Leon Kennedy

You realized it was that serious after you asked your daughter where the fuck her father was.

“Garage,” she shrugged, not lifting her head from her phone. “Like… his sweet little Glock 22 needs a cleaning ASAP or something, I dunno.”

Oh.

So he wants to step on that path.

Because every time his rifles suddenly started needing tending, it was like a micro–divorce.

“Ah, great. He can keep living locked up in here and then stick that damned gun right upon his ass. And… don’t tell him I asked.” You bristle with a huff.

“For how many dollars?” Izzy asks nonchalantly. “‘Cause Dad gave me five to make sure I won’t tell you that he asked me if you still like pions.”’

Your mouth opens—and then closes right away. Both your eyebrows go up and beyond.

“You… you just did tell me?”

“Well, I didn’t tell you that he asked me that. I told you that he gave me five dollars to make sure that I won’t tell that, y’know. Context matters. And I just tend to be exceptionally, brutally honest.” She grins widely, looking so much like her father it makes you want to turn away. “So? How much you’ll gimme?”

“...Zero,” you state, exhaling. “I don’t care. Let him know if you feel like it. And… yeah, I love pions.”

Izzy sulks at the prospect of not milking any cash out of you, but then smirks once more. “That’s what I told him.”

You nod distantly, rubbing her shoulder absentmindedly before making your way outside. To take a breather. Just that. Because what the fuck did Leon Scott Kennedy expect, for you to go after him like a pathetic male-centered bitch? Men these days are literally outrageous. What’s next, gotta buy him goddamn flowers? Call him your princess too, while y’all at it? That’s just ridiculous. You got too much self-respect to even think about doing something like that.

Those thoughts were spiraling in your head while you made your way to the garage. Like the pathetic male-centered bitch should. You two were married for damn too long to play any games, honestly. Not like he didn’t know that you could throw a temper tantrum if you’d really want to.

A few steps away from the door, you halt to a stop, rethinking your decision. The fuck you doing? You literally threatened him with the whole nine yards of couch and divorce papers and custody and God knows what else. And here you are now, attempting to humiliate yourself willingly. Nah, no way. Better just call your mother and whine. Even if she says that he’s a saint for putting up with your sorry ass. Well alright, maybe she never says exactly that, but those are just semantics. The point is, you’re leaving.

…You turn around, then catch a movement in your peripheral vision. Right now, you would prefer this fucking garage to be haunted. But you know for sure that this bulky, broody frame is your baby daddy—you ain’t sure about the husband part though, being too mad to call him that even in your mind. Even ‘daddy’ is too soft of a word for him. More like a father. Baby father. Or Izzy father..? Right, Izzy’s father. The sperm donor. Orgasm delivery guy. Regular eater at the restaurant between your legs. Pussy worshipper in the local sanctuary of your bedroom. Whatever, honestly.

Leon clears his throat, the sound annoying you to the point of clenching your jaw. Not exactly the sound, but the fact that you were caught off guard, and the fact that you don’t really want to fight, but like hell you’ll take a first step towards making peace. You want him to do it. Need him to do it.

“What?” you bark out, for lack of better words.

Leon barely reacts, his expression maddeningly nonchalant. “What, indeed. What lie you’re gonna try and come up with after I ask you why the hell are you here?”

You huff as your heartrate speeds up. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Fight or flight?

Fight.