leon kennedy

Your apartment had become unbearably quiet lately.

Not because it was empty—though some nights it felt that way—but because the silence between you and Leon seemed to grow heavier with every passing week. There was a time when coming home meant hearing him ramble about something disgusting he'd encountered during a mission, or feeling his arms wrap around your waist while you cooked dinner. Now, more often than not, you found yourself sitting alone for hours, staring at the clock and wondering whether he'd make it home before you fell asleep.

When you first started seeing Leon, you knew his job would never be easy. In fact, he had reminded you countless times and you still saw it through. Leon's life had always revolved around danger, impossible situations, and responsibilities that most people couldn't even imagine. There would be nights spent worrying about him and weeks where missions kept him away longer than expected. It wasn't ideal, but you loved him enough to accept that reality. Besides, back then, Leon always made an effort to remind you that no matter where he was, you mattered.

Lately, that effort had begun to disappear.

The change wasn't sudden enough to pinpoint. It happened gradually, buried beneath countless excuses and promises that neither of you questioned at first. A canceled date here. A forgotten anniversary dinner there. Phone calls and text-message updates that became shorter, less frequent. When he came home, he'd immediately reach for a beer in the fridge, not bothering to have a conversation with you. Every time you tried to explain how neglected you felt, Leon would apologize and promise to do better once things settled down, but he never seemed to try hard enough.

Every completed assignment seemed to lead directly into another. Every mission report turned into more paperwork, more travel, more responsibilities. Leon was constantly chasing the next crisis, and somewhere along the way, your relationship had stopped feeling like a priority. You knew he wasn't doing it maliciously. If anything, that made it worse. He wasn't choosing someone else over you—he was choosing work, guilt, and obligations that never seemed to end. You knew he was struggling with his trauma; Raccoon City back in 1998, being coerced into life-threatening missions under the government, surviving multiple bio-terrorist attacks, and watching his comrades die and turn into undead. He chose alcohol and distancing himself over seeking help and comfort, even from his beloved.

An argument three months ago was the first time you genuinely wondered if something had broken between you.

Leon had promised he'd be home for dinner. It wasn't a special occasion, nor had you planned anything extravagant. You simply wanted an evening together without interruptions. After weeks of missed plans and canceled nights, he'd looked you in the eye and promised he'd be there. You spent the afternoon preparing everything, only to watch the hours slip by while your phone remained silent. When he finally called, he was drunk. He wasn't just running late. He wasn't even trying to keep his promise to you. He had a rough day at work, headed to the bar afterwards and drank his sorrows away.

The fight that followed lasted nearly an hour. You remembered asking why he kept making promises he wouldn't even try to keep. Leon insisted he simply forgot. You accused him of always putting work first. He argued that people depended on him. You went back and forth for awhile, harsh comments were made and tears were shed. Neither of you felt heard by the time the conversation ended.

After that, the tension became impossible to ignore. Leon had always enjoyed a drink after particularly difficult assignments, and considering everything he'd been through, you couldn't blame him for wanting a way to unwind. But as the months passed, the bottles began appearing more frequently. Some evenings you'd find him sitting alone in the dark with a glass in hand, lost in thoughts or just asleep. Other nights he'd come home already smelling like whiskey, exhausted and emotionally distant before the conversation even began.

Whenever you tried to talk about it, he became defensive. One argument still lingered clearly in your memory. You'd finally asked him whether he was actually coping with his trauma or simply drowning it. Leon's expression had hardened immediately. He claimed he had everything under control. You told him that someone with things under control didn't need a bottle every night just to sleep. For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say something hurtful. Instead, he'd grabbed his jacket and walked out of the apartment and he didn't return until the next morning.

You knew deep down that the Leon you fell in love with was still there somewhere beneath the exhaustion, guilt, and trauma. You caught glimpses of him occasionally—during rare quiet mornings, when he'd absentmindedly pull you closer in bed, or when he thought you weren't paying attention and looked at you with the same affection he always had. Those moments reminded you that he still loved you. The problem was that love no longer seemed enough to bridge the gap growing between you.

Leon carried decades of pain that he refused to confront. Every mission left behind another scar, another memory he couldn't forget, another reason to throw himself deeper into work. Instead of allowing himself to process any of it, he kept moving forward, convincing himself that staying busy was easier than stopping long enough to feel the weight of everything he'd survived. And unfortunately, you were beginning to feel the consequences of that choice.

Neither of you wanted to end the relationship. Despite the arguments, despite the disappointment, despite the growing resentment, you still loved each other deeply. Yet every conversation seemed to circle back to the same unresolved issues. Leon promised to change. You wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe himself. But the cycle always repeated.

Tonight felt no different: The apartment remained dimly lit as the hours crawled past midnight. Your dinner sat untouched on the table, long since gone cold. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows while you waited in the silence that had become all too familiar. Then, finally, you heard the sound of keys rattling against the front door. A moment later, the lock clicked open.

Leon was home, stumbling inside, clearly drunk. When he finally noticed you, waiting and disappointment covered on your face, he sighed.

"Thought I told you to stop waiting up for me.."