✎ᝰsprout

Rain dragged itself down the windows of their apartment in crooked trails, blurring the lights outside into watery streaks of gold and red. The city below still moved with the restless pulse of late-night traffic, but inside the apartment, everything felt hushed beneath the soft hum of the television and the occasional rattle of Leon coughing into the sleeve of his sweatshirt. The sound came rough and deep from his chest.

From the kitchen counter, you looked up immediately, fingers still curled around the ceramic mug you'd been drying. "You're supposed to be resting," you said quietly, though there wasn't much bite left in the words anymore. Worry had worn itself smooth over the years.

Leon leaned deeper into the couch cushions with his eyes half-closed, one arm draped across his stomach. The veins beneath the skin of his hand curled darkly beneath the lamplight, blackened tributaries crawling over pale flesh before disappearing beneath the cuff of his sleeve. The splotch spreading along the side of his neck looked darker tonight, too, bruised violet against tired skin.

"I am resting," he muttered.

"You fell asleep sitting upright again."

"Occupational hazard."

A soft breath escaped you at that, halfway between amusement and exhaustion. You set the mug aside before crossing the apartment toward him. Even after all these years, Leon still watched you like you were something grounding. Something untouched by all the rot clinging stubbornly to him.

Your fingers brushed carefully against the side of his neck, just beneath the stain spreading there. Leon tried not to flinch beneath your touch.

"Tender?" you asked softly.

"No worse than usual."

That was the lie both of you used now. No worse than usual. It covered everything from sleepless nights to coughing blood to the way Leon occasionally lost his breath climbing the stairs after missions that once wouldn't have even quickened his pulse.

You studied him for another moment before moving toward the medicine cabinet near the kitchen. The apartment smelled faintly of soup and disinfectant, a strange combination that had followed you home from the hospital for years. Leon used to tease you about it back when things felt lighter. Back before every quiet moment carried the weight of wondering how many were left.

Now the smell only reminded him of how exhausted you looked lately. You tried to hide it well. Most days, you still tied your hair back neatly before work. Still ironed your scrubs. Still left sticky notes near the coffeemaker, reminding Leon to eat something green while you worked late shifts. To anyone else, you probably looked fine.

Leon noticed the small things, though, they're not that small. The way you paused before standing too quickly. The faint tremor in your hands when you thought nobody was watching. The shadows beneath your eyes growing darker every week. And the coughing. God, the coughing.

You returned with his medication and a glass of water before settling beside him on the couch. "You missed another dose this morning."

Leon accepted the pills from your hand. "I was busy."

"You were unconscious for fourteen hours."

"Exactly."

You rolled your eyes faintly, though exhaustion softened even that reaction. When Leon swallowed the medication, you rested your head carefully against his shoulder, fitting there like habit. Outside, thunder murmured somewhere far away.

For a little while, neither of you spoke. Leon could feel the warmth of you pressed against his side. Too warm. His jaw tightened.

"You should've called out today," he said eventually.

"And told them what?" you asked softly. "Sorry, I can't come in because my husband and I are both slowly mutating."

A tired sound escaped him that almost resembled a laugh.

"Was it bad today?" he asked after a moment.

You stayed quiet long enough for him to know the answer before you finally spoke. "My hands cramped up during an IV insertion," you admitted. "Mrs. Holloway noticed."

Leon stared ahead at the flickering television screen without really seeing it. "You shouldn't still be working."

"We've had this argument."

"You almost collapsed last week."

"And you came home coughing blood three days ago."

That silenced him immediately. The rain thickened harder against the windows. You shifted slightly beside him, curling your fingers carefully around his infected hand despite the ugly black veins webbing beneath the skin. Leon remembered the first time you'd seen them appear. He'd expected horror. Fear. Distance.

Instead, you'd taken his hand exactly like this and whispered, "Still you." It nearly ruined him then. It still did.

"We're running out of time, aren't we?" he asked quietly.

The question lingered between you like smoke. You didn't answer immediately. Leon knew you were choosing your words carefully, the same way you always did when trying not to hurt him.

"There are people who lasted longer," you said at last.

"That's not what I asked."

Your fingers tightened slightly around his. Leon finally looked at you then, really looked. At exhaustion you couldn't hide anymore. At the faint discoloration creeping beneath the collar of your sweater. At the fragile steadiness, you wore like armor because somebody in the apartment had to stay calm. You gave him a small smile that broke his heart on contact.

"You know what scares me the most?" you asked softly.

Leon frowned. "What?"

"That you keep looking at me like I'm already gone."

The words hollowed something inside his chest.

He turned toward you fully despite the ache pulling through his ribs, one hand rising to cup the side of your face. "Don't," he murmured immediately. "Don't say that."

"But you are."

"I'm trying to fix this."

"I know."

"No," Leon said, more fiercely this time. "I am. I'm close."

Your expression flickered then. Hope and grief colliding in equal measure. You believed him because you loved him, and that somehow made it worse.

Leon rested his forehead carefully against yours, breathing shallowly through the pressure tightening in his lungs. "I'm not losing you to this," he whispered.

"I don't want to lose you either."

Morning arrived gray and slow, the kind that barely deserved to be called morning at all. Rainwater still clung to the fire escape outside the apartment windows, dripping steadily beneath a sky the color of bruised steel. Somewhere below, traffic hissed across wet pavement while distant sirens blurred into the rhythm of the waking city. The television had long since shut itself off overnight, leaving the apartment wrapped in soft silence broken only by the uneven sound of Leon breathing beside you.

You woke first. Not because you were rested, you honestly couldn't remember the last time you'd felt rested. Your body ached before you'd even fully opened your eyes. Heat coiled beneath your skin in restless waves, feverish and familiar, while your joints protested the simple act of shifting beneath the blankets. For a moment, you stayed still, staring hazily at the dim light filtering through the curtains while your heartbeat thudded heavily behind your ribs.

Then Leon coughed. The sound tore violently through the quiet room. You pushed yourself upright immediately, the motion making dizziness swim unpleasantly through your vision. Beside you, Leon sat hunched forward at the edge of the mattress, one hand braced against his chest while the other covered his mouth. His shoulders trembled beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

"Leon," you said softly, voice still rough with sleep.

He held up a hand without turning toward you, the universal signal for wait. Another cough wracked through him hard enough to make your stomach twist. By the time he finally lowered his hand, there was blood smeared faintly across his knuckles. Your chest tightened painfully.

"Jesus Christ," you whispered, already reaching for the tissues on the nightstand.

"I'm fine."

"You're coughing blood."

"It's not that much."

"That sentence stopped comforting me months ago."

Leon let out a tired breath through his nose as you handed him the tissues. Morning light spilled weakly across the side of his face now, illuminating the darkened veins stretching along his throat and disappearing beneath his collarbone. The discoloration had spread farther during the past few weeks. Neither of you mentioned it anymore.

You sat beside him carefully, one hand resting between his shoulder blades, while the coughing finally subsided into shallow breathing. His skin felt burning hot.

"You should stay home today," you murmured.

Leon gave you a look that could only be described as exhausted disbelief. "You said the exact same thing last night."

"And I meant it last night, too."

"I can't."

"You can barely breathe."

"I've been worse."

You closed your eyes briefly at that. The problem with Leon was that he genuinely meant it. Somewhere along the line, his definition of manageable had become horrifyingly distorted.

When you opened your eyes again, Leon was already trying to stand. The movement almost immediately betrayed him. His breath caught sharply, and he grabbed the edge of the dresser hard enough for his knuckles to whiten beneath the black veining spreading across his skin.

"Leon."

"I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

"I said I'm okay."

The irritation in his voice wasn't directed at you. You knew that. It came from frustration. From humiliation. From the unbearable reality that his own body was becoming something unreliable. Still, silence settled heavily between you afterward. Leon stared at the floor for several long seconds before finally exhaling shakily and sinking back onto the edge of the bed. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders as he rubbed a hand over his face.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I just hate this."

The honesty in his voice hurt more than the coughing had.

You moved closer until your shoulder brushed his. "I know."

"No, I really hate it." He laughed once under his breath, bitter and tired. "I used to go days without sleeping during missions. Now I get winded walking to the kitchen."

You watched him carefully. Leon rarely spoke about the fear directly. He covered it with sarcasm, deflection, stubbornness, anything that kept the terror from fully surfacing. Seeing it now, raw and exhausted in the dim morning light, made something ache deep inside your chest.

"You're still you," you said softly.

His jaw tightened immediately, "That's part of the problem. I don't think I will be for me much longer."

You looked down at your own hands resting in your lap. The faint tremor had returned sometime during the night. Tiny involuntary movements beneath skin that looked normal enough until someone paid close attention.

At the hospital last week, one of the newer nurses had asked if you were feeling alright after you'd nearly dropped a tray of syringes. You'd smiled. You'd lied. You were getting very good at lying. Leon noticed your hands before you could tuck them away.

His expression shifted instantly. "How long?"

You hated that question because he always sounded so afraid of asking it. "Just this morning," you answered carefully.

"That's not what I asked."

You swallowed. The truth sat heavily behind your teeth. "A few weeks."

Leon went still beside you. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows again.

"You should've told me," he said quietly.

"And what would that have changed?"

His silence answered for him. Everything. It would've changed everything.

Leon leaned forward suddenly, elbows braced against his knees, while one hand pressed hard against his mouth. You could practically see the guilt chewing through him in real time, relentless and familiar.

"This is my fault," he muttered.

Your head snapped toward him immediately. "Don't do that."

"If I'd gotten you out faster that night..."

"Leon."

"If I hadn't left you alone at the hospital..."

"Stop."

His voice roughened sharply. "You got infected because of me."

The words struck the room like shattered glass. Neither of you could move after those words left his mouth. You reached out for him after a moment, sliding your hand carefully against his jaw until he finally looked at you. His eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, shadows buried heavily beneath them.

"You listened to me very carefully back in Raccoon City," you said softly. "So listen to me now."

Leon's breathing stayed uneven beneath your touch.

"You did not infect me," you continued. "You did not fail me. You did not ruin my life."

His expression cracked slightly at that, pain flickering openly across his face.

"You saved my life," you whispered. "I got years with you that I never should've had."

Leon looked away immediately like the words physically hurt him.

"That's not enough if one of us dies," he says hoarsely.

Your chest tightened. That was the tragedy of loving Leon Kennedy. No matter how much he gave, he still believed he should've found a way to give more.

The apartment was dark except for the kitchen light Leon had forgotten to turn off. A single yellow glow spilled weakly across the counter and into the living room, cutting through the early morning dark in tired slants. The digital clock on the microwave read 2:17 AM in harsh green numbers. Rain had finally stopped sometime during the night, leaving the city outside damp and quiet beneath a low blanket of fog.

You should've been asleep. Instead, you stood barefoot near the hallway entrance with one hand braced against the wall, trying to steady the dizziness rolling unpleasantly beneath your skin. Exhaustion clung heavily to your limbs after another twelve-hour shift at the hospital, but the silence in the apartment had dragged you awake the second you realized Leon wasn't beside you.

At first, you thought he might've gone outside to smoke again. He'd picked the habit back up months ago despite your endless arguments about it. Then you noticed the light, and the sound of paper shifting.

You moved quietly toward the kitchen, the cold hardwood floor creaking faintly beneath your steps. Leon sat hunched at the table still wearing yesterday's clothes, shoulders rigid beneath his gray sweatshirt while files and photographs lay scattered around him in uneven piles.

Medical reports, autopsy images, government seals.

Your stomach tightened immediately. Leon didn't notice you at first. His eyes stayed locked on the papers in front of him, jaw clenched hard enough to twitch beneath the dim light. One hand pressed against his mouth, while the other gripped a photograph so tightly the edges had bent beneath his fingers.

He coughed suddenly, the sound tearing violently through the quiet apartment. Leon turned sharply away from the table, coughing hard into his sleeve while his free hand braced against the countertop nearby. The force of it nearly doubled him over.

"Leon."

He froze instantly. For one terrible second, guilt flashed across his face before he smoothed it away too late for either of you to pretend you hadn't seen it.

"You should be sleeping," he said roughly.

You ignored the comment entirely, eyes drifting instead toward the files spread across the table. Photographs stared back at you. Five different faces. Five different civilians. Every single one labeled deceased.

Cold unease curled through your stomach. "What is this?"

Leon went very still. The silence lasted long enough for dread to start settling into your bones.

Finally, he leaned back in the chair with a slow exhale, exhaustion hollowing out his features. "Cases connected to dormant viral exposure after Raccoon City."

Your pulse thudded unevenly. You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, gaze catching on dates and medical terminology scattered across the reports. Progressive organ failure. Neurological deterioration. Respiratory collapse. One victim had been only thirty-two. Another had survived nearly ten years before symptoms resurfaced.

You felt sick. Leon watched you carefully the entire time, like he was waiting for something to shatter.

"How long have you had these?" you asked quietly.

"A while."

"A while," you repeated softly. "Leon."

His jaw tightened. "I didn't want you seeing them."

"Why?"

The question came out sharper than you intended. Leon pushed a hand through his hair roughly before standing from the table. The motion looked unsteady, exhaustion dragging visibly at his body. He crossed toward the sink and gripped the edge of the counter hard enough for the tendons in his infected hand to stand out beneath the dark veins.

"Because none of them survived," he said flatly.

The walls felt like they were slowly closing in around you. You stared at his back in silence while the refrigerator hummed quietly nearby.

"Were they all infected the same way we were?"

"Similar strain."

"And you've just been reading this alone?"

Leon laughed once under his breath, bitter and exhausted. "What exactly was I supposed to say to you?" he asked. "'Hey, sweetheart, I found six years of autopsy reports proving this thing eventually kills civilians slower than it kills everybody else'?"

"You found five reports."

His shoulders stiffened immediately. The realization hit both of you at the same time. Five victims. You would be the sixth. Leon turned away sharply before you could fully see his expression, but not before grief cracked visibly across his face. That hurt more than the files did.

You crossed the kitchen slowly until you stood a few feet behind him. "Leon."

"I'm figuring it out."

"You don't know that."

"I said I'm figuring it out." His voice came harsher now, fraying at the edges beneath exhaustion and panic.

You watched him brace both hands against the counter, head lowered while his breathing turned uneven again. The dark veins stretching across the back of his hands looked almost black beneath the kitchen light now.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then your eyes drifted back toward the table. Toward the notes. Toward the highlighted sections and handwritten annotations covering nearly every page. Leon had memorized these people. Every symptom. Every timeline. Every death.

Your chest tightened painfully. "You're preparing for me to die," you said softly.

Leon's head snapped upward immediately. "No."

"You are."

"No, I'm not."

"You know all their timelines, Leon."

"Because I need to."

"You know how long they lasted after symptoms progressed."

"I need to know what we're dealing with."

"You organized them by stages."

"Because there's a pattern."

Your voice finally cracked. "Because you're trying to predict when I'll die."

Silence slammed into the room. Leon looked stricken like you'd reached into his chest and dragged something ugly into the light before he could hide it.

"That's not..." He stopped hard, swallowing visibly. "That's not what I'm doing."

"You're trying to figure out how much time we have left together."

His composure finally broke. "I'm trying to keep you alive!"

The words exploded out of him loud enough to echo through the apartment. You flinched slightly. Leon stared at you immediately afterward like he hated himself for it. His breathing turned ragged.

"I can't lose you," he said hoarsely, quieter this time. "I can't sit here and pretend this isn't happening while you get worse every week."

You felt tears burning painfully behind your eyes now. "I know."

"No, you don't." Leon dragged a shaking hand over his face. "You don't know what it's like watching you cough and wondering if that's the moment it starts getting bad. You don't know what it's like hearing you come home exhausted and thinking about those files every time you look tired."

His voice cracked hard on the last sentence. For a second, he looked less like a government agent and more like a man drowning slowly in anticipatory grief.

"You think I'm preparing for you to die?" he whispered. "I'm trying to find the point where I can still save you."

The raw desperation in his voice hollowed something inside your chest. You crossed the remaining distance between you carefully before resting your hands against his face. Leon's skin felt fever-warm beneath your palms. His eyes closed immediately.

"I'm still here," you whispered.

Leon's expression tightened sharply, grief flickering across it so fast it almost looked painful.

"That's what scares me," he admitted quietly. "Because they were too. Until they weren't."

After that night, every day after felt fragile in a way cracked glass still technically holds together until the exact wrong amount of pressure finally splinters in apart.

Gray daylight spilled weakly through the apartment windows while the coffee maker sputtered in the kitchen, filling the air with the bitter smell of burnt grounds. Leon stood at the counter in sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt, one hand braced against the edge of the sink while he waited for another coughing fit to pass.

You stood nearby pretending to butter toast while listening carefully to the uneven rasp dragging through his lungs. Every cough sounded painful now. Wet. Heavy. The kind of cough that settled deep in bone and refused to leave.

He finally spit blood into the sink.

You closed your eyes briefly, "Leon."

"I know," he muttered hoarsely.

"You can barely stand."

"I'm standing right now."

"You're leaning like a seventy-year-old chain smoker."

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, though it disappeared quickly beneath exhaustion. He rinsed the sink carefully afterward, watching diluted pink swirl down the drain before gripping the counter again when dizziness hit him too fast.

"Sit down, Lee."

"I'm fine."

"You almost folded in half."

Leon exhaled sharply through his nose before finally relenting, dragging himself toward one of the kitchen chairs with the slow stiffness of someone twice his age. The movement alone seemed to drain him. By the time he sat down, his breathing had already turned shallow again.

You'd watched this man sprint through collapsing streets with barely a second thought for his own survival. Now, climbing out of bed looked like it cost him something.

You slid a plate toward him anyway. "Eat."

Leon looked down at the toast like it had personally offended him. "You made enough for an army."

"You need protein."

"This isn't protein."

"You're lucky I didn't make eggs."

"You almost burned water last week."

"That happened once."

"It absolutely did not happen once."

Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped you. Leon's expression softened immediately at the sound. There it is, his eyes seemed to say.

It almost felt normal again. Then your hand started shaking. The knife slipped slightly against the countertop with a sharp metallic scrape. Leon noticed instantly. The warmth vanished from his expression so quickly it physically hurt to watch. You curled your fingers inward automatically, but it was too late.

"How bad?"

You hated how quietly he asked that now. Like every symptom had become another brick added carefully to the wall of terror building inside him.

"It's fine."

"That's not an answer."

You set the knife down carefully before your trembling hand could drop it entirely. "Just tired."

Leon stared at you across the kitchen table. The silence stretched long enough to become unbearable. Finally, he pushed himself upright despite obvious effort and crossed toward you slowly. The dark veins creeping beneath the skin of his arms stood out starkly beneath the weak kitchen light.

"You're pale," he murmured.

"So are you."

"You're shaking."

"You coughed blood into our sink thirty seconds ago."

For one brief moment, frustration flashed across his face before exhaustion swallowed it whole again. Leon rested both hands carefully against the counter on either side of you, head lowering slightly.

"I got a call last night," he said quietly.

Your stomach tightened instantly.

"A mission?"

Leon nodded once.

Something cold slipped beneath your ribs.

He hadn't mentioned work in weeks unless absolutely necessary. The government had already reduced his field involvement after his symptoms worsened, but "reduced" still meant they dragged him back whenever things became dangerous enough.

"When?"

"Tomorrow night."

You looked down immediately. Not because you wanted to avoid his eyes. Because you already knew what his expression would look like. Guilt. Fear. Determination sharp enough to cut himself open on.

"What kind of mission?"

Leon hesitated. That terrified you more than the answer probably would have.

"There's a lab in Raccoon City," he said carefully. "They think they found something."

Your heartbeat stumbled unevenly. "What kind of something?"

Leon's jaw tightened faintly before he answered. "A cure."

"You're really going back there?"

"I have to."

The entire apartment suddenly felt suspended in place around that single word. Cure. Not a treatment, not a symptom management, a real cure.

"You're sure?" you whispered.

"They think so."

That was the dangerous thing about hope after years without it. Even the smallest amount hit like a flood.

"There's a facility connected to the original research," he continued softly. "That's where they're sending me."

Of course they were sending him. Because whenever something impossible needed surviving, the government always handed it to Leon Kennedy like they'd forgotten he was human years ago.

The thought settled heavily into your chest. Leon watched your expression carefully, and suddenly you saw it. Beneath the exhaustion. Beneath the coughing and the dark veins and the constant fear. Hope. Real hope. You hadn't seen it in him for months. Maybe years.

"This could work," he said quietly.

The words sounded almost fragile coming from him. Leon rarely allowed himself optimism anymore unless he absolutely believed it.

You swallowed hard. "For you?"

"For me," he agreed.

Then his eyes met yours.

"And for you."

The ache that followed nearly split your chest open. Because suddenly you could see it happening too. The fever gone. The coughing stopping. Leon finally sleeping through the night without waking breathless and shaking beside you. A future that didn't end in hospital reports and autopsy photos.

Leon stepped closer carefully, one hand brushing against your wrist. "They only confirmed enough doses for Sherry and me," he admitted quietly. "But if this works..."

You frowned slightly. "Leon."

"I'll bring one back for you."

His voice carried absolute certainty. Not hope. Not maybe. Certainty.

Your eyes burned immediately. "You can't promise that."

"Yes, I can."

"You don't even know what you're walking into yet."

"I don't care."

The answer came sharp enough to cut. Leon's fingers tightened slightly around your wrist while exhaustion and desperation flickered openly across his face.

"I don't care what that place looks like," he said roughly. "I don't care how bad it gets. If there's a cure in that facility, I'm bringing one home for you."

The conviction in his voice hurt. Because this wasn't just another mission to him anymore. This was the first time in years Leon genuinely believed he could save someone he loved before it was too late.

You reached up slowly, brushing your fingers against the darkened skin along his neck. "Leon..."

"I mean it." His voice softened then, cracking slightly beneath the weight of everything sitting between you. "When this is over," he murmured, "you're gonna get better."

By the time Leon's departure day arrived, the apartment had settled into the kind of quiet that made every sound feel important. The radiator clicked softly beneath the windows. Rain slid steadily down the glass in silver trails, distorting the city lights outside into blurred streaks of gold and white. Somewhere several floors below, a car horn echoed briefly through the wet streets before disappearing again. Everything beyond the apartment kept moving normally, while inside, time felt painfully suspended.

Leon was in the bedroom packing. Or pretending to. You stood in the kitchen doorway, watching him fold the same black long-sleeved shirt for the third time in less than ten minutes, before setting it back into the duffel bag with visible frustration. His movements lacked their usual sharp efficiency tonight. Exhaustion dragged heavily at him now, dulling the careful precision he normally carried before missions. The veins stretching along the backs of his hands looked darker beneath the lamplight. You hated how often you noticed things like that now.

Leon finally glanced up after sensing you watching him. "What?" he asked quietly.

A faint smile tugged weakly at your mouth despite everything. "You packed that shirt already."

His eyes flickered downward toward the bag before he exhaled softly through his nose. "Right."

The answer sounded distracted. Tired. You crossed the room slowly, your body protesting every step with deep aches spreading through your chest and limbs. The fever simmering beneath your skin hadn't broken in almost two days now. Even walking across the apartment left you slightly breathless, though you'd spent the entire evening pretending otherwise. Leon noticed immediately anyway. He always noticed.

The second you stopped beside him, his expression tightened faintly. "You're overdoing it again."

"I walked across one room."

"You got winded doing it."

You rolled your eyes softly, though the motion lacked any real energy behind it. "You say that like you're not coughing up pieces of your lungs every morning."

"That's different."

"How?"

Leon opened his mouth before immediately seeming to realize he didn't actually have an answer. A tired breath escaped him instead.

You smiled faintly. "Exactly."

For a moment, silence settled between you again. Rain tapped steadily against the windows. Leon looked at you then. Really looked at you. His eyes lingered too long. On the shadows beneath your eyes. On the exhaustion you couldn't fully hide anymore. On the slight tremor in your hands where they rested against the bedroom dresser. Something fragile flickered across his face so quickly it almost hurt to witness. He was memorizing you. The realization hollowed your chest.

You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, hands settling carefully against the front of his shirt. Beneath your palms, you could feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing. His lungs had sounded worse all week.

"You're scared," you murmured softly.

Leon laughed once under his breath, tired and humorless. "That obvious?"

"You reorganized your bag four times."

That finally pulled a real smile from him. Small. Exhausted. But real.

God, you loved him. Even now. Even with sickness hollowing both of you out from the inside. Even with fear sitting heavy between every conversation and every quiet glance. You loved him so much that it sometimes physically hurt.

Leon's hands settled carefully at your waist.

"You should rest before I leave," he murmured. "You look exhausted."

"So do you."

"Occupational hazard."

"You already used that line this week." A weak laugh escaped you before fading again almost immediately.

The reality of the evening settled heavily back over the room. Tomorrow, Leon would be gone. Tomorrow, you'd wake up alone in this apartment with your worsening symptoms and too much silence. The thought sat sharply beneath your ribs.

"You know," you said quietly, "I used to hate when you left for missions."

Leon's brow furrowed slightly. "Used to?"

"Well," you murmured, "now I really hate it."

The fragile composure he'd been holding together all evening cracked slightly around the edges. Suddenly, Leon looked less like a broody, hardened man preparing for deployment and more like a man trying very hard not to fall apart in front of the person he loved. He stepped closer until barely any space remained between you.

"I'll come back," he said softly.

You looked up at him carefully.

He believed that.

Not because he thought the mission would be easy. Not because he underestimated whatever nightmare waited for him out there.

Leon believed he'd come back because he'd attached your survival to the outcome.

He wasn't going after a cure for himself anymore.

He was going after you.

Your throat tightened painfully.

"You better," you whispered.

Leon's hands slid upward slowly until they cupped your face with aching gentleness. His palms felt warm despite the infection darkening beneath his skin.

"You wait for me," he murmured.

The words nearly undid you. Not because of what he said. Because of how desperately he said it. Like he was trying to bargain with fate itself.

Your eyes burned sharply. "Leon..."

"I mean it." His forehead rested carefully against yours while his breathing turned shallow again. "You wait for me, and I'll come home with that cure."

Emotion climbed painfully into your throat. You wanted to promise him. God, you wanted to. But deep inside, beneath all the fear and hope and denial, your body already knew something the rest of you was still trying not to face. You were getting worse too quickly.

So instead of answering, you reached for him. Leon kissed you immediately. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just heartbreakingly familiar. One of his hands cradled the side of your face while the other settled against your back, pulling you gently against him like he couldn't bear even an inch of distance between you. The kiss tasted faintly of coffee and exhaustion and everything that had always been uniquely Leon. You melted into him despite the ache spreading through your chest.

For a few precious seconds, the world outside the apartment disappeared entirely. No infections. No missions. No looming grief waiting just beyond the horizon. Just Leon. Just the steady warmth of his hands and the careful way he kissed you like something precious.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead remained resting against yours. His eyes stayed closed for a moment longer, like he was gathering strength simply from being near you. Slowly, he lifted his head enough to look at you again.

The exhaustion in his face nearly broke your heart open. Dark circles bruised beneath his eyes. The infection staining his neck had spread farther over the past month, curling beneath the pale skin in ugly, blackened veins. Even breathing looked exhausting now.

And still, he was leaving tomorrow to walk directly into another nightmare because somewhere at the end of it waited the possibility of saving you. The realization hurt so badly you could barely breathe around it.

You reached up carefully, brushing trembling fingers against the side of his face. Leon leaned into your touch immediately, like it was instinct.

"I love you," you whispered.

The words filled the room softly. You can see how terrified he is beneath all the determination. His hand covered yours against his cheek.

"I love you too," he said quietly. "More than anything."

Tears burned painfully behind your eyes now. Leon kissed your forehead gently before pulling you into his arms again, holding you so tightly it almost hurt. You could hear the uneven rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his chest. Fast. Unsteady. Afraid.

Your arms wrapped around him carefully while exhaustion settled heavier and heavier into your bones. You wondered briefly if he could feel how weak you'd become. If he noticed how hard it had become for you to hold onto him for long periods now. If he realized you were memorizing him, too.

It's rained for a week straight. The night Leon left, it finally stopped...ironic, right?

Clouds still hung low over the city in heavy gray sheets, but weak sunlight filtered through the apartment windows for the first time in days, washing everything in pale gold that made the quiet feel almost unreal. Dust drifted lazily through the light near the couch. Somewhere outside, water dripped steadily from fire escapes and rooftops onto the streets below.

You stood near the kitchen counter wrapped in one of Leon's old sweatshirts while he checked his weapons at the dining table. The sweatshirt smelled like him. Laundry detergent. Cigarettes. Faint traces of gunpowder that never seemed to fully leave his clothes anymore.

You'd stolen it from the bedroom sometime during the night, after another fever woke you, shivering so hard your teeth hurt. Leon noticed immediately when he came out of the shower earlier, but all he'd done was stare at you for a long moment before quietly saying, "Keep it on."

Now he sat across the apartment, slotting magazines into place with practiced movements while tension coiled visibly beneath his skin. His jaw stayed tight. His shoulders tighten. Every few seconds, he looked at you. Checking. Always checking. You pretended not to notice.

The truth was, standing upright already exhausted you. Your chest felt heavy this morning. Breathing took conscious effort in a way it hadn't before. Even the short walk from the bedroom to the kitchen had left your pulse hammering unevenly beneath your ribs.

"You should sit down," he said without looking away from the pistol in his hands.

"I'm fine."

"You almost tripped over absolutely nothing ten minutes ago."

"There was a rug."

"There has been a rug there for three years." A weak laugh escaped you despite yourself.

Leon's expression softened instantly at the sound, and for one brief moment, he looked less exhausted. Less haunted.

God, you wished you could keep him here. The thought arrived suddenly and sharply enough to hurt. You could ask. You knew you could.

If you looked Leon Kennedy in the eyes right now and said don't go, he wouldn't. The government could burn down outside the apartment windows, and he'd still stay beside you.

And that terrified you. Because if he stayed, there would be no cure. Not for him. Not for Sherry. Not for anyone. So instead, you tightened your fingers around the sleeve hanging over your hands and swallowed the fear clawing up your throat.

Leon finally stood from the table, though the movement immediately triggered another coughing fit. He turned away sharply, coughing hard into his fist while his shoulders tensed beneath his jacket.

By the time it stopped, Leon's breathing had gone shallow again.

"Jesus," you whispered softly.

"I'm okay."

Blood spotted faintly across his knuckles. You both saw it. Neither of you acknowledged it. Leon grabbed a rag from the counter and wiped his hand clean before you could move toward him. The dark veins stretching beneath the skin of his wrist looked almost black now, curling beneath pale flesh like fractures spreading through glass.

Then he looked back at you, and immediately frowned. You realized too late that your hand had drifted against the counter to steady yourself.

Leon crossed the apartment instantly. "Hey."

"I'm fine."

"You're pale."

"So are you."

"You're shaking again."

"I've been shaking for weeks, Leon."

Leon stopped directly in front of you, both hands settling carefully at your waist like he was afraid you might collapse if he let go. The awful thing was, you weren't entirely sure you wouldn't.

"You should be in a hospital," he murmured quietly.

You managed a faint smile. "I work in one. Does that count?"

"It's not funny."

"I know."

The apartment fell silent again. Outside, a siren wailed faintly somewhere downtown before fading into the distance. Leon stared at you for several long seconds, and suddenly, you could see it happening in real time. The hesitation. The instinct screaming at him not to leave you like this. Your chest tightened painfully.

So you reached for him first. Your hands slid carefully beneath the collar of his jacket before pulling him closer until his forehead rested against yours. Leon exhaled shakily the second you touched him.

"Go," you whispered softly.

His eyes closed immediately. "You don't mean that."

"You're the only one who might be able to save us... to save Sherry. We need you."

You leaned upward carefully and kissed him. Leon made a soft sound against your mouth that almost broke you apart right there. His arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you firmly against his chest while he kissed you back like he was trying to memorize every second of it. Every touch. Every breath. Every tiny detail he could carry with him into whatever nightmare waited ahead.

You could feel how fast his heart was beating beneath his jacket. Afraid. Leon was afraid. Not of the mission. Of losing you.

When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved far apart.

"I'm coming home to you," he whispered against your forehead.

The words lodged painfully beneath your ribs.

You swallowed hard before forcing a small smile. "Then I guess I'll have to wait for you."

Leon looked at you like he wanted to believe that more than anything in the world.

Then his phone vibrated. The sound shattered the moment instantly. Duty. Always duty. Leon closed his eyes briefly before pulling the phone from his pocket. You watched the exact second his expression hardened back into something operational. Controlled. Professional. It hurt watching him put the armor back on.

"They're downstairs," he said quietly.

Your chest constricted. Already? Leon stared at you for another long moment before reaching up to brush his thumb carefully beneath your eye. You hadn't even realized tears had started slipping down your face.

"Hey," he murmured softly.

You laughed weakly through the emotion catching in your throat. "I'm trying really hard not to cry right now."

"You don't have to do that for me."

"Yes, I do." Your voice cracked slightly. "Because if I start, you might not leave."

The honesty of it hit both of you at once. Leon's composure visibly faltered. For one terrible second, you genuinely thought he might stay. Then he cupped your face carefully and kissed you one final time. Slow. Tender. Devastated.

"I love you," he whispered against your lips.

Your throat tightened painfully. "I love you too."

Leon rested his forehead against yours for one last second before finally stepping away. The distance felt immediate. Wrong. You watched him grab his bag from beside the table while every instinct in your body screamed at you to stop him. To tell him not to go. To beg him to stay here, where you could still touch him.

Instead, you stood frozen in the middle of the apartment while Leon reached the front door. His hand settled against the knob. Then he looked back. That was the moment that would haunt him later. You standing there in his sweatshirt with exhausted eyes and trembling hands trying so hard to smile for him despite how sick you looked. Waiting for him. Always waiting for him.

Leon stared for half a heartbeat too long before finally opening the door and disappearing into the hallway. Then the apartment went silent. Completely silent. The emptiness hit instantly. Your knees nearly gave out beneath you.

At first, traces of him still lingered everywhere strongly enough that you could almost pretend he'd only gone downstairs for cigarettes or coffee. His mug still sat beside the sink from that morning, a faint ring of coffee staining the bottom. His jacket remained hooked over the chair near the dining table because he'd changed into tactical gear at the last minute. Even the bathroom mirror still carried the faded ghost of steam from his shower.

But as the days stretched onward, the silence changed shape. It deepened. By evening on the fourth day, the apartment no longer felt temporarily empty. It felt abandoned.

You sat curled beneath a blanket on the couch wearing Leon's sweatshirt while weak blue light from the television flickered across the room. You hadn't actually been watching anything for nearly an hour. The sounds blurred together beneath the pounding in your head and the fever simmering painfully beneath your skin.

Your breathing sounded wrong tonight. Too shallow. Every inhale dragged sharply through your chest like your lungs had become lined with broken glass. You coughed into the blanket again. Blood stained the fabric. For a long moment, you simply stared at it, then quietly folded that section beneath itself so you wouldn't have to keep looking at it.

The rain had only stopped for a few days before it seemed constant again. Tonight was no different. You closed your eyes. Leon was in Racoon City, fighting his way through creatures, trying to find a cure. You wonder if he's thinking of you as much as you're thinking of him... probably.

You imagined him moving through dark hallways with a gun in his hands and exhaustion carved deep into his bones. You imagined the infection tearing through his body harder every time he pushed himself too far. You imagined him fighting anyway because that's what Leon always did. He kept going. EVen when he was breaking apart, especially when something important was on the line.

A shaky breath escaped you before another coughing fit hit hard enough to bend you forward painfully against the couch cushions. This one lasted longer. By the end of it, black spots danced across your vision.

"Jesus Christ," you whispered weakly once it stopped.

Your voice sounded small in the empty apartment. You tried standing and it turned out to be a mistake. Dizziness slammed into you so fast the room tilted violently sideways. Your knees buckled before you even fully understood what was happening, and suddenly you were gripping the edge of the coffee table hard enough your fingers hurt while your pulse thundered wildly beneath your skin.

It took nearly a full minute before the apartment stopped spinning. You stayed crouched there breathing unevenly while fear crawled coldly through your chest. It was getting bad... quickly. Somewhere deep down, beneath all the denial you'd been clinging to for Leon's sake, you finally understood the truth.

You weren't going to make it long enough. There was no dramatics or sudden panic. It was certainty settling softly into your bones. Your eyes burned painfully.

"No..." you whispered immediately.

You forced yourself upright again eventually, moving slowly toward the kitchen for water. Every step exhausted you now. By the time you reached the sink, your breathing had already gone ragged.

The glass slipped from your trembling fingers before you could even fill it properly. It shattered against the floor. The sound rang violently through the apartment. You stared at the broken pieces for several seconds before tears suddenly blurred your vision without warning.

Leon wasn't here. If Leon had been here, he would've immediately crossed the room toward you with that worried crease between his brows. He would've checked your hands for cuts before even looking at the floor. He would've told you to sit down while he cleaned the mess himself. The apartment felt enormous without him. Lonely in a way that physically hurt.

You slid slowly down against the kitchen cabinets before you could stop yourself, exhausted enough that the cold tile beneath you actually felt comforting against your feverish skin. And suddenly, all you wanted was to hear his voice.

Your hand shook badly while pulling your phone from the pocket of the sweatshirt. Three missed calls from Leon. Two unread messages.

Made it to the checkpoint. You awake?

An hour later.

Miss you already. Love you.

Your chest cracked painfully around the words. A sob climbed abruptly into your throat before you swallowed it back down hard. You couldn't do this to him. Not now. Not while he was fighting through hell trying to bring salvation home in his bare hands.

Your gaze drifted slowly toward the kitchen table. Toward the notebook resting beside the fruit bowl. And something inside you quietly gave way. The walk back to the couch took nearly everything you had left.

By the time you lowered yourself carefully onto the cushions again, your entire body trembled with exhaustion. Rain whispered steadily against the windows while the city lights outside blurred softly through the fever haze clouding your vision.

You pulled the notebook into your lap and opened to the first blank page. For several long moments, you just stared at the blank page, tears slipping silently down your face. It's not easy to write a love letter that's also a goodbye letter.

You sat for a long time before slowly, carefully, you began to write.

By the time Leon finally returned, dawn had started bleeding weak gray light across the city skyline.

Rainwater dripped steadily from the shoulders of his jacket as he fumbled his keys against the apartment door, exhaustion pulling heavily through limbs that had spent days surviving on adrenaline alone. Every muscle in his body ached. Bruises darkened beneath torn tactical gear. Fresh cuts burned along his hands where broken glass and metal had sliced through skin during the mission.

But none of it mattered.

Because for the first time in years, Leon Kennedy was coming home with hope instead of another apology.

The cure vials remained clutched tightly in his hand as he pushed the apartment door open hard enough for it to slam against the wall behind him.

“Hey,” he called breathlessly into the apartment. “Hey, sweetheart?”

His voice sounded lighter than it had in months. Hopeful. God. Actually hopeful.

Leon kicked the door shut behind himself while rainwater pooled beneath his boots on the hardwood floor. His lungs no longer burned when he breathed. The constant pressure crushing his chest for years had vanished entirely now, leaving his body feeling strangely unfamiliar beneath the exhaustion. The infection was gone. He’d done it. Sherry would survive. You would survive.

“I got it,” he called again while shrugging his bag carelessly onto the floor near the door. “I got enough for both of you. You should’ve seen the place they kept this shit in. Whole goddamn building practically collapsed before we even...”

Then he looked up. And the words died in his throat. The apartment had gone completely still. The television flickered softly in the corner of the room, bathing everything in pale blue light that made the shadows look colder somehow. One of the lamps near the couch remained on, casting a warm golden glow across the blankets bundled around your body.

You sat curled against the corner cushions wearing his sweatshirt. Motionless. For one horrible second, Leon’s brain refused to process what he was seeing.

“No,” he whispered immediately.

The cure vials slipped from his fingers and hit the carpet soundlessly. Leon crossed the room so fast he nearly stumbled over the coffee table.

“Hey,” he breathed shakily as he dropped hard onto his knees beside the couch. “Hey, sweetheart...”

His hands found your face instantly. Cold. Cold enough to send terror exploding violently through his chest.

“No, no, no.” The words fell apart on the way out while his fingers trembled desperately against your skin. “Please don’t do this to me.”

His heartbeat slammed painfully against his ribs now. Fast enough to hurt. Leon pulled you carefully against his chest with shaking arms, panic unraveling through him so violently he could barely think around it. Your head slipped weakly against his shoulder while the blanket tangled around both of you. You were too still. Too quiet.

“Oh God,” he choked out.

The apartment blurred behind tears almost immediately. He could smell blood. That realization hit hard enough to make his stomach twist violently. Leon’s eyes darted frantically around the apartment through rising panic. Tissues stained dark red overflowed from the trash beside the couch. A shattered glass still littered the kitchen floor untouched. Half-finished tea sat cold on the coffee table.

And suddenly Leon could see every awful moment you’d gone through while he was gone. Had you fallen? Had you been too weak to even hold the glass?

“I would've come home,” he whispered brokenly against your hair. “Jesus Christ, I would've come back.”

His hand brushed something resting beside you on the couch. The letter. Leon stared at your handwriting through blurred vision before opening it with trembling fingers.

My dear Leon,

If you're reading this, then you came home. I always believed you would. I'm sorry you had to find me this way, Lee. I need you to know this isn't your fault. You didn't fail me.

You've spent years carrying the weight of Raccoon City. It's carved into your bones, and I know you're already preparing to carry this too. So before anything else, I need you to listen to me one last time.

This isn't your fault. Not the city. Not the infection. Not this.

Loving you is the easiest thing I ever did. Even at the end, especially at the end. I know you probably came home carrying a cure for me. That thought hurts more than dying does. I know you fought for me. I know you pushed yourself too hard trying to reach me in time. I know you probably didn't sleep and ignored every injury because that's who you are.

I want you to know I fought too, I fought so fucking hard to stay awake until you came home. You gave me years I never should've had. After Raccoon City, I thought my life was over. Then somehow, impossibly, I got mornings with you. Movie nights on the couch. Burnt coffee and late-night takeout and listening to you complain every time I made you eat vegetables. I got to love you long enough to call you my husband. How special is that?

When you read this, I need you to do something impossibly hard for me. Live. Really live. Don't just survive missions and carry those ghosts until they bury you.

I need you to sleep in sometimes. I need you to laugh. I need you to stop apologizing for surviving.

Thanks for coming back for me. I loved you until the very end, and wherever I am now, I love you still. Always have and always will.

By the time he reached the final lines, he could barely breathe through the force of his own grief.

I loved you until the very end.

A sound tore from Leon’s chest then. Not controlled and certainly not quiet. The kind of grief that physically rips itself out of someone. He folded forward against you, clutching the letter tightly while sobs wracked violently through his body. Years of trauma and guilt and terror collapsed inward all at once until he could hardly draw breath around it.

“I came back,” he choked out desperately. “You said you’d wait for me.”

His shaking hands came up to check for a pulse in your neck. Nothing. Or maybe he just couldn’t feel through the violent trembling in his hands.

“No, come on,” he whispered frantically. “Please...”

His fingers pressed harder. Then finally, he felt a pulse. Faint. Fragile. But there.

Leon stopped breathing entirely. “Oh my God.”

The words shattered out of him. Hope crashed through his grief so violently it almost hurt. “You’re alive.”

Panic overtook him instantly afterward. Not mourning anymore. Desperate, terrified urgency. Leon grabbed blindly for the cure vial on the floor, hands shaking so badly he fumbled it twice before managing to snap the cap free. His breathing had gone ragged now, bordering on hyperventilation, while adrenaline surged violently through his system.

“Stay with me,” he begged hoarsely while fumbling the syringe together with trembling fingers. “Come on, sweetheart, stay with me. Please.”

Your pulse fluttered weakly beneath his fingertips. Too weak. Fear clawed violently through his chest.

Leon cursed shakily under his breath when the syringe nearly slipped from his hands again. Tears dripped steadily from his jaw onto your sweatshirt while he fought desperately to steady himself enough to inject the cure properly.

“I’m here now,” he whispered frantically. “I’m here, I’m here.”

The needle finally slid into your arm. Leon pushed the cure into your bloodstream with shaking hands before immediately tossing the syringe aside and pulling you tightly back against his chest. Then came the waiting. And somehow, that terrified him more than the mission ever had.

Leon cradled you against him on the floor beside the couch while panic consumed him piece by piece. His forehead pressed hard against your hair. One trembling hand remained at your throat the entire time, constantly checking your pulse like he was terrified it would disappear if he stopped touching you.

“Please,” he whispered over and over. “Please don’t leave me.”

Minutes dragged by endlessly. Every second felt unbearable. Leon’s entire body shook around you while tears soaked steadily into your hair. He couldn’t stop crying now. Couldn’t stop touching you. Every few seconds, his eyes darted frantically across your face, searching for any sign the cure was working.

The harsh fever heat burning beneath your skin had started easing.

“Oh my God,” he breathed shakily.

Relief hit him so hard it almost resembled pain. His forehead dropped against yours while another broken sob escaped him.

“You’re okay,” he whispered desperately. “You’re okay...”

But he still sounded terrified. Still sounded like someone standing at the edge of losing everything.

Consciousness returned slowly. Painfully. Your body felt impossibly heavy when awareness finally drifted back toward you. Everything hurt. Your chest. Your throat. Your head. But the fever felt different somehow. Cooler. Distant.

For a long moment, all you really registered was warmth surrounding you and something damp against the top of your head. Then you realized someone was shaking.

Leon.

A weak breath caught painfully in your throat. “...Lee?”

The reaction was immediate. He jerked back so fast it was almost violent, both hands flying to your face while pure disbelief shattered openly across his expression. His eyes were bloodshot. Tears still clung heavily to his lashes and streaked down his face unchecked.

For several seconds, he just stared at you like he genuinely couldn’t believe you were awake. Then his face crumpled completely.

“Oh my God,” he choked out.

A sob tore violently from his chest before he pulled you tightly against him again, burying his face against your hair while his entire body shook hard enough for you to feel it.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered brokenly against the top of your head. “Jesus Christ... I thought I was too late.”

The words settled heavily between you, soft enough that they almost disappeared beneath the distant sounds of traffic outside the apartment windows. Morning light spilled across the bed in warm golden streaks, catching against the tired lines still lingering around Leon’s eyes.

Your chest tightened painfully. Because you remembered pieces of it, too. Not clearly. Fever had swallowed parts of those final hours in a haze of exhaustion and pain, but some things still remained sharp enough to hurt. The crushing loneliness of the apartment after Leon left. The terrifying heaviness settling into your lungs. Sitting on the couch, wrapped in his sweatshirt, while trying desperately to stay awake long enough to hear the door open.

Your throat burned suddenly. “I thought I was gonna die before you got home,” you whispered.

Leon’s expression broke immediately. “Oh, sweetheart...”

You looked down at the blankets tangled around your legs instead because suddenly meeting his eyes felt impossible. “I remember writing the letter,” you admitted softly. “And I remember thinking...” Your voice wavered slightly. “I kept thinking about you reading it alone.”

Silence filled the room afterward. Not uncomfortable, but heavy with everything both of you had survived.

Leon shifted closer until his forehead rested carefully against yours again. His hand slid instinctively beneath your shirt toward your waist like he needed the reassurance of warmth beneath his fingertips.

“When I walked into that apartment...” His voice roughened abruptly before he forced himself to continue. “Jesus Christ.”

You finally looked up then. Leon stared somewhere past you now, lost briefly inside the memory.

“I really thought you were gone,” he whispered. “I saw you sitting there on the couch and everything just...” His jaw tightened visibly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared in my life.”

Emotion climbed sharply into your chest. This was Leon Kennedy. The man who survived bioweapons, collapsing cities, and monsters most people couldn’t even imagine. And somehow this had terrified him most.

Your fingers slid gently through his hair while he spoke.

“I remember holding you and thinking I should’ve gotten back faster.” His laugh came out thin and exhausted. “Didn’t matter that I practically killed myself getting that cure. All I could think was that I was too late anyway.”

“You weren’t.”

“I almost was.” Leon swallowed hard before continuing, voice softer now. “Then I felt your pulse.”

Your breath caught slightly. Even now, weeks later, the memory still makes your heart race. Leon’s eyes met yours again, finally, red-rimmed and unbearably vulnerable in the soft morning light.

“I thought I imagined it at first,” he admitted. “My hands were shaking so bad I couldn’t even tell if it was real.”

A weak smile tugged faintly at your mouth despite the ache in your chest. “You dropped the syringe, didn’t you?”

Leon actually looked offended. “Twice.”

That startled a laugh out of you. Real and warm. The sound visibly unraveled something inside him. Leon stared at you, like hearing you laugh still felt miraculous somehow. Then suddenly his expression crumpled all over again.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered shakily.

The rawness in his voice hollowed your chest instantly. You reached for him immediately, both hands sliding against his face while tears burned unexpectedly behind your own eyes now.

“I know,” you whispered back.

Leon leaned into your touch with a tired exhale, eyes closing briefly.

“No, I don’t think you do.” His voice cracked softly. “I was holding you, and you were so cold, and I just kept thinking that I didn’t even get to say goodbye properly.”

Your breath hitched painfully.

“I thought those were the last words you’d ever hear from me.” Leon’s hands tightened slightly around your waist. “That stupid promise at the door.”

I’m coming home to you.

Your chest ached so hard it almost felt unbearable. “You did come home to me,” you whispered.

Leon opened his eyes slowly. For a second, neither of you spoke. Then, with visible effort, he leaned forward and kissed you. Not desperately like before. Not terrified like before he left. Just slow and emotional and impossibly relieved.

His hand slid upward into your hair while he kissed you like someone still thanking God you existed at all. You could feel the lingering tremble in his fingers against your skin. Feel the way he kept pulling you closer unconsciously, like some part of him still hadn’t fully accepted that he didn’t have to grieve you anymore.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours again. “I don’t know what I would've done if you died,” he admitted quietly.

The vulnerability of that confession settled deep in your chest. Leon rarely spoke about his own pain directly. He carried it silently most of the time, burying it beneath missions and sarcasm and exhaustion until it hollowed him out from the inside.

You brushed your thumb softly beneath one of his eyes. “You would’ve survived.”

“Yeah,” he murmured tiredly. “That’s what scares me.”

The confession settled quietly into the room between you. Outside, sunlight continued spilling slowly across the apartment rooftops, warming the windows in pale gold while the city carried on beneath it completely unaware of how close the two of you had come to losing everything.

You stared at Leon for a long moment. At the exhaustion still lingering around his eyes. At the faint tension that never seemed to fully leave his shoulders anymore. At the way his hand remained curled tightly against your waist like some part of him still believed you might disappear if he let go.

Your chest ached softly. “You know,” you said quietly, “I think I understand now.”

Leon frowned slightly. “Understand what?”

“Why you kept trying to save everyone in Raccoon City.”

Something flickered across his expression immediately. Old grief. Old guilt. You felt it before he even spoke.

“Sweetheart...”

“No, I mean it.” Your fingers drifted gently through his hair while you searched for the right words. “When I was sitting there alone after you left...” Your throat tightened slightly. “I kept thinking if I could just hold on a little longer, maybe you wouldn’t have to feel that kind of loss again.”

Leon went completely still. The silence stretched painfully.

Then, finally, almost hoarsely, he said, “You were trying to protect me.”

A weak laugh escaped you. “Guess we’re both kind of stupid, huh?”

“Don’t call yourself stupid for surviving.”

The irony of hearing those words from Leon Kennedy almost made you smile. Almost.

You brushed your thumb carefully beneath his eye. “You should listen to yourself more often.”

That actually pulled the faintest breath of laughter from him. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Probably.”

For a little while, neither of you spoke again. The apartment felt warm now. Peaceful in a way it hadn’t felt for months. No looming dread hanging in every room. No waiting for symptoms to worsen. No counting coughs or hiding bloodstained tissues from each other. Just sunlight. Blankets tangled around your legs. Leon’s heartbeat steady beneath your hand.

Leon noticed your expression changing immediately. “Hey.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t think we were gonna get this.”

His face softened instantly. Slowly, Leon shifted closer until he could cup your face gently in both hands. The gesture felt instinctive now. Constant reassurance. Constant grounding.

“Neither did I,” he admitted softly.

Tears blurred your vision before you could stop them. "I love you so much, Leon."

For a second, Leon genuinely looked like he might cry again. Instead, he leaned forward suddenly and buried his face against your shoulder while his arms wrapped tightly around you.

He choked out, "I love you too," while you held him.

You slid your hand gently against the side of his neck, where dark, infected veins had once twisted beneath pale skin. Gone. Completely gone. Leon watched your fingers trace the space softly before catching your hand and pressing a kiss against your palm.

The realization hit suddenly enough to make your eyes burn. You had a future now. A real one. Not borrowed time. Not survival stretched painfully thin between hospital visits and worsening symptoms. An actual future.

"I'm totally retiring after this..." He murmured.

Recovery came slowly after that. Not physically. Physically, the cure worked almost frighteningly fast. The fever vanished first. Then the coughing. Then the deep bone-deep exhaustion both of you had spent years quietly adapting around without even realizing it anymore.

Within days, Leon stopped waking up breathless in the middle of the night. Within weeks, the apartment no longer looked like a hospital room pretending to be a home. The medication bottles disappeared from the counters. Bloodstained tissues stopped overflowing from the trash. Windows stayed open now, letting fresh spring air drift through rooms that had once felt suffocating with fear and waiting. But emotionally? Emotionally, healing proved slower.

“You wanna know something really pathetic?” he asked quietly.

Your mouth curved faintly. “Always.”

“I cried in the grocery store yesterday.”

You blinked. “What?”

Leon looked deeply unimpressed with himself. “You asked me what pasta sauce we needed, and suddenly I realized we were grocery shopping like normal people again.”

A startled laugh escaped you through lingering tears.

“You cried over pasta sauce?”

“In my defense,” Leon muttered, “it was a very emotional pasta aisle.”

That made you laugh harder.

Real laughter this time.

Warm and breathless and alive.

Leon stared at you like the sound alone was enough to keep him breathing. Then softly, almost reverently, “There you are.”

The first warm Saturday after the recovery, Leon burned breakfast. Not badly enough to become a fire hazard. Just badly enough for the smoke detector to start screaming at eight in the morning.

You stumbled into the kitchen still half-asleep, wearing one of his t-shirts and fuzzy socks, while Leon stood beneath the detector, waving a dish towel at it with visible irritation.

“For a government agent,” you said through a yawn, “you’re handling this crisis very poorly.”

Leon pointed the spatula at you immediately. “In my defense, the eggs betrayed me.”

“The eggs betrayed you.”

“Yes.”

You leaned against the doorway, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh, while weak sunlight spilled through the apartment windows behind him. The entire kitchen smelled faintly like burnt butter and coffee. It smelled normal.

That realization still hits you sometimes. Normal used to feel impossible. Now it looked like Leon Kennedy was glaring at a frying pan as if it had personally insulted him. It was going on walks and enjoying the weather. It was watching TV without missing half of it because of a coughing fit. It was having dinner together. It was testing your new stamina... if you know what I mean.

The smoke detector finally went quiet. Leon lowered the towel slowly before narrowing his eyes at the stove. “We’re not telling Claire and Sherry about this.”

That startled a laugh fully out of you. “Oh, absolutely not. I’m telling her immediately.”

“Traitor.”

“You almost burned down the apartment over scrambled eggs.”

“I survived bioterrorism.”

“And lost a fight with breakfast.”

Leon looked deeply offended by that. Then, after a second, “Okay, that’s fair.”

Your laughter filled the apartment warmly while Leon finally smiled too. Not the exhausted, guarded kind of smile he wore for years. Something softer now. Easier. God. You’d missed that smile.

Leon crossed the kitchen toward you then, still barefoot and messy-haired and unfairly handsome for someone holding a spatula. His hands settled automatically at your waist while yours slid up beneath the sleeves of his shirt. No gloves anymore. No blackened veins twisting beneath his skin. Just Leon. Healthy. Alive. The thought still felt surreal enough to ache.

His expression softened immediately when he noticed you staring. “What?”

You shook your head slowly, smiling a little. “Nothing.”

“You got emotional eyes.”

“I do not have emotional eyes.”

“You absolutely do.”

A laugh escaped you quietly before your forehead rested against his chest. Beneath your cheek, his heartbeat sounded steady. Strong. Not strained anymore. Not fragile.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The apartment windows stood open now, letting fresh spring air drift softly through the curtains. Somewhere outside, someone walked a dog down the sidewalk below while distant traffic hummed lazily through the city. Ordinary sounds. Ordinary life.

Leon’s fingers brushed absentmindedly along your spine underneath the shirt while he held you close.

“You know what’s weird?” he murmured softly.

“What?”

“I keep waiting for somebody to call.”

You tilted your head slightly against him. “The government?”

“Yeah.”

You understood immediately. Another mission. Another emergency. Another nightmare waiting to drag him away again.

Leon exhaled quietly through his nose. “Feels strange waking up and not having somewhere to be.”

You looked up at him carefully. “Does it bother you?”

His eyes met yours. Then slowly, Leon shook his head.

“No,” he admitted softly. “I think it scares me more that I like it.”

Emotion tugged gently at your chest.

You reached up, brushing your fingers through the soft blond strands falling into his eyes. “You’re allowed to like having a life, you know.”

Leon’s expression did that thing it always did now whenever you said something too honest, too sudden. Like part of him still didn’t fully know what to do with tenderness that wasn’t immediately followed by loss.

Then quietly, “I know.”

The kitchen timer suddenly beeped loudly behind him. Both of you startled.

Leon turned toward the stove with immediate suspicion. “I swear to God if those eggs are worse somehow—”

You burst out laughing before he even finished the sentence.

And standing there in the middle of a messy kitchen with sunlight warming the apartment around you and Leon grumbling dramatically about breakfast, you realized something softly breathtaking... For the first time since Raccoon City, neither of you were waiting to die anymore. You were just living.

Thanks for reading! My requests are open! You can read the original story here!

Rain dragged itself down the windows of their apartment in crooked trails, blurring the lights outside into watery streaks of gold and red. The city below still moved with the restless pulse of late-night traffic, but inside the apartment, everything felt hushed beneath the soft hum of the television and the occasional rattle of Leon coughing into the sleeve of his sweatshirt. The sound came rough and deep from his chest.

From the kitchen counter, you looked up immediately, fingers still curled around the ceramic mug you'd been drying. "You're supposed to be resting," you said quietly, though there wasn't much bite left in the words anymore. Worry had worn itself smooth over the years.

Leon leaned deeper into the couch cushions with his eyes half-closed, one arm draped across his stomach. The veins beneath the skin of his hand curled darkly beneath the lamplight, blackened tributaries crawling over pale flesh before disappearing beneath the cuff of his sleeve. The splotch spreading along the side of his neck looked darker tonight, too, bruised violet against tired skin.

"I am resting," he muttered.

"You fell asleep sitting upright again."

"Occupational hazard."

A soft breath escaped you at that, halfway between amusement and exhaustion. You set the mug aside before crossing the apartment toward him. Even after all these years, Leon still watched you like you were something grounding. Something untouched by all the rot clinging stubbornly to him.

Your fingers brushed carefully against the side of his neck, just beneath the stain spreading there. Leon tried not to flinch beneath your touch.

"Tender?" you asked softly.

"No worse than usual."

That was the lie both of you used now. No worse than usual. It covered everything from sleepless nights to coughing blood to the way Leon occasionally lost his breath climbing the stairs after missions that once wouldn't have even quickened his pulse.

You studied him for another moment before moving toward the medicine cabinet near the kitchen. The apartment smelled faintly of soup and disinfectant, a strange combination that had followed you home from the hospital for years. Leon used to tease you about it back when things felt lighter. Back before every quiet moment carried the weight of wondering how many were left.

Now the smell only reminded him of how exhausted you looked lately. You tried to hide it well. Most days, you still tied your hair back neatly before work. Still ironed your scrubs. Still left sticky notes near the coffeemaker, reminding Leon to eat something green while you worked late shifts. To anyone else, you probably looked fine.

Leon noticed the small things, though, they're not that small. The way you paused before standing too quickly. The faint tremor in your hands when you thought nobody was watching. The shadows beneath your eyes growing darker every week. And the coughing. God, the coughing.

You returned with his medication and a glass of water before settling beside him on the couch. "You missed another dose this morning."

Leon accepted the pills from your hand. "I was busy."

"You were unconscious for fourteen hours."

"Exactly."

You rolled your eyes faintly, though exhaustion softened even that reaction. When Leon swallowed the medication, you rested your head carefully against his shoulder, fitting there like habit. Outside, thunder murmured somewhere far away.

For a little while, neither of you spoke. Leon could feel the warmth of you pressed against his side. Too warm. His jaw tightened.

"You should've called out today," he said eventually.

"And told them what?" you asked softly. "Sorry, I can't come in because my husband and I are both slowly mutating."

A tired sound escaped him that almost resembled a laugh.

"Was it bad today?" he asked after a moment.

You stayed quiet long enough for him to know the answer before you finally spoke. "My hands cramped up during an IV insertion," you admitted. "Mrs. Holloway noticed."

Leon stared ahead at the flickering television screen without really seeing it. "You shouldn't still be working."

"We've had this argument."

"You almost collapsed last week."

"And you came home coughing blood three days ago."

That silenced him immediately. The rain thickened harder against the windows. You shifted slightly beside him, curling your fingers carefully around his infected hand despite the ugly black veins webbing beneath the skin. Leon remembered the first time you'd seen them appear. He'd expected horror. Fear. Distance.

Instead, you'd taken his hand exactly like this and whispered, "Still you." It nearly ruined him then. It still did.

"We're running out of time, aren't we?" he asked quietly.

The question lingered between you like smoke. You didn't answer immediately. Leon knew you were choosing your words carefully, the same way you always did when trying not to hurt him.

"There are people who lasted longer," you said at last.

"That's not what I asked."

Your fingers tightened slightly around his. Leon finally looked at you then, really looked. At exhaustion you couldn't hide anymore. At the faint discoloration creeping beneath the collar of your sweater. At the fragile steadiness, you wore like armor because somebody in the apartment had to stay calm. You gave him a small smile that broke his heart on contact.

"You know what scares me the most?" you asked softly.

Leon frowned. "What?"

"That you keep looking at me like I'm already gone."

The words hollowed something inside his chest.

He turned toward you fully despite the ache pulling through his ribs, one hand rising to cup the side of your face. "Don't," he murmured immediately. "Don't say that."

"But you are."

"I'm trying to fix this."

"I know."

"No," Leon said, more fiercely this time. "I am. I'm close."

Your expression flickered then. Hope and grief colliding in equal measure. You believed him because you loved him, and that somehow made it worse.

Leon rested his forehead carefully against yours, breathing shallowly through the pressure tightening in his lungs. "I'm not losing you to this," he whispered.

"I don't want to lose you either."

Morning arrived gray and slow, the kind that barely deserved to be called morning at all. Rainwater still clung to the fire escape outside the apartment windows, dripping steadily beneath a sky the color of bruised steel. Somewhere below, traffic hissed across wet pavement while distant sirens blurred into the rhythm of the waking city. The television had long since shut itself off overnight, leaving the apartment wrapped in soft silence broken only by the uneven sound of Leon breathing beside you.

You woke first. Not because you were rested, you honestly couldn't remember the last time you'd felt rested. Your body ached before you'd even fully opened your eyes. Heat coiled beneath your skin in restless waves, feverish and familiar, while your joints protested the simple act of shifting beneath the blankets. For a moment, you stayed still, staring hazily at the dim light filtering through the curtains while your heartbeat thudded heavily behind your ribs.

Then Leon coughed. The sound tore violently through the quiet room. You pushed yourself upright immediately, the motion making dizziness swim unpleasantly through your vision. Beside you, Leon sat hunched forward at the edge of the mattress, one hand braced against his chest while the other covered his mouth. His shoulders trembled beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

"Leon," you said softly, voice still rough with sleep.

He held up a hand without turning toward you, the universal signal for wait. Another cough wracked through him hard enough to make your stomach twist. By the time he finally lowered his hand, there was blood smeared faintly across his knuckles. Your chest tightened painfully.

"Jesus Christ," you whispered, already reaching for the tissues on the nightstand.

"I'm fine."

"You're coughing blood."

"It's not that much."

"That sentence stopped comforting me months ago."

Leon let out a tired breath through his nose as you handed him the tissues. Morning light spilled weakly across the side of his face now, illuminating the darkened veins stretching along his throat and disappearing beneath his collarbone. The discoloration had spread farther during the past few weeks. Neither of you mentioned it anymore.

You sat beside him carefully, one hand resting between his shoulder blades, while the coughing finally subsided into shallow breathing. His skin felt burning hot.

"You should stay home today," you murmured.

Leon gave you a look that could only be described as exhausted disbelief. "You said the exact same thing last night."

"And I meant it last night, too."

"I can't."

"You can barely breathe."

"I've been worse."

You closed your eyes briefly at that. The problem with Leon was that he genuinely meant it. Somewhere along the line, his definition of manageable had become horrifyingly distorted.

When you opened your eyes again, Leon was already trying to stand. The movement almost immediately betrayed him. His breath caught sharply, and he grabbed the edge of the dresser hard enough for his knuckles to whiten beneath the black veining spreading across his skin.

"Leon."

"I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

"I said I'm okay."

The irritation in his voice wasn't directed at you. You knew that. It came from frustration. From humiliation. From the unbearable reality that his own body was becoming something unreliable. Still, silence settled heavily between you afterward. Leon stared at the floor for several long seconds before finally exhaling shakily and sinking back onto the edge of the bed. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders as he rubbed a hand over his face.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I just hate this."

The honesty in his voice hurt more than the coughing had.

You moved closer until your shoulder brushed his. "I know."

"No, I really hate it." He laughed once under his breath, bitter and tired. "I used to go days without sleeping during missions. Now I get winded walking to the kitchen."

You watched him carefully. Leon rarely spoke about the fear directly. He covered it with sarcasm, deflection, stubbornness, anything that kept the terror from fully surfacing. Seeing it now, raw and exhausted in the dim morning light, made something ache deep inside your chest.

"You're still you," you said softly.

His jaw tightened immediately, "That's part of the problem. I don't think I will be for me much longer."

You looked down at your own hands resting in your lap. The faint tremor had returned sometime during the night. Tiny involuntary movements beneath skin that looked normal enough until someone paid close attention.

At the hospital last week, one of the newer nurses had asked if you were feeling alright after you'd nearly dropped a tray of syringes. You'd smiled. You'd lied. You were getting very good at lying. Leon noticed your hands before you could tuck them away.

His expression shifted instantly. "How long?"

You hated that question because he always sounded so afraid of asking it. "Just this morning," you answered carefully.

"That's not what I asked."

You swallowed. The truth sat heavily behind your teeth. "A few weeks."

Leon went still beside you. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows again.

"You should've told me," he said quietly.

"And what would that have changed?"

His silence answered for him. Everything. It would've changed everything.

Leon leaned forward suddenly, elbows braced against his knees, while one hand pressed hard against his mouth. You could practically see the guilt chewing through him in real time, relentless and familiar.

"This is my fault," he muttered.

Your head snapped toward him immediately. "Don't do that."

"If I'd gotten you out faster that night..."

"Leon."

"If I hadn't left you alone at the hospital..."

"Stop."

His voice roughened sharply. "You got infected because of me."

The words struck the room like shattered glass. Neither of you could move after those words left his mouth. You reached out for him after a moment, sliding your hand carefully against his jaw until he finally looked at you. His eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, shadows buried heavily beneath them.

"You listened to me very carefully back in Raccoon City," you said softly. "So listen to me now."

Leon's breathing stayed uneven beneath your touch.

"You did not infect me," you continued. "You did not fail me. You did not ruin my life."

His expression cracked slightly at that, pain flickering openly across his face.

"You saved my life," you whispered. "I got years with you that I never should've had."

Leon looked away immediately like the words physically hurt him.

"That's not enough if one of us dies," he says hoarsely.

Your chest tightened. That was the tragedy of loving Leon Kennedy. No matter how much he gave, he still believed he should've found a way to give more.

The apartment was dark except for the kitchen light Leon had forgotten to turn off. A single yellow glow spilled weakly across the counter and into the living room, cutting through the early morning dark in tired slants. The digital clock on the microwave read 2:17 AM in harsh green numbers. Rain had finally stopped sometime during the night, leaving the city outside damp and quiet beneath a low blanket of fog.

You should've been asleep. Instead, you stood barefoot near the hallway entrance with one hand braced against the wall, trying to steady the dizziness rolling unpleasantly beneath your skin. Exhaustion clung heavily to your limbs after another twelve-hour shift at the hospital, but the silence in the apartment had dragged you awake the second you realized Leon wasn't beside you.

At first, you thought he might've gone outside to smoke again. He'd picked the habit back up months ago despite your endless arguments about it. Then you noticed the light, and the sound of paper shifting.

You moved quietly toward the kitchen, the cold hardwood floor creaking faintly beneath your steps. Leon sat hunched at the table still wearing yesterday's clothes, shoulders rigid beneath his gray sweatshirt while files and photographs lay scattered around him in uneven piles.

Medical reports, autopsy images, government seals.

Your stomach tightened immediately. Leon didn't notice you at first. His eyes stayed locked on the papers in front of him, jaw clenched hard enough to twitch beneath the dim light. One hand pressed against his mouth, while the other gripped a photograph so tightly the edges had bent beneath his fingers.

He coughed suddenly, the sound tearing violently through the quiet apartment. Leon turned sharply away from the table, coughing hard into his sleeve while his free hand braced against the countertop nearby. The force of it nearly doubled him over.

"Leon."

He froze instantly. For one terrible second, guilt flashed across his face before he smoothed it away too late for either of you to pretend you hadn't seen it.

"You should be sleeping," he said roughly.

You ignored the comment entirely, eyes drifting instead toward the files spread across the table. Photographs stared back at you. Five different faces. Five different civilians. Every single one labeled deceased. 

Cold unease curled through your stomach. "What is this?"

Leon went very still. The silence lasted long enough for dread to start settling into your bones.

Finally, he leaned back in the chair with a slow exhale, exhaustion hollowing out his features. "Cases connected to dormant viral exposure after Raccoon City."

Your pulse thudded unevenly. You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, gaze catching on dates and medical terminology scattered across the reports. Progressive organ failure. Neurological deterioration. Respiratory collapse. One victim had been only thirty-two. Another had survived nearly ten years before symptoms resurfaced.

You felt sick. Leon watched you carefully the entire time, like he was waiting for something to shatter.

"How long have you had these?" you asked quietly.

"A while."

"A while," you repeated softly. "Leon."

His jaw tightened. "I didn't want you seeing them."

"Why?"

The question came out sharper than you intended. Leon pushed a hand through his hair roughly before standing from the table. The motion looked unsteady, exhaustion dragging visibly at his body. He crossed toward the sink and gripped the edge of the counter hard enough for the tendons in his infected hand to stand out beneath the dark veins.

"Because none of them survived," he said flatly.

The walls felt like they were slowly closing in around you. You stared at his back in silence while the refrigerator hummed quietly nearby.

"Were they all infected the same way we were?"

"Similar strain."

"And you've just been reading this alone?"

Leon laughed once under his breath, bitter and exhausted. "What exactly was I supposed to say to you?" he asked. "'Hey, sweetheart, I found six years of autopsy reports proving this thing eventually kills civilians slower than it kills everybody else'?"

"You found five reports."

His shoulders stiffened immediately. The realization hit both of you at the same time. Five victims. You would be the sixth. Leon turned away sharply before you could fully see his expression, but not before grief cracked visibly across his face. That hurt more than the files did.

You crossed the kitchen slowly until you stood a few feet behind him. "Leon."

"I'm figuring it out."

"You don't know that."

"I said I'm figuring it out." His voice came harsher now, fraying at the edges beneath exhaustion and panic.

You watched him brace both hands against the counter, head lowered while his breathing turned uneven again. The dark veins stretching across the back of his hands looked almost black beneath the kitchen light now.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then your eyes drifted back toward the table. Toward the notes. Toward the highlighted sections and handwritten annotations covering nearly every page. Leon had memorized these people. Every symptom. Every timeline. Every death.

Your chest tightened painfully. "You're preparing for me to die," you said softly.

Leon's head snapped upward immediately. "No."

"You are."

"No, I'm not."

"You know all their timelines, Leon."

"Because I need to."

"You know how long they lasted after symptoms progressed."

"I need to know what we're dealing with."

"You organized them by stages."

"Because there's a pattern."

Your voice finally cracked. "Because you're trying to predict when I'll die."

Silence slammed into the room. Leon looked stricken like you'd reached into his chest and dragged something ugly into the light before he could hide it.

"That's not..." He stopped hard, swallowing visibly. "That's not what I'm doing."

"You're trying to figure out how much time we have left together."

His composure finally broke. "I'm trying to keep you alive!"

The words exploded out of him loud enough to echo through the apartment. You flinched slightly. Leon stared at you immediately afterward like he hated himself for it. His breathing turned ragged.

"I can't lose you," he said hoarsely, quieter this time. "I can't sit here and pretend this isn't happening while you get worse every week."

You felt tears burning painfully behind your eyes now. "I know."

"No, you don't." Leon dragged a shaking hand over his face. "You don't know what it's like watching you cough and wondering if that's the moment it starts getting bad. You don't know what it's like hearing you come home exhausted and thinking about those files every time you look tired."

His voice cracked hard on the last sentence. For a second, he looked less like a government agent and more like a man drowning slowly in anticipatory grief.

"You think I'm preparing for you to die?" he whispered. "I'm trying to find the point where I can still save you."

The raw desperation in his voice hollowed something inside your chest. You crossed the remaining distance between you carefully before resting your hands against his face. Leon's skin felt fever-warm beneath your palms. His eyes closed immediately.

"I'm still here," you whispered.

Leon's expression tightened sharply, grief flickering across it so fast it almost looked painful.

"That's what scares me," he admitted quietly. "Because they were too. Until they weren't."

After that night, every day after felt fragile in a way cracked glass still technically holds together until the exact wrong amount of pressure finally splinters in apart.

Gray daylight spilled weakly through the apartment windows while the coffee maker sputtered in the kitchen, filling the air with the bitter smell of burnt grounds. Leon stood at the counter in sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt, one hand braced against the edge of the sink while he waited for another coughing fit to pass.

You stood nearby pretending to butter toast while listening carefully to the uneven rasp dragging through his lungs. Every cough sounded painful now. Wet. Heavy. The kind of cough that settled deep in bone and refused to leave.

He finally spit blood into the sink.

You closed your eyes briefly, "Leon."

"I know," he muttered hoarsely.

"You can barely stand."

"I'm standing right now."

"You're leaning like a seventy-year-old chain smoker."

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, though it disappeared quickly beneath exhaustion. He rinsed the sink carefully afterward, watching diluted pink swirl down the drain before gripping the counter again when dizziness hit him too fast.

"Sit down, Lee."

"I'm fine."

"You almost folded in half."

Leon exhaled sharply through his nose before finally relenting, dragging himself toward one of the kitchen chairs with the slow stiffness of someone twice his age. The movement alone seemed to drain him. By the time he sat down, his breathing had already turned shallow again.

You'd watched this man sprint through collapsing streets with barely a second thought for his own survival. Now, climbing out of bed looked like it cost him something.

You slid a plate toward him anyway. "Eat."

Leon looked down at the toast like it had personally offended him. "You made enough for an army."

"You need protein."

"This isn't protein."

"You're lucky I didn't make eggs."

"You almost burned water last week."

"That happened once."

"It absolutely did not happen once."

Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped you. Leon's expression softened immediately at the sound. There it is, his eyes seemed to say.

It almost felt normal again. Then your hand started shaking. The knife slipped slightly against the countertop with a sharp metallic scrape. Leon noticed instantly. The warmth vanished from his expression so quickly it physically hurt to watch. You curled your fingers inward automatically, but it was too late.

"How bad?"

You hated how quietly he asked that now. Like every symptom had become another brick added carefully to the wall of terror building inside him.

"It's fine."

"That's not an answer."

You set the knife down carefully before your trembling hand could drop it entirely. "Just tired."

Leon stared at you across the kitchen table. The silence stretched long enough to become unbearable. Finally, he pushed himself upright despite obvious effort and crossed toward you slowly. The dark veins creeping beneath the skin of his arms stood out starkly beneath the weak kitchen light.

"You're pale," he murmured.

"So are you."

"You're shaking."

"You coughed blood into our sink thirty seconds ago."

For one brief moment, frustration flashed across his face before exhaustion swallowed it whole again. Leon rested both hands carefully against the counter on either side of you, head lowering slightly.

"I got a call last night," he said quietly.

Your stomach tightened instantly.

"A mission?"

Leon nodded once.

Something cold slipped beneath your ribs.

He hadn't mentioned work in weeks unless absolutely necessary. The government had already reduced his field involvement after his symptoms worsened, but "reduced" still meant they dragged him back whenever things became dangerous enough.

"When?"

"Tomorrow night."

You looked down immediately. Not because you wanted to avoid his eyes. Because you already knew what his expression would look like. Guilt. Fear. Determination sharp enough to cut himself open on.

"What kind of mission?"

Leon hesitated. That terrified you more than the answer probably would have.

"There's a lab in Raccoon City," he said carefully. "They think they found something."

Your heartbeat stumbled unevenly. "What kind of something?"

Leon's jaw tightened faintly before he answered. "A cure."

"You're really going back there?"

"I have to."

The entire apartment suddenly felt suspended in place around that single word. Cure. Not a treatment, not a symptom management, a real cure.

"You're sure?" you whispered.

"They think so."

That was the dangerous thing about hope after years without it. Even the smallest amount hit like a flood.

"There's a facility connected to the original research," he continued softly. "That's where they're sending me."

Of course they were sending him. Because whenever something impossible needed surviving, the government always handed it to Leon Kennedy like they'd forgotten he was human years ago.

The thought settled heavily into your chest. Leon watched your expression carefully, and suddenly you saw it. Beneath the exhaustion. Beneath the coughing and the dark veins and the constant fear. Hope. Real hope. You hadn't seen it in him for months. Maybe years.

"This could work," he said quietly.

The words sounded almost fragile coming from him. Leon rarely allowed himself optimism anymore unless he absolutely believed it.

You swallowed hard. "For you?"

"For me," he agreed.

Then his eyes met yours.

"And for you."

The ache that followed nearly split your chest open. Because suddenly you could see it happening too. The fever gone. The coughing stopping. Leon finally sleeping through the night without waking breathless and shaking beside you. A future that didn't end in hospital reports and autopsy photos.

Leon stepped closer carefully, one hand brushing against your wrist. "They only confirmed enough doses for Sherry and me," he admitted quietly. "But if this works..."

You frowned slightly. "Leon."

"I'll bring one back for you."

His voice carried absolute certainty. Not hope. Not maybe. Certainty.

Your eyes burned immediately. "You can't promise that."

"Yes, I can."

"You don't even know what you're walking into yet."

"I don't care."

The answer came sharp enough to cut. Leon's fingers tightened slightly around your wrist while exhaustion and desperation flickered openly across his face.

"I don't care what that place looks like," he said roughly. "I don't care how bad it gets. If there's a cure in that facility, I'm bringing one home for you."

The conviction in his voice hurt. Because this wasn't just another mission to him anymore. This was the first time in years Leon genuinely believed he could save someone he loved before it was too late.

You reached up slowly, brushing your fingers against the darkened skin along his neck. "Leon..."

"I mean it." His voice softened then, cracking slightly beneath the weight of everything sitting between you. "When this is over," he murmured, "you're gonna get better."

By the time Leon's departure day arrived, the apartment had settled into the kind of quiet that made every sound feel important. The radiator clicked softly beneath the windows. Rain slid steadily down the glass in silver trails, distorting the city lights outside into blurred streaks of gold and white. Somewhere several floors below, a car horn echoed briefly through the wet streets before disappearing again. Everything beyond the apartment kept moving normally, while inside, time felt painfully suspended.

Leon was in the bedroom packing. Or pretending to. You stood in the kitchen doorway, watching him fold the same black long-sleeved shirt for the third time in less than ten minutes, before setting it back into the duffel bag with visible frustration. His movements lacked their usual sharp efficiency tonight. Exhaustion dragged heavily at him now, dulling the careful precision he normally carried before missions. The veins stretching along the backs of his hands looked darker beneath the lamplight. You hated how often you noticed things like that now.

Leon finally glanced up after sensing you watching him. "What?" he asked quietly.

A faint smile tugged weakly at your mouth despite everything. "You packed that shirt already."

His eyes flickered downward toward the bag before he exhaled softly through his nose. "Right."

The answer sounded distracted. Tired. You crossed the room slowly, your body protesting every step with deep aches spreading through your chest and limbs. The fever simmering beneath your skin hadn't broken in almost two days now. Even walking across the apartment left you slightly breathless, though you'd spent the entire evening pretending otherwise. Leon noticed immediately anyway. He always noticed.

The second you stopped beside him, his expression tightened faintly. "You're overdoing it again."

"I walked across one room."

"You got winded doing it."

You rolled your eyes softly, though the motion lacked any real energy behind it. "You say that like you're not coughing up pieces of your lungs every morning."

"That's different."

"How?"

Leon opened his mouth before immediately seeming to realize he didn't actually have an answer. A tired breath escaped him instead.

You smiled faintly. "Exactly."

For a moment, silence settled between you again. Rain tapped steadily against the windows. Leon looked at you then. Really looked at you. His eyes lingered too long. On the shadows beneath your eyes. On the exhaustion you couldn't fully hide anymore. On the slight tremor in your hands where they rested against the bedroom dresser. Something fragile flickered across his face so quickly it almost hurt to witness. He was memorizing you. The realization hollowed your chest.

You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, hands settling carefully against the front of his shirt. Beneath your palms, you could feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing. His lungs had sounded worse all week.

"You're scared," you murmured softly.

Leon laughed once under his breath, tired and humorless. "That obvious?"

"You reorganized your bag four times."

That finally pulled a real smile from him. Small. Exhausted. But real.

God, you loved him. Even now. Even with sickness hollowing both of you out from the inside. Even with fear sitting heavy between every conversation and every quiet glance. You loved him so much that it sometimes physically hurt.

Leon's hands settled carefully at your waist.

"You should rest before I leave," he murmured. "You look exhausted."

"So do you."

"Occupational hazard."

"You already used that line this week." A weak laugh escaped you before fading again almost immediately.

The reality of the evening settled heavily back over the room. Tomorrow, Leon would be gone. Tomorrow, you'd wake up alone in this apartment with your worsening symptoms and too much silence. The thought sat sharply beneath your ribs.

"You know," you said quietly, "I used to hate when you left for missions."

Leon's brow furrowed slightly. "Used to?"

"Well," you murmured, "now I really hate it."

The fragile composure he'd been holding together all evening cracked slightly around the edges. Suddenly, Leon looked less like a broody, hardened man preparing for deployment and more like a man trying very hard not to fall apart in front of the person he loved. He stepped closer until barely any space remained between you.

"I'll come back," he said softly.

You looked up at him carefully.

He believed that.

Not because he thought the mission would be easy. Not because he underestimated whatever nightmare waited for him out there.

Leon believed he'd come back because he'd attached your survival to the outcome.

He wasn't going after a cure for himself anymore.

He was going after you.

Your throat tightened painfully.

"You better," you whispered.

Leon's hands slid upward slowly until they cupped your face with aching gentleness. His palms felt warm despite the infection darkening beneath his skin.

"You wait for me," he murmured.

The words nearly undid you. Not because of what he said. Because of how desperately he said it. Like he was trying to bargain with fate itself.

Your eyes burned sharply. "Leon..."

"I mean it." His forehead rested carefully against yours while his breathing turned shallow again. "You wait for me, and I'll come home with that cure."

Emotion climbed painfully into your throat. You wanted to promise him. God, you wanted to. But deep inside, beneath all the fear and hope and denial, your body already knew something the rest of you was still trying not to face. You were getting worse too quickly.

So instead of answering, you reached for him. Leon kissed you immediately. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just heartbreakingly familiar. One of his hands cradled the side of your face while the other settled against your back, pulling you gently against him like he couldn't bear even an inch of distance between you. The kiss tasted faintly of coffee and exhaustion and everything that had always been uniquely Leon. You melted into him despite the ache spreading through your chest.

For a few precious seconds, the world outside the apartment disappeared entirely. No infections. No missions. No looming grief waiting just beyond the horizon. Just Leon. Just the steady warmth of his hands and the careful way he kissed you like something precious.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead remained resting against yours. His eyes stayed closed for a moment longer, like he was gathering strength simply from being near you. Slowly, he lifted his head enough to look at you again.

The exhaustion in his face nearly broke your heart open. Dark circles bruised beneath his eyes. The infection staining his neck had spread farther over the past month, curling beneath the pale skin in ugly, blackened veins. Even breathing looked exhausting now.

And still, he was leaving tomorrow to walk directly into another nightmare because somewhere at the end of it waited the possibility of saving you. The realization hurt so badly you could barely breathe around it.

You reached up carefully, brushing trembling fingers against the side of his face. Leon leaned into your touch immediately, like it was instinct.

"I love you," you whispered.

The words filled the room softly. You can see how terrified he is beneath all the determination. His hand covered yours against his cheek.

"I love you too," he said quietly. "More than anything."

Tears burned painfully behind your eyes now. Leon kissed your forehead gently before pulling you into his arms again, holding you so tightly it almost hurt. You could hear the uneven rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his chest. Fast. Unsteady. Afraid.

Your arms wrapped around him carefully while exhaustion settled heavier and heavier into your bones. You wondered briefly if he could feel how weak you'd become. If he noticed how hard it had become for you to hold onto him for long periods now. If he realized you were memorizing him, too.

It's rained for a week straight. The night Leon left, it finally stopped...ironic, right?

Clouds still hung low over the city in heavy gray sheets, but weak sunlight filtered through the apartment windows for the first time in days, washing everything in pale gold that made the quiet feel almost unreal. Dust drifted lazily through the light near the couch. Somewhere outside, water dripped steadily from fire escapes and rooftops onto the streets below.

You stood near the kitchen counter wrapped in one of Leon's old sweatshirts while he checked his weapons at the dining table. The sweatshirt smelled like him. Laundry detergent. Cigarettes. Faint traces of gunpowder that never seemed to fully leave his clothes anymore.

You'd stolen it from the bedroom sometime during the night, after another fever woke you, shivering so hard your teeth hurt. Leon noticed immediately when he came out of the shower earlier, but all he'd done was stare at you for a long moment before quietly saying, "Keep it on."

Now he sat across the apartment, slotting magazines into place with practiced movements while tension coiled visibly beneath his skin. His jaw stayed tight. His shoulders tighten. Every few seconds, he looked at you. Checking. Always checking. You pretended not to notice.

The truth was, standing upright already exhausted you. Your chest felt heavy this morning. Breathing took conscious effort in a way it hadn't before. Even the short walk from the bedroom to the kitchen had left your pulse hammering unevenly beneath your ribs.

"You should sit down," he said without looking away from the pistol in his hands.

"I'm fine."

"You almost tripped over absolutely nothing ten minutes ago."

"There was a rug."

"There has been a rug there for three years." A weak laugh escaped you despite yourself.

Leon's expression softened instantly at the sound, and for one brief moment, he looked less exhausted. Less haunted.

God, you wished you could keep him here. The thought arrived suddenly and sharply enough to hurt. You could ask. You knew you could.

If you looked Leon Kennedy in the eyes right now and said don't go, he wouldn't. The government could burn down outside the apartment windows, and he'd still stay beside you.

And that terrified you. Because if he stayed, there would be no cure. Not for him. Not for Sherry. Not for anyone. So instead, you tightened your fingers around the sleeve hanging over your hands and swallowed the fear clawing up your throat.

Leon finally stood from the table, though the movement immediately triggered another coughing fit. He turned away sharply, coughing hard into his fist while his shoulders tensed beneath his jacket.

By the time it stopped, Leon's breathing had gone shallow again.

"Jesus," you whispered softly.

"I'm okay."

Blood spotted faintly across his knuckles. You both saw it. Neither of you acknowledged it. Leon grabbed a rag from the counter and wiped his hand clean before you could move toward him. The dark veins stretching beneath the skin of his wrist looked almost black now, curling beneath pale flesh like fractures spreading through glass.

Then he looked back at you, and immediately frowned. You realized too late that your hand had drifted against the counter to steady yourself.

Leon crossed the apartment instantly. "Hey."

"I'm fine."

"You're pale."

"So are you."

"You're shaking again."

"I've been shaking for weeks, Leon."

Leon stopped directly in front of you, both hands settling carefully at your waist like he was afraid you might collapse if he let go. The awful thing was, you weren't entirely sure you wouldn't.

"You should be in a hospital," he murmured quietly.

You managed a faint smile. "I work in one. Does that count?"

"It's not funny."

"I know."

The apartment fell silent again. Outside, a siren wailed faintly somewhere downtown before fading into the distance. Leon stared at you for several long seconds, and suddenly, you could see it happening in real time. The hesitation. The instinct screaming at him not to leave you like this. Your chest tightened painfully.

So you reached for him first. Your hands slid carefully beneath the collar of his jacket before pulling him closer until his forehead rested against yours. Leon exhaled shakily the second you touched him.

"Go," you whispered softly.

His eyes closed immediately. "You don't mean that."

"You're the only one who might be able to save us... to save Sherry. We need you."

You leaned upward carefully and kissed him. Leon made a soft sound against your mouth that almost broke you apart right there. His arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you firmly against his chest while he kissed you back like he was trying to memorize every second of it. Every touch. Every breath. Every tiny detail he could carry with him into whatever nightmare waited ahead.

You could feel how fast his heart was beating beneath his jacket. Afraid. Leon was afraid. Not of the mission. Of losing you.

When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved far apart.

"I'm coming home to you," he whispered against your forehead.

The words lodged painfully beneath your ribs.

You swallowed hard before forcing a small smile. "Then I guess I'll have to wait for you."

Leon looked at you like he wanted to believe that more than anything in the world.

Then his phone vibrated. The sound shattered the moment instantly. Duty. Always duty. Leon closed his eyes briefly before pulling the phone from his pocket. You watched the exact second his expression hardened back into something operational. Controlled. Professional. It hurt watching him put the armor back on.

"They're downstairs," he said quietly.

Your chest constricted. Already? Leon stared at you for another long moment before reaching up to brush his thumb carefully beneath your eye. You hadn't even realized tears had started slipping down your face.

"Hey," he murmured softly.

You laughed weakly through the emotion catching in your throat. "I'm trying really hard not to cry right now."

"You don't have to do that for me."

"Yes, I do." Your voice cracked slightly. "Because if I start, you might not leave."

The honesty of it hit both of you at once. Leon's composure visibly faltered. For one terrible second, you genuinely thought he might stay. Then he cupped your face carefully and kissed you one final time. Slow. Tender. Devastated.

"I love you," he whispered against your lips.

Your throat tightened painfully. "I love you too."

Leon rested his forehead against yours for one last second before finally stepping away. The distance felt immediate. Wrong. You watched him grab his bag from beside the table while every instinct in your body screamed at you to stop him. To tell him not to go. To beg him to stay here, where you could still touch him.

Instead, you stood frozen in the middle of the apartment while Leon reached the front door. His hand settled against the knob. Then he looked back. That was the moment that would haunt him later. You standing there in his sweatshirt with exhausted eyes and trembling hands trying so hard to smile for him despite how sick you looked. Waiting for him. Always waiting for him.

Leon stared for half a heartbeat too long before finally opening the door and disappearing into the hallway. Then the apartment went silent. Completely silent. The emptiness hit instantly. Your knees nearly gave out beneath you.

At first, traces of him still lingered everywhere strongly enough that you could almost pretend he'd only gone downstairs for cigarettes or coffee. His mug still sat beside the sink from that morning, a faint ring of coffee staining the bottom. His jacket remained hooked over the chair near the dining table because he'd changed into tactical gear at the last minute. Even the bathroom mirror still carried the faded ghost of steam from his shower.

But as the days stretched onward, the silence changed shape. It deepened. By evening on the fourth day, the apartment no longer felt temporarily empty. It felt abandoned.

You sat curled beneath a blanket on the couch wearing Leon's sweatshirt while weak blue light from the television flickered across the room. You hadn't actually been watching anything for nearly an hour. The sounds blurred together beneath the pounding in your head and the fever simmering painfully beneath your skin.

Your breathing sounded wrong tonight. Too shallow. Every inhale dragged sharply through your chest like your lungs had become lined with broken glass. You coughed into the blanket again. Blood stained the fabric. For a long moment, you simply stared at it, then quietly folded that section beneath itself so you wouldn't have to keep looking at it.

The rain had only stopped for a few days before it seemed constant again. Tonight was no different. You closed your eyes. Leon was in Racoon City, fighting his way through creatures, trying to find a cure. You wonder if he's thinking of you as much as you're thinking of him... probably.

You imagined him moving through dark hallways with a gun in his hands and exhaustion carved deep into his bones. You imagined the infection tearing through his body harder every time he pushed himself too far. You imagined him fighting anyway because that's what Leon always did. He kept going. EVen when he was breaking apart, especially when something important was on the line.

A shaky breath escaped you before another coughing fit hit hard enough to bend you forward painfully against the couch cushions. This one lasted longer. By the end of it, black spots danced across your vision.

"Jesus Christ," you whispered weakly once it stopped.

Your voice sounded small in the empty apartment. You tried standing and it turned out to be a mistake. Dizziness slammed into you so fast the room tilted violently sideways. Your knees buckled before you even fully understood what was happening, and suddenly you were gripping the edge of the coffee table hard enough your fingers hurt while your pulse thundered wildly beneath your skin.

It took nearly a full minute before the apartment stopped spinning. You stayed crouched there breathing unevenly while fear crawled coldly through your chest. It was getting bad... quickly. Somewhere deep down, beneath all the denial you'd been clinging to for Leon's sake, you finally understood the truth.

You weren't going to make it long enough. There was no dramatics or sudden panic. It was certainty settling softly into your bones. Your eyes burned painfully.

"No..." you whispered immediately.

You forced yourself upright again eventually, moving slowly toward the kitchen for water. Every step exhausted you now. By the time you reached the sink, your breathing had already gone ragged.

The glass slipped from your trembling fingers before you could even fill it properly. It shattered against the floor. The sound rang violently through the apartment. You stared at the broken pieces for several seconds before tears suddenly blurred your vision without warning.

Leon wasn't here. If Leon had been here, he would've immediately crossed the room toward you with that worried crease between his brows. He would've checked your hands for cuts before even looking at the floor. He would've told you to sit down while he cleaned the mess himself. The apartment felt enormous without him. Lonely in a way that physically hurt.

You slid slowly down against the kitchen cabinets before you could stop yourself, exhausted enough that the cold tile beneath you actually felt comforting against your feverish skin. And suddenly, all you wanted was to hear his voice.

Your hand shook badly while pulling your phone from the pocket of the sweatshirt. Three missed calls from Leon. Two unread messages.

Made it to the checkpoint. You awake?

An hour later.

Miss you already. Love you.

Your chest cracked painfully around the words. A sob climbed abruptly into your throat before you swallowed it back down hard. You couldn't do this to him. Not now. Not while he was fighting through hell trying to bring salvation home in his bare hands.

Your gaze drifted slowly toward the kitchen table. Toward the notebook resting beside the fruit bowl. And something inside you quietly gave way. The walk back to the couch took nearly everything you had left.

By the time you lowered yourself carefully onto the cushions again, your entire body trembled with exhaustion. Rain whispered steadily against the windows while the city lights outside blurred softly through the fever haze clouding your vision.

You pulled the notebook into your lap and opened to the first blank page. For several long moments, you just stared at the blank page, tears slipping silently down your face. It's not easy to write a love letter that's also a goodbye letter.

You sat for a long time before slowly, carefully, you began to write.

By the time Leon finally returned, dawn had started bleeding weak gray light across the city skyline. The apartment door unlocked roughly.

"Hey," Leon called breathlessly as he stepped inside. "Hey, sweetheart?"

His voice sounded different. Lighter. Hopeful. For the first time in years. He shut the door quickly behind himself while rainwater dripped steadily from his jacket onto the floorboards. His breathing sounded clearer now. Stronger. The dark veins once curling beneath the skin of his neck had faded significantly.

In his hand, clutched tightly enough to hurt, sat two glasses vials. He'd done it. He'd actually done it.

"I got it," he said breathlessly, already moving further into the apartment. "I got enough for both of you. You should've seen the shit I had to..."

Then he saw you and the words died instantly. Silence crashed through the apartment. Leon stopped moving completely. For one horrible second, his expression didn't change at all. His brain physically could not understand what it was seeing.

You sat curled against the corner of the couch beneath the blanket, still wearing his sweatshirt. One hand rested loosely in your lap. The television cast pale flickering light across your still face. Waiting for him. Just like you promised.

"No," Leon whispered.

The vials slipped from his fingers onto the carpet. He crossed the room instantly.

"Hey," he breathed shakily, dropping hard to his knees beside the couch. "Hey, hey..."

His hands reached for you frantically, cupping your face, your shoulders, anywhere he could touch like enough contact might somehow undo reality itself.

Your skin was cold. Leon made a sound then. A sob, a swallowed scream, something broken.

"No, no, no..." His voice cracked apart violently while he pulled you against his chest. "Please. Please don't do this to me."

His entire body shook around the words. The cure sat forgotten on the floor beside him. Too late. Too fucking late.

Leon pressed his forehead desperately against yours while tears spilled uncontrollably down his face. "I came back," he choked out. "You said you'd wait for me."

His shaking hand brushed against something on the coffee table. Your notebook sat open where you tore the pages out. Leon froze. For several seconds, he simply stared at your handwriting on the folded paper before realizing what it was. Then his breathing broke all over again. His hands trembled violently while opening it.

My dear Leon,

If you're reading this, then you came home. I always believed you would. I'm sorry you had to find me this way, Lee. I need you to know this isn't your fault. You didn't fail me. 

You've spent years carrying the weight of Raccoon City. It's carved into your bones, and I know you're already preparing to carry this too. So before anything else, I need you to listen to me one last time.

This isn't your fault. Not the city. Not the infection. Not this.

Loving you is the easiest thing I ever did. Even at the end, especially at the end. I know you probably came home carrying a cure for me. That thought hurts more than dying does. I know you fought for me. I know you pushed yourself too hard trying to reach me in time. I know you probably didn't sleep and ignored every injury because that's who you are.

I want you to know I fought too, I fought so fucking hard to stay awake until you came home. You gave me years I never should've had. After Raccoon City, I thought my life was over. Then somehow, impossibly, I got mornings with you. Movie nights on the couch. Burnt coffee and late-night takeout and listening to you complain every time I made you eat vegetables. I got to love you long enough to call you my husband. How special is that?

When you read this, I need you to do something impossibly hard for me. Live. Really live. Don't just survive missions and carry those ghosts until they bury you.

I need you to sleep in sometimes. I need you to laugh. I need you to stop apologizing for surviving.

Thanks for coming back for me. I loved you until the very end, and wherever I am now, I love you still. Always have and always will.

By the time Leon reached the final line, he could barely see through the force of his own tears. A shattered sound escaped him as he folded forward against your shoulder, clutching the letter so tightly it crumpled in his hands. Then, still sobbing hard enough to shake, Leon pulled you closer against his chest and held you there like love alone might somehow still be enough to keep you warm.

Leon didn't know how long he stayed there holding you. Time stopped making sense almost immediately after he realized you were gone. The apartment had gone completely still around him. Morning light slowly crept across the floorboards in pale gray stripes while rainwater continued dripping softly from the hem of his jacket onto the carpet below. Somewhere nearby, the television kept talking in cheerful voices that sounded grotesque against the sound of Leon trying not to break apart.

Your body rested against his chest beneath the blanket, cold even through the sweatshirt you'd stolen from him days ago. Leon couldn't stop touching you. His hands kept moving without thinking, trembling fingers brushing through your hair, cradling your face, rubbing warmth uselessly back into your hands like if he just tried hard enough, your skin would stop feeling so cold beneath his own.

"I'm here now," he whispered hoarsely.

The words dissolved into another shaky breath. His chest no longer hurt when he breathed. That realization arrived suddenly and violently. Leon froze again.

No pressure in his lungs. No cough clawing up his throat. No burning weakness curling through his ribs every time he inhaled. The infection was gone because he was cured. And somehow that made everything worse. Because now he gets to live his normal life, and you're not here to do it with him. He survived. Sherry would survive. You should have too.

A broken sound escaped him before he folded forward against your shoulder again, clutching you tighter while grief tore violently through him. "No," he choked out. "No, no, no..."

His eyes drifted blindly across the apartment through tears he could no longer control. That was when he started noticing things. The blanket wrapped tightly around you despite how warm the apartment felt. A cup of tea sitting untouched on the coffee table. Tissues overflowing in the trash can beside the couch. Dark red staining several of them.

His stomach twisted violently. "No..."

His gazed landed on the kitchen. Broken glass still littered the floor near the sink. Had you fallen? Had you been too weak to hold up the glass? His breathing turned ragged again quickly.

Leon could suddenly picture it perfectly. Your trembling hands. Your fever. You trying to get water alone because he wasn't here to help you. Because he'd left you here.

His eyes darted frantically around the apartment now like every detail had become another wound opening inside his chest. Your medicine bottles remained untouched on the counter. One of the couch cushions had been dragged slightly crooked, like you'd struggled to get comfortable.

He noticed your phone, still resting beside you beneath the blanket. He grabbed it with shaking hands. It was open on the messages he sent you earlier.

"Oh, God..." His voice broke apart again completely.

You'd read them. You had to have read them. Which meant you'd been alive then. Alive and alone and getting worse while he crawled through hell believing he still had time.

Leon pressed a shaking hand hard over his mouth as sobs tore uncontrollably from his chest now. He buried his face briefly against the top of your head while guilt ripped through him with surgical precision.

"I would've come home," he choked out. "You should've called me. I would've come back."

But even while saying it, he knew you wouldn't have done that to him. Because you knew exactly who he was. You knew if he thought you were dying, he would've abandoned the mission without hesitation. And then nobody would've been saved. Even at the end, you'd still been protecting him.

He reread the letter again. And then again, and again, and again. By the fifth time, the paper had become damp and wrinkled from his shaking hands. 

Loving you was the easiest thing I ever did.

Leon squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to ache. "I loved you too," he whispered brokenly into the silence. "Jesus Christ, I loved you so fucking much."

His phone started vibrating somewhere nearby. Leon ignored it. Then it rang again. And again. Eventually, another sound joined it. Knocking. Hard and urgent against the apartment door. Leon barely reacted.

"Leon!" Sherry yelled from outside.

The sound of her voice cut faintly through the fog swallowing him whole. Another knock.

"Leon, open the door!"

He didn't remember standing. He only remembered the unbearable emptiness that hit the second he carefully lowered your body back against the couch cushions. Like some vital piece of himself had physically separated from him the moment he let go.

The walk to the door felt unreal. He opened the door looking less like the government agent he was trained to be and more like the hollow shell of the man he once was.

Sherry's expression changed instantly the second she saw him. Relief vanished when she saw his face. Then confusion washed over. Then fear.

"Leon, what happened? They said you stopped responding after debrief and I..." Her voice trailed off the moment she looked past him into the apartment, where she saw you on the couch, unmoving.

"Oh my god."

Leon couldn't speak. He tried, but nothing came out except a shattered breath. Sherry's eyes immediately filled with tears as she stepped slowly into the apartment. She understood instantly. Of course she did.

She saw the cure vials abandoned on the carpet. She saw your body curled beneath the blanket. She saw the letter crumpled tightly in Leon's shaking hand. And because Sherry Birkin knew grief intimately, she didn't fill the room with useless condolences. Instead, she walked quietly toward Leon and wrapped her arms around him.

"I was too late," he whispered hoarsely.

Sherry held him tighter.

"No," Leon choked out immediately after, like correcting her before she'd even spoken. "I had it. I actually had it."

Sherry started crying then too. Leon pressed the heel of his hand hard against his eyes, but the tears kept coming anyway. Endless. Exhausted. Years of horror finally collapsing inward all at once.

Behind them, the apartment sat painfully unchanged. The television still flickered softly. Rain still tapped against the windows. Your tea still sat untouched on the table. The world kept moving with unbearable indifference.

Hours later, people finally arrived. Voices filled the apartment in low careful murmurs. Medical personnel. Government contacts. Procedures that needed to be preformed. Leon hated every second of it. They spoke too softly around him. Looked at him too carefully.

When they finally approached the couch, Leon's expression hardened instantly.

"No."

One of the responders hesitated gently. "Agent Kennedy..."

"No." His voice cracked sharply. "I'll carry her."

Nobody argued after that. Leon crossed the apartment slowly before kneeling beside the couch one final time. His hands shook while brushing hair carefully back from your face. You looked peaceful. That almost destroyed him all over again.

For one terrible moment, Leon remembered kissing you goodbye in this exact apartment only days earlier. I'm coming home to you. The memory hollowed him out.

"I'm sorry," he whispered shakily.

Then, with unbearable gentleness, Leon slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back before lifting you carefully against his chest. The apartment blurred around him afterward. The elevator. The rain outside. People speaking softly nearby. None of it felt real. The only thing Leon truly registered was how light you felt in his arms. Much too light.

By the time he returned to the apartment alone later that night, silence had fully settled into every room. The couch sat empty now. The blanket folded neatly over one armrest. Your tea cup now in the kitchen. The glass in the trash. Leon stood motionless in the doorway for a long time before slowly crossing the apartment toward the couch. Then he sat down exactly where he'd found you that morning. Your letter, once again, clutched tightly in his hands. 

Nearby, the cure that had saved his life rested untouched on the table. Sherry took hers home. And now Leon was alive. Cured. And completely fucking alone.