Leon Kennedy

Leon was, by all accounts, a man who had his shit together.

Twenty-two years old. Junior at Raccoon City University, double majoring in Criminal Justice and Political Science because apparently he hated himself. Varsity soccer until a knee injury benched him sophomore year. Now he spent his free time at the campus gym, maintaining the kind of physique that turned heads in lecture halls and got him free drinks at every bar within a five-mile radius of campus.

He was charming. Effortlessly so—the kind of charm that felt less like a skill and more like a character flaw. The kind that had earned him a reputation he wasn't particularly proud of but had never bothered to shake.

Player. Heartbreaker. The guy you hook up with but don't date.

Fair assessments, honestly. Leon had never pretended to be anything else. College was supposed to be about freedom, exploration, figuring out who you were without the weight of commitment dragging you down. At least, that's what he told himself every time he left someone's apartment before sunrise, shoes in hand, promising to text later and never quite getting around to it.

He wasn't cruel about it. He was upfront—always. No promises, no expectations, no hard feelings. Most people appreciated the honesty. Some didn't. Either way, Leon had built himself a comfortable little bubble of casual encounters and surface-level connections that asked nothing of him beyond a good time.

It worked. It was easy.

And then there was her.

Leon had met Callum during freshman orientation—two guys who happened to be assigned neighboring dorm rooms and bonded over a shared hatred of their RA and a mutual appreciation for shitty beer. By the end of the first semester, they were inseparable. By sophomore year, they'd gotten an apartment together off-campus. Now, halfway through junior year, Leon couldn't imagine his college experience without the guy.

Callum was the closest thing Leon had to a brother. Family, in every way that mattered.

Which made the whole hopelessly, pathetically, devastatingly attracted to his little sister thing... complicated.

She was two years younger. A freshman when Leon first met her, tagging along to help Callum move into the dorms, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and wearing a t-shirt from some band Leon had never heard of. She'd barely looked at him that day—too busy making fun of Callum's terrible taste in posters and stealing the aux cord to play something that wasn't classic rock, thank you very much.

Leon remembered thinking she was cute. In an off-limits, don't-even-think-about-it, that's your best friend's baby sister kind of way.

He didn't think about it.

For a while.

The problem with her was that she didn't stay a distant figure in Leon's periphery. She was around. Constantly. Because Callum was protective in that overbearing, slightly obnoxious way older siblings tended to be, which meant she ended up at their apartment more often than not—studying at the kitchen table, crashing on the couch after late-night movie marathons, raiding their fridge like she paid rent.

Leon told himself it didn't bother him.

It didn't.

What bothered him was the way he started noticing things.

Like how she chewed on the end of her pen when she was concentrating, brow furrowed in a way that was somehow both endearing and distracting as hell. How she laughed with her whole body, head thrown back, completely unselfconscious. How she argued with Callum about everything and nothing, quick-witted and sharp-tongued in a way that made Leon's chest feel tight.

How she looked at him sometimes—just a flicker, a half-second of eye contact across the room—before glancing away like she hadn't meant to look at all.

How her shorts rode up when she sat cross-legged on the couch. How her tank tops showed just enough collarbone to drive him insane. How she stretched in the morning when she stayed over, arms above her head, shirt lifting to reveal a sliver of skin that made his mouth go dry.

He noticed.

He noticed, and he hated himself for it.

Because Leon knew the rules. Callum had made them explicitly clear one night during sophomore year, drunk on cheap whiskey and uncharacteristically serious.

"You're my best friend, man. I mean that. But if you ever—and I mean EVER—try anything with my sister, I will end you. We clear?"

Leon had laughed it off at the time. "Dude, relax. She's practically a kid."

She wasn't, though. Not really. Not anymore.

And the older she got, the harder it became to pretend he didn't see her as anything other than Callum's off-limits little sister. Harder to ignore the way his body reacted to her presence. Harder to pretend he didn't lie awake at night thinking about the curve of her waist, the fullness of her lips, the way she'd feel pressed against him.

Leon was no stranger to wanting people. He'd wanted plenty of women—had them, too, without much effort. But this was different. This was a constant, gnawing ache that lived in his chest and migrated south every time she walked into a room.

He'd jerked off to the thought of her more times than he could count.

The first time, he'd told himself it was an accident. He'd been in the shower, mind wandering, and suddenly she was there—in his head, under him, saying his name in a breathy voice he'd never actually heard but could imagine perfectly. He'd come so hard his vision went white, and afterward he'd stood under the spray for ten minutes, staring at the tile, feeling like the worst person alive.

She's Callum's sister. She's fucking off-limits.

He told himself it wouldn't happen again.

It happened again. And again. And again.

Late nights in his bedroom, hand wrapped around his cock, biting back groans because the walls were thin and Callum's room was right next door. Thinking about her mouth. Her hands. The sounds she'd make if he touched her the way he wanted to. What her face would look like when she came apart underneath him.

Fucked up. This is so fucked up.

But he couldn't stop. His body didn't care about loyalty or friendship or the very real possibility that Callum would literally murder him if he knew the filthy thoughts Leon had about his baby sister. His body just wanted, with a desperation that bordered on pathological.

The worst part was that it wasn't just physical. If it were just physical, he could fuck someone else and get it out of his system. He'd tried that—gone home with a pretty girl from his Poli Sci class who had similar features, hoping proximity would scratch the itch.

It didn't work.

Because it wasn't just about how she looked. It was about her. Her laugh. Her wit. The way she rolled her eyes at his jokes but smiled anyway. The way she called him on his bullshit when no one else did. The way she made him want to be better, do better, be someone worth wanting back.

Leon was in love with her.

And he was also unbearably, shamefully, constantly horny for her.

The combination was destroying him from the inside out.

Junior year was the worst.

She had transferred to RCU—something about wanting to be closer to family, though Leon suspected it had more to do with escaping their overbearing parents than any real desire to hang out with Callum. Either way, she was here now. On the same campus. In the same social circles. At the same parties Leon frequented, looking like that in dresses that made his brain short-circuit.

He'd seen her at a frat party two weeks into the semester, wearing a black dress that hugged every curve, dancing with some guy Leon didn't recognize. He'd had to leave. Actually had to physically remove himself from the building because the jealousy was so visceral it made him nauseous, and the arousal that followed—imagining himself in that guy's place, hands on her hips, her body grinding against his—was so overwhelming he'd gone straight home and fucked his fist in the shower until his legs shook.

Pathetic. You're fucking pathetic, Kennedy.

He started avoiding her after that.

Not obviously—Leon was too smooth for that. But he made excuses to leave when she showed up at the apartment. Kept conversations short and surface-level. Stopped making the jokes that used to make her laugh, because her laugh did something dangerous to his self-control and he couldn't afford to slip.

He couldn't afford to look at her too long, either. Couldn't let his eyes linger on the way her jeans fit or the strip of skin that showed when she reached for something on a high shelf. Couldn't think about the fact that she slept in the room right next to his when she stayed over, separated by nothing but drywall and his rapidly deteriorating willpower.

He definitely couldn't think about the sounds she might make. Whether she was quiet or loud. Whether she touched herself at night, and if she did, who she thought about.

Stop. Fucking stop.

Callum didn't notice Leon's internal crisis. Too wrapped up in his own shit—classes, his on-again-off-again girlfriend, the intramural basketball league he'd joined on a whim.

She noticed, though.

Leon could tell by the way she looked at him sometimes—confused, maybe a little hurt. Like she was trying to figure out what she'd done wrong.

Nothing, he wanted to say. You didn't do anything. I'm just a fucking coward who can't handle being in the same room as you without getting hard. Can't look at you without imagining what you'd taste like. Can't hear your voice without wondering what you'd sound like moaning my name.

He didn't say that.

He didn't say anything.

---

The apartment smelled like pizza and beer—the universal cologne of college masculinity. Some action movie was playing on the TV, all explosions and one-liners that no one was really paying attention to. Callum had passed out in the recliner about an hour ago, mouth hanging open, snoring loud enough to rival the movie's soundtrack.

Leon was on the couch.

She was on the other end.

And the space between them felt like a minefield.

Don't look at her. Don't fucking look at her.

He looked anyway.

She was curled up against the armrest, legs tucked beneath her, phone in hand. The TV's flickering light played across her features—the slope of her nose, the curve of her lips, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks when she glanced down at her screen.

She was wearing his hoodie.

His hoodie. The gray one with the RCU logo on the chest, the one he'd left here weeks ago and forgotten about. It was too big on her—sleeves hanging past her wrists, hem reaching mid-thigh—and something about seeing her in it made Leon's stomach clench.

No. Not just his stomach.

Fuck.

Heat pooled low in his gut, sudden and sharp. His cock twitched in his jeans—a Pavlovian response he had zero control over at this point. Because she was wearing his clothes. His scent was on her skin. And his brain, his traitorous fucking brain, immediately supplied an image of her wearing nothing but that hoodie, bare legs tangled in his sheets, looking up at him with those eyes while he—

Stop. Stop stop stop.

Leon shifted on the couch, adjusting his position as subtly as possible to hide the growing problem in his pants. His jaw clenched. His fingers dug into his thigh.

She probably doesn't even know it's mine, he told himself. She probably just grabbed whatever was lying around.

That didn't make it better.

If anything, it made it worse. Because now he was thinking about her wearing his clothes on purpose. Thinking about what it would be like to see her in his shirts, his jackets, his jersey. Thinking about peeling those clothes off her, slowly, piece by piece, until there was nothing between them but skin and heat and years of pent-up wanting.

Stop. Fucking stop.

Leon grabbed his beer from the coffee table just to have something to do with his hands. The bottle was warm and nearly empty, but he took a sip anyway, the flat liquid doing nothing to cool the heat crawling up his neck—or the heat settling much, much lower.

Callum snored again. Loud. Obnoxious.

Leon almost laughed. Almost. Because here he was, sitting three feet away from the girl he'd been jerking off to for three goddamn years, half-hard and desperate, and Callum was right there. Unconscious, sure, but still. A reminder of exactly why Leon couldn't—wouldn't—shouldn't—do anything about the way his heart was hammering against his ribs or the way his cock was straining against his zipper.

Get it together, Kennedy.

He set the beer down. Cleared his throat. Willed his body to calm the fuck down.

"Your brother's out cold," he said, keeping his voice low. Casual. The same tone he used when he was trying very hard to pretend everything was fine and he wasn't thinking about bending her over the arm of this couch. "Lightweight."

The word hung in the air between them, swallowed by the sound of gunfire from the TV.

Leon glanced at the recliner again, watching the slow rise and fall of Callum's chest. Dead to the world. Probably wouldn't wake up until morning, knowing him.

Which meant Leon was alone with her.

Technically alone.

The realization settled in his gut like a stone—heavy and hot and dangerous. His pulse kicked up. His palms felt damp. Every nerve in his body was suddenly, acutely aware of how close she was. How easy it would be to reach over and touch her. Pull her into his lap. Find out if her lips were as soft as they looked.

Don't. Don't you fucking dare.

He shifted on the couch, turning slightly to face her more fully. The movement was casual—practiced. The kind of easy, confident body language that had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count. But there was something underneath it now. Something that felt a lot like nerves, which was ridiculous, because Leon Kennedy didn't get nervous.

Except apparently he did. Around her. Every single time.

His eyes dropped to the hoodie she was wearing. His hoodie. The fabric that had touched his skin now touching hers. Absorbing her warmth, her scent. He'd never be able to wear it again without thinking about this moment. Without thinking about her.

Fuck, I'm going to have to jerk off the second she leaves.

A crooked smile tugged at his lips despite himself—or maybe because of himself, because apparently his coping mechanism for crippling arousal was deflection through flirtation.

"So," he started, and immediately wanted to kick himself because he had no idea where that sentence was going. His brain scrambled for something—anything—to fill the silence that wasn't I've been in love with you for three years and I'm losing my goddamn mind or do you have any idea how many times I've come with your name on my lips?

His eyes traced the neckline of the hoodie—his hoodie—where it gaped slightly, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone. He swallowed hard.

"You steal all your brother's friends' clothes," he asked, gesturing vaguely at the oversized fabric swallowing her frame, "or am I just special?"