#princesses

There's the faint drag of boots across the floor. A pause in the entryway like he’s deciding whether to commit to being seen.

When he finally steps into the kitchen light, it’s obvious. Leon Kennedy is covered in blood.

He's not injured, not limping, not even breathing hard. Just stained, like Carrie at the prom.

Dark splatters along his jacket, his sleeves, dried streaks at his collar like he tried to wipe it away and gave up halfway through.

He gives you that perfectly crafted ‘nothing's wrong, sweetheart’ smile and acts like everything's fine, like he didn’t just walk through your front door looking like a biohazard.

“Long night,” he says casually, already reaching for the sink.

You don’t move.

He rinses his hands like that’s going to fix anything, water turning faintly pink before disappearing down the drain. He avoids your eyes the whole time.

That’s the part that gives him away.

“You’re going to act like I don’t see that?” you ask quietly.

His shoulders tighten just slightly and then he forces his body into an exaggerated calm, sinking into himself.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

You let out a slow breath through your nose. “You came home looking like that and thought I wouldn’t?”

For the first time, he looks at you. Really looks, like he’s checking whether you’re angry or just scared.

“…It’s not mine,” he says, softer now.

You step closer anyway, close enough to see the smear at his jaw he missed. Close enough to notice the exhaustion underneath the calm mask.

“I figured that much out,” you say. “What I’m not figuring out is why you thought that would make it better.”

His jaw tightens, then loosens. He exhales like he’s been holding it since he opened the door.

“Because if I tell you what it was,” he says, voice lower, “you’ll never sleep again.”

That lands heavier than the blood ever did.

You reach past him, turn off the faucet, and finally make him still.

“I already wasn’t sleeping,” you say. “Come sit down and tell me all about it.”