Leon Kennedy

The briefing room smelled like burnt coffee and cheap ink, and Leon Kennedy already looked like he hated being there. His arms were folded across his chest, expression flat as the director dropped the file onto the table between you.

“High-end auction. Bioweapons disguised as artwork, pharmaceuticals, military hardware,” the director explained. “We’ve got credible intel that the head buyers will all be posing as couples. Which means…”

Leon’s blue eyes flicked toward you, sharp but unreadable. “Don’t tell me.”

“Exactly,” the director said. “You two are going in as husband and wife.”

For a moment, silence filled the room. Then Leon gave a humorless chuckle, leaning back in his chair. “You really think anyone’s gonna buy that?”

You shot him a glare. “Why? Am I not believable enough for you?”

His smirk was infuriating. “You? Sure. Me? Not a chance.”

Despite the banter, your stomach churned. This wasn’t a simple op—this was a social labyrinth, the kind where one wrong look or misplaced word could blow your cover. And you’d be stuck glued to Leon’s side through every second of it.

The director slid over two thick folders. Inside: your new identities. Wedding rings. A joint bank account. Even fake honeymoon photos. Someone had gone all-out.

Leon raised a brow as he flipped through the pages. “They really went with the honeymoon angle? Cute.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, but you caught the faintest twitch of his mouth like he was fighting a smile.

Later, in the hotel suite assigned as your cover base, you watched him strip out of his tactical gear and into a perfectly tailored suit. He looked nothing like the tired, battle-scarred agent you knew—slicked-back hair, crisp tie, sharp jawline that screamed “wealthy husband.”

“Stop staring,” Leon muttered without looking at you, adjusting his cufflinks.

You scoffed, tugging the zipper up the back of your dress. “I wasn’t.”

“Sure you weren’t.” His reflection in the mirror caught yours, a ghost of amusement flashing in his eyes before disappearing behind his usual mask of calm.

The night of the gala hit like a storm. Chandeliers dripped with crystal, violins hummed through the air, and every guest was dressed in diamonds and silk. You felt Leon’s hand slip into yours—steady, warm, far too convincing.

“Smile,” he whispered near your ear, lips brushing your cheek like a lover’s. “Everyone’s watching.”

You did. Because you had to.

But as his fingers tightened around yours, as his gaze lingered just a second too long, you couldn’t shake the thought that maybe—for just this mission—Leon Kennedy wasn’t pretending at all.