#postapocalypticromance

The sky outside was a haze of flame and ash, casting flickering shadows across the ruined corridor. Somewhere in the distance, the groan of a crumbling building drowned beneath the bark of automatic gunfire and the unrelenting shrieks of the infected. Smoke curled through shattered windows, thick and acrid, stinging the back of her throat. The air buzzed with heat and decay. But in this broken hallway, there was only silence.

Y/N dropped to her knees beside him, boots scraping against the blood-slick floor. Her hands trembled as they pressed firmly against his abdomen, trying to stanch the flow of blood seeping through his shirt. It was warm and fast, soaking into her gloves.

"Stay with me," she whispered, her voice tight and breathless. "You're going to be okay. Do you hear me, Leon? You're going to be okay."

Leon S. Kennedy coughed, the sound harsh and wet, his body twitching from the pain. Despite it, he forced a crooked smile, as if trying to ease her panic. "You should’ve gone when I told you."

"Shut up," she snapped, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I'm not leaving you. Not now. Not ever."

He grimaced, trying to speak, but it came out as little more than a ragged breath. "I told you... to leave me behind."

The words were soft, barely audible over the muffled gunfire outside—but they hit her harder than any explosion.

Y/N’s vision blurred as she pressed harder on the wound. "You don’t get to decide that. Not for me. Not after everything we’ve been through. You’re the reason I’m still standing. You don’t get to just check out."

Her mind reeled with memories—visions burned into her like scars. She remembered their first mission together, standing back-to-back on the rain-soaked rooftop of an abandoned hospital. Infected hounds lunged through the fog. She'd been shaking, nearly dropped her weapon. He had calmly adjusted her grip, guided her stance, and whispered, “Focus, breathe, and shoot. I’ve got you.” It was the first time she had trusted someone in the field.

Back in the present, his blood was everywhere—on her hands, her knees, smeared across the floor like a grim signature. He reached up, fingers trembling, and brushed her cheek with the gentleness of a man holding back everything. "I didn’t want you to see me like this," he whispered. "I wanted you to remember me standing. Fighting. Not... bleeding out."

She clenched her jaw. "Then you should’ve fought harder," she whispered, voice breaking on every word. "You don’t get to die like this. Not while I’m still breathing."

His hand slipped from her face, falling limp at his side.

"No," she gasped, more a plea than a denial. "No, no, no. Don’t you dare. Not yet. Not like this."

The corridor trembled from another explosion, dust raining down from the cracked ceiling. The infected were being held off, but it was only a matter of time. She could hear the faint shouts of backup echoing through the rubble-strewn hallways, still too far.

Her mind flashed again. A warehouse ambush. A dozen infected. She had been pinned, comms down, terrified. Leon had thrown himself into the line of fire, shouting over his shoulder for her to get the generator running. She had seen him take the hit. He never looked back.

And then that night in the safehouse—her hands fumbling as she stitched a gash along his ribs, fingers slipping in his blood. He had made jokes the whole time, calling himself "a bad patient with good abs." She had called him an idiot. He had laughed, even then.

She leaned forward now, forehead pressed against his. Her breath trembled. "You don’t get to give up. You hear me? I need you. You idiot. I love you."

For a heartbeat, she felt nothing. Then—a twitch. The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. His voice, barely audible, rasped against her skin. "Took you long enough."

She laughed through a sob, salty tears dripping onto his cheek as she clutched him tighter. Behind them, the distant rattle of boots signaled help was finally here. But she didn’t let go. Not until they pulled him from her arms and wheeled him away.

The med bay smelled like antiseptic and recycled air, the steady beeping of heart monitors a metronome for recovery. Sunlight pooled on the tile floor, catching the edge of the bed where Leon lay propped up by pillows. His face was paler than usual, a patch of stubble darkening his jaw, but his eyes were open. Alive. Watching.

Y/N sat by his side, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her fingers tangled tightly with his. Her eyes hadn’t stopped watching him since the moment he was brought in. She remembered the long nights beside him—listening to machines, watching his chest rise and fall, terrified each breath might be the last. The coffee beside her had long gone cold. She hadn’t touched it.

"You stayed," Leon murmured, his voice still scratchy.

She turned to look at him, lips twitching into a tired, broken smile. "Told you I would. Didn’t believe me?"

He exhaled softly. "Guess I hoped you’d be smart and run."

"You forget who trained me to be this stubborn."

He chuckled, then winced. The movement tugged at his stitches. "Touché."

They fell into silence again, but it was a quieter one now. Safer. After a moment, she reached out and smoothed a hand across his hair. "You scared the hell out of me. I thought I lost you."

Leon turned his head slightly toward her. "You almost did."

She didn’t reply. Instead, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his temple. He closed his eyes. "You saved me."

"We saved each other. Like always."

Leon let out a long breath and turned to face her fully. "So what now?"

She smiled softly. "Now? You rest. You heal. And when you're ready, we go back out there. Together."

He smirked weakly. "And if I get shot again?"

"I’ll kill you myself," she said with a straight face, then finally let herself laugh.