death by April

Leon’s office was the kind of place where sound went to die — all steel edges, low voices, and the constant hum of fluorescent lights. Agents walked the halls with the same expression he wore: focused, sharp, carved from stone.

Which is why the entire floor practically short‑circuited when the elevator dinged and you stepped out.

Bright dress. Warm smile. A lunch bag decorated with little doodles you’d drawn on the train ride over. You were a burst of color in a grayscale world, and every agent you passed blinked like they’d just been hit with a flashbang of pure positivity.

“Hi!” you chirped at a pair of analysts. They stared. One waved back in slow motion.

You knocked lightly on Leon’s office door before pushing it open.

He didn’t look up at first — jaw tight, shoulders squared, posture perfect. The picture of discipline.

“Leon?” you said softly.

His head snapped up.

And just like that, the steel melted.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed, voice dropping into that low, private register he never used around anyone else. He stood so fast his chair rolled back. “What are you doing here?”

You lifted the lunch bag. “You forgot this. Again.”

A few agents walking by slowed down, blatantly eavesdropping. They watched the transformation with open fascination — the way his eyes warmed, the way the hard line of his mouth softened into something almost boyish.

Leon crossed the room in three long strides, one hand coming to rest at your waist, the other brushing your cheek with a tenderness that made the hallway gossip grind to a halt.

“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” he murmured.

“I wanted to.” You rose on your toes to kiss his cheek. “Plus, you get cranky when you skip lunch.”

Behind you, someone choked on their coffee.

Leon shot the hallway a look so sharp it could’ve cut glass — but when he turned back to you, he was all warmth again. “I’m not cranky.”

“You’re absolutely cranky,” you teased, poking his chest.

He caught your hand, lacing your fingers together. “Only when you’re not around.”

The agents outside collectively lost their minds in silence.

He took the lunch bag from you, but not before pulling you in for a quick, secret kiss — the kind that said I missed you more than I’ll ever admit in public.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your forehead. “You always brighten this place up.”

You grinned. “Someone has to.”

And as you walked back toward the elevator, the entire office watched you go — then slowly turned to stare at Leon, who was still standing in his doorway, looking softer than any of them had ever seen him.

One brave agent muttered, “Sir… was that your wife?”

Leon didn’t even bother hiding the small, proud smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s my wife.”

And for the rest of the day, no one dared complain about his mood — because for once, Leon S. Kennedy wasn’t the storm.