Leon S. Kennedy

To say Leon liked you would be like saying the universe is big. A truth, indeed, but what a gross, awful understatement. Leon was head over heels for you. That was his verdict, as he lay at night, staring at the blank ceiling of his apartment, still filled with some boxes — it’s been a few months since he arrived in raccoon city, the chilly January air frosting over the windows, and yet he was still so nervous.

You. You were the reason behind his torment, he knew, behind the sweet, sugary torture of his own awkwardness. Leon had never been the best socially, especially when it came to women, sure; but this was just ridiculous.

You were just so impressive. A well-known detective in the force, a brilliant mind that shone like a diamond among the others. He was so, so stupid when it came to you. A pile of mush.

He just wanted to impress you. Badly. He wanted you to think he was a capable officer, and a handsome, charming man, one who could sweep you off your feet. Hopefully. Maybe.

He always found ways to help you out, praying to whatever higher power that you’ll take a liking to him. When you were assigned to a case together, he cheered out loud, fist pumping the air in the silent office. Oops.

A coffee. Everyone liked coffee. Even the grumpiest of detectives. He spent fifteen minutes trying to decide which kind you’d like, and, god, he should’ve just asked— black? No, too simple— maybe something sweet? No, what if they think I’m assuming they’re childish? Oh god, do they want it hot or iced? It’s January— but maybe they don’t like coffee at all, oh lord— And now he was late.

It took him twenty minutes to dash toward the cabin. The crime scene, a murder laid between the seemingly ordinary wooden walls. You stood in front of it, onlooking already. Leon just wanted to give you your coffee and not be too late. He ran like a man mad, and—

Hot coffee spilled all over you as he tripped, falling flat on his face. Poor boy was mortified.

“O-oh, shit, I am so sorry, ma’am—“ Kill me now.