Leon Kennedy

The mission had been hell. Literally.

Leon couldn't remember the last time he'd slept more than two hours straight, or when the ringing in his ears from gunfire had finally stopped. Lanshiang had been a nightmare—bioterrorism on a scale that made Raccoon City look like a warm-up act. He'd lost count of how many infected he'd put down, how many times he'd nearly died himself. Chris had been there too, just as broken, just as desperate. They'd saved the world again.

Nobody would ever know.

The debriefing had lasted four hours. Four hours of sitting in a sterile conference room under fluorescent lights that made his headache worse, answering the same questions over and over. Yes, the threat was neutralized. Yes, he'd followed protocol. No, there were no civilian casualties that could have been prevented. The words came automatically now, a script he'd memorised years ago. Hunnigan had looked at him with that expression she always wore eventually—concern mixed with resignation. The look that said you should take some time off without actually saying it, because they all knew he wouldn't.

Because what the hell would he do with time off?

His body ached in places he didn't know could ache. His shoulder throbbed where he'd been thrown into a wall by a J'avo, the impact hard enough to crack concrete. His ribs protested with every breath—probably bruised, maybe cracked. There was a cut above his eyebrow that had stopped bleeding hours ago but still stung when he moved his face. Bruises were already forming along his arms, his back, his legs. Purple and yellow and black, a map of violence written across his skin.

The images clung to the back of his eyelids every time he blinked. Screaming civilians running through streets while monsters that used to be people tore through crowds. Bodies twisted into something that wasn't human anymore, bones breaking and reforming into weapons. A woman who'd begged him for help before the C-Virus took her, transforming her into something he'd had no choice but to put down. Ada's face, always Ada's face, before she disappeared again like smoke. That knowing smile. That impossible distance between them that never seemed to close no matter how many times their paths crossed.

He should have gone home. His own apartment. His own bed. The place that technically qualified as his residence even though he was never there. The fridge was probably empty except for beer and condiments. The mail was probably piling up. The plants—if he'd ever had plants—would definitely be dead.

But his feet had carried him here instead, like they always did.

The drive from DSO headquarters had been automatic. He didn't remember getting in his car or navigating the streets. One moment he was signing paperwork, his signature barely legible from exhaustion. The next he was pulling into her apartment complex, parking in the spot he'd memorised years ago. Third row, near the stairs. Close enough to her building that he didn't have to walk far, but far enough that his government-issued vehicle wouldn't draw attention.

Twelve years. Twelve goddamn years since he'd met her. He'd been twenty-four, fresh out of his first assignment after Raccoon City, still reeling from everything that had happened. Still trying to figure out how to be a person again when he felt more like a weapon the government had pointed at bioterrorism threats. She'd been... different. Easy to talk to. Easy to be around, in a way that nothing else was.

It had started as friendship. Real, genuine friendship—something he hadn't thought he'd be capable of after Raccoon City burned everything soft out of him. But she'd somehow slipped past his defenses. Made him laugh when he'd forgotten how. Listened when he needed to talk, stayed quiet when he didn't. Never pushed. Never demanded.

And then one night, after a mission that had gone sideways, after too many drinks and too much adrenaline still burning through his system, it had become... more. Not a relationship. Neither of them had ever called it that. But something. An arrangement. An understanding.

Friends with benefits. For twelve years.

Leon was thirty-six now. Twelve years of this pattern. Of showing up at her door at odd hours—2 AM, 6 PM, dawn, dusk, whenever he got back—seeking something he couldn't name but desperately needed. Twelve years of her letting him in without question. Twelve years of keeping this thing between them in a carefully maintained box labeled uncomplicated.

Except it was complicated. It had been complicated for a long time, maybe from the beginning. But Leon had never let himself examine that too closely.

Because what was the alternative? Let himself want more? Let himself feel more? Get attached in a way that went beyond the physical, beyond the comfort of familiarity? He'd seen what happened to people in his line of work who tried to have normal relationships. They ended up alone anyway, but with more casualties. More collateral damage. More people hurt by proximity to the nightmare his life had become.

He couldn't do that to her. Wouldn't.

So he kept showing up at her door, and she kept letting him in, and they both pretended this was enough. That it didn't mean anything beyond what it was in the moment. That twelve years of this didn't add up to something, even if neither of them would say it out loud.

The walk to her door felt longer than it should have. His legs were heavy, each step requiring conscious effort. The stairwell smelled like someone had been cooking—garlic and onions, something normal and domestic that felt alien after where he'd been. A dog barked somewhere above him. A couple was arguing in Spanish behind one of the doors he passed. Regular people living regular lives, completely unaware that the world had almost ended again.

Leon stood outside her door now, hand raised to knock, hesitating for just a moment. Twelve years. How many times had he stood in this exact spot? How many missions had ended with him here, needing this, needing her, in a way that terrified him if he thought about it too long?

She never asked questions. Never demanded more than he could give. Never looked at him with pity or tried to fix him. She didn't ask where he'd been or what he'd done. Didn't try to make him talk about it. Didn't expect him to be anything other than what he was in those moments—someone who needed to forget. Someone who needed to feel something other than the weight of all those deaths on his conscience.

And God, he was grateful for that. Grateful and guilty in equal measure.

His knuckles were split—he noticed that now under the hallway's fluorescent lighting. Dried blood crusted in the creases, dark and flaking. His hands were shaking slightly, the adrenaline still working its way out of his system. He should have cleaned up first. Should have at least tried to look less like he'd crawled out of a war zone. Should have gone to his own place, showered, changed into clothes that didn't smell like gunpowder and sweat and fear.

But he needed this. Needed her. The way she grounded him. The way she let him forget, even if just for a few hours, what he was. What he'd done. What he'd keep doing until this job finally killed him. And it would kill him eventually—he'd accepted that a long time ago. It was just a question of when.

Maybe that was why he'd never let himself want more. Why he'd kept this thing between them carefully undefined for twelve years. Because he was living on borrowed time, and it wasn't fair to ask someone to wait for a man who might not come back. Who probably wouldn't come back, eventually.

Better to keep it simple. Keep it physical. Keep the emotions locked down where they couldn't hurt anyone.

Except you're not fooling anyone, a voice in the back of his head whispered. Least of all yourself.

Leon's jaw tightened. His throat felt dry. His knuckles rapped against the wood—three sharp knocks. Not too loud. Not aggressive. Just... purposeful. She'd know it was him. She always knew. After twelve years, she could probably recognise his knock in her sleep.

He waited, shoulders tense beneath his leather jacket. The jacket was worn, scuffed, with new tears he'd have to patch or just ignore. One hand braced against the doorframe, taking some of his weight because standing upright suddenly seemed like too much effort. His breath came out in a slow exhale, visible in the cool night air that had followed him inside from the parking lot.

Exhaustion pulled at his bones like gravity had doubled. But adrenaline still hummed beneath his skin, that restless jagged energy that came after missions. The kind that made sleep impossible even when his body was screaming for it. The kind that made him pace his apartment at 3 AM when he actually went there. The kind that made him dangerous to be around because he was still in combat mode, still ready to draw a weapon that wasn't there, still seeing threats in every shadow.

From inside, he heard movement. Familiar footsteps approaching. After twelve years, he knew the sound of her walking through her apartment. Knew which floorboards creaked. Knew the rhythm of her movements.

His pulse kicked up despite himself—anticipation mixed with something else. Relief, maybe. Or hope. That she'd answer. That she wouldn't turn him away. That she wouldn't take one look at him and decide this was too much, he was too much, that whatever arrangement they had wasn't worth dealing with whatever state he was in tonight.

He wouldn't blame her if she did. Twelve years was a long time to keep doing this dance. A long time to be someone's escape hatch without ever being anything more.

The lock clicked. That specific sound of a deadbolt turning, metal sliding against metal. Then the door handle. Then—

The door opened.

Leon's blue eyes met hers immediately, and for a moment he didn't say anything. Couldn't. The words stuck somewhere in his chest, tangled up with everything else he kept locked down there. Twelve years of history between them—twelve years—and he still didn't know how to explain what brought him here every time. Still didn't know how to put into words what she meant to him, because naming it would make it real, and making it real would make it dangerous.

He just stood there in her doorway, looking like exactly what he was—a man who'd seen too much and had nowhere else to go. A man who'd been running for twelve years and kept ending up in the same place.

His hair was a mess, falling across his forehead. There was dirt smudged on his cheek. The cut above his eyebrow had started bleeding again at some point, a thin line of red trailing toward his temple. His jacket was zipped halfway, revealing the tactical shirt underneath, still damp with sweat. He probably looked like hell. He definitely felt like it.

But he was here.

Because here was the only place that made sense when nothing else did. Because she was the only thing that felt real when everything else felt like a nightmare he couldn't wake up from. Because for reasons he didn't understand and didn't question—couldn't question, not after twelve years—she let him in. Every time. Without judgment. Without expectations.

Without asking for the one thing he couldn't give her.

Leon's hand was still braced against her doorframe. His fingers pressed into the wood, knuckles white with tension he couldn't quite release. His breathing was controlled but heavy, each inhale and exhale deliberate. His eyes searched hers, looking for... what? Permission? Understanding? Forgiveness for showing up like this again, for always showing up like this, for twelve years of taking what she offered without ever offering more in return?

He didn't know anymore.

"Hey," he finally managed, his voice rougher than he intended. Hoarse from shouting orders over gunfire, from breathing in smoke and chemical fumes, from not speaking to anyone who mattered in days. "I know it's late. I just..."