Smooth. Really nailing this.

You smile—soft, fond—and then you kiss him again.

The panic’s gone. Replaced by something steadier. Something… solid.

Your fingers move through his hair again, and yeah—he’s definitely never going to admit how much that affects him.

Ever.

The storm outside has softened to a quiet drizzle, faint against the windows, but inside—

It’s warm. Still. Safe.

Eventually, the kiss eases, both of you breathing unevenly, your forehead settling against his again. His arms wrap around you, holding you close—not like he’s afraid anymore.

Just… because he can. Because you’re here. Because he is too.

You lean down, pressing a soft kiss beneath his jaw, and he lets out a quiet hum despite himself.

“See?” you murmur.

He huffs softly, one eyebrow twitching. “See what?”

Your lips brush his skin again. “You survived.”

A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “Barely,” he mutters.

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyebrow lifting in that familiar way.

“Please,” you say dryly. “You’ve survived worse.”

He studies you for a second.

Yeah. Probably. But—

His hand shifts, thumb brushing along your jaw again, slower this time.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

Then, quieter—

“But this is the part that matters.”

And for once, his brain doesn’t have a sarcastic follow-up. Just that steady, unfamiliar warmth settling in his chest.

Yeah.

This.

This is what he fought for.