#she her reader

The front door clicked shut behind you with a soft, final sound that echoed through the soaring glass-and-steel entryway. Leon’s hand stayed firm at the small of your back, guiding you inside like the perfect gentleman—warm, steady, the same way he’d steered you through every drill all week. The interior was all modern minimalism: warm wood floors, low recessed lighting that cast long shadows across sleek furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out into the dark woods. It felt isolated. Safe. Like the rest of the world had been politely asked to stay outside.

“You didn’t have to drive me all the way out here,” you murmured, cheeks still burning from the alley, from the car ride where his hand had never left your thigh. 

The black lace dress felt even shorter now, his jacket still draped over your shoulders like a claim. “I could’ve just crashed in the barracks. This is… really nice of you, Leon..”

He chuckled low, the sound rough and intimate in the quiet house, ash-brown hair falling across his forehead as he turned you to face him. Those piercing blue eyes caught the low light, softening just enough to look fond. 

“Polite?” 

His thumb brushed your lower lip, still swollen from the alley. 

“Baby, you have no idea.” He leaned in, kissing you again—slower this time, but no less hungry—walking you backward through the foyer without breaking contact. 

One hand slid under the hem of your dress, palming the curve of your ass as he guided you toward the wide floating staircase. “Upstairs. My room. I’m not letting you out of my sight tonight.”

You stumbled a little on the first step, giggling breathlessly into his mouth, the alcohol and the orgasm from the alley still buzzing under your skin. He caught you easily, lifting you half a step so your bodies pressed flush, his thigh slipping between yours again as you climbed. His free hand roamed higher, fingers tracing the lace edge of your panties.

“That’s it… keep moving for me,” he murmured against your throat, nipping the skin there. 

By the time you reached the second-floor landing, his shirt was half-unbuttoned from your fumbling hands, your dress straps already slipping down your shoulders. He had you pinned against the hallway wall for a moment, kissing you deep and filthy, one thick thigh grinding up between your legs just enough to make you whimper.

The master bedroom door was already open—dark wood, massive bed centered under more glass windows overlooking the pines. Leon didn’t bother with lights; the moonlight filtering through was enough. He backed you straight to the edge of the mattress, mouth never leaving yours, until the backs of your knees hit the bed and you tumbled down together.

He followed you down, but he didn’t rush. Instead he settled between your thighs, shoving the short lace dress up to your waist with reverent hands. 

“Look at you,” he breathed, blue eyes dark and worshipful as he hooked his fingers in your panties and dragged them down your legs.

“Still so fucking innocent. Still blushing even after you came on my thigh like you were made for it.” He kissed the inside of your knee, then higher, slow and deliberate, until his breath ghosted over your soaked center. 

“Gonna take care of you properly now. Been dying to taste how sweet you are.”

You barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on you—expert, relentless, nothing like the fumbling boys you’d known before. 

Leon Kennedy ate pussy like a man who’d survived hell and learned exactly what heaven tasted like. His tongue flattened against your clit, dragging slow circles that made your back arch off the bed. Two thick fingers slid inside you without warning, curling just right, pumping in time with the suction of his lips. He groaned against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core. “So tight… so perfect. No one else is ever getting this close again.”

You came embarrassingly fast the second time—hips bucking against his face, fingers twisting in his ash-brown hair as pleasure crashed through you in sharp, shuddering waves. He didn’t stop, licking you through it, drawing it out until your thighs trembled around his ears and you were whimpering his name like a prayer.

Only then did he rise up, stripping himself with efficient, military precision. The black tactical shirt came off first, revealing the scarred, muscled torso of a man who’d fought through every nightmare the world could throw at him. His pants followed, and when his cock sprang free—thick, heavy, easily nine inches and girthy enough to make your eyes widen—he wrapped a hand around the base and gave one slow stroke, watching your face the whole time.

“Easy, rookie,” he murmured, voice wrecked but gentle as he climbed back over you, caging you in with his arms. 

“I’m big. Gonna let you adjust. Don’t want to break my pretty girl on the first night.” 

He notched the blunt head against your entrance, rubbing it through your slick folds, then pushed in—inch by slow, careful inch. 

The stretch burned in the best way, filling you fuller than you’d ever been. 

He paused halfway, forehead pressed to yours, blue eyes locked on yours.

“Breathe. That’s it… good girl. Taking me so well. You were made for this. Made for me.”

When he finally bottomed out, seated to the hilt, he stayed there, hips flush, letting you clench and flutter around him while he kissed you slow and deep. “Feel that? All of me. No one else will ever know how perfect you feel.”

Then he started moving.

Leon had stamina that made your head spin. He fucked you like he had all the time in the world—because to him, he did. 

First position: slow and deep on your back, one of your legs hooked over his elbow so he could grind against your clit with every thrust, murmuring praise and dark promises between kisses. 

“Mine… all fucking mine now.”

He flipped you onto your stomach next, pulling your hips up so you were ass-up, face pressed into the sheets. He railed you harder from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks. The angle hit deeper, making you see stars.

When your legs gave out, he didn’t stop. He pulled you on top, guiding you to ride him reverse cowgirl so he could watch every inch of his thick cock disappearing inside you, hands spreading your ass so he could see better. 

“Fuck, look at that… greedy little pussy swallowing me whole.”

You came a third time like that, clenching around him, but Leon still wasn’t close. 

He flipped you again, this time missionary with your ankles on his shoulders, folding you in half so he could pound you into the mattress with long, powerful strokes that made the bed creak. Sweat slicked his ash-brown hair to his temples, the silver at the sides catching the moonlight, but his rhythm never faltered—deep, relentless, creative in the way he changed angles, slowed to grind, then sped up to rail you until you were sobbing with overstimulation.

By the time he finally let himself go—burying himself to the hilt and coming with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as he filled you—he’d wrung three more orgasms out of you, leaving you boneless and trembling beneath him.

He stayed inside you even after, collapsing half on top of you, arms banded around your waist like iron. His mouth brushed your temple, voice soft and dark with satisfaction.

“Stay right here,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your sweat-damp hair. “No barracks. No going back. You’re home now, rookie. Safe. Protected. Just like I promised.”

You were too blissed out, too exhausted, to catch the finality in his tone. You thought it was just the afterglow talking—polite, caring Leon offering you a place to crash after a wild night. You had no idea the doors were already locked from the inside, the perimeter alarms set, the woods around the mansion swallowing any chance of leaving without him knowing.

You smiled sleepily against his chest, murmuring something about how sweet he was.

Leon’s piercing blue eyes stayed open in the dark, watching you drift off, the coil in his chest finally settling into something permanent and absolute with the thought:

She still doesn’t get it. That’s okay. She will. She’s never leaving this house again.

Morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Leon’s bedroom, soft and golden, painting the dark wood floors in warm stripes. You stirred slowly, body heavy and aching in the best-worst way—thighs sore, core tender, the faint scent of cedar and gun oil and sex still clinging to the sheets. For one disoriented second it felt like a dream: the training week, the bar, the alley, the way he’d carried you upstairs and ruined you so thoroughly you’d passed out with his cock still buried inside you.

Then your eyes focused.

This wasn’t the recruit barracks. 

No thin mattress, no fluorescent overheads, no distant sound of other agents shuffling to morning PT. 

This was his mansion—glass walls looking out into dense, endless pines, the nearest road miles away down that long private drive. 

Your black lace dress lay crumpled on the floor beside his tactical pants. His arm was locked around your waist like a steel band, warm and unyielding even in sleep, ash-brown hair tousled against the pillow, the silver at his temples catching the light.

Reality crashed in like ice water.

You were twenty miles from base. Alone. With a man who wasn’t just your trainer anymore. The week of constant touches, the “accidental” brushes, the way he’d cleared your schedule and steered you away from everyone else… it all sharpened into something colder. Your pulse kicked up. You needed to get back. Training. Roll call. Your life. You shifted carefully, trying to slide out from under his arm without waking him.

Leon’s eyes snapped open instantly—those piercing blue eyes already alert, already fixed on you like he’d been waiting for you to move. The scar through his eyebrow stood out sharper in the daylight. His mouth curved into that soft, terrifying half-smile.

“Morning, rookie,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep and something darker. His hand tightened on your hip, pulling you back against his bare chest before you could sit up. 

“Sleep okay? You were out cold after the last round. Looked so peaceful… so safe.”

You swallowed, cheeks heating despite the growing knot in your stomach. “Yeah… I did. Thank you for letting me crash here, Leon. It was… intense. But I should probably head back soon. Barracks check-in is at oh-nine-hundred, and I’ve got morning drills—” 

You tried to keep your tone light, casual, like this was still the polite older agent doing you a favor. “I can call a shuttle or something. Don’t want to overstay.”

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in his body—the way every muscle went predator-still. Those blue eyes darkened, drinking in the nervous flutter of your lashes, the way your fingers twisted in the sheet.

“Shh.” The sound was gentle, almost tender. One big hand slid up your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast as he rolled you onto your back in one smooth motion. He settled between your thighs like he belonged there, already half-hard and thickening fast against your stomach.

 “You’re not thinking about leaving already, are you? After everything I did to keep you safe last night? After you came so pretty for me?”

Before you could answer, his mouth was on yours—deep, claiming, tongue sliding against yours like he was erasing the words from your tongue. His hand slipped between your legs, two thick fingers stroking through the slick mess he’d left there last night, circling your clit with expert pressure until your hips jerked despite yourself. 

“Still so wet for me,” he growled against your lips. “See? Your body knows. It doesn’t want to go anywhere.”

You gasped, trying to protest, but he swallowed it with another kiss and pushed those fingers inside you—curling, scissoring, stretching you open again while his thumb worked your clit. 

The stretch burned sweetly; you were still sensitive from the night before, but your body betrayed you, clenching around him with a fresh rush of heat.

Leon didn’t give you time to think. He withdrew his fingers, replaced them with the blunt, heavy head of his cock, and pushed in—slow enough to make you feel every thick inch, but relentless. 

“That’s it… breathe, baby. Let me in. You took me so well last night. You’re still so tight… still so fucking innocent even after I ruined you.” 

He bottomed out with a groan, hips flush, holding still while you adjusted to the overwhelming fullness, the way he stretched you to the limit.

Then he started moving—deep, rolling thrusts that ground against your clit on every stroke, one of your legs hooked over his elbow so he could hit that perfect angle. He fucked you like he had all the time in the world, stamina endless, changing the rhythm just enough to keep you spiraling: slow and grinding, then faster, harder, until the bed creaked beneath you. When your eyes fluttered shut he nipped your jaw. 

“Eyes on me. Want to watch you fall apart knowing it’s only ever going to be me doing this to you.”

You came hard—clenching around his huge cock, nails digging into his scarred shoulders, a broken moan tearing from your throat. Leon fucked you through it, drawing it out, then flipped you onto your stomach without pulling out. He hauled your hips up, ass in the air, and railed you from behind with long, powerful strokes that made your eyes water. One hand fisted gently in your hair, the other reached around to rub your clit again, relentless.

Only when you were shaking, overstimulated and whimpering his name, did he finally let go—burying himself deep and coming with a low, guttural sound, filling you until you felt it drip down your thighs.

He stayed inside you afterward, chest pressed to your back, arms caging you completely. His lips brushed your ear, voice soft and dark and utterly calm.

“You’re not leaving, rookie.”

The words sank in slow. You blinked, still hazy from the orgasm, confusion creasing your brow as you twisted your head to look at him. “What… what do you mean? Leon, I have to—”

His hand stroked your hair, gentle, possessive, those piercing blue eyes locking onto yours with terrifying fondness. “I mean you’re never leaving this house again. Not the barracks. Not the base. Not the world that’s going to chew you up and spit you out the second I’m not there to protect you.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, thumb wiping away the confused tear that slipped free. “You’re mine now. Pure. Safe. I’ve kept you under my watch all week—made sure no one else could touch you, could ruin you. This is just the next step. I’ll take care of everything. Training, reports, your whole life… it’s all handled. You don’t need to worry about any of it anymore.”

You stared at him, chest tightening, the post-sex glow fracturing into cold, dawning horror. Your lips parted, but no words came out—just that wide-eyed, confused look, like the ground had shifted under you and you still couldn’t quite believe it.

Leon only smiled softer, pressing another kiss to your temple as he finally eased out of you, pulling the sheet up around your trembling body like you were something precious he’d never let break.

“Shh. I know it’s a lot at first. But you’ll understand. You always do… good girl.”

Leon cleaned you like he loved you.

That was the worst part.

There was no rush in him now. No frantic hunger. No barely leashed violence pressing against the underside of his skin. Just quiet, careful hands and that soft, terrifying calm that made everything feel worse because it looked so much like tenderness.

He carried you into the bathroom after, wrapped in the sheet from his bed, your body still trembling, your mind still lagging several steps behind what he had just said.

You’re not leaving.

Never leaving this house again.

The words sat inside your skull like a locked door.

Leon turned on the shower with one hand and kept the other at the small of your back, steadying you like you might fall apart without him. Steam curled up around the glass walls, blurring the edges of the bathroom until the whole room felt dreamlike and wrong.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

His eyes flicked to your face through the mirror.

Soft.

Fond.

Possessive in a way that made your stomach turn cold.

“That’s okay,” he said. “Your body’s been through a lot. You don’t have to think right now.”

You wanted to tell him you did have to think.

You had to get dressed.

You had to go back to base.

You had to undo whatever this was before it became real.

But your throat felt too tight, and Leon’s hands were already moving, gentle as he helped you step beneath the warm spray. He washed your hair with slow, practiced fingers, massaging your scalp while you stood frozen beneath the water. He cleaned between your thighs with almost reverent care, murmuring soft praises you barely heard over the rush of the shower.

“There you go,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist.

“Always going to take care of you.”

The words no longer felt comforting.

They felt like bars closing around you.

Afterward, he dried you off with one of his towels, the dark cotton soft against your skin. You stood there damp and dazed while he disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a black T-shirt folded in his hands.

His shirt.

Of course.

“Arms up,” he said.

You hesitated.

Leon’s mouth twitched.

Not quite a smile.

“Rookie.”

One word.

Soft.

Warning.

Your arms lifted before you could stop them.

The shirt slipped over your head, swallowing you in him immediately—cedar, gun oil, clean laundry, something darker and warmer beneath it. The hem fell to the tops of your thighs. It should have made you feel covered.

Instead, you felt claimed.

Leon looked at you for a long moment, eyes moving over the shirt hanging from your body, your bare legs, the damp ends of your hair. Something satisfied settled into his expression.

“There,” he murmured. “Better.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself.

“I need my clothes.”

His gaze lifted to yours.

“You don’t.”

A pause.

Your pulse jumped.

“I mean,” you said quickly, trying to keep your voice steady, “I need to get dressed so I can go back. I have to check in.”

Leon’s expression softened again.

That was worse too.

He stepped forward and brushed your damp hair behind your ear.

“No, baby,” he said quietly. “You don’t.”

The floor seemed to tilt beneath you.

Before you could answer, he turned and walked out of the bedroom like the conversation was finished.

You stood there for a second, staring after him.

Then you followed.

The house was even more unsettling in the morning.

At night, it had been beautiful in a distant, unreal way—all glass and shadows, warm lights against endless black woods. In daylight, it looked too clean. Too controlled. Every surface polished. Every room silent. No clutter. No softness that didn’t look intentional. No evidence that anyone existed here except Leon Kennedy and whatever version of safety he had built for himself behind steel, glass, and miles of trees.

You padded downstairs barefoot, his shirt brushing your thighs with every step.

In the kitchen, Leon moved like nothing was wrong.

He stood at the island in dark sweatpants and a fitted black shirt, hair still damp from the shower, sleeves pushed to his forearms as he cracked eggs into a pan. Coffee brewed beside him. Toast sat already buttered on a plate. There were sliced strawberries in a bowl, arranged too neatly.

He had made breakfast.

Like this was normal.

Like he hadn’t just told you your life was over.

“You need to eat,” he said without turning around. “Protein first. Then coffee.”

You stopped at the edge of the kitchen.

“I have to leave.”

The spatula paused.

Only for half a second.

Then he kept cooking.

“No, you don’t.”

Your chest tightened.

“Leon.”

“Sit down.”

“I need to go back to the barracks.”

“You don’t live there anymore.”

Your breath caught.

The words were so calm. So simple.

Like he had already handled the inconvenience of your entire existence.

“I do live there,” you said, sharper now. “My things are there. My uniform is there. My schedule—”

“Handled.”

The word cut clean through yours.

You stared at him.

“What?”

Leon turned off the stove.

Slowly.

Then he set the spatula down with careful precision and finally looked at you.

His eyes were calm.

Too calm.

“I said it’s handled.”

The kitchen felt colder than it had a moment ago.

You swallowed. “What does that mean?”

He studied you for a second, like he was deciding how much truth you were ready for.

Then he sighed softly.

Almost fondly.

“I woke up early.”

Your stomach dropped.

Leon wiped his hands on a towel, then folded it neatly beside the sink.

“Before you did. Before anyone noticed anything was wrong.”

You couldn’t move.

“I accessed the internal system,” he said. “Training logs. Housing records. Assignment rosters. Camera archives from last night. Entry scans. Group channel metadata. It’s all gone.”

The room went quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator.

Your mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Leon’s expression remained gentle.

“You were never assigned to the barracks. Never placed in the recruit block. Your field-readiness file was rerouted under my clearance, then archived. Your badge is inactive. Your comm is wiped. Your name won’t come up on morning roll because, as of 0430, you’re no longer in the intake system.”

The blood drained from your face.

“No.”

He stepped toward you.

You stepped back.

His eyes sharpened at the movement.

“Don’t.”

One word.

Your spine went rigid.

“You can’t do that,” you whispered.

“I already did.”

“Leon, that’s insane.”

His face changed.

Not much.

Just enough.

The softness thinned. Something colder showed through beneath it.

“Insane?”

Your heart started hammering.

“You erased me?”

“I saved you.”

“You erased me.”

“I removed you from a machine that was going to feed you to the next outbreak.” His voice stayed low, but the edges roughened. “A machine that would have put you in the field before you were ready. Before you understood what people out there do to something like you.”

“Something like me?”

“Soft,” he said. “Trusting. So fucking easy to ruin.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I am not yours to save.”

His hand slammed down on the kitchen island.

The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.

You flinched hard.

For one terrible second, Leon looked nothing like the man who had washed your hair. Nothing like the careful mentor. Nothing like the man who had whispered praise against your skin.

He looked like every nightmare he had survived had finally found somewhere to live.

“You don’t know what you are,” he snapped.

The silence after was immediate.

Heavy.

Your eyes burned.

Leon froze.

His gaze dropped to your face, to the way you had gone still, to your hands curled protectively against your chest.

The rage vanished so quickly it was almost more frightening than the outburst.

His expression cracked.

“Baby,” he said softly.

You shook your head.

He moved around the island.

You backed away.

“No. Don’t.”

He stopped.

For a moment.

Then his face folded into something aching and apologetic.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

A laugh broke out of you, sharp and hysterical. “You kidnapped me.”

His jaw tightened.

“I brought you home.”

“You deleted me from the system.”

“I protected you from it.”

“You can’t just decide that!”

“I had to.”

His voice broke slightly on the words.

Not with remorse.

With conviction.

And that was when the panic truly hit.

Not because he was angry.

Because he believed every word.

You turned and ran.

Bare feet slapped against the polished floor as you bolted out of the kitchen and across the open living space toward the front entry. The house blurred around you—glass walls, dark wood, morning light flashing off steel. Your breath tore from your lungs.

Behind you, Leon sighed.

Not shouted.

Not cursed.

Sighed.

Like you were a child reaching for a hot stove.

The front door came into view.

Massive. Dark. Beautiful.

You grabbed the handle and yanked.

Nothing.

You pulled harder.

Still nothing.

A small red light blinked near the lock.

Your pulse spiked.

“No, no, no—”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

The sound came from behind you.

Low.

Soft.

Disappointed.

Your blood turned cold.

Leon stood halfway across the foyer, not even out of breath. He hadn’t run after you. He hadn’t needed to.

His hands were relaxed at his sides.

His eyes were not.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.

You shook your head, twisting the handle again, uselessly. “Open it.”

“No.”

“Open the door, Leon.”

“You’re panicking.”

“You locked me in!”

“To keep you safe.”

You spun on him, tears burning hot now. “From who?”

His gaze softened.

“Everyone.”

The answer hollowed you out.

Leon walked toward you slowly.

You pressed yourself back against the door.

“Don’t come near me.”

He stopped an arm’s length away.

For one second, you thought maybe he would listen.

Then he reached for you.

You slapped at his hand, but he caught your wrist easily. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough that you understood immediately how little your strength mattered here.

“Let go.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I said let go.”

His thumb brushed over your pulse.

“Not when you’re like this.”

You tried to twist free.

Leon’s other arm slipped around your waist, pulling you against him with calm, effortless strength.

“No,” you gasped, panic tearing through your chest. “No, Leon, please—”

“Shh.”

His mouth brushed your hair.

“I know. I know it feels scary right now.”

You shoved at his chest.

He didn’t move.

“But you’ll understand,” he murmured. “You always do.”

He lifted you.

Just like that.

Like you weighed nothing.

Your stomach lurched as your feet left the floor. You kicked once, instinctively, but his grip tightened just enough to still you.

“Stop,” he said.

Not loud.

Not angry.

Worse.

Controlled.

You froze.

Leon carried you back through the foyer, up the floating staircase, past the glass walls and the endless woods beyond them. The house swallowed every sound except your ragged breathing and his steady footsteps.

“I have to go to work,” he said, like he was explaining a normal morning routine. “There are things I need to clean up before anyone starts asking the wrong questions.”

Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.

“Leon, please.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

“No—”

He opened the bedroom door and carried you inside.

The room looked different now.

The same massive bed. The same warm light. The same view of the pines.

But now you saw the keypad beside the door.

The reinforced glass.

The absence of any visible handles on the windows.

The cameras tucked so neatly into the corners you hadn’t noticed them before.

Leon set you down on the bed with careful hands.

You scrambled back immediately, clutching his shirt around your thighs.

His eyes tracked the movement.

Something pained crossed his face.

“I don’t like leaving you upset.”

“Then let me go.”

His expression closed.

“No.”

The word was quiet.

Absolute.

He crouched in front of you, hands resting on the mattress but not touching you.

“I’m going to give you some time,” he said. “You can shower again if you want. Sleep. Eat when you’re ready. I’ll bring your breakfast up before I leave.”

You stared at him.

“You’re insane.”

His mouth twitched.

Sad.

Tender.

Wrong.

“You’re scared.”

“I hate you.”

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes.

Pain.

Then it smoothed away beneath the same calm devotion.

“That’s okay,” he whispered. “You can hate me for a while.”

He stood.

You lunged for the door.

He caught you before you made it two steps.

This time, his arm locked around your waist from behind, pulling your back to his chest. His mouth came close to your ear, voice low and dark.

“Don’t make me restrain you, rookie.”

Your entire body went still.

He held you there for one long, suffocating second.

Then he kissed your temple.

Soft.

Almost apologetic.

“That’s my good girl.”

He guided you back to the bed and stepped away before you could recoil again. At the door, he paused and looked back at you.

Ash-brown hair falling over his forehead.

Blue eyes steady.

Face unbearably gentle.

“I’ll be back,” he said. “Behave for me.”

The door shut.

The lock engaged with a soft electronic click.

Then another.

Then silence.

You stood there barefoot in his T-shirt, heart hammering, staring at the closed bedroom door.

For several seconds, you couldn’t move.

Then you ran to the windows.

No handles.

You searched the room.

No phone.

No bag.

No clothes.

No comm.

Nothing.

Only the bed. The cameras. The keypad. The endless woods pressing dark and thick beyond the glass.

Downstairs, somewhere far below, a door opened and closed.

An engine started.

Then faded down the private drive.

You were alone.

No.

Not alone.

Watched.

The little black camera in the corner tilted almost imperceptibly.

Your breath caught.

And finally, fully, horribly, you understood.

Leon had not taken you somewhere safe.

He had erased the road back.

The base would not look for you.

The barracks would not miss you.

The system no longer knew you existed.

The house hummed softly around you, beautiful and silent and locked from the inside.

You pressed your hand to the glass, staring out at the trees.

Miles of woods.

No shoes.

No phone.

No name left in the world he had stolen you from.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead like a swarm of dying insects, casting long shadows across the reinforced concrete walls of the DSO training annex. Leon Kennedy leaned against the far end of the mat room, arms crossed over his broad chest, the black tactical shirt stretched tight across shoulders that had carried too many bodies—both literal and figurative.

At forty-five, the ash-brown hair at his temples had started to silver just enough to make him look more dangerous than distinguished. Age hadn’t softened him. If anything, it had sharpened every edge. Made him quieter. Colder. Less interested in pretending he was anything other than what the government had made him.

A survivor.

A weapon.

A man who had learned, over decades, that the world only took what it could reach.

And Leon had gotten very good at deciding what it wasn’t allowed to touch.

His blue eyes stayed fixed on the door at the opposite end of the room, unblinking, patient in a way that would’ve made most men look calm.

On him, it looked predatory.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Training new recruits was usually reserved for washed-up field agents, desk-bound supervisors, or instructors with something to prove and nothing left to lose. Leon had avoided it for years. He didn’t like rookies. Didn’t like their wide eyes, their nervous questions, the way they walked into hell thinking protocol and body armor made them untouchable.

But then her file had landed on his desk.

Not officially.

Officially, it had been routed through Field Readiness like every other recruit assignment.

Unofficially, Leon had asked for it.

Pulled it, really.

Quietly. Carefully. Through back channels that still owed him favors after Spain, after Tall Oaks, after too many classified operations buried beneath black ink and congressional lies. A name here. A request there. Nothing obvious enough to raise suspicion. Nothing sloppy.

Leon was never sloppy.

The higher-ups thought he was finally taking mentorship seriously. Thought maybe age had made him reflective. Thought maybe he wanted to give something back to the next generation of agents.

They didn’t know he’d read her file eight times.

They didn’t know he’d memorized her height, her academy scores, her blood type, her emergency contact, her psychological evaluation, the little notation in the margin about “strong empathy response under pressure.” They didn’t know he’d paused too long on the photograph paper-clipped to the front of her intake report.

Soft features. Wide eyes. A face that hadn’t learned yet how ugly the world could be when it wanted something from you.

No scars. No dead look behind the eyes. No thousand-yard stare.

Clean.

Untouched.

Breakable.

Leon’s jaw tightened.

That was the problem.

People like her didn’t survive this job. Not really. They either died quickly, before the rot had time to settle in, or they lived long enough for the job to strip them down to something hollow. Something efficient. Something with blood under its nails and ghosts in its peripheral vision.

The DSO would chew through her. The field would ruin her. Some smug little rookie would flirt with her in the locker room. Some senior agent would underestimate her until she got hurt trying to prove herself. Some monster would see her softness and reach for it.

His fingers flexed once against his bicep.

No.

Not her.

He had watched too many good things get dragged screaming into the dark.

This one, he could keep.

The thought should have disturbed him. Maybe once, years ago, it would have. Back when there had still been clean lines in his head between protection and possession. Between concern and obsession. Between wanting someone safe and wanting them where no one else could ever touch them.

Those lines had blurred a long time ago.

Leon exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing the tension from his shoulders.

Professional.

For now.

There would be time to learn her habits. Time to see what made her nervous, what made her smile, what made her freeze. Time to figure out who she talked to, who made her laugh, who thought they had any right to stand too close.

Eight weeks.

Eight weeks of her under his supervision. Her schedule routed through him. Her progress reports crossing his desk. Her training hours locked behind doors only he had clearance to open.

Eight weeks was more than enough time to make sure she understood where she belonged.

Under his watch.

Within his reach.

Safe.

The heavy door at the far end hissed open on pneumatic hinges.

And then you stepped inside.

The room seemed to narrow around you.

Agent Leon Kennedy was already waiting.

Your pulse slammed against your ribs so hard you were sure he could hear it from twenty feet away. You’d seen him before—briefings, hallway glimpses, the occasional distant sighting that made rookies whisper his name like a ghost story dressed up as a legend—but nothing prepared you for the real thing up close.

He was taller than you remembered. Broader. More imposing without even trying. The kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to make a room rearrange itself around him. Ash-brown hair fell slightly across his forehead, just messy enough to look accidental, though something told you nothing about Leon Kennedy was ever truly accidental.

His eyes found you the second you crossed the threshold.

Piercing blue.

Still.

Too focused.

A faint scar cut through one eyebrow, and there were lines at the corners of his mouth that didn’t look like they came from smiling. He looked like a man carved out of bad decisions, sleepless nights, and violence he’d survived by becoming worse than whatever had tried to kill him.

And now he was looking at you like you were something he’d been expecting.

Not assigned.

Not introduced to.

Expected.

Your cheeks burned instantly.

Great.

Blushing like a cadet on day one.

You clutched the strap of your duffel tighter, the rough canvas digging into your shoulder, and tried to remember how to breathe like a normal person. He was forty-five, you reminded yourself. A decorated agent. A living legend. The man who’d survived more nightmares than most people knew existed.

And here you were, brand-new, painfully inexperienced, assigned to him for field-readiness training and fighting the humiliating flutter in your stomach because his stare made your knees feel loose.

“Recruit,” he said.

His voice was low and rough, like gravel dragged under boots.

He pushed off the wall with slow, controlled ease, every movement economical, fluid, dangerous. You’d seen footage of him in combat during academy lectures—grainy clips, classified training reels, the kind instructors used to make a point about survival instinct. Even then, he’d moved like something built to close distance before anyone realized they were prey.

It was worse in person.

“Right on time,” he said. “Close the door.”

You turned quickly, grateful for the excuse to look away, and pressed the control panel. The door slid shut behind you with a heavy mechanical seal.

The latch clicked.

Final.

Too final.

A quiet shiver moved down your spine.

The room felt smaller now. Soundproofed walls. Reinforced glass. No observation window, which surprised you. Most training rooms had one. Someone watching from the other side. An instructor. A supervisor. A second set of eyes.

This one didn’t.

Just you.

Just him.

And the faint scent of gun oil, clean sweat, and something darker beneath it—leather, metal, rain-soaked concrete.

You turned back and lifted your hand in a salute that you hoped looked steady.

“Sir. Recruit Y/L  reporting for training, as ordered.”

Leon’s mouth curved.

Barely.

It might have been a smile if it had reached his eyes.

It didn’t.

Those stayed fixed on you, dragging slowly over every detail with a precision that made your skin prickle. Your posture. Your grip on the duffel strap. The slight tremble in your fingers when you lowered your hand. The flush creeping up your neck no matter how desperately you wished it would stop.

He saw all of it.

Of course he did.

Leon Kennedy had built a career on noticing the things people tried to hide.

Something dark flickered behind his gaze. It was there and gone so quickly you almost convinced yourself you imagined it.

Almost.

“Good,” he murmured.

He stepped closer.

Not fast. Not threatening. Nothing you could reasonably object to.

But every inch he took from the space between you felt deliberate.

You forced yourself not to step back.

His eyes dipped briefly to your duffel, then to the badge clipped at your hip, then back to your face.

“Name’s Kennedy,” he said. “Leon, when we’re not in front of brass.”

You nodded too quickly. “Yes, sir.”

His gaze sharpened.

The corner of his mouth twitched again, as if your obedience pleased him more than it should have.

“You’re mine for the next eight weeks,” he continued.

The words landed heavily between you.

Your stomach tightened.

He said it like procedure. Like a training assignment. Like he hadn’t just put a claim into the air and let it sit there.

“I’m going to teach you how to stay alive out there.” His voice dropped lower, quieter. “And I don’t lose what’s under my watch.”

The sentence should have been reassuring.

It wasn’t.

Not exactly.

There was something in the way he said it. Something too intimate wrapped in discipline. Something that made you feel less like a recruit and more like a fragile thing he’d already decided belonged in his hands.

You swallowed hard.

Nervous energy buzzed under your skin—part fear, part awe, part something warmer and more embarrassing that you absolutely should not be feeling about your training officer. He was watching you too closely. Like your breathing mattered. Like your pulse was something he could track from across the room.

Like he already knew you.

“You read my file?” you asked, then immediately wished you hadn’t.

Leon’s eyes held yours.

“Yes.”

Simple.

No hesitation.

Your fingers tightened around the duffel strap. “Anything I should be worried about?”

A beat passed.

His expression didn’t change, but something behind it did.

“Not anymore.”

The answer sent a strange chill through you.

You weren’t sure what to say to that.

Leon moved closer again, and this time he was near enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. Close enough to catch the faint rasp of his breathing. Close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to keep eye contact.

He reached for you.

You stiffened before you could stop yourself.

His hand paused for half a second.

Then his fingers brushed your shoulder, slow and careful, adjusting the strap of your duffel where it had twisted against your collarbone. It was a practical touch. Harmless. Something an instructor might do without thinking.

Except Leon thought about everything.

His fingers lingered.

Just a heartbeat too long.

“You’re tense,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“No,” he murmured, eyes tracking the pulse fluttering in your throat. “You’re nervous.”

Your face burned hotter. “First day.”

“Mm.”

His thumb shifted slightly, barely grazing the edge of your collar before he let his hand fall away.

You breathed in too quickly.

Leon noticed that too.

Of course he did.

“Relax, rookie,” he said, tone almost gentle now. Almost kind. “You’re not in the field yet. Nothing in here is going to hurt you.”

The pause that followed was too long.

Then he added, softer, “Not while I’m here.”

Inside his chest, the thought coiled tighter.

No one touches her.

No one gets close enough.

No one breaks her.

His gaze moved over you again, slower this time, and somewhere deep behind the calm mask of his expression, something hungry settled into place.

She’s scared.

Good.

Fear could be shaped. Fear could be taught. Fear could keep you alive.

And if she learned to associate safety with him—his voice, his hands, his presence, his permission—then that was just another kind of training.

Leon had always been good at adapting.

You shifted under his stare, suddenly hyper-aware of the locked door behind you and the empty observation window that wasn’t there. “Are we the only ones training today?”

“Yes.”

Your brows drew together before you could stop them. “I thought recruits usually rotated instructors.”

“They do.”

“But I’m not?”

“No.”

You waited for him to explain.

He didn’t.

Leon simply watched you with that same calm intensity, like he could stand there forever and let your unease bloom between you. Like he enjoyed watching you try to decide whether to question him.

Finally, his expression softened by a fraction.

“You need consistency,” he said. “Too many voices in your head will get you killed. I’ll be the only one training you.”

The only one.

Something about the way he said it made your pulse jump.

“You requested that?” you asked.

Leon’s eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Yes.”

There it was again.

No hesitation.

No apology.

You weren’t sure whether to feel honored or unsettled.

Both, maybe.

His gaze dipped to your mouth for half a second before returning to your eyes, so fast you almost missed it. Almost. Your breath caught anyway, and the corner of his mouth curved like he’d heard it.

“Problem?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“Good girl.”

The words slipped out low and quiet.

Your entire body went still.

Leon’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened, just slightly, as if he’d caught the way those two words hit you. The way your breath stuttered. The way your fingers tightened on the strap until your knuckles paled.

A mistake, maybe.

Except Leon Kennedy didn’t make those either.

He stepped back before you could react, giving you space just as suddenly as he’d taken it, and gestured toward the center of the room.

“Put your bag down.”

You obeyed before thinking, setting the duffel against the wall.

His eyes followed the movement.

“Phone too.”

You glanced back at him. “My phone?”

“Distraction.”

“It’s on silent.”

“I didn’t ask if it was on silent.”

The room went quiet.

There was no anger in his voice. No raised volume. Nothing obvious enough to call harsh.

But command sat beneath every word.

Your stomach twisted.

Slowly, you unzipped the side pocket of your bag and pulled out your phone.

Leon held out his hand.

You stared at it for a second too long.

His gaze lifted to yours.

“Rookie.”

One word.

Soft.

Warning.

You placed the phone in his palm.

His fingers closed around it, and for one absurd second, it felt more intimate than the brush of his hand on your shoulder.

He turned the screen over.

A notification lit briefly.

Someone’s name flashed across it.

Some guy from your academy class. A harmless text, probably. Something about meeting up later or asking how training went.

Leon saw it.

Of course he did.

His face didn’t move.

But something in the room changed.

Something colder.

He looked down at the screen for one quiet second, then pressed the power button until it went black.

“Friends already checking on you?” he asked.

You gave a small, awkward laugh. “Just academy people.”

“Mm.”

He set the phone on the bench behind him, far out of your reach.

“You won’t need that in here.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

You nodded anyway, even as a strange little warning bell rang somewhere in the back of your mind.

Leon’s eyes returned to you, and just like that, the coldness was gone. Replaced by something calm. Focused. Almost tender.

It made it worse.

“Come here,” he said.

Your feet moved before you had fully decided to move them.

His gaze softened again.

That pleased him too.

You could feel it.

“You’re going to learn a lot in eight weeks,” Leon said. “How to fight. How to shoot under pressure. How to clear a room. How to read threats before they become threats.”

He circled you slowly as he spoke, his boots making almost no sound against the mat.

You kept your eyes forward, heart beating harder with every step he took behind you.

“But the first thing you’re going to learn,” he continued, voice near your shoulder now, “is that hesitation gets you hurt.”

His presence hovered at your back.

Not touching.

Close enough that he could have.

“You hesitate because you’re thinking too much,” he said. “Wondering if you’re doing the right thing. Wondering if you’ll disappoint someone. Wondering if you’re allowed to take up space.”

Your throat tightened.

He was too accurate.

“You don’t know me,” you said quietly.

Leon was silent for a beat.

Then he leaned in just enough that his voice brushed near your ear.

“I know enough.”

A shiver slipped through you before you could stop it.

His eyes lowered to the goosebumps rising along your arms.

“There it is,” he murmured.

You turned your head slightly. “What?”

“Instinct.”

He stepped away again, and you hated how much easier it became to breathe.

Leon moved to stand in front of you, hands relaxed at his sides, expression unreadable.

“You feel it,” he said. “When something’s too close. When something’s watching. When the room shifts before the threat moves.”

Your pulse thundered.

His head tilted slightly.

“You felt it when you walked in.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

Leon’s mouth curved again.

“Good. Don’t ignore that feeling. It’ll keep you alive.”

Then his gaze darkened, almost imperceptibly.

“And when you don’t know what to trust,” he said, “you trust me.”

The words were quiet.

Firm.

Final.

You nodded because you didn’t know what else to do.

Leon’s eyes stayed on you for another moment, too long, too deep, as if he were filing the nod away somewhere private.

Inside him, the satisfaction was immediate.

Small.

Controlled.

Dangerous.

She listens.

Good.

He could work with that.

He could work with her.

He gestured toward the mats, and the movement broke whatever spell had settled over the room.

“Let’s start with basics. Show me how you move.”

The mats felt thinner under your boots than they looked, the faint give of them making your stance wobble before you even started.

Leon noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

He circled you slowly, boots silent despite his size, those piercing blue eyes tracing every part of you with unsettling precision—the line of your shoulders, the angle of your elbows, the way your fists came up just a little too high. Your cheeks were still warm from the way he’d said your name earlier, low and rough like it already belonged in his mouth, and the brush of his fingers on your duffel strap had left a ghost of heat against your skin.

“Basics first,” he said, voice calm but edged with that gravel rumble. “Feet shoulder-width. Weight on the balls of your feet.”

You shifted, trying to obey.

His head tilted slightly.

“You’re leaning back.”

Before you could correct yourself, he stepped in.

One hand settled at the small of your back while the other tapped just below your knee. The contact was firm. Professional.

Or it should have been.

But his palm stayed there a second longer than necessary, thumb pressing lightly into the curve of your spine, warm through the thin fabric of your uniform.

“Most rookies do that,” he murmured. “They think it makes them steadier. It doesn’t. Makes you easy to topple.”

You nodded too quickly, pulse jumping under his touch. “Sorry, sir—Leon. I’ll fix it.”

He hummed, low and almost amused, but when you adjusted, he didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand slid up an inch, guiding the angle of your hips with pressure that felt a little too deliberate.

“There,” he said. “Better. But you’re still locking your elbows.”

His fingers wrapped around your wrist, easing your arm down. They lingered there, tracing the line of your forearm as if checking the muscle memory himself.

“Relax them,” he continued. “First guy who grabs you with your arm locked like that snaps it like kindling.”

The image made your stomach twist.

Leon’s eyes flicked to your face, catching the reaction.

His expression softened.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Don’t get in your head. I’m not saying you’re bad. I’m saying you’re new. And new gets people killed.”

The words stung, even wrapped in that low, reassuring voice. You had aced the academy sims. You had passed every written exam, every tactical evaluation, every psych screening. But standing here with Leon Kennedy’s hands on you, his eyes picking apart every flaw, you suddenly felt painfully inexperienced.

Maybe you were overthinking.

Maybe that was why your stance still felt wrong.

His hand left your wrist only to move to your shoulder, squeezing once like he was anchoring you.

“Trust the correction,” he said. “I’ve got eyes that have seen every way this can go wrong. You don’t.”

You swallowed and nodded again.

The approval in his gaze warmed you in a way it shouldn’t have.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “You listen well.”

Your breath caught.

Leon noticed that too.

A faint smile touched his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Those stayed focused, sharp, watching the flush creep higher up your neck.

Inside him, something dark curled tighter.

She wants to be good for me.

Good.

He could work with that.

He demonstrated the next combination slowly, every movement controlled and efficient, then stepped back to let you mirror him. You tried to focus on the sequence—guard up, step, pivot, strike—but the second your form slipped, he was there again.

Chest nearly brushing your back.

Hand on your elbow.

Fingers at your jaw, tilting your chin.

Each touch was quick. Corrective. Necessary.

Each touch lasted just long enough to make your breath hitch.

“Better,” he murmured near your ear. “But you’re still dropping your shoulder when you pivot. I know you feel it—that little wobble.”

“I do,” you admitted, embarrassed.

“Good. Awareness matters.” His arm slid around you from behind, hand flattening over your collarbone to hold your posture steady while the other guided your hip through the turn. The position pressed him flush against you for one long heartbeat, solid and unyielding. “Feel that? Center of gravity stays here. Not there.”

He tapped your sternum.

Then let his fingers drift down an inch before pulling back.

“Good girl,” he said. “You’re catching on faster than most.”

The praise hit like a spark.

Your stomach flipped, heat blooming low before embarrassment rushed in after it. You focused on the next drill, desperate to ignore how your body was already learning to lean into his corrections instead of away from them.

Leon saw that too.

Of course he did.

For the next ninety minutes, he ran you through the same sequences again and again, finding one more “small thing” every time you thought you had it right. His hands were always there—at your waist to correct balance, around your wrist to adjust your guard, against your ribs while demonstrating an escape that left you dizzy from how carefully he held you without actually squeezing.

“You’re hesitating,” he said at one point, voice low against your hair. “I can feel it.”

You were pinned against him, his arm locked around you in a controlled hold, your back to his chest.

“Sorry,” you breathed.

“Don’t apologize. Fix it.” His mouth was close enough to your ear that the words skimmed your skin. “In the field, hesitation gets you killed. Or worse.”

A shiver slipped through you.

His grip tightened a fraction.

“Trust my hands,” he murmured. “They know what they’re doing.”

By the time the session ended, you were sweaty, breathless, and aching in places you didn’t know could ache. Leon looked barely winded. He wiped his forehead with the hem of his shirt, flashing a strip of toned stomach that made your mouth go dry, then gave you that same faint half-smile.

“Not bad for day one.”

You huffed a tired laugh. “That’s generous.”

“It’s honest.” His eyes moved over you again, slower than before. “Shower. Change. Lunch at 1300.”

You blinked. “Lunch?”

“I’ll meet you in the mess.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Protocol,” he cut in smoothly. “New recruits under direct supervision eat with their trainers the first week. Keeps bad habits from forming.”

You hesitated.

Leon’s expression didn’t change, but the room seemed to tighten around the silence.

“You wouldn’t want to start off on the wrong foot with me, would you?”

The question was light.

The way he said it made refusal feel impossible.

You shook your head quickly. “No, sir. I mean—Leon. I’ll see you then.”

His smile softened.

“Good.”

He watched you leave, the heavy door hissing shut behind you. The second you were gone, the mentor mask slipped.

His jaw tightened. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he could still feel the warmth of your skin beneath them.

She needs this, he told himself.

The thought settled in his chest, dark and sweet.

She’s too soft for this world. One wrong move out there and she’s gone.

His eyes stayed on the closed door.

I won’t let that happen.

Not to her.

He had already cleared his afternoon schedule. Paperwork could wait. Meetings could be pushed. Every loose end, every pointless obligation, every person who thought they had claim to his time could get in line.

She couldn’t.

You barely had time to shower and change before the mess hall doors loomed in front of you. Leon was already there, leaning against the wall outside like he’d been waiting the entire time.

Maybe he had.

His hair was damp at the temples from his own shower, darker where the water had touched it, and his sleeves were rolled to his forearms. He straightened when he saw you and fell into step beside you without asking.

“Corner table,” he said, his hand returning to the small of your back. Lighter this time. No less possessive. “Quieter. Easier to talk shop.”

Lunch was normal.

On the surface.

He asked about your academy scores, your instructors, your weak points, your confidence with live-fire drills. He listened like every word mattered, blue eyes fixed on you in a way that made the rest of the mess hall fade to background noise.

Then he gently steered every answer back to him.

“Most new agents burn out because they don’t listen to their trainers.”

“You’re doing fine. Just don’t second-guess yourself.”

“I’ve seen rookies think they know better. They usually end up in body bags.”

Not you, his eyes seemed to say.

Not while I’m watching.

You laughed at one of his dry jokes, the sound surprising you. Leon’s gaze warmed, but something sharper flickered behind it when a nearby table looked over at the sound.

Possessive.

Gone before you could name it.

The afternoon drills were worse.

Or better.

You couldn’t tell anymore.

Close-quarters combat. Repetitions. Holds. Escapes. Leon correcting you every time your form slipped even a fraction. He was patient but relentless, calm but impossible to ignore. By 1700, your muscles were trembling, your hair was damp at your temples, and you were convinced you were only making progress because he kept telling you that you were.

He walked you back to the recruit barracks himself.

“Evening debrief at 1900,” he said at your door, leaning one forearm against the frame so he filled the space without quite trapping you. “My office. We’ll go over the footage.”

“You recorded the drills?”

“All training rooms record.” His eyes held yours. “I pulled the footage.”

Something about that made your stomach flutter.

“Can’t I review it tomorrow?” you asked, already exhausted.

Leon reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek.

The touch was feather-light.

Electric.

“Rookies misread their own mistakes,” he said. “Makes them sloppy. I won’t let you build bad habits.”

You should have stepped back.

You didn’t.

His voice softened.

“You did good today. Really. Just let me handle the rest.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

“You’re safe with me,” he murmured.

He didn’t move until you nodded.

Only then did he step back.

“See you soon, rookie.”

The door clicked shut between you.

You leaned against it, heart hammering, wondering why the thought of eight straight weeks under his watch felt equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

Down the hall, Leon didn’t leave right away.

He stood outside your room for a long minute, listening to the faint sounds of you moving inside. A drawer opening. Boots shifting. Your soft exhale through the door.

His blue eyes half-lidded.

She’s already leaning on me.

Good.

She’ll learn to need it.

At 1855, you stepped into the corridor leading to Leon’s office. Your body still ached from the day, every correction of his hands lingering like a brand beneath your fresh uniform. You kept telling yourself this was professional. He was your trainer. Nothing more.

Even if his voice kept echoing in your head.

Good girl.

You rounded the corner and nearly collided with Recruit Ramirez.

He caught your elbow lightly to steady you, grinning down at you with the same easy smile he’d had during orientation.

“Whoa, easy there,” he said. “Heading to Kennedy’s torture chamber?”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, the sound a little breathless. “Apparently.”

“You survive day one?”

“Barely.”

Ramirez leaned against the wall, arms crossed, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.

“Yeah, well, watch yourself. Guy’s got a rep. If you need someone to vent to after, I’m in barracks three. We could grab coffee or something.”

The door to Leon’s office opened with a soft click.

Leon filled the frame.

His eyes weren’t on your face.

They were on Ramirez’s hand, still hovering near your elbow.

His expression was neutral. Calm.

The kind of calm that came right before a headshot.

Inside his chest, something feral uncoiled.

Sharp.

Black.

Mine.

He could picture it too easily—Ramirez’s smug little smile disappearing, his body hitting the concrete, blood slick under the hallway lights. The kid’s hand had been on you. His shoulder too close. His voice too friendly.

Leon’s fingers twitched once at his sides.

Not here.

Not yet.

You were still looking at him like he was safe.

He couldn’t ruin that.

So he exhaled slowly and let the mask slide back into place.

“Recruit,” he said, voice low and even. His eyes finally shifted to you. “You’re early. Good.”

Then his gaze cut to Ramirez.

“Dismissed. This is a private debrief.”

Ramirez straightened, giving you a quick wink like it was nothing. “Catch you later, newbie.”

Leon watched him walk away.

Counted the footsteps until they faded.

Then he stepped aside and gestured you in.

His hand brushed the small of your back as you crossed the threshold.

Firmer this time.

Guiding you inside like he was sealing you away.

The door shut behind you with a heavy click.

Leon’s office was dimmer than the hallway, lit by a single desk lamp and the glow of a monitor showing paused training footage.

Your footage.

The afternoon session.

You, on the mats.

Leon behind you, hands on your body, mouth close to your ear.

Your face burned.

“Sorry if I was early,” you said quickly. “I ran into—”

“Sit.”

The word was soft.

You obeyed.

Leon moved behind your chair, adjusting it even though it didn’t need adjusting. His hands brushed your shoulders as he pushed you closer to the desk, thumbs pressing briefly into the tense muscle there.

“You don’t need to apologize for being eager,” he said. “That’s good. Most rookies cut corners. Not you.”

He circled to his side of the desk but didn’t sit back. He leaned forward, elbows on the wood, blue eyes pinning you in place.

The footage began to play silently.

Your stance.

His corrections.

His hands.

The blush crawled up your neck.

Leon watched it happen.

Then, casual as breathing, he said, “Ramirez.”

You blinked. “What?”

“He bothering you?”

“Oh—no. He was just saying hi. We were in orientation together.” You gave a small, awkward laugh. “He’s harmless.”

Leon’s smile was small.

Almost fond.

The muscle in his jaw ticked once.

“Harmless,” he repeated.

He reached across the desk, sliding a printed still toward you—your stance from earlier, circled in red where he had marked hesitation. His fingers grazed yours as he did it.

Warm.

Deliberate.

“I’ve been doing this a long time, rookie,” he said. “Guys like him are never harmless.”

Your stomach tightened.

“He was just being friendly.”

“That’s how it starts.”

His voice stayed gentle, which somehow made it worse.

“They see someone new. Soft. Someone who still blushes when she gets corrected.” His eyes dipped briefly to your mouth, then back up. “They smell easy prey.”

Your pulse kicked.

Leon’s hand settled over yours on the printout, thumb stroking slow circles over your knuckles.

“I’ve pulled too many girls out of situations they thought were just friendly,” he said. “Ends the same way every time. You get distracted. You let your guard down. Then suddenly you’re not the pure little recruit anymore. You’re just…”

He paused.

His thumb stilled.

“Used.”

The word landed cold and heavy.

You looked down at his hand covering yours.

Ramirez had been flirty.

And Leon was experienced. Careful. Protective.

Maybe you had been naïve.

Maybe that was the point.

Leon watched the uncertainty flicker across your face and felt the coil in his chest tighten another notch.

That’s it.

Pull away from them.

Lean into me.

No one else gets to see that blush.

No one else gets to touch.

“You’re not like them,” he said softly. “You’re better than that. Innocent in ways that matter out here. That’s why I’m watching so close.”

Your throat felt dry.

“I didn’t think—”

“I know.” His fingers squeezed yours once. “That’s why you have me.”

The words should have comforted you.

They did.

That was the frightening part.

Leon released your hand and pointed toward the screen.

“Now,” he said, voice returning to that calm, instructive register. “Let’s go over the footage. I’ll show you exactly where you went soft today.”

Your heart hammered as the recording replayed.

Leon leaned closer across the desk.

“And how I’m going to fix it.”

Outside, the hallway lights hummed over empty tile.

Leon’s schedule for the rest of the evening—hell, the rest of the week—was already cleared.

She wasn’t going anywhere he couldn’t see.

Not tonight.

Not ever, if he could help it.

The week blurred into a rhythm you couldn’t escape.

Monday bled into Tuesday, then Wednesday, then Thursday, every day folding into the same suffocating pattern: Leon waiting before you even arrived, ash-brown hair catching the harsh fluorescents, black tactical shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, those piercing blue eyes already fixed on the door like he’d known the exact second you’d walk through it.

“Early again,” he’d say, voice low and approving.

And God help you, the praise hit like a drug.

He was everywhere.

On the mats, circling you slowly while you tried to focus on your stance instead of the way his eyes dragged over every inch of you. Behind you during weapons drills, chest pressed to your back, his hand covering yours on the training pistol, breath warm against your ear as he corrected your grip.

“Easy,” he murmured. “You’re tensing again.”

His fingers overlapped yours, firm and steady.

“You feel that? That little hesitation?” His voice dropped lower. “That gets rookies killed.”

You nodded, pulse fluttering.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

Leon noticed everything.

The way your breath hitched when his hand slid to your hip. The way your body leaned into his corrections before your mind caught up. The way your cheeks flushed every time he called you good.

“Other rookies don’t listen like you do,” he said Tuesday afternoon, palm flat against your ribs under the pretense of correcting your posture. “They get cocky. Stupid. They think they know better.”

His thumb pressed lightly into your side.

“But you’re smarter than that, aren’t you?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

His mouth curved faintly.

“Good girl.”

By Wednesday, lunch had stopped feeling like an invitation.

It was simply where you went.

Leon appeared outside the mess hall like clockwork, hand settling at the small of your back as he guided you toward the same corner table. Our table, he’d called it once, so casually that you almost missed the claim buried inside it.

He chose your meals without asking.

“Protein,” he said, sliding the tray in front of you. “You skipped breakfast.”

You blinked. “How did you know that?”

Leon’s eyes lifted to yours.

A pause.

Then that soft, dangerous smile.

“You’re easy to read, rookie.”

You told yourself that made sense. He was experienced. He was observant. He had spent decades surviving things most people couldn’t imagine.

Of course he noticed.

Of course he cared.

That was what you kept telling yourself when Ramirez waved at you from across the hall and Leon stepped between your line of sight before you could wave back.

“He was looking for you earlier,” Leon said, voice gentle with concern. “I told him you were busy with extra drills.”

“Oh,” you said, glancing over your shoulder.

Leon’s hand pressed a little firmer against your back.

“Guys like that don’t take no for an answer,” he continued. “They push until you’re distracted. Until your guard drops.” His blue eyes softened. “You don’t need that noise. Not when you’ve got me keeping you sharp.”

You nodded because it sounded reasonable.

Because Ramirez had been flirty.

Because Leon had never been wrong.

Because every correction, every warning, every late-night debrief came wrapped in the same quiet certainty.

You’re safer with me.

You’re better with me.

You’d be lost without me.

By Thursday, you started feeling watched even when you couldn’t see him.

A shadow across the quad after lights-out. Broad shoulders disappearing into the dark.

An unscheduled “schedule adjustment” from Leon’s office before dawn, clearing the firing range for private training.

A protein bar pressed into your palm when you arrived, his eyes drinking in your surprise.

“Can’t have you training on empty.”

That evening, he was outside the women’s locker room when you finished showering, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his gaze flicking over your damp hair, your fresh uniform, the exposed skin at your throat.

“You waited?” you asked, trying to laugh.

“Making sure no one bothers you.”

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

“Some of the older agents get ideas about fresh recruits.” His eyes darkened. “You’re too innocent for that shit.”

The words should have unsettled you.

They did.

But they also warmed something low in your stomach.

Because Leon said innocent like it meant precious.

Like it meant his.

Friday arrived under a gray sky that matched the concrete sprawl of the DSO complex.

By then, something in Leon had changed.

Or maybe the mask had simply started slipping.

Morning drills stretched longer than the schedule allowed. The annex was locked down under a handwritten sign taped to the door in Leon’s blocky scrawl.

PRIVATE ADVANCED CQC.

No one else got in.

No one else saw.

You were on the mats before 0830, already flushed from the way he’d been waiting at the center of the room, sleeves rolled to his elbows, silver threading through the ash-brown at his temples. He looked like he hadn’t slept.

But his eyes were sharp.

Hungry.

“Rough night?” he asked, stepping close enough for you to smell gun oil and cedar on his skin.

“A little.”

His hands found your hips immediately, thumbs digging in to correct your base.

“You’re listing left again,” he murmured. “I told you. Day five is when rookies crash. They stop listening.”

His grip tightened a fraction.

“But not you.”

You looked up at him.

His gaze pinned you in place.

“You’re still listening to me, right?”

The question was soft.

Almost tender.

Your mouth went dry.

“Yes, Leon.”

Something flickered behind his eyes.

Satisfaction.

Possession.

The thing beneath all his patience showing teeth.

Every pivot became an excuse for his body to mold against yours. Every throw ended with you pinned beneath him for a heartbeat too long. Every choke escape left his arm locked across your chest, his mouth near your ear, his voice low enough that it felt like it was inside your skin.

“Not by flirting in hallways,” he murmured, palm splayed low over your stomach as he guided your breathing. “Not by letting anyone else put their hands on you.”

Your breath caught.

His arm tightened.

“That’s how you stay alive.”

Lunch was the same corner table.

Same tray chosen for you.

Same quiet control disguised as care.

Ramirez laughed too loudly three tables over, and Leon’s eyes cut toward him with a coldness that made the room feel ten degrees smaller.

“Saw him staring again,” he said.

You followed his gaze. “He was just—”

“I handled it.”

The words were soft.

Final.

Your pulse jumped.

Leon looked back at you, expression gentling as if he hadn’t just made your stomach twist.

“Guys like that only want one thing, rookie. They see something pure and they want to ruin it.”

His knee brushed yours beneath the table.

“You don’t need that.”

His voice dropped.

“You’ve got me keeping you clean.”

By 1700, the blinds were drawn in his office, training footage paused on the exact moment his body had pinned yours during a ground escape. His hand rested on your knee beneath the desk while he talked through your mistakes, thumb stroking slow circles that made your breath shallow.

“Weekend’s coming,” he said.

You stared at the frozen image on the screen, face burning.

“You’re not going anywhere unsupervised, are you?”

You looked at him.

His eyes were already on you.

Waiting.

Your heart thudded.

“I don’t know.”

His thumb stopped moving.

The air shifted.

Then his hand squeezed your knee, gentle enough to feel like concern. Firm enough to feel like warning.

“Don’t make me worry about you.”

The happy-hour invite came through the group channel thirty minutes later.

The Black Orchid. DSO only. Open bar. Morale night after the outbreak sims.

Leon read the message over your shoulder in the hallway, close enough that his chest brushed your back.

“You should go,” he said.

You glanced up, surprised. “Really?”

His mouth curved.

“Blow off steam.”

For a second, he almost sounded normal.

Then his eyes dipped to your phone.

“Just stay where I can see you.”

The Black Orchid was all low amber lights and scarred oak, the kind of place that smelled like spilled bourbon and old secrets.

You’d stared at your closet for twenty minutes before choosing the short black lace dress you’d bought months ago and never worn. It hugged every curve the academy had carved into you, thin straps leaving your shoulders bare, hem brushing high on your thighs.

Just one night, you told yourself.

One night of feeling like something other than a sweaty recruit with bruises on her hips in the shape of Leon’s corrections.

You were three drinks in when the warmth hit your cheeks and loosened the knot in your chest.

And Leon watched all of it.

He sat in the far corner booth, half-shadowed beneath flickering neon, nursing a whiskey he never drank. Agents came and went around him, laughing too loud, clapping shoulders, leaning close.

Leon didn’t move.

His eyes never left you.

Not once.

Every time someone drifted too close, his fingers tightened around the glass. Every time a man laughed at something you said, his jaw flexed. Every time Ramirez glanced your way, something violent moved behind Leon’s eyes.

Look at her.

That dress.

Every inch of her on display for them.

His grip tightened until his knuckles went white.

They don’t get to see her like this.

You felt his stare like hands on your skin.

It made you drink faster.

The room grew warmer, louder, tighter. The bass thudded through your ribs. Someone offered another shot. You laughed, cheeks flushed, and swallowed it down.

The room tilted.

The air thickened.

You needed to breathe.

You slipped out the side door into the alley behind the bar, cool night air brushing your bare shoulders. The lace hem of your dress skimmed your thighs as you leaned against the brick wall and tipped your head back, trying to clear the fog.

The door opened behind you.

Soft click.

Your eyes closed.

You already knew.

Leon stepped into the alley alone, amber light cutting around his broad frame before the door swung shut behind him.

For a moment, he said nothing.

He only looked at you.

Slowly.

Possessively.

Like the sight of you in that dress had finally burned through the last of his restraint.

“Rookie,” he said, voice low and rough.

You turned your head.

He crossed the distance in three slow strides.

Too close.

Close enough that the cedar and gun oil wrapped around you like a leash.

“You really thought I’d let you come out here alone?”

Your breath caught.

“I was just getting air.”

“I know.”

One hand braced on the brick beside your head.

Caging you in.

His other hand lifted, knuckles brushing your flushed cheek before sliding down to the thin strap on your shoulder. His thumb hooked beneath the lace, tugging lightly.

“I’ve been watching.”

Your pulse slammed against your throat.

“All night?” you whispered.

Leon’s eyes darkened.

“All week.”

The words slid over your skin, hot and terrifying.

His hand settled at your waist, palm wide over the lace, pulling you a fraction closer until your body brushed his.

“You wear something like this,” he murmured, “and every asshole in there starts thinking they have a shot.”

His jaw flexed.

“They don’t.”

“Leon…”

His fingers tightened.

“They never did.”

The alley felt too small. The night too quiet. Him too close.

You should have pushed him back.

You didn’t.

The alcohol made everything sharper—the heat of his body, the whiskey on his breath, the darkness in his eyes, the way he looked at you like he had already decided the shape of your future and was only waiting for you to stop fighting it.

“You don’t need them,” he said softly. “You don’t need anyone but me.”

His thumb stroked along your jaw, tilting your chin up.

“I kept you safe this whole week. Every correction. Every late night. Every time I made sure no one else got close.”

Your heart hammered.

“That was you?”

His mouth hovered near yours.

The almost-smile that touched his lips was beautiful.

And wrong.

“Who else would it be?”

A shiver ran through you.

Leon’s gaze dropped to your mouth.

“You’re precious,” he murmured. “Pure. Still blushing like that even after everything I’ve shown you.”

His hand slid lower on your waist, not enough to be a question, just enough to make your breath break.

“They’d ruin you in there,” he said. “One drink. One smile. One wrong hand on your skin.”

His eyes locked on yours.

“And suddenly you’re not mine anymore.”

The word stole the air from your lungs.

Mine.

Leon leaned closer, mouth a breath away, grip turning the night electric.

“Tell me you understand,” he whispered. “Tell me you’re staying right here where I can protect you.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip.

“And I’ll make sure nothing and no one ever gets close enough to break what’s mine.”

The bass thudded faintly through the brick wall behind you.

Inside, the party kept going.

Outside, Leon Kennedy stood between you and the door like a locked room.

Dark.

Obsessive.

Certain.

And utterly unwilling to let you walk back inside without him.

The alley air was cool against your flushed skin, but Leon’s body heat burned it away in seconds.

His hand stayed hooked under the thin lace strap of your dress, thumb stroking the bare skin of your shoulder like he owned every inch of it. Those piercing blue eyes—dark now, pupils blown wide with something far beyond mentorship—locked onto yours, and for one suspended heartbeat, the world narrowed to just him.

Ash-brown hair silvered beneath the security light.

The scar through his eyebrow.

The faint lines of forty-five hard years etched around a mouth that was suddenly, dangerously close.

“Tell me you understand,” he’d said, voice a low rasp.

You didn’t answer with words.

You didn’t get the chance.

Leon closed the distance like a man who had been starving for years.

His mouth crashed into yours—hungry, possessive, nothing like the careful mentor from the training mats. One hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair to tilt you exactly how he wanted, while the other slid down to grip your waist, yanking your hips flush against him.

The kiss was all teeth and tongue and barely leashed need. He tasted like whiskey and the faint metallic edge of control slipping. A low groan vibrated from his chest into yours as he deepened it, swallowing the soft sound that escaped you like it belonged to him.

You melted.

The alcohol, the week of his constant touch, the crush that had been simmering beneath your skin—all of it ignited at once. Your hands fisted in his black shirt, pulling him closer even as your knees threatened to give out.

Leon felt it.

Of course he did.

He felt the way you leaned into him instead of away. The way your body answered before your mind could catch up. The way every line he’d carefully drawn around you all week finally started to look less like a cage and more like something you wanted to stay inside.

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe against your lips.

His voice was wrecked.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl.”

Your breath caught at the praise.

His hand tightened at your waist.

“Been waiting all week to taste how pure you still are.”

Then he was kissing you again, harder this time, walking you back until your spine met the brick. The impact was gentle only because he made it gentle, his body caging yours, one hand braced beside your head while the other stayed locked on your hip.

There was nowhere to go.

No room to think.

Only Leon.

One thick thigh slid between yours, pressing up against the lace hem of your dress, the muscle hard and unyielding. His hands dropped to your hips, guiding you with that same deliberate strength he’d used in every drill—except this time there was no pretense of correction.

“Ride it,” he murmured into your mouth, nipping your lower lip. 

“Show me how much you need this. How much you’ve been aching for me to keep you safe like this.” He rocked his thigh up, the rough fabric of his tactical pants dragging right against the thin lace of your panties, right where you were already soaked and throbbing. The friction was immediate, electric. You gasped, hips jerking instinctively, and Leon’s grip tightened, helping you grind down in slow, filthy circles.

Heat shot through you so fast it was humiliating. Your fingers dug harder into his shirt, the black fabric twisting in your grip as his mouth moved from yours to your jaw, then lower, dragging over the frantic pulse in your throat.

“Look at you,” he rasped against your skin. “All week pretending you weren’t waiting for this.”

You shook your head, but it was weak. Breathless. Ruined before it even became a denial.

Leon laughed softly.

Not cruel.

Worse.

Fond.

Like he already knew every answer your body was giving him.

“Don’t lie to me, rookie,” he murmured, teeth grazing your throat. “Not when you’re shaking like this.”

His hands moved with the same deliberate confidence he’d used in every drill, but there was no pretense of correction now. No training. No professionalism. Nothing clean left to hide behind.

Only his palms on your body.

Only his voice in your ear.

Only the suffocating certainty that he had been waiting for this exact moment since the first time you walked into his training room.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he said. “Walking around in that uniform. Looking up at me like I’m the only thing keeping the world from eating you alive.”

His hand slid to your lower back, pulling you closer.

“You were right.”

Your breath hitched.

Leon’s mouth hovered over yours.

“I am.”

“Fuck… look at you,” he growled against your throat, teeth grazing the pulse point there. “So innocent, blushing for me even while you’re soaking my thigh. No one else gets this. No one else ever will.” His hands guided you faster, one sliding under the short hem to palm your ass, squeezing, urging you to ride harder. The pressure built embarrassingly fast—the week of his constant touches, the constant low hum of want he’d stoked in you, the alcohol loosening every inhibition. Your clit dragged against the hard muscle again and again, pleasure spiking sharp and sudden.

The kiss that followed was slower, deeper, somehow worse than the first because it wasn’t frantic anymore. It was claiming. Measured. Like he had all the time in the world now that he had you exactly where he wanted you.

You hated how badly you wanted him.

You hated that he knew.

His mouth curved against your jaw.

“There she is.”

Mortification burned through you.

“Leon—”

“I know,” he said softly.

His hands steadied you, guiding without forcing, anchoring without letting you escape the feeling of him everywhere at once.

“I know, baby.”

The name slipped out low and dark, and something inside you folded.

The pressure built too fast, embarrassingly fast, stoked by the alcohol, the adrenaline, the week of wanting him and pretending you didn’t. You buried your face against his chest, trying to hide the way your breathing broke, the way your fingers trembled, the way your body chased the heat despite the shame rushing in behind it.

You came with a choked cry, thighs clamping around his leg, body shuddering as the orgasm ripped through you in hot, quick waves. It was over in seconds—too fast, too intense, your hips still twitching helplessly against him even as the high crested and left you trembling.

Leon’s arm banded around your waist.

“Don’t hide from me.”

You shook your head against him, cheeks burning. “I’m sorry.”

The words came out ragged.

Small.

Humiliated.

“I didn’t mean to— I mean, I’m not— God, Leon, I’m sorry.”

He went still.

Then his hand came up, firm but careful, fingers catching your chin and tilting your face back to his.

You had no choice but to meet his eyes.

The hunger in them was naked now, stripped of every polite mask he’d worn throughout the week. But his voice stayed velvet-soft, reassuring in that dark, manipulative way that had rewired something deep inside you before you even knew it was happening.

“Hey,” he said. “None of that.”

His thumb stroked your flushed cheek, slow and possessive.

“You think I’m disappointed?”

You couldn’t answer.

Leon’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then rose again.

“Christ, rookie,” he whispered. “You just gave me the prettiest thing I’ve seen in fifteen years of this shit job.”

Your face burned hotter.

His grip softened, but he didn’t let you look away.

“Quick because you trust me,” he said. “Because your body knows I’m the only one allowed to make it feel like that.”

Your throat tightened.

The words should have scared you.

They did.

But they also wrapped around the shame like a hand closing over a wound.

“You’re still pure,” he murmured. “Still perfect.”

His mouth brushed yours.

“Still mine.”

The word sank into you, dark and heavy.

Mine.

“This doesn’t change a damn thing,” he continued, voice low against your lips, “except now I know exactly how to keep you safe.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. Almost reverent. Like he was sealing the words into your skin.

“How to keep every other filthy hand off what belongs to me.”

You should have pushed back against that.

You should have told him you didn’t belong to anyone.

But his jacket smelled like cedar and gun oil, his hands were warm on your waist, and your body was still trembling from the force of him.

Leon brushed his thumb beneath your eye, catching moisture you hadn’t realized had gathered there.

“No embarrassment,” he said. “Not with me.”

Another kiss.

Softer.

More dangerous because of it.

“I’ve got you. Always.”

You were still dazed when he eased back just enough to look you over. His expression sharpened at the sight of your dress riding high on your thighs, your straps slipping, your mouth swollen from him.

Something violent flickered in his eyes.

Not at you.

Never at you.

At the thought of anyone else seeing you like this.

His hands moved with careful precision as he straightened your dress, smoothing the lace back into place like the gentleman he absolutely wasn’t anymore. He adjusted one strap, then the other, fingers lingering against your bare shoulders.

Then he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over you.

The fabric swallowed you.

His scent wrapped around you immediately.

“There,” he murmured.

His gaze dragged over you again, slower now, satisfied.

“Better.”

You clutched the edges of the jacket together without thinking.

Leon saw.

His mouth curved into that soft, terrifying smile.

“My car’s right around the corner,” he said.

The words were quiet.

Final.

Your pulse jumped. “Leon, I should probably tell someone I’m leaving.”

“You don’t need to.”

His arm slid around your waist, locking you against his side as he guided you down the alley.

“Everyone who needs to know already knows you’re with me.”

You looked up at him.

The alley shadows cut across his face, turning him into something half beautiful, half nightmare.

“What does that mean?”

His eyes flicked down to yours.

“It means you’re safe.”

He steered you past the side door of the bar without a single glance back inside.

Music thumped through the brick wall. Laughter spilled faintly through the cracks. The life you had stepped out of only minutes earlier kept going without you.

Leon didn’t slow.

“You’re not going back in there,” he said. “Not tonight.”

His hand flexed at your waist.

“Not ever, if I can help it.”

The drive was a blur of dark highway and shadowed pines.

Leon’s hand never left your thigh.

Possessive.

Warm.

His thumb stroked idle circles over the lace hem of your dress while the city lights faded behind you. He didn’t speak much, but every time you shifted in the passenger seat, his eyes cut toward you in the dashboard glow.

Checking.

Watching.

Making sure you were still there.

Still his.

“Leon,” you said once, voice quiet.

His hand tightened immediately. “What is it?”

You stared out at the dark road ahead. “Where are we going?”

His thumb resumed its slow circle.

“Somewhere no one can bother you.”

The answer should have chilled you.

Instead, exhaustion and heat and the fading alcohol dragged you down into the low vibration of the car, the scent of his jacket, the weight of his hand.

A few minutes passed.

Then his voice came again, softer.

“Still mine.”

Your eyes fluttered.

His hand slid a little higher, anchoring you.

“Still safe.”

The gaslighting settled deeper with every mile.

You wanted this.

You needed this.

No one else would understand.

His place appeared at the end of a long private drive carved through dense woods—an ultra-modern mansion of glass and dark steel, all clean lines and warm interior lights spilling across a wraparound deck. It looked like it belonged to someone who had survived too many apocalypses and decided the only safe place left was one he could control completely.

The garage door rolled up silently.

Leon pulled inside.

Killed the engine.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The sudden quiet pressed against your ears.

Then Leon turned to you, blue eyes catching the dim overhead light, dark and calm and utterly certain.

His fingers brushed your jaw one last time.

“Home,” he said.

The word landed heavy between you.

Not his home.

Not my place.

Home.

“No more barracks,” he continued, voice low. “No more wondering who’s watching. No more Ramirez. No more locked doors I don’t control.”

Your breath caught.

Leon leaned closer, his thumb tracing the edge of your lower lip.

“Just you and me,” he murmured. “Where I can keep you.”

His mouth touched yours.

Slow.

Claiming.

Gentle enough to feel like comfort.

Possessive enough to feel like a warning.

When he pulled back, that soft, terrifying smile was there again, never quite reaching the darkness in his eyes.

“Just like this.”

The garage lights hummed overhead.

The woods pressed dark and endless beyond the glass.

Leon stepped out first, then came around to your side, opening the door and offering his hand like he was giving you a choice.

Like you hadn’t already crossed every line the moment you let him follow you into that alley.

You stared at his hand.

Then took it.

His fingers closed around yours immediately.

Warm.

Firm.

Unbreakable.

Leon helped you out of the car, his jacket still draped over your shoulders, his scent still wrapped around you, his body still close enough to block out everything beyond him.

The door into the house opened with a soft electronic click.

Inside, warm light spilled over polished floors and glass walls, beautiful and silent and terrifyingly secluded.

Leon guided you forward with one hand at the small of your back.

The same place he had touched you on the very first day.

The same place he had been steering you from the beginning.

You stepped over the threshold.

Behind you, the door locked itself.

Leon’s mouth brushed your ear.

“Welcome home, rookie.”