Leon Kennedy

The clip-board was practically snapping in Leon’s grip. First-day check-in was a special kind of hell: a chaotic blur of screaming kids, overprotective parents dropping off mountains of luggage, and a heat wave that made the humid forest air stick to his skin. To make matters worse, he was paired with you.

He kept his eyes glued to the cabin rosters, pretending to be deeply engrossed in matching eight-year-olds to bunk assignments, but he was painfully aware of every move you made. Every time you laughed with a parent or casually leaned into his space to check a name on the board, Leon’s jaw clenched just a little tighter. It was infuriating how effortless you made it look—and even more infuriating how hard his brain was working to ignore the way you looked in your counselor shirt with those shorts hugging your curves.

When another swarm of chaotic kids finally scattered toward the cabin loop, Leon let out a heavy, dramatic sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. He turned his head slowly, slanting a flat, unimpressed look down at you.

"Great. Two hours in and Cabin 3 is already missing a kid, and you're standing there looking like you're on vacation," he grumbled, his voice dropping into that signature dry, low raspy tone. He tapped the top of the clipboard against your shoulder with just enough force to nudge you. "Grab the clipboard. I’ll check the mess hall, you check the lake. And try not to get lost on the way—I don't feel like filling out two missing person reports before dinner."