October 29th, 1998 Raccoon City Police Department 6:47 AM

Leon arrived thirteen minutes early. Again.

He'd been doing that every day for the past month—showing up before his shift, making sure the patrol car was fueled and checked, coffee already brewing in the break room. Small things. Stupid things, probably. But he couldn't help himself.

Maybe today she'll notice.

The west office was quiet this early, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant gurgle of the ancient coffee maker. Leon dropped his bag at his desk—the one right next to hers, close enough that he could smell her perfume when she leaned over to grab files—and started sorting through the overnight reports.

Nothing major. A few noise complaints from the warehouse district. Someone reported seeing "strange dogs" near the Arklay Mountains again. Chief Irons wanted increased patrols around the mayor's residence for some fundraiser this weekend.

Leon flagged the items he thought she'd want to see first, organizing them by priority the way she'd taught him during their second week together. She never asked him to do this. Never expected it. But the first time he'd handed her a pre-sorted stack, something had flickered in her expression—surprise, maybe, or approval—and he'd been chasing that look ever since.

Pathetic, he thought, straightening the papers for the third time. You're absolutely pathetic, Kennedy.

One month. Thirty-one days of sitting beside her in the patrol car, learning the streets through her eyes, watching the way she handled every situation with that effortless competence that made his chest tight. Thirty-one days of trying to prove himself, to show her he wasn't just another rookie who'd wash out.

The other three partners had requested transfers within a month, David had said.

Leon was determined to be different.

---

7:15 AM

The office started filling up. Rita arrived first, making a beeline for the coffee maker with the single-minded focus of someone who hadn't slept. David wandered in around 7:20, still half-awake, mumbling something about a Raccoons game going into overtime.

"Kennedy." David dropped into his chair, eyeing Leon's already-organized desk. "You know you don't get paid extra for being early, right?"

"Just getting a head start."

"Uh-huh." David's mouth curved into something knowing. "She's not here yet, by the way. In case you were wondering."

Leon's neck heated. "I wasn't—"

"Sure you weren't." David swiveled back to his own desk, but Leon caught the smirk. "You know, you're not exactly subtle. The way you look at her when she's not paying attention? Like she hung the moon or something."

"I don't—"

"Relax, rookie. Your secret's safe with me." David pulled up something on his computer. "Besides, worse things to crush on than your partner. At least she's not married or something."

Leon opened his mouth to protest—he did not have a crush, he had professional respect for a senior officer—but the words died in his throat as footsteps echoed down the hall.

He knew those footsteps. Could pick them out from a crowd now, which was definitely normal and not at all concerning.

She appeared in the doorway.

And just like every morning for the past month, Leon forgot how to breathe for a half-second.

Her uniform was crisp, badge gleaming, hair pulled back in that practical style she favored. She moved through the room with purpose, acknowledging Rita with a nod, ignoring David entirely, and heading straight for her desk.

Right next to his.

"Morning," Leon said, and his voice only cracked a little. Progress. "I, uh—I sorted the overnight reports. Flagged the ones that looked priority."

He pushed the stack toward her, trying not to look too eager.

Please be impressed. Please.

She took the papers without comment, flipping through them with practiced efficiency. Leon watched her face for any sign of reaction—approval, appreciation, anything—but her expression remained neutral.

Say something. Tell me I did good.

The silence stretched. Leon's knee bounced under the desk.

"There's coffee," he added, because apparently he couldn't stop talking. "Fresh pot. I made it about twenty minutes ago, so it should still be—"

He clamped his mouth shut. She knew where the coffee was. She'd been working here for six years.

Smooth, Kennedy. Really smooth.

---

8:32 AM

Morning briefing was the usual mix of updates and assignments. Branagh ran through the overnight incidents, assigned patrol sectors, reminded everyone about the mayor's fundraiser security detail.

Leon sat in the back row, hyperaware of her presence two seats to his left. Close enough to see the way she took notes—quick, efficient strokes, her handwriting neat and angular. Close enough to notice the small scar on her left hand that he'd never worked up the courage to ask about.

Marvin Branagh's voice cut through his thoughts. "You've got Sector 7 today. The warehouse district. We've had reports of unusual activity near the old Umbrella facility—probably just kids messing around, but check it out."

"Yes, sir," Leon said, straightening in his seat.

He glanced at her, hoping for some acknowledgment—a nod, maybe, or that almost-smile she sometimes gave when she thought he wasn't looking.

Nothing. Her attention stayed fixed on Branagh.

It's fine. She's focused. Professional. That's why she's good at her job.

But the small, stupid part of him that had been chasing her approval for a month wilted just a little.

---

9:15 AM

The motor pool smelled like gasoline and rubber, familiar now after thirty days of patrol. Leon had already done the vehicle check—tires, lights, fuel gauge, radio—by the time she arrived, keys in hand.

"Car's ready," he said. "I checked everything. Twice."

She raised an eyebrow.

"I know you usually do the checks," he added quickly. "But I figured—I mean, I wanted to—" He exhaled. "I'm trying to be useful."

Please let me be useful. Please let me matter.

The thought surprised him with its intensity. When had impressing his partner become so important? When had her opinion started mattering more than Branagh's, more than anyone else's at the station?

Somewhere in the past month, probably. Somewhere between learning how she took her coffee (black, no sugar) and memorizing the way her voice dropped when she was serious about something.

Leon climbed into the passenger seat—she always drove, another thing he'd learned not to argue about—and buckled in. The familiar scent of the cruiser surrounded him: old leather, stale coffee, the faint trace of her perfume that never quite faded from the upholstery.

She slid into the driver's seat, adjusting the mirrors with practiced movements.

Leon pulled out the map, even though he'd memorized the route weeks ago. It gave him something to do with his hands.

"Sector 7. The warehouse district." He traced the route with his finger. "Branagh mentioned unusual activity near the old Umbrella place. Probably nothing, but..."

He trailed off, remembering what Branagh had told him on his first day. Strange cases. Stuff that doesn't quite add up.

A month in, and Leon still didn't know what that meant. But he'd seen enough odd reports cross his desk—the animal attacks, the missing hikers near Arklay, the way certain files seemed to vanish before anyone could read them properly—to know something wasn't right in Raccoon City.

She started the engine, and the cruiser rumbled to life beneath them.

Leon looked at her—really looked, taking in the sharp line of her profile, the competent grip of her hands on the wheel, the way the morning light caught the edges of her face.

God, you're beautiful.

The thought hit him like a punch to the chest. He'd been trying so hard to keep this professional, to convince himself that what he felt was just admiration, just respect for a senior officer who knew her stuff.

But sitting here, close enough to touch, about to spend another eight hours in this car with her—

He was so screwed.

"Ready," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "Let's do this."

She pulled out of the motor pool, and the city opened up before them—streets still damp from last night's rain, early morning fog clinging to the buildings, Raccoon City waking up around them like it did every day.

Leon settled into his seat, map spread across his lap, watching the familiar landmarks pass outside the window.

One month down. And despite everything—despite the awkwardness, the fumbled words, the way he couldn't seem to act normal around her—he wasn't going anywhere.

Three partners had requested transfers.

Leon was going to be different.

He glanced at her again, catching the slight furrow of concentration between her brows as she navigated traffic.

"Hey," he said, before he could stop himself. "I just wanted to say—I know I'm still learning. And I know I probably ask too many questions and talk too much and—" He took a breath. "But I'm glad you're my partner. Really glad. You've taught me more in a month than I learned in six months at the academy."

Too much. That was too much.

His cheeks burned. He looked away, fixing his gaze on the passenger window like the passing storefronts were suddenly fascinating.

"Anyway," he muttered. "That's all. Just—thanks. For putting up with me."

The cruiser turned onto Fifth Street, heading toward the warehouse district. Leon kept his eyes forward, too embarrassed to look at her, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Say something. Please say something.