“Seriously, though…” his voice dips. “Everything okay? Back at home, I mean.”

You offer a half-hearted shrug. “‘S not really home anymore. Mark kicked me out a couple months back. Right after, uh, I caught him with the neighbour.”

Leon’s fingers tense around the glass. Part of you is honestly surprised it doesn’t immediately shatter.

“It’s okay, Leon. I would’ve left anyway. Eventually,” you say. Sitting directly across from him—close, but not too close—means you can practically see the gears turning in his head.

“Does that matter?" The muscle in his jaw twitches. "The guy cheats on you, then what? Fucking kicks you out—“

“Leon.”

One word is all it takes for him to stall. With a heavy breath, he says, “sorry.”

You’re shaking your head. “It’s okay. Really. I actually managed to get over it pretty quick. Served him the divorce papers just as fast.”

“That’s..that’s good.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you. “How is that you’re more mad at the situation than I was?”

This time, Leon’s the one to shrug. “Guess I just don’t like when trash doesn’t take itself out.”

Your eyes begin to sting, and you try to blink back what you can without him noticing.

He’s hunched over the table, eyes fixed on the wooden grain beneath his crossed arms. The rounded corner booth is almost too small for his body—something both he and Chris had pointed out before Claire waved them off. It’s a silly sight. One you’d be able to laugh at more if your stomach weren’t already so flippant.

Because despite the fact, Leon Kennedy looks fucking good.

And granted, he’s always been gorgeous. Your younger self can very much attest to that.

But this is different.

Maybe it’s because you’re about to be divorced… Perhaps it's the weight of fifteen years finally catching up to you...

Whatever the reason, all you know is that you can’t stop staring. You can’t stop wondering if the man underneath all that heavy leather and newly-acquired forty pounds of muscle is still the same.

If he’s still your Leon.

The same boy you fell in love with at sixteen, and who nervously offered to be your first kiss at twenty. The same Leon who, on your thirtieth birthday, had you thinking that growing old wouldn’t be so scary as long as it was with him.

Ever since you first laid eyes on him earlier that morning, your mind hasn't been able to make itself up. It's gone back-and-forth; ran for miles; stretched itself thin with debilitating focus.

You still can't quite tell if he's real or not. When you squint, he looks out of place. If you tilt your head, he appears just as you dreamed hundreds of times.

It makes you hesitant. Completely unsure of the ground you've covered and all that's left in front of you.

You've died at the foot of this mirage many times before, but you really don't think you can do it again.

In the neon light, with the soft glow of red and blue grazing his nose, and his jaw, and the curve of the hat he’s had for fucking ever, you can’t help but see that Leon.

“—Never liked ‘im.”

“What?” you ask lightly, still dazed.

“Mark,” he answers. “I didn’t like him. Always thought you were too good for him."

For a moment, you both just sit and watch each other, all soft-eyed and unblinking.

You see a flash of red move toward you through the crowd then. Claire’s coming back, arms full with drinks. Chris’ hulking figure follows in tow, and Grace skitters at her side.

You're the first to break eye contact, like always.

Anxiously, you try to settle back in your seat. You know that smoothing the edges of your sweater won't do anything—won't calm you down, or wake you up—but it's the thought that counts.

Right?

•

The tequila was starting to get to you.

You weren’t very far gone. Not so much that you couldn’t stand on your own two feet anyway. But as you stood in line for the bathroom, you were becoming increasingly aware of the lightness in your chest.

“Are you even listening to me?”

Claire’s voice is muffled, as if she’s talking to you from the other side of an inner-tube.

Already pressed into her side, with your arms looped together like you’d done for the past thirty-odd years, it doesn’t take much for you to find her face.

Her laugh is like soft rain, comforting and instantly cooling the fire in your cheeks. “I take that as a no.” You shake your head. Or at least you think you do.

“Am listening… You, uh, you were talking about horses. …And, something happening tomorrow.” The words come out slower than you intended. Not slurred, per se, but long and drawn-out. Obvious... Maybe you were drunker than you thought.

“—Yeah, it’s some show a few of us gotta attend. You know how it is.” You nod.

“Need me to come with?”

The door to the bathroom swings open. As two leave, two more enter. Holding your arm tight to her body, Claire shuffles along the wall closer. It seems that you two are next.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Besides, after tonight I don’t think you’re gonna be waking up that early.”

“‘M fine,” you mumble.

Claire’s brow raises. “Mhm-hm."

With your face in her shoulder, your eyes settle on the floor; on the space between your shoes and her dusty boots.

“Oh! So…”

You look back up as the door opens. Claire squints at you—her silent way of saying ‘hold that thought’—before she’s guiding you both into the bathroom.

The room itself is small. A shoe-box, practically, with three stalls and a single sink. Save for the spattered water on the mirror and the odd crumpled-up paper towel on the floor, it's still somehow cleaner than the bars back in the city.

Surprisingly with your state, you manage to be quick—almost as fast as her.

After washing your hands, you haphazardly drag the paper towel along your fingers. Claire watches you closely in the mirror. “As I was saying…how was the talk?”

“Huh?” Your frown is one of concentration. Your hands were still damp. Too damp and too cold for your liking.

“The talk,” Claire says slowly. Oh. Um…

“It was fine,” you say.

Claire takes the paper towel from you and puts it in the garbage as you leave. “Is that your word of the night? Fine?”

“He noticed my ring was gone.”

Claire snorts. “‘Course he did. I’m only surprised he didn’t notice it sooner.”

You trail casually behind her, gently holding onto her wrist while she navigates the bar’s floor.

“He didn’t know," you add, absentmindedly.

“What do you mean?”

“The divorce. Dunno. Thought maybe you would’ve said somethin’.”

Claire’s ponytail sways hypnotically as she walks. “Wasn’t for me to tell... Also I like to torture him. Wanted to see his face in real-time, you know?” she looks over shoulder with a biting grin while she speaks.

Your eyes roll on their own accord. “Wasn’t anything special. Just Leon being Leon.”

“That’s what you think,” Claire hums.

For a Friday night, Hunnigan’s is packed. The two of you are careful to swerve between the pool tables and the regulars that nearly fall off their stools. You end up taking the long way around the bar, sending a small wave Sherry’s way when she looks up from a guest.

“He missed you, y’know. A lot,” Claire calls out to you again. It’s just loud enough that you can hear it over the bluesy country song playing in the corner-speakers.

You huff a little, a laugh quickly dying on your tongue. “Yeah, okay.”

Something flickers across your friend’s face. It's unnervingly indiscernible. You’ve always been able to read her emotions; to know exactly what she’s thinking at any given moment. So it bothers you—really, really bothers you—that for once, you can’t.

“There y’are!”

Chris has one arm over the booth, eyes falling on Claire. “Took ya long enough! Was starting to think you got lost.”

“Shut the fuck up, man. There was a line.”

Chris waves her off with a delirious smirk. “Anyway, 'nother round?”

After polishing off his bottle of beer, he comes to a wobbly stand. The sheer size of him nearly knocks over the table in the process.

As you watch the table shake—though quickly steadied by Leon—the pit of your stomach falls through. Suddenly, the floor doesn’t feel so firm beneath your feet anymore.

“Actually I think we’re gonna call it…” Claire starts, but her words fade before you can register them.

You think you hear your name. There’s a movement in your periphery that maybe was Claire’s hand pointing to you; some vague gesture to your state.

Whether either was the case didn’t really matter. Your head feels fuzzy—a lot more than it did only minutes ago. You’d like to believe that it’s just the effects of a crowded bar, but with the way your throat’s closing and the bile suddenly bubbling in your stomach, you know for certain that it’s not.

People suddenly move around you. Hazy shapes and the seemingly endless stretch of hard wood floor. There's a pressure between your shoulders then. It guides you forward, and without a second thought you follow it.

Gradually, a soft darkness starts to bleed into your vision, making your heavy eyelids flutter. A gentle breeze hits your face—cool night air that feels so, so good. You can't help but go lax, none the wiser to the uneven floorboard, or the tip of your shoe catching on it. You trip, but a pair of hands come up around your waist before you can react

“Woah, okay,” a low voice echoes by your ear. “Let’s try not to do that.”

As you crane your neck, you see a shadow, and the hard set of a man’s—Leon’s—jaw. He looks a bit older than when you were last here ten years ago. Still, he's so very pretty. Inhumanely so.

“You got a salt-and-pepper thing going on, you know that?” Leon's eyes flicker down to yours. There's a small smile tugging on his mouth as he hums. “Means you’re getting old.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhm.”

You stumble again, but with Leon’s hands already steadying you, you only end up falling into the muscle of his chest. Distracted with how comfortable he feels, you let out a bright giggle.

“Something funny?” With the little restraint you have, you force a shrug, keeping your eyes dim and fixed on anywhere else but his pretty face.

He moves you slowly into what you assume is likely the parking lot. You hear the distant sounds of familiar voices, the rumble of cars. All at once, it all becomes a bit too much. Your eyes slip as your knees lock in place.

“Leon—“ you whine. “‘M-real-tired.”

“I know. Just a few more feet—“

You shake your head aggressively. “No. ‘M done. Don’t wan’ walk anymore. Can't make me.”

“Alright,” Leon chuckles.

Suddenly, there’s a shift. A kind of movement that not even your drunken mind could’ve made up. Without a word, or much effort, you're in the air. Your eyes open just quick enough to catch the sight of the dark horizon moving in time with Leon's gait.

Despite the strong contours of his chest, Leon himself is soft. Comfortable in a way that makes you want to sleep.

You tell yourself that it's purely incidental when you cling to him. That instinct is what makes your fist curl on the collar of his jacket, or your head crane into his neck.

You hum, hopefully not loud enough for him to hear.

“—Goin’ home?” You breathe into him. Leon makes a noise of agreement. “Where’s everyone else going?”

He hiccups again on that smooth laugh of his. “Back home, sweetheart. They’re takin’ Claire’s truck.”

Sweetheart. Your chest implodes in on itself, and all you can do is sigh.

There’s a clicking sound as Leon opens the passenger door of his truck. Slowly—carefully—you feel yourself lowered into the seat. As he works at the seatbelt, Leon’s face comes close to yours. Despite how badly you want to stare, you don't. Surely, if you kept your eyes open for too long, they'd start to burn.

But at least you’re able to sense him.

He smells of warm spices; cinnamon and smoked earth, and something faintly fresh. Cucumber-mint, you think. Probably his soap or shampoo.

“Leon…”

You feel his eyes on you, but you still can't look. Perhaps it's by choice. There are heavy words settling on the tip of your tongue; all night you've tasted them, felt them swell in your mouth the same way they filled your brain.

Swallowing them is neither simple nor easy.

“Get some rest, sweetheart," he whispers, warm breath fanning over your cheek.

Softly, your door closes. A pause, and then the slight jostling of the truck as he gets into the drivers seat.

You remind yourself that he's still close. Close enough that you could reach out and touch him; maybe even hold the hand that rests lazy on the console.

Ultimately, you decide against that, too, opting to just focus on the world slipping past the window until sleep takes over. And when you dream, you dream of him.

•

When you wake, the first thing you register is that your head is fucking killing you. The second is the smell of toast and freshly-cooked bacon. Your stomach growls immediately.

Slowly, you roll over, and try to gage your surroundings.

There’s a faint light streaming in from the window above you. You think it’s overcast—the only explanation for the grey wash that paints the room.

You’re lying in bed under a thick-knit blanket; still in the same clothes from the night before, missing only your shoes and jacket. Which, when you turn, you see are neatly set by the old rocking chair in the corner of the room. As you sit up, bleary-eyed, you notice some painkillers and a glass of water on the nightstand, too.

A softness settles in your chest then; almost completely distracting you from the tightness in your spine.

It takes you an embarrassingly long amount of time to stand on your feet, to take the pills and to get dressed. But once you have, you’re at least a little more awake.

Your head’s still numb, but you’re able to make it out of the room and down the hall. Each creaking floorboard is grating—the reality of an old mind hungover and an even older house.

Off the stairs is more or less an open-concept. The living room flows into a vague dining area and then a decent-sized kitchen, fit with a long oak table, a bay window and a small kitchen set. Despite the updated furniture, nothing had truly changed since you’d last been here—in ten, fifteen, even thirty years.

The Redfield family homestead was by no means small, but it was wonderfully simple.

By the time you reach the kitchen, your stomach is aching; and the sound of fried eggs popping away in a cast iron does nothing to help either.

Leon stands in front of the stove, one hand holding the spatula while the other held his phone to his ear.

He looks nearly identical to last night: starched denim that hugs the meat of his hips; a blue cotton shirt stretched out around his shoulders. Except, this morning he’s relaxed. Truly. Even his hat is discarded, hung up on the back of the dining chair for the time being.

“Well I’m sure she’ll do great,” Leon spoke softly into his phone. There was a brief silence, followed by an easy laugh. “Tell her I’ll take her out for ice cream after school, yeah?”

Without trying to startle him, you walk up to his side. “Morning,” you whisper.

Leon turns, eyes slightly wide. “Hey, Grace, I gotta let you go. I’ll see you later? Yeah. Yeah, bye.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” you say as Leon hangs up the phone.

“You’re good. But, how are you feeling? Did you see the ibuprofen I set out?” You nod, letting your hungry eyes fall to the stove. Leon follows your stare. “I, uh, made breakfast. If you wanted some.”

Immediately, he’s handing you a loaded plate. “Over-easy?”

“Yeah. That’s still how you take ‘em, right? I probably should’ve asked—“

“No, no. I’m just…surprised you remembered, ‘is all.”

Leon doesn’t say anything to that. Instead, he just smiles.

He gestures for to you sit then, but you shake him off, insisting that you’ll wait for him to join you.

Over breakfast, you ask about Grace; about how she is and ice cream ‘dates’. He tells you about Emily: the little girl she adopted a couple years back, who has everyone on the ranch—most especially him—wrapped around her finger.

“She has a science presentation today. The solar system. She’s been workin’ hard on it all week; told her I’d treat her to ice cream no matter how she did. …Chris says I’ve gone soft.”

You smile around your bite of egg. “No, you’ve always been like that. It’s one of your more redeeming qualities.”

“Just one?” The corner of Leon’s mouth curls upward.

“One of many.” You busy yourself with your toast. “But it’s my favourite.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” is his gentle response.

You feel his eyes—their intensity and warmth. It’s almost an unspoken agreement, letting him study you. After years of absence and the weight of last night, it’s now his turn to commit your difference to memory; and your turn to pretend not to notice.

A fair exchange.

“It looks like it’s gonna rain.” Your words are a lazy attempt at changing the conversation, but they’re an attempt nonetheless.

Leon’s chair squeaks as he sits up. “Yeah. Weatherman’s been calling on a storm for ‘bout a week now. ‘S why they planned the horse show to be in doors.”

“…And why aren’t you there? Everyone else is.”

“You know how I feel about the crowds.” A pause. “Besides, someone needed to stay back. Make sure you didn’t destroy the place.”

You roll your eyes. “Please. As if you aren’t the guy that almost set the kitchen on fire by cooking pasta.”

“It was one time,” Leon reminds. “And that was years ago. New man; new dish.” You laugh—genuinely laugh—in a way that you haven’t in years: lifted lungs; muscles in your stomach pulling taut. You realized you’d almost forgotten the feeling. “But anyway, doesn’t mean I’m totally free today. Gotta fix some things up ‘round the farm before the storm.”

You nod. “Alright. I can clean this up then—“

The man, who’s taken your empty plate, dismisses you. “No, it’s okay. You just get some rest, I got it.”

With a sigh, you cut him off and pull the plates back to you. “I wasn’t asking, Leon. Go do your thing; I’ll be fine.”

•

Leon was right. The storm was coming.

Actually, it had very much already arrived—and you were currently in the thick of it.

About thirty minutes ago, the sky had taken a turn for the worse. Muted clouds shifted to a dark, almost green, grey. The wind had picked up; power lines shook and the tops of trees bent nearly in half. Rain, which had only started as a drizzle, now pelted against the ground.

The worst of all though was the heat.

Late July in the countryside was already hot enough. But when accompanied by a true summer storm, the air turned sick. Sweat clung to the backs of your knees and neck, and there was nothing you could really do to cool down.

For a while you sat in front of the fan, trying to read. But when the power flickered, you were quick to unplug the machine—much too nervous for the threat of an outage on the house’s overworked breakers. Eventually you moved to the kitchen, angled toward the open door so you could catch some of the breeze.

But then you’d heard a bang. The clamour of heavy metal on tin, it was so loud you were convinced it shook the earth. And then came the horses. High-pitched cries; erratic whinnies that rivalled in noise.

Opening the screen door, you squinted and looked down the path, to the edge of the main farm.

“Shit.”

The barn doors had flown open on their hinges, slamming against the wood repeatedly. Because of the high winds, the rain fell in every direction, including well-into the barn itself.

Quickly you tugged on your boots, yanking and jumping until the leather was secure. Rushing out of the house, you then sprinted down the field.

The ground sloshed against your boots, puddles of watery mud splashing up your calves as you by-passed gates and the pen, up until you reached the entrance of the barn.

And then of course, as luck would have it, you slipped. Instead of falling into water, your heel caught a strip of thick sludge, sending you sideways into the corner of the barn’s cement floor.

You nicked your elbow—the most you noticed with your quick once-over. But the horses kept crying, kept stomping and bumping around in their stables. So you paid your the wound no mind as you scrambled back up.

With the wind and rain against you, moving the doors felt near-impossible. It was hard to brace yourself, or even get a good enough grip to pull them in.

You struggle and fumble, until a pair of hands grab the other half of the door. Leon takes a large step back, gesturing for you to pull at the same time.

The door rattles in your grip; wind howling against your ear as it funnels into the barn. Still, you both somehow manage to get the door in place. While you hold it still, Leon grabs at the other and roughly closes it. You then grab the large wooden beam from the side of the barn and slide it into place—securing the entryway in its entirety.

“The horses—“

“Will be fine,” Leon puffs. “They’ll calm down soon.”

“Right,” you gulp, trying to slow down your breathing.

You’re both slumped against the door, careful to stay under the overhanging slant of roof where it’s drier. Leon’s hand twitches beside yours. He’s gone quiet—strangely.

When you turn to him, you find that his face has darkened. He stares, stern and fixed, on your arm. “You’re bleeding.”

“What?”

He reaches out, gently turning your stinging arm over in his hands while he inspects it. You wince when he runs his thumb across the skin.

“It’s just a scratch, Leon, it’s fine.”

“But you’re bleeding.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world—and perhaps it is. But it’s definitely not the most important. With a huff you try to pull away.

Leon doesn’t tighten his grip, but he doesn’t let go so easily either; fingers lingering on your wrist while you step back.

“(—), we need to get this cleaned up.”

“Leon, it’s not a big deal. The storms getting worse, we have to make sure—“

“Everything’s already done,” he says, a little harsher than usual. “Just—come on, I can help.”

You don’t really know what it is about his words, but the second they land on your skin, you’re boiling over. “Shit, stop doing that! Seriously, please. I’ll look at it later, okay?”

Side-stepping him, you head straight back into the storm. Because of the heavy rain, you miss the noise Leon lets out; the way he pushes off the wall; how he stomps after you.

In the blink of an eye, Leon comes up to your flank, hooks his arms around your legs and hauls you over his shoulders.

“LEON!”

You scramble, desperately reaching for anything—his soaked shirt, the swell of bicep—to ground yourself. Large hands grip the backs of your thighs; wet skin sticking together, holding you still.

“Put me down, Leon!” You push at his shoulder again.

“No can do, sweetheart.”

You deflate against him. “Leon, c’mon, I’m fine.”

The landscape shifts as moves up the path you’d just come from, and climbs the porch steps. He holds the screen door open with his free hand, manoeuvring you into the home before letting it slam shut.

Leon’s boots thud against the floor with each step, until he comes to a sudden stop in the kitchen. He sits you carefully on the counter before removing himself.

“Leon—“

“(—). Just—wait right here.” You go to speak, but Leon is holding out a finger to you as he walks away. “Don’t. Move.”

Stunned, your mouth closes immediately at the command.

You feel awkward as you wait—only the distant sounds of Leon rummaging around somewhere and the fast pattering of rain on the roof filling the silence. You take the opportunity to look at yourself more closely then.

You’re completely drenched.

Water droplets chase each other down your limbs. The thin cotton of your sundress clings uncomfortably to your skin, to all the curves and the crevices. It makes you a bit self-conscious. You try to pull it down your thighs as much as possible, though it doesn’t do much. Ultimately, you end up distracted by the sharp pain shooting down your arm. At the sight of your elbow, you hesitate.

It was definitely more than a scratch.

Free from the illusions of rain and adrenaline, you noticed how the skin had started to peel away at the edges of the wound; how some parts had been chafed raw altogether. There was a cut down the centre, too. It was shallow—nothing to be truly worried about—but just deep enough to spit out bubbles of bright-red blood.

“You see what I mean?”

Leon places a few items beside you before turning on the faucet in the sink.

A little embarrassed, you silently lean back and hold your arm out to him. Leon accepts it; presses a damp cloth to your elbow, letting the excess water run over the wound, and then gingerly begins to clean the wound.

He touches you like you’re delicate. Like your sand in an hourglass—fickle; quick to crumble and slip through his fingers. You suppose you are.

“It’s okay to let—deep breath—other people take care of you.” Leon doesn’t look up as he applies an antiseptic.

You inhale sharply, teeth gritting. “That’s rich coming from you.” The man smiles at the lack of bite behind you words.

“Never said I was good at takin’ my own advice.”

Leon continues in silence—ensures the wound is free from any mud before drying the surrounding area and wrapping it in gauze.

You just watch, closely.

He’s soaked to the bone, too. Even with the hat on his head, his hair is still wet and clinging to the side of his face. Droplets fall and melt into the collar of his shirt.

His brow is firmly set over his eyes, deep in concentration as he finally smooths down the tape on your bandage. Even once he’s finished, Leon doesn’t leave your side. He just stands there before you; shifting on his feet, not meeting your eyes.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” you say quietly. “Guess I’m just used to handlings things on my own, you know. …But, thank you.”

It’s not an excuse or an explanation, but you’re at least comfortable in the sentiment. You at least know that Leon understands regardless. He always has.

“Mark really did a number, huh.” Leon’s voice is low and soft.

“What, ‘cause I’m a bit stubborn sometimes?”

“No, you’ve always been like that,” he teases. “I just mean…you did the right thing—divorcing him. You’re much better off.”

You return his smile, despite the weird feelings swirling in your stomach. “Yeah. It’s been hard though. Not—I don’t miss him. Haven’t missed any of that in months. Years, even. But, it’s been a process…relearning myself, what to do next…”

“Well, not that I have any experience, but for someone who’s going through a divorce, I think you’re doin’ pretty okay.” You don’t respond, absently toying with the hem of your dress. “Hey, look at me. You don’t have to have anything figured out yet. You know that, right?”

Your eyes flicker across his face—taking in the smile lines, and his lashes, and the curve of his jaw. The feeling in your stomach had successfully moved back up to your chest. It makes your lungs contract.

Your mind’s interrogating a specific thought—the same one you’d had last night sitting across from him in the booth. The only difference this time is that you have nothing to blame it on. Not alcohol, not the rush of reunion or nostalgia.

“It’s not that, Leon… I already know where I want to be…” your voice falls with the breath lodged in your throat.

Leon’s closer; head slightly tilted, face now inches from yours.

The bloody organ in your chest threatens to break through your ribs. Like a magnet, the force that pulls on it is relentless.

It did it when you were away, for all those years of quiet, lonely nights in your married bed. It wasn’t as aggressive; more muscle memory than anything. But being here, in front of him again…it’s all coming back, tenfold.

Tugging and tugging, until the gravity simply becomes too much.

You take a sobering breath. “I already know who I want… It’s whether or not I’m wanted back.”

He looks at you, confused at first. But eventually his face slips and drifts into something much softer—all wide-eyed, and pretty pursed lips. The easy ripples of a simple stream.

“Leon, I—“ You’re quickly cut off by the man’s eager mouth and touch.

His kiss is bruising. It completely robs your lungs of air, yet still has you chasing the contact. It’s painful in the way that relief always is.

With your lips slanted, you trace his skin with your nose. The position allows you to push into him further and further until you’re satisfied. Leon responds by biting your bottom lip, then soothing it with his tongue.

Another deep kiss and you’re keeling into him.

“Want you,” Leon’s voice is gruff against your mouth. “Always. …Gonna let me show you, sweetheart? Let me take care of you?”

You sigh, and it sounds a lot like falling. Of course, you hadn’t flown in years. But you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, Leon was a safe place to land.

You can only pull him into you more.

Leon situates himself between your knees. His hands settle on your thighs, squeezing and dragging up to your waist. Behind him, you kick off your boots, sending them off to god knows where with a thud. Tentative fingers pluck the hat off his head and sit it on the end of the counter.

“Leon...”

“Patience, honey.” He mouths at your pulse point, sucking a bruise there. “We got time.”

A hand splays out at the base of your spine and pushes your hips into his. The rough drag of denim against your clothed core has your eyes rolling in their sockets.

Eagerly—perhaps even overly—you try to climb onto him. Your hips move, erratic and haggard, in search of friction.

Leon pulls himself away from you. His lips, kissed swollen, shine with spit.

“Sweetheart—“

“Leon, I haven’t had sex—real, good sex—in years. So, I swear to god, if you don’t fuck me right now, I will take care of myself.”

Though he tries to hide it, you watch a sly smile break through his features. “Yes, ma’am.”

Curious fingers travel beneath your skirt and find the elastic band of your underwear. It doesn’t take much for him to rid you of them, letting them fall to the puddle at his feet.

You raise your brow. “You better clean those after. I really like that pair.”

“We’ll get you new ones.” He mouths at your collarbone. “Whatever you want.”

“Hmm. I like the sound of that.” With a smile, he kisses at the expanse of your chest, exploring the skin. While one hand cups your breast, the other sneaks back under your skirt.

He touches you carefully, almost experimentally—fingers parting your folds and collecting your slick. You shiver instantly; head falling back to the cupboards, thighs spreading on instinct.

“Always so sensitive,” Leon whispers.

“Only for you.”

His fingers spread solid against you. With his middle and forefinger prying at your hole, his thumb starts to stroke your clit.

“Leon—shit—don’t be a tease.”

You gasp when he plunges a finger into you. With a slow force, he pushes past your walls to the second knuckle before pulling back out again. It already spurs a spark in your belly—a certain feeling you haven’t ever been to replicate with your fingers. You can’t help but grind down against his hand.

Leon presses his forehead to yours. You stare at each other, wide-eyed and adoring.

“God, look at you.” You pant when he adds another finger. “I fucking missed this. Missed you. You have no idea.”

“Leon,” you warn, knees starting to shake.

He nods. “I know. I got you, baby.”

The sound of his fingers pumping in you has you your face colliding with him. Desperately, you hold onto him arms for support.

You announce your orgasm with a low mewl, and Leon kisses the top of your head.

As your release subsides, your hands reach for his belt on their own accord. You kiss Leon’s neck, over and over, suddenly feeling…emboldened.

“Need you—“ Leon hisses when your fingers graze his cock “—in me. Fuck, I need you.”

While you start to push his jeans down his hips, Leon begins tugging at your dress. “So fucking pretty. …And you call me a tease.”

Your laugh is breathy, quickly stifled as warm air hits your bare skin. The next to come off is Leon’s shirt, then his boots, and finally his still-damp jeans.

When you reconnect, your movements are frenzied; kissing each other with everything you have.

Leon curls an arm around your waist, pulling you to the edge of the counter. You both watch intently as he lines up with your entrance.

He’s big, a bit bigger than you remember. The fact has you salivating—practically fucking drooling. He slowly parts your folds with his flushed tip, sliding up and down. Suddenly, he’s notching himself in you, and your breath hitches.

“Oh, fuck,” you cry.

Leon pants in your ear. His fingers twitch at your sides, restless and itching. “Tell me when, sweetheart.”

You nod. “Please.”

As a test, Leon slowly pulls out before forcing himself back through your walls until his pelvis is flush with yours. You whine as your back arches.

After that, he wastes no time in building a steady pace.

One of his hands return to the small of your back, while the other lays flat beside you. With your arms, you keep his face on you. You cross your ankles around him, holding him tighter as his rhythm intensifies.

“I love you, Leon. You know that? You know that, right?” Another sharp thrust has you jolt. “Missed you so much.”

Leon suddenly lifts you off the counter then. You squeak when he takes a step back and begins walking. Your body tightens around him—knees digging into his sides, pussy clenching on his length. The man groans, all ragged and broken and desperate.

Leon takes you to the living room; lowering you carefully on the couch beneath him.

He slips out of you with a squelch, and you whine from the loss. “Leon—“

“Shh, it’s okay,” he says, while adjusting your body to his liking. He ensures that you’re flat to the cushions—with one throw pillow comfortably situated under your neck—before crawling over you. At once, he quickly sheathes himself back in you.

Leon’s presence is overwhelming to say the least.

It’s wonderful, truly, having him like this. So close; body melding to yours with every snap of his hips. But all of it leaves you a little light-headed.

Each one of your senses has become so full of him—so saturated—all you can really focus on is the dark set of the eyes boring into yours, and the feeling of being swallowed whole as Leon keeps you pinned between the couch and his chest.

You allow your legs to fall open more; trying to better accommodate the large body bracketing yours.

“Leon, please.”

You don’t really know what you’re asking for; what it is exactly you’re trying to say. But as Leon mercilessly thrusts into your sopping cunt, you reason that an incoherent stream of his name is all you muster.

“You’re—agh—gorgeous. Shit. Mark didn’t fucking deserve you.” You let out a loud moan, dragging your hips down to meet his. Leon grunts. “Bet he never fucked you like you deserve either. My gorgeous girl—going so long without being loved.” Putting you in a headlock, Leon angles your face upward. It makes it hard to look away. “Don’t need to worry ‘bout that anymore, honey. Gonna spend—“ another messy kiss is laid to your face “—the rest of my—f-fuck—fucking life loving you. The way you deserve.”

You’re a mess at this point—sweating and panting; clawing at every inch of Leon’s body. He’s started to rut into you; forcing as much of himself into you as he possibly can.

You feel so incredibly full. Every part of you—consumed by him. The way it’s always been.

As his cock continues to bully the spongy part inside of you that has your toes curling, you feel your second orgasm rapidly approaching.

“Fuck, I’mgonnacum. So close, Leon.”

“Yeah? You’re gonna cum? —My…” he growls, chest rumbling and shaking the very foundations of your soul. “C’mon, (—), wa-want you to make a mess of my cock. It’s yours now.”

Well, fuck.

A hand snakes down between the two of you, catching your clit. Leon kisses you, grunting into your mouth, while your hips begin to shudder.

“Shit, sweetheart, gon—fuck—where d’you want me to—“

“Inside,” you choke out.

Leon groans. “Honey—“

“Please, Leon.”

With a final slam of his hips, you’re seizing. Gasping and twitching beneath him, your body goes completely pliant. Leon holds on to you tightly, using you to help himself to his own orgasm. He comes with a series of low, full-bodied grunts.

After all is said and done, the apex of your thighs has gone numb. Warmth pooling higher-up between your hips, and in the skin he touches.

While your bodies begin to relax, Leon lazily kisses at your chest, tickling the skin with his stubble. He doesn’t pull out of you—just stays put as you feel his cum trickle down your thighs. Your walls involuntarily flutter around him, clenching and sucking him in. You can’t help but give in a little to the desire of shifting your hips.

Leon looks up to you dangerously. “Careful, sweetheart.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, cowboy,” you say with your lip tucked between your teeth.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

You shrug, playful and light. “Is that so bad?”

Leon, who can only feign frustration for so long, retreats back into your body. He reunites with your skin: laces his fingers with yours, starts mapping out the curves of your torso with his lips. It’s the softest anyone has ever been with you.

“It’s not a big deal. Okay? I-I didn’t even—“

He cuts you off by attaching himself back to your mound. Slowly, with an open mouth and a curious tongue, he makes out with your pussy. You remind yourself to breathe the more he explores.

“Might not be a big deal to you, but it is to me,” he growls.

Leon has you caged between him and the crate he laid you out on only moments earlier. He uses his upper body to his advantage: firm hands travel across whatever skin he had freed; large arms keep your thighs locked around his head; and his shoulders took on more weight so that he could hold you down.

With a glance around the room—the only movement you’re allowed, unless you want him to stop entirely—you’re able to see the evidence of your take down.

The door, which led to a sleeping Ashley and Luis just a couple feet beyond, had been tightly shut. Leon had locked the rusted iron hinge, though you didn’t really know how much you could trust it, considering it was a flimsy thing—worn down with age to the point you could likely pluck it straight out of the wood.

Then there were Leon’s gloves—laid neatly out on a smaller crate right next to your crumpled up pants and underwear, still together after having been removed with one determined swoop.

His gloves had been the first to come off. The second he got you alone, he was tugging them off. Your pants had taken a bit longer after that, but certainly not for a lack of Leon trying.

You had tried to resist him. Really. It wasn’t the time or the place to be doing this—doing anything that wasn’t finding a way out of that decrepit basement. You’d told him that too. Reminded him of responsibilities and circumstance.

But as Leon had pointed out, you apparently brought this on yourself.

All because you fucking laughed.

When the four of you had first got to the cellar, it was dark and dank and you had to pretty much feel your way through. Until Luis with his pocket lighter found a few lanterns scattered about. He lit them all, and with a lopsided grin said, “let’s see if this lightens the mood”.

Sure, it was dumb. The kind of dumb you’d normally roll your eyes at or disregard completely.

But you were tired. You’d been on your feet for nearly twelve hours, you were starving and ornery, and you reeked of sweat and damp earth.

So when Luis looked to the rest of you for approval, you couldn’t help but laugh. A genuine, full-bodied laugh.

Perhaps it was because no one else had, or maybe there was already salt in a wound you just didn’t know about. For whatever the reason, when your eyes found Leon’s moments later, you weren’t met with soft relief or the laziness of mutual exhaustion.

Fixed on both you and Luis was an intensity you hadn’t really seen before.

Not during any mission. Not even when Leon lay burning up beneath you.

You hadn’t given it much thought at the time. But now as you lie beneath him—with his tongue prodding your entrance and his nose firm to your clit—that’s all you can think about.

Especially since that intensity returned tenfold, with Leon watching you from his spot between your legs.

Your hips fail you again, flinching on their own accord just because you looked at him.

Immediately you whine, shaking your head as you rush through apologies. Anything so that he could keep keying you higher.

Unfortunately, Leon was quicker than you.

With the back of his hand he wipes at his mouth, spreading your slick all over the faint stubble that had started to grow along his jaw.

“Leon, fuck, I’m sorry.”

Your hips still keep bucking into the air—desperate for whatever friction you can hold onto that will throw you over that ledge. “Leon…”

“Poor baby,” he murmurs. “Bet you wanna come, huh? Bet it would feel so, so good.”

You nod along and you know it’s exaggerated. You know you look as wrecked as you feel.

“Please, please, I wanna come.”

At first, you think (or at least hope) he would put you out of your misery, bury his face back into you and finish what he started. But then he stands up.

He towers over your sprawled-out body, shoulders loose and chest heaving. There’s an orange glow cast over him—it catches the creases of his shirt and the curve of his bicep. Faintly, you also trace the outline of his growing erection.

He looks beautiful. So unbelievably sexy, it’s honestly painful.

Swallowing hard, you sit up on your arms. “Want you,” you purr.

You try batting your eyes and rolling your hips, too. Anything to entice him to go back to what he was doing or to just fuck you already.

Leon’s eyes are dark as they rake over your half-nude body. “Want you in me, Leon. Now. Please.”

His jaw stiffens, and just when you think you’ve broken him, he’s turning away. You scramble to sit up fully. When he turns back to face you, you see that he’s looping his fingers through your underwear.

“Lift your legs.”

You shake your head. “No, no, c’mon—“

Annoyed, Leon hooks an arm beneath your ankles and lifts them for you. Midair, he begins pulling your underwear up your legs.

“Fuck you,” you groan.

“You’re lucky I love that mouth, baby,” Leon mumbles, letting go of the fabric with a snap to your hip.

Leon pauses, taking a second to look down at you and cradle your face with loving hands. “If you want to come you’re gonna have to work for it.” With a forceful knee, he parts your legs and pushes firm into you. “You’re gonna have to do it yourself, pretty girl.”

Dumbfounded, you blink. “You’re joking.”

Leon shrugs, smirking. “Like I said: ride my thigh, or we’re headed back. Take it or leave it.”

For a moment, you feign indecision. It’s entirely for your own ego—to prove to yourself you’re aren’t that desperate.

But Leon—knowing exactly what he’s fucking doing—takes hold of your hips and slowly rocks them against his leg.

It’s horrific, truly, with how unfair he’s being. How much of a fucking tease. Because the movement isn’t much, but it instantly kindles the restless embers in your belly.

Hesitantly, you move your hips; testing out the feeling until it feels right. And, oh, it does.

His thigh is big. Thick, wide muscle; strong against your soft core. It doesn’t take long for you to pick up a rhythm that has sweat beading down your neck.

“Oh.” You let out a gasp when Leon flexes.

Bracing yourself on the edge of the crate, you move your hips higher only to drag them back down. You do that a few more times—over and over, until your underwear is soaked through, clinging to your folds and to the rough material of his pants.

Leon watches on, eyes half-lidded and dopey. “Fuck, look at you. Look at the fucking mess you’re making. My pretty girl.”

You pick up the pace, fully rutting against his thigh until your body starts to shake from the effort.

“You close?” Leon asks. You nod rapidly, eyes screwed shut in concentration.

You feel the pads of Leon’s fingers come back up to your hips then. He matches your speed, helping you along as your breath quickens.

“Doing so good for me, baby. …Promise I’ll fuck you proper when we get home, don’t worry.” Leon’s voice drops, a husky whisper that has you biting down hard on your lip.

“Shit, I’m gonna come.”

“Uh huh. Gonna come on my thigh? Go on, baby, it’s okay.” Leon flexes his thigh once more and your body shudders.

Like lava, warmth spills into your veins. You come with a low moan, all contented and molten. Leon helps you through your orgasm with a steady pace, enough to coax you through the ebb and flow until your hips stop.

Panting, you bury your face in his stomach as you slowly come to. Leon strokes the back of your head, silent but sure.

The challenge was a delightful one. A kind of excitement neither of you had been able to experience for months. Almost a year, come spring.

At first, that time a part didn’t seem too bad.

A marriage of nearly two decades meant that you had rhythms and routines; patterns that were so very easy to fall into the second you got each other alone.

Before the syndrome had even reared its head, you were near-insatiable. How could you not be?

Having worked alongside each other since The Incident meant that you got to see each other grow. You evolved into better versions of yourselves, and embraced the parts you had always liked.

Being that close, that involved, also taught you both to welcome whatever opportunities you could. Whether that was getting each other off in the bathroom of a lonely rest stop, or in the comfort of your home.

Of course, once those black marks decided to finally make themselves known, your bodies had naturally begun to slow.

Sure, you were both getting older…

Leon now needed prescriptions, and his shoulders had gotten a lot stiffer—though that wasn’t to your surprise really because he’d always had bad posture. But you too had been feeling the effects of age. Your mornings were now spent massaging your sore joints, and chiropractor visits had become a near-weekly occurrence.

All of these things you could navigate, but the syndrome wasn’t as forgiving.

So like with everything else in your shared life, you adapted. With some trials and a few errors, you learned to appreciate each other in new ways, reaching crevices of your relationship you would never known possible.

Through a certain lens, it was actually a rather beautiful thing.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t inexplicably horny.

So when Grace cured you both, after all was said-and-done and DSO had, more or less, cleared you, it didn’t come as a shock that you both had only one thing in mind.

Leon had enough restraint—or decency, depending on how you looked at it—to wait until you were both in the car before doing anything.

But just as you encroached on the outskirts of Raccoon City’s ruins, a large hand found its home on your thigh.

Leon’s grip was firm and warm—a kind of heat that not even thick denim could resist. It had you shifting in place, leaning farther into the leather seat, and subtly trying to spread your legs more.

Eventually his thumb started to trace lazy, albeit soothing circles into the flesh. Then suddenly the button of your jeans had come undone, and your husband’s thick fingers were slipping past the waistband of your underwear in search of your puffy clit.

You don’t think you’ve ever come faster in your life.

With a few more excruciating miles still between you and home, Leon was silent as he moved the Porsche between the congested lanes of the highway. He ended up taking the closest exit (where it even led to, you still don’t know) and drove until he spotted the gravel lot of a small abandoned gas-station.

You were pulling him into the back before he could even unbuckle himself.

You rode him harshly. Sloppy and uneven—not that it mattered in the slightest. With his hands on your face, holding you close as he flexed his thighs beneath you, it didn’t take long for you to come again. And it took even less time for him to spill into you with a breathy grunt.

When you did finally make it home, after what felt like hours, you were practically wrestling him through the front door.

Pressed between the wall and his hard body, Leon took you in the foyer—right next to the shoe-rack, and the small table where you usually kept your keys.

Trying to recall the night before was like listening to a skipping record. Your memory consisted of flashing images, of sounds you hadn’t heard in so long, of ice-blue eyes and the feeling of stubble against your chest.

You certainly remembered the next morning though.

You were awake first. While Leon slept, you took the time to stretch out your spine and massage your aching wrists. At some point, you missed Leon stirring. You missed his soft hum, and the mattress dip.

He was the first to kiss you—a soft peck to your shoulder while he pulled you back into his lap.

“Just wanna rest today,” was his excuse.

It’s what he kept telling you as he rolled you both over, as he sucked at the hollow of your throat, as he took your nipple into his mouth. “We deserve this.”

His hands were everywhere—hooking your legs over his shoulders, sliding up your stomach to your breasts and back down again. Then, with his face inches from your dripping pussy, he searched for your eyes. “Ain’t that right, pretty girl? You deserve this.”

He then pressed a teasing kiss to your mound, and you whined—all high-pitched and pathetic. Leon simply laughed.

“Yeah. My beautiful wife—“ he mouthed at your folds “—deserves whatever she wants.”

Leon ended up pulling a climax or two out of you. Though you’re certain if you hadn’t been the one to set the boundary, to pull him back up your body with promises of returning the favour, he would’ve gladly stayed between your legs the whole day.

It went on like that for hours. From him lapping at your release, to you teasing his annoyingly pretty cock with your throat.

A constant, mind-numbing, breath-taking push-and-pull.

Getting to be with him again meant everything to you. But you had thought that was the end.

Not of your sex-life, but of the reunion.

In your wildest fantasies—those that belonged to a version of you who knew nothing of Elpis—you had envisioned it: physically coming back together. With the threat of death, you’d hoped—desperately wanted—to feel him like that again, if only once more.

And by some insane stroke of luck, your wish came true.

You got what you wanted, and then some.

And you were grateful. Really, you were.

But as Leon pounded you from behind, you were starting to realize that maybe you hadn’t been prepared at all.

You felt good. Really, really good. Fucking amazing, even.

And it was almost too much.

Everything that happened over the course of the weekend was coming to a head.

It was climbing the peak right alongside another orgasm, and you weren’t sure if you could handle the fallout.

Leon slams his hips into yours again.

You nearly collapse onto the sink, eyes rolling back as your toes curl.

With Leon’s relentless cock bullying your walls, you feel a heavy pressure blooming between your hips. Mewling, you push your hips back to meet his thrusts.

“I know, baby, I know.” Leon grunts behind you.

Leon, who you know has been watching you carefully, readjusts his grip then. Wrapping one arm around your shoulders and the other across your hips, he tugs you back into him.

Your jaw goes slack at the new angle. His cock presses deep—deeper in a way that immediately has you squirming.

“Hey, look at me.” Leon’s eyes are blown wide, almost pitch-black. He’s always had an intense stare, but this time it’s lethal.

It takes everything in you to keep your eyes open.

“I love you, you know that?” Your knees buckle. “Seriously. I”—another thrust —“I know I don’t say it—shit—a lot…” he shoves his head into yours with a growl. “But I do. Fuck, I do.”

With his arm—that goddamn bicep that makes your mouth-water and your cunt flutter—Leon reorients your attention back to the mirror. Through half-lidded eyes, you study the hard set of his jaw.

“Look at yourself,” he groans.

You grab onto his arm and squeeze—the only response you can manage at this point that isn’t a sob.

“You’re fuckin’—agh—so fuckin’ beautiful.”

You nod, helpless, feeling your lashes grow heavy with tears.

Your pelvis is screaming from the friction, and your spine feels as if it’s going to snap at any moment.

Everything in you is begging for release.

But you’re selfish, and perhaps, a bit masochistic.

Because Leon—your husband, the love of your life—is purring praise after praise into your ear.

And you’re preening, practically gushing all over your old man.

All you want is to give him every ounce of your attention, of your self, and your arousal. But every thrust makes it harder not to let yourself go.

“Feel you squeezin’ me, baby,” he pants. “So-shit, so tight.”

Tears slip down your cheeks then. You have half a mind to care, but the other half is shameless. Even with how you crane your neck up to him, to meet his eyes, to put yourself on full display for him.

Leon tightens against you—in you. He swallows hard. “D-Does it feel that good? Does—agh—does my cock make my pretty wife wanna cry?”

Your mouth falls open with a babble, and suddenly all the sounds you had been suppressing come out tenfold.

“Ah, fuck.” Leon grits his teeth.

He’s flush against you now. The sheer size of him is overwhelming.

“Want you to make a mess on my cock, baby. C’mon. I—oh, fuck me.” His arms strain, caging you into him even tighter. “Need you to come, pretty girl. Need—shit. Need you to let go f’me. …I got you. I got you.”

When you finally come, Leon falls back into the wall, keeping you still as he works through his own orgasm. He groans and pants in your ear, while you tremble and claw at his arm.

You’re both left a complete mess. Sensitive, unable to speak or move much.

You ended having to help him walk the rest of the way back to your scouted house. You shouldered the responsibility without question, of course.

He was your partner of nearly six years, ordinarily your closest friend, and in all, someone you loved intensely.

But you were still on edge.

Each snap of a twig sent your head on a swivel. Each time Leon’s boot caught a rogue tree root, you’d choke on your own breath.

Luis would call back to the both of you occasionally. You still weren’t entirely sure if it was an act of sincerity, of checking in, or if he was prodding for an escape.

But really it didn’t matter. Luis was the last of your problems.

Leon was sweating like crazy. It practically poured from his hair line. When you first noticed, you also saw the way his eyes threatened to roll back.

“Hey, hey, hey.” You were quick to tap his cheek. “Hey, don’t do that, okay? You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Leon’s mangled groan made you wince.

“Just a few more feet. Just a few more feet then you can lie down, okay?”

Part of you expected him to collapse right there.

He didn’t—thankfully—but he was still sweating, he was still pale, and he was starting to look like death.

“Come on, Leon, just a little more,” you mumbled.

Suddenly, the man in question was burying his face into your hair. You felt the bridge of his nose scale the tip of your ear, and the curve of your skull.

“Leon—“

“You smell good. …‘S so unfair.”

You were struggling to hold him up at that point. “Leon, honey—please, work with me here.”

It wasn’t until you were standing on the back porch of the house, that Luis finally decided to help you out.

You had watched, rather helplessly, as Luis carried Leon to the far back room. You didn’t have the heart to follow either of them in. You just sat out on that porch for an hour or so, frozen, with tears in your eyes.

That was last night.

Now, as the dawning sun began to crest over the horizon, you were terrified of what would come next.

“What did they do to him?”

You look to your right, at the slumped over man. Luis had woken up only moments earlier, having yet to rub away the sleep from his eyes.

“¿Cómo?”

You huff. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Ah. Las plagas,” Luis yawns.

“What?”

Luis stands up and stretches. Faintly, you hear the popping of joints. The man then follows your stare to the door in front of you.

Turning back to you, he lets out another yawn. “It’s a…a virus. Some kind of disease that’s meant to make you do whatever they want.”

Just when you’re about to interrogate him further, you hear a loud groan echo from the room. Immediately, you sit up, while Luis shifts nervously on his feet.

When the quiet returns, you clear your throat. “Luis, I need you to be honest with me right now…”

Luis has slunk back to the wall. His eyes narrow on you for a moment before quickly looking away.

“Is Leon going to be okay?”

Luis sniffles. He wipes at his nose while looking down at his feet. “…Eventually, if we get our hands on my cure.”

“But not now,” you confirm.

The man shrugs. “It’s different for everybody. There’s really no telling how he’ll react.”

More noises come from behind the closed door then. One in particular makes your blood run cold.

It’s fairly muffled, but you’re still able to pick up on what sounds like the whine of an injured dog.

Then there’s a bang. A loud, abrupt thud to the door itself.

Your body works faster than your brain, legs carrying you to the door before you could even think twice.

Luis though is closer to the door than you are. Stepping in front of you, he raises his arm to block you. When you step forward anyway, Luis pushes back. “Stay put.”

You almost bite back. Almost.

Of all people, it isn’t Luis’ place to tell you what to fucking do, and it sure as hell isn’t his job to protect you against your partner. But for once, you opt to bite your tongue and listen.

Slowly, Luis pries open the door.

You try to look over his shoulder, but Luis is quick. Quick to slip into the room and close the door. Quick enough to know he should hold onto the doorknob so that you couldn’t open it.

“Luis.” You try the handle again, to no avail.

Still no response.

But you do hear voices.

There’s the melodic, almost spindly voice of Luis. It’s much louder and more pronounced, a little distracting as you try to listen closer. Eventually you hear a hushed tone—Leon’s. His voice is dull, imperceptible even, until it turns into sharp groans.

“Luis!”

The door suddenly pops open, and Luis slips back through before closing it again.

“Luis, what the fuck is going on? You better start talking or I swear—“

The man pushes past you, crossing the small kitchen to the back door.

You stare at him in disbelief and in restraint.

“Luis—“

“Señora, relax.” With an open palm he gestures vaguely to the closed door. “Your boyfriend is going to be alright. He just has the ‘fever’.”

Your mind blanks, tongue preemptively tying itself up in knots. “Boyf—what? No, Leon is not my boyfriend.”

Luis laughs, almost maniacally. “That’s what you’re focused on?” If you weren’t so stunned, you probably would’ve pummelled him into the floorboard.

You roll your shoulders and strain as if it’ll completely reset the conversation. “Luis, what do you mean by ‘fever’? …Is-is Leon going to…”

“Oh, no, no. Not from this, at least.”

Another pained sound echoes. Your fingers twitch at your side.

“So, it’s like the flu? Leon’s just sick?”

Luis shakes his head, and you deflate a little. “The ‘fever’ is just what we call it. Mainly refers to…to the increased body temperature, the…” he abandons the thought with a smirk. “It won’t kill him, but it’ll feel like hell for the next few hours if he doesn’t take care of it.”

You mull over his words carefully. “Okay, so, how do we take care of it then?”

“Love and attention—that’s the only way to fix it.” Luis then steps onto the porch, shooting you one last look over his shoulder. “I’m going to find us all something to eat. I should be back in a few hours.”

And with that he’s gone, off to god-knows-where.

Though, at the moment, that hardly matters. Because with Luis gone, you’re free to look after him.

As softly as you could manage, you knock on the door. “Leon.” Silence. “Leon, are you okay?”

This time, there’s a reply. It comes out choked and sounds a lot like a version of your name.

The door creaks on its hinges as you force it open. Instantly, you’re hit with stale air, and dust, and the harrowing sight of Leon curling in on himself.

“Leon…?”

A mop of mussed-up blonde hair slowly rises from the floor. Through the fallen strands, you find a familiar pair of eyes. In a way, he looked much more alive than he did yesterday. But your relief was only momentary. It didn’t take long to notice the web of black veins mapping out his face.

Leon groans again, flopping forward and on his side.

Despite how sick you felt, you made your way to him anyway. With a careful hand, you reach for his face.

The second the tips of your fingers graze his cheek, Leon flinches. He sits up quickly, backing into the wall, with his eyes closed and his teeth clamped down on his lip.

“Don’t-don’t touch me, please.” Hesitantly, you let your hand fall back into your lap.

You take a moment to regain your composure. “Luis says that you’re gonna be okay. Eventually. Um…apparently this is just—“

“A fever,” Leon mumbles. “Yeah, he told me.”

You nod, mainly to yourself.

At his request, you keep your distance, but you can’t help your wandering eyes.

There’s an arm strewn tightly across his stomach, holding onto his shirt like a lifeline. At his side, his other hand flexes. His knees are bent, pressed close to the rest of him as he continues to shrink in on himself.

You shift uncomfortably.

“Is there anything I can do?” Leon shakes his head. With a frown, you inch toward him. “Leon—“

“Please,” Leon groans your name. “I just need to wait it out. Just-I’ll be okay. Just please leave.”

“You don’t have to do this alone. I’m here for you, okay? Please, Leon, just let me help.”

Whatever you were maybe expecting to come next, it certainly wasn’t the sight before you.

Leon’s limbs unfurl as he tries for a new position to wilt into. And there, right between his splayed legs, you see a pronounced bulge. So stiff, it looks painful.

You don’t notice Leon’s eyes open, or how they find you: frozen, eyes wide and fixed on his erection.

You gape like a fish. “Leon…”

The man in question immediately shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I-I’m so sorry, this…” he looks up to ceiling, blinking and worrying his lip. His chest expands with a shake. “Luis said that…that this was normal. Sort of. That it’s just the virus reacting to me.” He forces a laugh. “Just my luck, right?”

Your thighs press together on their accord, and for the first time since you rescued him, you force yourself to look away. A certain kind of heat has started to creep up your neck.

Here’s your partner confiding in you about the incredible pain he’s experiencing and all you can focus on is the size of him.

You feel horrible. Gross. Perverted.

You then hear Luis words in your head like some sick call-and-response: “love and attention—that’s how you fix it.”

The words, and their premonitory meaning, finally settle within you. They pull on your lungs, and the cavity behind your ribs.

With the sharp press of your nails to your palm, you take a breath and ignore the flutter in the pit of your stomach.

“Leon…” The man sighs again. Carefully, you inch closer to him. “Luis told me how we can make you feel better.”

He grits his teeth. “I know. He told me that, too.”

You swallow hard. “Leon, I…if you want, I can help you.”

He gulps and shakes his head. “I can’t ask that of you.”

“You wouldn’t be,” you say. “I’m offering, Leon. You’re my partner, a-and this is what we do—we help each other.”

Leon sits up a bit more, facing you almost directly. “I can’t ask this of you because this isn’t how I wanted it to go.”

“Well, obviously,” you almost laugh. “This isn’t, you know, an ideal situation—“

“No.”

That single word sends a rush of blood down to your cunt. You try to be subtle when you shift, not wanting to draw attention to yourself.

“When I…when I was going to tell you about how I feel…about you, I wanted it to be—I don’t know—romantic? Definitely not like this.” He chuckles around the words like they’re a loose canon in his mouth. And perhaps they are.

His eyes flicker with something unknown—something wilder and unkempt.

It makes you want to take a risk.

“Leon, I want to help. I wanna make you feel better…” the words die in your throat, but you know he understands. “But I need you to be sure.”

Of this, you mean. Of me.

Leon doesn’t say anything for a moment. Instead he just stares. His eyes trail over your face, they drag down your body, then back up to your mouth. His chest heaves. On his thigh, his hand is balled into a fist, white-knuckling the fabric.

Whatever little composure he had been holding onto unravels then.

“Fuck, —, I need you. I need you more than anything. …And that’s not the disease talking, either. I want you all the time.”

When you touch him, he flinches again. Except this time he doesn’t retreat.

Rather, he melts. He melts and molds and he pushes his cheek into your palm with his eyes screwed shut. He hums, and you feel its vibration throughout every part of you.

It’s a shock to your system that makes you clench around nothing.

You remember then to pace yourself. You both have time.

Moving your hands to his face, you start to inspect him. “Shit, you’re burning up, Leon.”

“Mhm, just—agh—just my love for you.” Another cramp rolls through him, but he manages to still offer a smile. For you.

“I think that might be the disease talking,” you tease before pressing your mouth to his.

Leon immediately whines. Upright on his knees, he leans over you, hands sliding up your bare arms, over your shoulders and settling on the junction of your jaw. He pushes forward with the kiss, nearly knocking you backward.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He’s sheepish now, all rosy-cheeked and doe-eyed, much like how he was when you first met some years ago. You smile into the kiss, keeping still while he chases your lips.

He’s incessant with it. He’s all tongue and teeth, already panting into you. You let him have his way, until he breaks free and starts to mouth at your pulse.

“Leon,” you sigh. “Leon, stop.”

With a firm hand to his chest, you try to hold him still, to get him to look at you. His bruised lips are wet—spit-covered and plump. He blinks quickly at you, like the refocusing of a camera lens.

“It’s not about me, Leon. This is about you. About making you feel good.”

You sit up to meet him, carding your fingers through his hair. With the new angle, you start your assault on his neck. You don’t really kiss him—moreso just drag your lips against the thick cords of his neck. When you reach the spot just below his ear, he huffs and nearly sinks back to the ground. Ever the observant one, you choose to suck at the skin there.

“Baby—“

His hands—erratic and hot-to-the-touch—grab onto whatever they can. Your shoulders, your waist. It’s as if he can’t makeup his mind. It’s only when you slightly stumble into his lap, when he grabs onto the beltloop of your pants to stabilize you both, does he finally settle. With one hand curving around the meat of your hip, another reaches up beneath the loose fabric of your shirt, until he’s lifting your breast out of the cup of your bra and palming it.

He’s spurred on by your sighs. The sound, which makes his cock twitch, has him further kneading the flesh and kissing the top of your head. Your mouth moves down to his collarbone, exploring, tasting, and learning every inch of his skin.

“Fuck, —.” His breath is hot on your scalp. “Shit, you’re—fuck—you’re something.”

You take the chance then to start working away at his clothes. Nimble fingers make quick work of his shirt, untucking it from his pants and lifting it up and over his head.

Gently, you rake your nails across his skin. You just can’t help but touch him. Everything from the swell of his shoulders and biceps, to the soft lines of muscle along his lower abdomen.

As you move lower, Leon’s grip on your body tightens.

Against your lower stomach, you feel the hard press of his bulge—over and over again. He holds you in place while he searches for friction. Into your shoulder, he groans.

“Fuck, baby. Shit, I’m sorry. I-I needa—“

Climbing onto his lap, you grab his waist and push his hips into yours. “‘S okay. It’s okay, honey, just let go.”

Almost immediately, Leon comes. The whole thing is over quickly, with hardly any recovery time on his part—an effect, you assume, of the ‘fever’.

He stays close to you; grinding and squeezing, panting into the side of your face. “Please, —.”

You lean back as much as Leon’s frenzied hands will let you, until you’re able to snake your hands down to his belt. Once the buckle is undone, you’re tugging down the zipper. Leon lifts his hips for you as you remove his pants and the stained fabric of his boxers. “Leon,” you kiss him again. “Lay down for me, honey.”

He does as you ask—almost embarrassingly fast.

Shuffling down his body, you come face-to-face with his cock. He’s so very hard, leaking and flushed an angry red.

Sitting comfortably on his thighs, you roll your shoulders back and find Leon’s eyes. Instinctively, you reach to slick his hair back off of his forehead. You want to see all of him. Selfishly, you need to see him fall apart. Leon takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together and mouthing at your knuckles.

“You’re sure about this?”

Leon nods quickly. “Need you. How-however you want, please, just, fuck, please.”

With your other free hand, you stroke his hip—at the indent that runs along his pelvis and down to the tuft of hair trailing to his base.

That’s how you start with him. Experimental.

It doesn’t take long for Leon to start bucking up into your closed fist. You spit, and with a slow, purposeful pump, spread your saliva all over his cock. One particular tug has his head falling back to the floor. The valley of his chest on full display, falling quickly as you continue to work him.

Leon comes again with a low whine. The sound has your head spinning, and slick pooling between your thighs.

While Leon comes to, you quickly discard of whatever clothes you had left on, chucking them to the corner across the room.

“You’re so beautiful,” Leon says wistfully.

Despite having just jerked him off, his words are what turn you shy. Averting your gaze, you focus on lowering yourself back into his lap.

“I mean it.” Leon sits up, hands snaking behind your back. He pulls you to him and mouths at your chest. “You’re gorgeous.”

In a moment of clarity, you grow curious, and press the back of your hand to his forehead.

“You’re still super hot, baby.”

Leon bites at the side of your breast. “I’m glad you think so.”

Your groan isn’t the sexy kind. “That’s not what I meant.”

Between your breasts, Leon looks up at you. “I know. Think I have an idea about what could help though.”

You kiss him deeply. With one hand you tug on his hair, exposing more of himself to you, and with the other you take a hold of his cock and start to drag it between your folds.

Leon whimpers—fucking whimpers—and ducks his head to look down to where your bodies meet.

He steadies himself as he lines up with your entrance. You hold your breath as his head catches against your walls, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated inside you.

Leon shakes beneath you. Knowing, but breathless, you simply give him a nod before you start to move.

With your knees to the floor, bracketing his hips, and his already-convulsing body, you slowly lift your hips, up and forward, then all the way back down until his pelvis is flush against yours.

Your hips roll, over and over, testing the waters—the speed, the angle—until finally, with your back slightly arched, you feel him notch deliciously against the spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

This time you’re the one panting. Breaths that only become more ragged as you chase the feeling.

At that point, Leon was practically apart of you. Combined sweat glued you to each other; the firm grip of his hands nothing more than an aid for your hips, and a lifeline for him.

A tangible, tactile reminder that you weren’t a hallucination. You were very much real, and you were very much there.

There with him, making the prettiest sounds he’s ever fucking heard.

Leon tried to speak—he wanted to. He needed to tell you again just how beautiful you were. How pretty your pussy was, how much he appreciated you, loved you, how he was convinced you were made for him.

But he couldn’t.

The disease had already made his mind a little fuzzy, but you had completely melted it to nothing. All that existed was the feeling of you.

Wrapping both arms around your waist, Leon continued to mouth at your chest. He felt his hips start to move on their own—a little absently, mind you—and you reacted instantly.

You let out a cry, and held on tighter to the broad expanse of Leon’s shoulders. Taking the opportunity, he started to fuck up into you with short, rapid thrusts.

“You feel so-fuck. You’re so good for me. So, so good for me.”

The sound of his thighs meeting your ass, your gasps and his moans, had consumed all of the air in that little cabin.

You were starting to lose control—both of you were—as the coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter. No longer were you focused on maintaining a rhythm. As your legs began to give out, Leon sat you down onto him as far as he could, before lying back down. With you caged to his chest, he planted his feet and began to pistol into you.

“Umphf! Leo-oh, fuck.”

Your jaw had fallen slack against his shoulder, eyes glazing over. Your heart hammered in time with the weeping throb of his cock.

Leon held his open-mouth to the side of your face. “Need you to come for me, baby. Wanna feel you cum on my cock. Please. Please, need to feel you.”

Each plea of his was accentuated with a breathy whine to the shell of your ear—a promise only for you.

That alone was enough to send you over the edge.

The coil had snapped, leaving you to shudder helplessly against him. With your senses completely shot, you weren’t sure when exactly Leon announced his third and final orgasm of the night.

You only knew it happened really when the space between your hips grew wonderfully warm. Leon had slowed to a stop, too—completely spent, and heaving.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched as the inky veins along his cheek slowly began to lighten. Some of them even had completely disappeared.

You knew deep down he wasn’t cured for good—that was still another bridge you’d have to cross.

Someday, but not right now.

He was renewed, more or less.

His joints still ached when he moved a certain way, like if he were to bend down too low or turn his neck too far back. Except those were things that came with age. Inevitable signs of a life lived.

But he hadn’t been lying when he told Sherry that he felt better in a matter of hours than he had in ages. It was true. With the help of Elpis, he suddenly felt like a brand new man. Or, at least, more like the man his younger self had always envisioned to one day meet.

He was grateful, by all means. Eternally so.

It was incredible, but also strange, and fucking crazy. So much so, once the adrenaline and the excitement wore off, he was left feeling…absent.

Maybe not absent—perhaps that was the wrong word.

Regardless of what it was called, the feeling turning in his stomach had climbed up and nestled deep in his chest. It made a home there, and kept a keen, curious eye on everything around him.

It was present during his call to Sherry; a witness to her relief alongside himself.

It stayed alert during his drive home, while his hands shook with the electricity of newfound life.

It even stayed awake long enough to see you.

You, who after receiving the longed-for “I’m coming home” text, made yourself comfortable on the sofa in wait. You, who once the front door clicked open, were rushing to pull Leon’s warm body into your arms. You, who immediately noticed the absence of the black mark on your husband’s neck.

The feeling was present during Leon’s confession, the quiet confirmation that he was okay, and that he was going to be okay.

Selfishly, too, the feeling observed your kiss, your touch, the bruise of crashing into each other—over and over, until the heat of your shared affection settled into the sheets of your shared bed.

Now, as Leon continues to stare at the ceiling, he’s begun to feel a little bad. Ashamed, even, that something unwanted still lived inside of him. That something like that could dare to witness you, to witness what you do to him, to witness how he’d live and die for you.

It’s not its place, and yet, it won’t leave him.

He wants it to leave. He needs it to leave. But he doesn’t know how to banish it.

He’s not even sure he’d be capable.

Without thinking, he finds himself calling out for you.

You don’t wake immediately—it takes him whispering your name into your shoulder a few more times before you rouse. But when you do, you feel it: a staggered breath lodged in his chest.

You turn over to face your husband, only to see that Leon is already looking at you.

“Leon? Honey, what’s wrong?”

His eyes—normally a beautiful ice-blue—have almost completely glazed over, like frost on a window pane. Though he watches you, you know that he’s somewhere else.

Quickly, you sit up. With a tentative hand against his shoulder, you hold him still, keep him from moving too much as you bring him into your lap. You fix the comforter around your bodies, ensuring you’re both tucked into the fabric before bringing your fingers to his hair.

“Hey,” you coo. “It’s okay, honey. You’re okay. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

For a moment, he’s quiet. Opting to just focus on the feeling of your nails against his scalp, of your fingers working through his hair and the knots in his neck.

Eventually, the frost in his eyes recedes a bit, and Leon truly stirs. He tries to sit up, but you don’t let him.

“Baby, I’m fine now—“

With a soft ‘shh’, you go back to your ministrations. Your body shakes with the rumble of his contented hums. “Just rest, honey. Let me take care of you. Please.”

Leon could protest—he has in the past, for a lot less too. But if there’s one thing about Leon Kennedy, it’s that he can’t resist you when you plead. No matter what you’ve asked of him, if you plead, or flash him that pretty smile of yours, the man uniquely softens.

He becomes putty in your hands. Entirely pliable, and solely at your disposal.

There’s never been anyone else who could do that to him; never been anyone else for him.

So, he abides.

He lets himself melt into you, taking the time to close his eyes and breathe you in once more. Even when you’ve stopped, you still hold onto each other. Now, with your fingers tightly laced together, Leon presses your palm into his chest—flat against the expanse of skin directly above his beating heart.

He wonders if you can feel it. If you can feel how much he needs you.

Leon knows he isn’t the most romantic partner in the world. He knows he can be difficult to deal with. He imagines how hard it is to love someone who’s not the best at knowing the right thing to say.

In another life, one untainted by the DSO and all of the loss and the violence he’s seen, perhaps he could’ve been. He’s thought of it before—of whether or not you’d be happier, or better off, with someone else; with another version of him. Someone who didn’t freeze when they asked for help. Someone who could so easily say a simple set of three words.

He can practically hear you chastise him. Can feel the sting of your nails as you pinch him.

You love him—unconditionally, unabashedly, wildly. You tell him this everyday, without reservation. You have no problem making your feelings known.

He’s always envied you for that ability. To be willing and wanting to so freely express yourself.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask then, your voice still hushed.

Leon pauses. In the past, he would’ve just shrugged it off, rolled over, pressed a kiss to your mouth and then to your cheek, before pulling you back down into the mattress. But as he continues to mull over what he thinks you deserve, and as he continues to feel that odd twinge in his chest, a single thought passes over him.

It’s a bit cliche, he thinks, but the thought appears much like a shooting star. It’s present, and then it’s gone.

Quick enough to miss, yet rare enough to notice.

Though this hurdle (no matter how big it was) had been conquered, surely there’d be another. Someday, somehow…

And yet, Lady Luck had granted him with another chance. Not to redo his life, but to continue enjoying the one he had.

With a sobering breath, Leon meets your eyes in the dark. They glow like candlelight—warm and guiding.

“I was on death’s door,” he eventually says. “And now I’m not. And I don’t know…just feels kinda fucked up.”

You nod, mainly to yourself. He watches your eyes flicker as you think about what to say.

“It’s a lot to take in, Leon. It’s alright to feel a little unsure about all of it.”

“Maybe…”

He takes that then as his opportunity. With your arms lax, Leon’s able to sit up. Beneath the pooling comforter, he pulls you into his lap. His hands—large and rough from years of use—are gentle as they come up to your face. With the pad of his thumb, he wipes at your eyes, at the drowsiness that still lives within them. He then presses his forehead to yours.

“But I’ve never felt unsure about you.”

It’s not quite ‘I love you’—he knows that—but it’s still ardent in its promise.

With his face so close to yours, he can see the lines of your face lift as you smile.

“I know.”