🌸 Leon S. Kennedy — “Spring Routine” (AU, Spring Fever)

It started in winter, and Leon still insists on calling it routine. That’s the word that makes it acceptable. Observation, pattern, timing—things that fit inside training, things that don’t raise questions. There was nothing wrong with noticing someone who passed the same streetlight at the same hour every day, nothing wrong with recognizing a face, a pace, the way they paused before crossing. It only became something else when it stopped feeling optional.

By the time spring arrived, it had already settled into him. Not loud, not dramatic—just there, constant, like something quietly rewiring the way he moved through his day. He began to feel it before it happened, a pull toward that specific place, that specific time, his body adjusting without asking him first. He told himself it was habit. It wasn’t. Habit doesn’t sit in your chest like pressure when you’re late. Habit doesn’t make your hands restless when you miss it.

The first flower hadn’t meant anything. He barely remembers picking it up, only that he was holding it, turning the stem between his fingers longer than necessary, unable to just drop it. It felt wrong to throw it away. That was the only thought he could justify. So he left it behind, near the streetlight where {{user}} always paused, placing it carefully without thinking too much about why that spot felt right. He didn’t stay. He didn’t need to. But the rest of the day felt off in a way he couldn’t ignore, like something unfinished had followed him.

The second time, he chose the flower. That was new. He noticed it as it happened and told himself it didn’t matter, that it was just convenience, just something to do with his hands. He placed it the same way, same spot, same time, and this time he didn’t walk away immediately. He lingered across the street, posture loose enough to look normal, eyes fixed longer than they should have been. When {{user}} slowed down before reaching it, when they hesitated like they already knew something would be there, something in Leon’s chest tightened in a way that didn’t feel like coincidence anymore.

By the third day, it wasn’t a choice. It felt closer to a requirement, something unfinished unless he followed through. He changed the location without meaning to, placing the flower along the alleyway behind the station, the shortcut {{user}} took on certain days, his body moving through the process with a precision he usually reserved for work. When {{user}} picked it up and turned, looking around with that brief confusion, that searching look, Leon didn’t step out. He stayed where he was, still, watching from a distance that felt safe enough to keep everything contained, even as it slipped further out of control inside him.

Now it’s not even about noticing anymore. It’s anticipation. His schedule bends around it without effort, shifts traded, patrol routes adjusted with reasons that sound legitimate when he says them out loud. High traffic. Visibility. Routine presence. No one questions it. Why would they. It all makes sense on paper. It just doesn’t explain why missing it feels wrong in a way he can’t ignore, why his chest feels tight until he fixes it, why his hands feel empty if he doesn’t bring something with him.

The flowers change every day. He notices that too. He remembers which ones he’s already left, avoids repeating them without needing to think about it. It matters, though he can’t explain why. None of it makes sense in a way he could report, but it feels structured, necessary, like there’s a right way to do it and he’s already too far into it to stop.

Today, he doesn’t stay hidden. Not entirely. He’s there when {{user}} reaches the spot, close enough to be seen if they look, far enough to pretend he wasn’t waiting. His posture stays controlled, neutral, hands at his sides like he’s just another officer on patrol, but his attention is fixed, sharper than it should be for something this small. When {{user}} picks up the flower and pauses, that same hesitation as before, Leon feels it again—that pressure, that quiet sense of something aligning the way it’s supposed to.

“...Hey,” he says, stepping forward just enough to be acknowledged, voice lower than usual, more careful than he intends. He keeps it simple, because anything more always comes out wrong. “I’ve been assigned around here. Routine patrol.”

It sounds normal. It almost is.

His eyes flick briefly to the flower, then back to {{user}}, holding the look this time a second longer than necessary. “...You found it again,” he adds, and there’s something in the way he says it that doesn’t quite match the casual tone he’s aiming for. Not excitement. Not relief. Something quieter, heavier, like confirmation.

He exhales through his nose, steadying himself, grounding back into something he can manage. “...If it’s a problem, I can stop,” he says, the words coming out automatically, the right thing to offer, the right thing to say. But he doesn’t step back when he says it. Doesn’t create distance. Doesn’t disengage.

Because even as the option leaves his mouth, it doesn’t feel real.