AVAAA!!!

── ANONS MY BELOVED!!

#💄, 🎲🎲, 🍥, 🐚, 🍰,▪️🐜,🪐, (tbc)

Which meant one of two things: Jesse and Dina lied to drag her out of the garage for once, or you’d bailed last minute. Honestly? She couldn’t blame you. Parties like this sucked unless you were already drunk enough not to care.

And you, pretty, smart, way too cool for half the people here, you probably had better things to do than cram yourself into Jesse’s overheated living room.

Ellie clicked her tongue against her teeth and looked away again, trying not to seem bothered. Except Dina noticed immediately.

“You’re staring at the door like a sad dog,” Dina laughed, nudging her shoulder.

“I’m literally not.”

“You literally are.”

Ellie rolled her eyes hard enough it almost hurt. “Shut up.”

But before Dina could say anything else, the front door opened. And there you were.

Like every shitty movie scene Ellie used to make fun of suddenly made perfect sense.

Your hair was a little messy from the wind outside, cheeks pink from the cold, oversized jacket slipping off one shoulder while you laughed at something Jesse said as he greeted you. The coloured party lights flashed across your face in reds and blues and golds, making you look unreal for half a second.

Ellie forgot how to breathe.

Dina’s grin turned evil beside her. “Oh, she’s gone.”

“Dude, stop talking.”

But she couldn’t stop staring.

Because you looked unfair tonight. Tiny denim mini skirt under your jacket, glossy lips, rings catching the light every time you moved your hands. And when your eyes finally landed on Ellie across the kitchen.

You smiled. Not polite, nor friendly. That smile.

The one that always made Ellie’s stomach flip so hard she thought she might actually die from it someday.

You made your way through the crowd toward her, weaving between dancing bodies until you were suddenly standing right there. Close enough for Ellie to catch your perfume underneath the alcohol and smoke.

“Hey, Williams,” you teased softly. “You look miserable.”

Ellie snorted. “This party is miserable.”

“Yet you came anyway.”

“Jesse threatened me.”

You laughed quietly at that, leaning beside her against the counter. Your shoulder brushed hers for barely a second, but Ellie felt it everywhere.

God.

“You’ve been here long?” you asked.

“Too long.”

“Mhm.” You tilted your head slightly. “Then maybe you need something more fun to do.”

Ellie blinked. Was that flirting? She eyed your face, taking in every micro expression, the way your lips quirked and that subtle wink. No, definitely flirting.

Before she could answer, Jesse yelled from the living room for everyone to move because someone had changed the music again. The crowd shifted instantly, people cheering as a louder song blasted through the speakers.

You grabbed Ellie’s wrist without hesitation.

“C’mon.”

Ellie let you pull her into the living room before her brain could catch up. The room was packed shoulder to shoulder, bodies moving under dim lights. It was hot, way too crowded for breathing room.

But then your hands settled on Ellie’s shoulders. And suddenly she couldn’t focus on anything else.“You dance, Williams?” you asked with a grin. Ellie barked out a nervous laugh. “Absolutely not.”

“Good. Me neither.” Still, you moved closer.

Close enough that your hips brushed hers when the crowd shoved inward. Ellie swallowed hard.

Your eyes stayed locked on hers while the music pounded around you, loud and messy and intoxicating. She could feel your hands sliding slowly down her arms, fingertips lingering against her skin.

“You’re staring again,” you said.

“Can you blame me?” The words slipped out before she could stop them. Your expression softened for half a second before you stepped even closer, hands settling lightly against her waist.

Ellie’s breath caught. The space between you disappeared fast after that. One second she was trying to act normal, the next your fingers were tangled in the front of her shirt while her hands found your hips automatically. The music was deafening, bodies moving around you in blurred flashes, but none of it mattered once you leaned up close enough for Ellie to feel your breath against her mouth.

Then you kissed her, like you were taste testing. Ellie melted instantly. She kissed you back harder without even thinking, pulling you closer while the crowd cheered at something unrelated nearby. Your lips were soft and warm and addictive, and Ellie swore her brain completely shut off the second you twirled around and pressed your rear against her properly.

Your bodies moved together naturally with the music now, Ellie’s hands gripped your waist tighter. Heat rushed through her so fast it was embarrassing.

You giggled to yourself, looking over your shoulder. “Relax,” you whispered teasingly.

Easy for you to say.

Especially when you kept grinding against her to the beat like you were trying to kill her on purpose.

Ellie kissed your shoulder before you could tease her further, for now, while the party faded around her, she’d enjoy the present.

Today, you kept yourself busy. Even though the house was already spotless, you wiped counters again, smoothed blankets, adjusted picture frames that weren’t crooked. He was supposed to be home tonight, and you wanted everything perfect. Something about preparing for him made the waiting easier.

Once you finished, you moved straight to the kitchen. His favourite. Creamy carbonara. The familiar motions steadied your hands, the gentle simmer of the sauce filling the room with warmth. You glanced at the clock. 6:37 PM. You’d had all day, and somehow you still felt behind. Your fingers tapped anxiously against the counter, your wedding ring clinking softly against the cool surface.

You were so focused you didn’t hear the door open.

A warm presence slipped in behind you, and then a face nuzzled into your neck. You jumped, breath catching before you relaxed immediately. “You scared me,” you murmured, leaning back into him without a second thought.

He hummed in response, strong arms settling around your waist. His grip was gentle but heavy, like he was holding himself up as much as he was holding you. You turned your head slightly, catching a glimpse of tired pale blue eyes. His thumb rubbed slow circles against your hip, and you leaned in, expecting a kiss.

Instead, your lips brushed the rough stubble along his cheek.

You blinked, pulling back in mild surprise. He gave a faint, apologetic smile. “Not now, baby. I’m disgusting.”

Fair enough. You reached up, cupping his face carefully. Up close, the exhaustion was clearer. Darker shadows under his eyes, a fresh scratch along his jaw, bruising blooming faintly near his temple. Nothing unusual, and that somehow made it worse.

“Go shower,” you said softly, smoothing your thumb along his cheek. “Dinner will be done soon, handsome.”

You smiled, and he leaned into your touch for just a second longer before finally letting go. “Yes, ma’am.”

The rest of the night went smoothly, at least on the surface. You’d learned his rhythms after missions, the way he moved through the house like he was only halfway there, the way his smiles didn’t quite reach his eyes. He did his best to act normal, to pretend whatever he had seen hadn’t followed him home, but you could always. He was keeping something tucked away inside, just out of your reach.

Still, he ate the dinner you made, thanked you softly, and even rested his hand over yours at the table. Small things. You held onto them dearly.

Later that night, you lay beside him in bed, the room warm from the mild evening air drifting through the cracked window. You turned slightly, raising a brow when you noticed he was still fully dressed in a thick jumper. “You’re really gonna sleep in a jumper? It’s toasty tonight,” you murmured, absentmindedly playing with the string of his hoodie.

He let out a small scoff, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re more than welcome to strip for the both of us.”

You huffed quietly at that, letting the moment settle instead of pushing further. That was how it usually went. A light joke, a gentle deflection, and then back to silence. He rolled onto his side, facing away, and you watched the steady rise and fall of his shoulders until you finally drifted off.

The next morning wasn’t any different. He was polite, soft spoken, a little quieter than usual. The day after that followed the same pattern. He lingered at the kitchen table with coffee, spent long hours on his laptop, eyes scanning things you didn’t ask about.

By the third day, though, the space between you felt wider.

It wasn’t anything obvious. He still brushed past you gently, still thanked you when you handed him things, but he didn’t reach for you the same way. He sat on the opposite end of the couch. His answers grew shorter. When you walked into a room, sometimes he’d already be getting up to leave.

You didn’t say anything. You told yourself he needed time. His job was stressful, exhausting in ways you couldn’t fully understand. The last thing he needed was his clingy stay at home wife hovering over him, asking questions he probably didn’t want to answer. He must have reports to finish, paperwork stacked endlessly from whatever nightmare he’d just come back from. That’s what you told yourself.

So you kept busy. You gave him space. Even when the silence started to feel heavier than usual, you swallowed it down and let him have it.

It wasn’t until the following week that the unease really started to settle in.

“Leon, it’s roasting. Should you really be wearing those?” you asked gently, eyeing his hands as he reached for his coffee.

Leather gloves.

You looked him up and down, the long sleeves, the way he tugged them down instinctively when you noticed. He followed your gaze and answered quickly, almost too quickly. “Just a habit. Hands have been a little sensitive lately.”

You hesitated, studying him for another moment before nodding. “Okay.” You let it go. You always did.

But stranger things kept piling up.

He began shifting his routine so subtly you almost didn’t catch it at first. Waking up earlier than you, slipping out of bed before you could reach for him. Staying up later, the glow of his office light visible under the door long after midnight. Some nights, he didn’t come to bed at all. You’d wake in the early hours, the other side of the mattress still cold.

Every once in a while, you’d peek your head into his office, leaning against the doorframe. “You should come to bed,” you’d coax softly.

“Not now, gorgeous. I’m working,” he’d reply without even looking up.

He was always working. The words started to sound rehearsed. He needed a break, you thought. A real one.

So one evening, you set everything up. Snacks in bowls, popcorn fresh and warm, your comfiest pyjamas on. You even picked a movie you knew he liked. When he finally emerged from his office, you perked up immediately.

“Movie night,” you announced softly, patting the spot beside you.

He looked tired, but he gave you a small smile and sat down anyway. You leaned into him, handing him a blanket. For a few minutes, it felt normal again. His shoulder warm against yours, the quiet hum of the television filling the space.

Then his work phone rang.

He stiffened almost instantly. In one smooth motion he was already on his feet, fishing it from his pocket, pacing toward the hallway. “Be right back,” he murmured, voice low and tired as he pressed it to his ear.

You nodded, trying not to let the disappointment show.

He wasn’t right back.

Minutes stretched into an hour. The movie kept playing, forgotten. The popcorn cooled in your lap, eventually going soft. Your eyes grew heavy, but you stayed where you were, waiting.

When he finally returned, he wore a sheepish smile. His gloved hand came up, gently stroking your hair. “Sorry, sweet girl. How about another time? I’m a little… caught up right now.”

You blinked up at him, sleep tugging at your eyes. “Yeah,” you murmured quietly. “Popcorn went stale anyways.”

He gave a soft, apologetic huff of laughter. You stood and walked with him towards his office out of habit, like you always did. At the doorway, he paused and offered you a small smile before slipping inside and shutting the door.

The click felt louder than it should have.

With a quiet sigh, you rested your forehead against the wood.

You knew you shouldn’t. You really did.

But the curiosity, the worry, the feeling that something was seriously wrong had been building for days. It pressed against your ribs until it was hard to ignore.

Leon was in the shower, the steady sound of water running down the hall. It was the first time all day he wasn’t locked in his office or glued to his laptop. You lingered outside the door for a moment, heart already beating faster, before gently pushing it open.

The hinges creaked softly, and you froze, listening. The shower still ran. Slipping inside, your feet padding quietly across the floor. His office smelled faintly of coffee and paper, the blinds half drawn, leaving the room dimly lit.

You approached his desk slowly, like you were afraid it might give you away. Stacks of documents sat neatly arranged, his handwriting in the margins here and there. Your fingers skimmed the top page, hesitating, then lifting it just enough to read.

Your heart dropped.

‘RACCOON CITY’ stared back at you in bold, block letters. The air left your lungs. Your stomach twisted. He never talked about that place, not really. Never dared to burden you what happened that night. It hung over his life like the blade of a guillotine. You hadn’t even opened the file fully when a quiet cough came from the doorway.

Your head snapped up, eyes meeting the hardened pale blues of your lover. Leon stood there, hair still damp from the shower, dressed in joggers and a fitted shirt. Water still clung to the ends of his strands, dripping faintly onto his collar. His expression was nothing like the soft, tired one he’d been sporting since he had returned home.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The gentleness in his voice was gone. His brows were furrowed, eyes sharp. It made your hands move on instinct, quickly placing the document back onto the pile like it might burn you.

“I’m sorry, I was just-”

“You know that’s classified?” he cut in, stepping further into the room. “D.S.O. official documents.”

His tone made your chest tighten. You hated it. It wasn’t loud, but it was firm, distant. Professional. It made you feel smaller than you expected.

“I didn’t mean to be nosy, Lee,” you said softly. “You know I wouldn’t share anything, I’m just…”

“You’re just what?” he asked, raising a brow. The question hung in the air. You swallowed, fingers curling slightly at your sides. “Worried about you…” you admitted quietly.

Something in his expression softened, just a fraction. His shoulders loosened, the tension easing from his posture. He shook his head lightly, exhaling through his nose. Then he stepped aside from the doorway.

A silent invitation to leave.

You lowered your gaze, shame creeping up your neck. “Sorry,” you murmured, brushing past him. You didn’t dare look back. The hallway suddenly felt like being banished.

Behind you, the door shut more harshly than it needed to.

It broke your heart. You hadn’t meant to cross a line, you’d just wanted reassurance, just needed something, anything, to know that he was okay. Instead, it felt like you’d pushed him even further away.

He’d started sleeping in the guest bedroom. He never said it outright, but you could tell. The pillows and blankets weren’t arranged the way you’d left them after cleaning last week, slightly indented like someone had been lying there. The bathroom connected to that room had water droplets still clinging to the tiles, his razor resting neatly by the sink. A few of his things had migrated there too. Toothbrush. A spare shirt draped over the chair. Small signs that felt louder than any explanation.

You didn’t know what was going on anymore. What was happening inside his head.

Was he getting bored of you? The thought felt ugly, but it kept creeping in. You couldn’t remember the last time he’d kissed you properly, not just your forehead or cheek. You couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched you without those leather gloves. Even when he passed you something, his fingers never brushed yours.

And then there was the way he treated everything like it was contaminated. Leon had never been a germaphobe. But now he wiped down counters after using them, scrubbed his hands longer than necessary, cleaned dishes twice before putting them away. He kept a pack of antibacterial wipes on him, using them constantly. It was subtle, but you noticed.

It was another lonely night. You were curled up on the couch, phone in hand, mindlessly scrolling through things you weren’t really reading. The TV played quietly in the background, filling the silence.

Leon sat in the kitchen, laptop open, the faint tapping of keys carrying into the living room. Every so often he’d pause to jot something down in a notebook beside him. He looked tired, shoulders tense, posture stiff.

You sneezed suddenly, quickly raising your elbow to cover your nose.

His head snapped up immediately.

Before you even lowered your arm, he was already beside you. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice tight with concern. It was the most attention he’d given you since the office incident.

“I’m fine,” you replied softly. “Just a bit under the weather.” You’d felt a little ill for a few days now.

You looked up at him. His brows were drawn together, pale blue eyes searching your face like he was trying to read something deeper. His worry very clear, but it felt so disproportionate from how things had been lately. “How long have you been feeling like this?” he asked.

“Not long,” you reassured gently. “Don’t worry too much, Lee.” The nickname slipped out naturally. For a second, something flickered in his expression, something soft and pained all at once. He nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.

Later that night, you were heading down the hall when you heard his voice through the guest room door. He was on the phone.

You slowed without meaning to.

“She can’t know, not yet. I can’t just… spring it on her.” Your stomach twisted. You stepped closer, heart starting to race. You pressed your ear lightly against the door. “I’ll tell her when I’ve dealt with it.” A pause. Then Leon again, softer.

“How far along are you?”

Your breath caught. Another pause, longer this time. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “We’ll figure something out. Together. I promise you.”

The words echoed in your head.

You backed away slowly, it was all too much. You returned to your bedroom on unsteady legs, closing the door behind you. The bed felt cold as you sat down, staring blankly at the wall.

Then the tears came.

Had he been cheating? The thought made your chest ache. Had he gotten someone else pregnant? Was that why he wouldn’t kiss you, why he avoided touching you, why he kept his distance? All the pieces seemed to line up in the worst possible way.

You curled into yourself, clutching the blanket, the quiet house pressing in around you.

You woke to the faint feeling of fingers moving gently through your hair. Slow, careful strokes, like whoever it was didn’t want to disturb you. The sensation was familiar, comforting, even through the haze of sleep.

Gloved fingers.

Your eyes fluttered open, lashes sticking slightly. They still stung from crying, and a dull, pounding headache throbbed at your temples. You shifted, trying to sit up, and immediately hissed, pressing your palm against the side of your head.

“Woah, easy there.”

Leon’s voice was gentle. He sat beside you on the bed, already dressed for the day. Gloves, long sleeves, everything. Like he hadn’t slept at all. Knowing him, he probably hasn’t.

You blinked up at him, vision slowly clearing. His gaze moved over your face, taking in the puffiness around your eyes, the flushed skin, the dried tear tracks. You didn’t need him to say anything to know he’d noticed.

“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly.

Instead of answering, you leaned sideways, letting your head drop onto his thigh. Your nose brushed against the rough fabric of his jeans, still a little stuffy. “I dunno,” you mumbled honestly.

He hummed, the sound low in his chest. His hand left your hair and moved to your back, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. The motion was soothing, familiar. You let your eyes close again for a moment, breathing in.

“Is there something bothering you?”

The question broke the fragile calm.

You pulled away, sitting up, brows knitting together. “Seriously?” you asked, voice rough. “Obviously something’s bothering me, Leon.”

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I know.”

You nodded once, swallowing. “What’s going on? Please tell me.” The hope in your voice was crystal clear, it made him feel guilty, you could tell.

He shook his head, gaze dropping. “I can’t. Not yet.” His other hand came up, rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous habit you’d seen a hundred times before.

“Leon… I’m your wife.” Your voice softened, then wavered. “Just…” You took a breath, the question sitting heavy in your chest. “Is there someone else?”

He tensed immediately, turning to you sharply. “What? God, no. Of course not, baby-”

“Then what’s going on, Leon?” you pressed.

“I can’t tell you.”

With a sigh, you shifted, sitting beside him instead of facing him, pulling your knees up to your chest.“Are you okay?” you asked after a moment. It felt strange, being the one asking now.

“I’m not sure yet,” he admitted.

You looked at his side profile, the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders were slightly hunched. A small shiver ran through you. “Why can’t you tell me?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor. “I wish I could,” he murmured finally. “I really do, sweet girl.” His voice softened. “You shouldn’t have to be worrying your pretty head about anything. Not this.”

That hurt more than words could describe.

Two months passed after that early morning.

Leon tried his best to prove that the distance between you had nothing to do with another woman. He left his phone on the counter without a second thought, handed you his laptop once when you needed to look something up, even told you the passcodes. You hadn’t asked. You hadn’t needed to. You believed him.

And yet, he still hadn’t told you what was wrong.

So you did what you always did. You waited. You hoped. You prayed that whatever he was carrying would pass, that he would be okay, that he would be safe. The same wish you’d made every time he walked out the door for years.

You walked down the hall without thinking, pushing open the guest bedroom door. You didn’t bother knocking. It had become his space, but it was still your home.

He stood at the wardrobe, his back to you, shoulders bare as he rummaged through the closet. For a moment, everything seemed normal. The familiar lines of his scarred back, the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Then you noticed it. “Leon…” The word caught in your throat. Dark splotches spread across his skin, crawling up his back like mould. Some clustered near old scars, others stretched across his shoulders and down his arms. They disappeared beneath where his gloves had been hiding the marks.

Something inside you dropped.

He turned slowly when he heard your voice. The look on your face must have told him everything. Your stomach churned, your chest tightening as the realization settled in.

He’s sick.

“I know,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.” His eyes flickered away, unable to meet yours. Not like this. You wanted to say something, ask a hundred questions, but the words wouldn’t form. You just stood there, trying to process what you were seeing.

The clock read 11:54 PM.

The knot in your stomach had only tightened. You watched him move around the room, pulling on layers. Checking his tactical gear. Adjusting his gloves. Lacing up boots.

“Where are you going?” you couldn’t help but ask.

“I need to check something out, baby,” he replied softly, like he could smooth over the dread creeping into your chest. Like everything was normal. Nothing about this felt normal.

You watched him strap everything on, your eyes drifting to his trusted Requiem resting on the windowsill, waiting for him. No doubt loaded.

You followed him down the hall, his heavy boots echoing against the floor while your socked feet made barely a sound. He paused at the front door, shrugging on his jacket, grabbing the keys to his Porsche from the bowl.

The door creaked open. Rain fell steadily outside, the cool night air slipping into the house.

He hesitated for a second, half turning toward you. The dim porch light cast shadows across his face, making his expression harder to read.

You crossed your arms, trying to steady yourself. “Leon-”

“I’ll be home as soon as possible. I promise.” He didn’t fully face you, only glancing over his shoulder. “I love you,” he said softly.

Then he stepped out into the rain and shut the door behind him.

When your house finally came into view, he relaxed just a little, hand instinctively dipping into his pocket for the keys you’d given him. His fingers met nothing. He froze, then groaned under his breath.

“F-f…fuck.”

He checked again, like they might magically appear. Nope. Still empty. He must’ve left them back at the manor. Toby tilted his head toward your darkened window, a crooked smile slowly tugging at his lips.

“W-window it is…”

The drainpipe groaned quietly as he climbed, movements a bit clumsy but practiced enough. His gloves slipped once, converse soles scraping against the brick, but he hauled himself up anyway until he reached your window. He steadied himself, then lightly tapped the glass.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Inside, you stirred, lifting your head. At first, confusion crossed your face.

Brows pinched, eyes squinting, until your sleepy brain recognised the familiar messy hair and lopsided grin. Your expression softened instantly, melting into a bright, sleepy smile.

You shuffled over, wearing a cute tank top and fluffy pajama bottoms patterned with Care Bears, the soft fabric swishing as you moved. Toby’s grin widened at the sight.

The window slid open, letting in a rush of cold air.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he said, voice rough but playful, giving you his best attempt at charming, head tilted, eyes warm, and that familiar crooked smile that always gave him away.

“Suh-sorry… did I w-wake you?” he asked, not sounding sorry at all. You smiled anyway, shaking your head as you pushed yourself up on your elbows. “Nope. Just resting my eyes.”

His grin flickered, pleased, as he swung one leg over the windowsill and pulled himself inside. The moment his busted converse hit the floor he started stripping off his gear like he couldn’t stand the weight of it anymore. First the hatchet, the familiar one resting against your bedside table. His other rusty one was nowhere to be seen. Then the goggles, the muzzle, the heavy jacket. Each piece landed in a quiet pile. He toed off his shoes, peeled off the rugged jeans, and finally dragged his shirt over his head, until he was left in just his boxer shorts.

The single candle you’d left burning cast a soft glow across his skin, lighting up every scar and faint mark that mapped his body. They stretched over his shoulders, along his ribs, across his stomach. You’d seen them countless times, but the sight always made your chest tighten a little. Tonight, though, something felt different. He wasn’t tense in that restless way he usually was after a mission. He wasn’t streaked with dried blood, wasn’t smelling like smoke or metal. He looked calm. Almost tired in a softer way.

Before you could comment, he climbed onto the bed and gently but firmly nudged you backward. You let out a small laugh as you fell against the pillows. He settled himself between your legs, curling forward until his face pressed into your stomach. His arms wrapped around your waist, tightly as he was anchoring himself there.

You relaxed instantly, hands drifting to his hair. Your fingers worked slowly through the messy strands, massaging his scalp. He melted under the touch, shoulders loosening, a quiet content sound rumbling in his chest, the boy was practically purring due to your touch.

He clung to you a little tighter. His breathing evened out, warm against your shirt.

He must have had a tricky mission, or maybe something hadn’t gone quite right. Usually he came back jittery, restless, sometimes stained with blood that never belonged to him. Tonight he was different.

He took another deep breath, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he inhaled. It was almost intoxicating, the way you smelled. Fresh and sweet, like vanilla and something else he couldn't quite describe, something distinctly you. He was fucking addicted.

He let out a small hum of contentment, his grip on you tightening briefly before relaxing. "You s-smell so damn guh-good." he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing against your belly as your tank rode up.

“Go to sleep, baby.” You murmur gently.

• ╭──╯ . . . . . 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦

• ╭──╯ . . . . . 𝙉𝙎𝙁𝙒

• ╭──╯ . . . . . 𝗢𝗡𝗘-𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦

• ╭──╯ . . . . . 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦

• ╭──╯ . . . . . 𝙉𝙎𝙁𝙒

• ╭──╯ . . . . . 𝗢𝗡𝗘-𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦

• ╭──╯ . . . . . 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦

• ╭──╯ . . . . . 𝙉𝙎𝙁𝙒

• ╭──╯ . . . . . 𝗢𝗡𝗘-𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦

• ╭──╯ . . . . . 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦

• ╭──╯ . . . . . 𝙉𝙎𝙁𝙒

• ╭──╯ . . . . . 𝗢𝗡𝗘-𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦

• ╭──╯ . . . . . 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦

• ╭──╯ . . . . . 𝗢𝗡𝗘-𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦

MRS. MAGIC || Since the day you met Leon Scott Kennedy, worrying about him has been second nature. No matter how many years pass, no matter the danger he faces, all you want is for your husband to be safe. For him to come home to you.

• ╭──╯ . . . . . 𝙉𝙎𝙁𝙒

• ╭──╯ . . . . . 𝗗𝗥𝗔𝗕𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗦