It's sad to see how many truly talented authors worry that their fan fiction, which they write for free, isn't good enough or doesn't fit the canon, while Ryan Condal gets paid for turning someone else's work into a puddle of vomit.
All her life, Rhaenyra has been arrogant, hypocritical, spoiled, deceitful, narcissistic, and, most importantly, stupid. And Corlys, seeing all this, hoped for her gratitude? Her husband is a pedophile and a child murderer, and her closest advisor is a pimp and a prostitute . What did you expect from her, man?
Daemon "child murderer" Targaryen knighting the dragonseeds and charging them to protect the innocent and weak- thank hotd for this wonderful new addition to my "the illusion of knighthood and chivalery" collection
rhaenyra placed a blockade over the city, starved it's entire population to turn them against the greens , sent food under her banner to make the people love her, took the throne, realized she has to feed the people she starved, stole food from nobles, was called out for her bs and had the nerve to act shocked.
People who write stories about Leon Kennedy being a rapist, stalker, abuser, pedophile, and other disgusting things, what's wrong with you? Have you even played a single game with him?
If you are a writer, then you should not be afraid that someone will steal your work, but that they will buy the film rights from you and appoint Ryan Condal as a screenwriter and producer, and you will have to helplessly watch as your work is brutally raped.
summary : just because of a chocolate bar in the grocery store and a little girl, leon met his greatest loves.
tags : post ID!leon, single mom, tooth rotting fluff, reader is 31 and leon is 29ish, inaccurate toddler language, strangers to lovers??? or strangers to friends to lover, girl dad leon
notes : i finished this last week but it took me awhile to get back on this to edit everything, sorry š enjoy tho and thank you for reading!
masterlist : 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
time seemingly stopped for leon as his eyes stayed fixed on the little girl standing a few feet away from him, bouncing excitedly on her tiptoes while clutching a comically oversized pizza box in her hands. her entire face had lit up the second she saw him moments ago, pure excitement shining in her eyes and his name echoed brightly through the hallway when she yelled it.
from behind her, you were there standing too. still just as beautiful as the last time he saw you which was only few days ago to be honest and leon had been in a short mission for days but you remained a constant thought in the back of his mind.
more often than he cared to admit, which is absurd cause he just met you and lilah.
and now here you are again, standing in front of him like nothing had changed which nothing really considering its only been a few days ever since he met you again in this very same hallway.
but what really caught him off guard was lilah. the kind of happiness written all over her face wasnāt something leon was used to receiving. it was the sort of excitement that you can only really see in movies, where a child looked at someone like they were the best thing theyād seen all day.
full of warmth and full of joy, like simply seeing him had made her evening better.
and honestly? leon couldnāt remember the last time anyone had looked at him like that.
sure, claire and sherry were always happy to see him, and he cared deeply for both the of them, theybe been through everything in this wretched world butĀ somehow this felt different.
simpler and softer like a breath of fresh air slipping into spaces inside him he hadnāt realized that is there but at the same time, something heavier settled quietly in his chest because did he even deserve this kind of enthusiasm from her?
if you and lilah truly knew what his life looked like, like what he does for a living, the blood, the violence and the things that followed him everywhere.
would you still smile at him like this?
or would you avoid him entirely once you realized what kind of man stood in front of you?
"eon!!! youre here". lilah exclaimed as he found himself walking towards them. the little girl then looked up towards you and you took the pizza box cause she might let go of it because of excitement. "he's here".
you cant help but smile at the joy in lilah's face. "surprise, baby".
lilah widened her eyes before whipping her head towards leon, her hair moving frantically with her. she looked at him like he hung the stars and eyes full of wonder.
"are we.... neighbows?". lilah asked, her voice full of hope and eyes still full wide.
leon chuckled under his breath as he crouched down to level with her and now theyre face to face properly. he then pointed at the door behind him causing lilah to gasp again.
"i live here". leon nodded before he suddenly got his arms full of a bouncing kid. he looked at you in surprised and in unsureness cause he was shocked and doesnt really know what to do.
you just smiled at him. you watched how he fumbled his arms and loosened his hold on his duffle bag before putting his arms around lilah with small hesitation.
it is such a cute sight, his face looks so caught off guard and he looks so unsure on what to do with lilah on his arms.
but as you look at him, you noticed a white patch on his shoulders, just peeking behind his shirt. you squinted your eyes a little bit and immediately looked at his face again. there it was, a faint purple mark on the side of his left cheek. its really not noticeable csuse it looks like its fading now but its still there, along with a faint scratch on the side his forehead.
you frowned, a slight pang on your chest when you also noticed the small wounds on his knuckles. you dont know what he does and what his job is but you felt a bit of pity and sadness for him. he looks so tired and wounded as you give him another look.
its just a sudden feeling that you couldnt comprehend so you looked away for a moment.
"we gonna be fwiends for ever". lilah giggled on his neck before she pulled away, her little hands still on his shoulders. "we have fwood, do you wanna eat?".
he widened his eyes at the invitation and he smiled softly before shook his head to decline the invitation, but before he could say something, you cut him off.
"we bought quite a lot, so uhm if you want". you said as you grip the pizza box in your hand while lilah just kept looking at leon's face with a soft smile. "you can eat dinner with us".
this is probably a bad idea but you just cant help it. he looks miserable, now that you have noticed his wounds. you observe how his eyes looks tired when he looked at you after you told him that its okay to eat dinner with you guys.
"iā... i dont want to impose". leon said, his voice breathy and you could really tell that there's a bit of tiredness in them.
"you wont, trust me". you assured him before glancing at lilah who is looking expectantly at him.
he then looked back at the little girl in his arms, she's so small and soft, still so pure in this kind of world. he doesnt want to ruin her perception of the world, cause lilah looks like the kind of person who looks at the world so beautifully.
when its not.
she's so kind and good.
but maybe he should let himself indulge in this serenity that you and lilah are showing him.
maybe this wont backfire on him.
"i'll go change first into something more comfortable, is that okay?". leon softly asked lilah who nodded. he smiled then slowly stood up, wincing a little bit as his ribs screamed at him.
you noticed it but you didnt mention anything.
"come here, baby. lets ready the table". you called at lilah who didnt seem to want to let go of leon.
you then finally opened your door and pushed it open while waiting for lilah who keeps waving at leon with a grin.
"dont eat all of the food, okay?". leon teased the little girl who just stuck her tongue out at him before running inside the apartment.
"we'll wait for you, dont worry". you chuckled at leon who just rubbed a hand behind his neck.
"thank you". he softly said which you replied with a smile.
he deserves a good night.
both of you then went inside your respective apartment to get ready for dinner. you called out to lilah to start getting ready for a quick bath while you delivered the box of pizza in the living room table.
tonight calls for a dinner in the living room considering you have a guest. you thought that maybe you guys should watch a movie too so before you could set up anything, you followed lilah first in your room.
you looked at her in amusement when you found her already naked in the bathroom and is waiting for you patiently.
"arent you a little excited?". you tease her after putting your bag in your small vanity and went to tie your hair up.
"leon". she answered a simple response causing you to chuckle under her breath.
its amazing how attached she is to the man who she just met a few days ago.
after that, you focused on helping lilah wash up for the night while she happily sang under the shower. the bathroom is then filled with her laughter and dramatic little performances, making you laugh along as you carefully washed her hair. every now and then, sheād suddenly switch songs halfway through or make up her own lyrics entirely, clearly entertained by herself.
soon enough, you found yourself washing up beside her too. between the singing, lilah then started telling you everything she did with mrs. caske throughout the day, jumping from one story to another without pause.
you listened attentively while washing up, you hummed along and occasionally asking questions to keep her entertained.
her little voice echoed warmly around the bathroom as she rambled happily, completely energized despite the long day.
once the both of you were clean and finished showering, you wrapped lilah up and yourself in a towel before heading back to the bedroom together and to dress yourselves in comfortable clothes for the night.
"so soft". lilah giggled loudly as she hugged herself to feel the softness of her minnie mouse pajamas.
she then went and hugged your pajama covered legs. you laughed softly before hefting her up in your arms and proceeded to walk out of the room to ready your dinner.
both of you worked in tandem as you guys took some utensils, plates and mugs for the drinks ; and put it on the living room table. you then opened your fridge to take out some left over pasta that you made yesterday night. you'll eat it again cause its still good anyways.
"careful". you told lilah when you handed her a carton of juice.
lilah nodded as she gripped it tight on her hands and carefully moved to the living room to put the juice on the table. after watching her successfully put down the pitcher, you went to the stove to reheat the pasta with some butter.
your stomach grumbled lowly when the aroma of the butter hits your senses, everything is just so good with butter.
as you reheat the pasta and lilah entertaining herself in the living room, you both finally heard a knock on your door causing the little girl to snap her head up and look at the door.
you then put the finished pasta quickly on a big bowl and brought it on the living room before you went to the door with lilah following you like a duckling.
she started singing leon's name causing you glance at her in amusement. you unlocked the door then opened it softly to finally see leon in a more comfortable clothes.
it kinda looks illegal to look this good in just black sweatpants and a white tshirt. you gulped unknowingly when you glanced at his arms, its big alright? it looks like a thing to be just held.
"leon". lilah jumped with her hands in the air.
the man gave you a small smile before he looked down at lilah and feign a shock expression at her minnie mouse pajamas.
"look at you, looking so good". he praised causing lilah to beam up at him.
"come on, come on". lilah went forward to grab his hand while giggling.
leon looked at you again as the little girl just grabbed and drag him inside. you just shrug at him before closing the door behind them.
you followed them inside while lilah just continued babbling away to leon who keeps nodding and eyes darting from place to place to observe the surroundings.
your place is quite similiar to his too but the major difference that he noticed is that its so filled in and it smells good. leon thought that it might be coming from the flowers all around the room. he could see vases of flowers and plants in some of the tables, one at the middle of kitchen table, and on by the windows.
theyre blooming and just so beautiful.
lilah made him sit on the couch and his eyes went to the table that is filled with food. his stomach growled in hunger and he felt shy all of the sudden while you just laugh quietly.
"uh oh". lilah said as she tilted her head at leon before looking at the table and grabbed a plate. "les eat".
you then opened the pizza box and all three of you looked at it in awe. its looks so good and juicy, the smell even covered the whole apartment. its literally glistening in the box too while the oil is staining the surfaces.
"that looks good". leon stated as he felt his mouth water at the sight of it. it felt so long ago ever since he had some pizza. its always been ready made food, coffee or some food in the cafeteria in DSO. hell, sometimes he even gets ration meals if he's too tired to think on what he is going to eat.
"i wish i bought the chicken with it". you sighed while still looking at the pizza.
"s'okah mommy, we ave pasta". lilah smacked her lips and leon gently took the plate that lilah gave him before she pointed at the plate of your pasta. "try, mommy makes the best spahetti".
you cooed at your baby who just grinned proudly at you before pointing at the pizza next, to signal you that she wants to eat now. you then proceeded to take a squared slice of pizza and it was a good thing that the restaurant can cut their slices into squares one so that it'll be easier for kids to hold it.
you put three slices on lilah's plate before you twirled some spaghetti and put it on her plate too.
"thank you, mommy". lilah politely said as she carefully took her plate and moved down to sit on the floor.
seeing how lilah looks comfortable on the floor, leon then followed her down causing you to widen your eyes. he visibly winced as he adjusted himself on the floor but he sighed when he finally found himself comfortable and felt his body go lax.
"good floor". leon shot you a grin then took some pizza for himself and some spaghetti.
you watched them both in amusement before you took the carton of juice and poured them some in their mugs.
"seems like we have an old man here". you teased lightly as you finally took some slices of the pizza for yourself.
"who are you calling old?". he muttered under his breath before giving you a look, making lilah giggle loudly beside him while you just laugh and bite into your pizza.
āyouāre silly, leon.ā lilah quipped before slurping her noddles.
"thank you, lilah. finally, someone appreciates me in this apartment". leon sighed dramatically before taking a bite of his pizza with a small moan in delight as the little girl just grinned at him with spaghetti sauces on her cheeks.
you snorted softly while shaking your head before finally joining them on the floor too, settling beside leon as your little girl was already sitting on his other side and the warm smell of pizza and pasta filled the apartment.
outside, the city continued quietly beyond the windows, cars occasionally passing by while the soft glow of streetlights filtered through the curtains.
and in the inside of your cozy apartment, everything felt warm and comfortable.
lilah happily chatted away between bites of food, occasionally trying to steal more spaghetti from the plate while leon pretended to be deeply offended whenever she reach for his pizza too.
her laughter echoed around the apartment easily, bright enough to make both you and leon laugh along without realizing it, and for the rest of the night, the three of you simply stayed there together on the floor sharing food, teasing each other, and enjoying the kind of quiet happiness that felt almost too easy between the three of you.
its funny cause days ago, you guys were only strangers but now here you are, eating dinner together like you guys knew each other for years.
slowly coming back to writing again with my usual agenda of girl, dad! leon. unnamed daughter. wife/ spouse! reader (your daughter calls you mommy once) | 973+ words
Procrastination is a silent killer. It affects everybody, right?Ā
Leon leans back in his leather desk chair, shoulder stiff and his joints pop with a sound he cringes at and makes him feel every single second of his forty-nine years of life. He rubs his rugged palms against his face, feeling the scruff of his stubble.Ā
āGoddamn, I need a shave.ā He thinks.Ā
And yes, even Leon is affected by it.Ā
He can only blame himself but at the same time he really doesnāt. He knows how to spend his time, and he spends it in something more meaningful and loving.Ā
He has spent the last two weeks avoiding the paperwork like it was a dangerous containment zone. āHow ironic.ā He then thinks to himself again. It was nearing midnight. His desk lamp casts a harsh, cone-shaped shadow over the mountain of papers he ghosted. Forms A-1 all the way to H-5, non-disclosure amendments for the DSO, local security consulting, traineeās profiles, background checks, and some mission reports were spread out over the mahogany desk like the aftermath of a battle Leon was all too familiar with.
Instead,what he did was he built a wooden play-fort, which, was DIY-ed by himself, attended some PTA meetings, and he had chosen to spend five consecutive afternoons pretending to be a hostage, held by an adorable child-sized stuffed alligator, fleet member, crew member, and whatever his daughterās imagination was with her pirateās ship. Sure, it did give him time to spend it with his daughter but as a government agent (and maybe at the top at that), it meant that he had a lot. Of. Work. To. Do.Ā
He will never regret it though. And oh, how he will forever cherish spending it with his daughter.Ā
A soft snore comes out from the couch, shifting its position to a more comfortable one.Ā
His baby was stubborn tonight. She hadnāt gone to her own bed and flatly refused with all her small body could handle, to leave the āHelm Areaā (Leon wonders how on earth she knew those words that heās sure a four-year-old isn't old enough to want to learn and understand yet) as she wants to not leave her Daddyābig Captainās side.Ā
āAre you sure, baby?ā You asked, twirling a strand of her hair on your fingers as she was sitting down on the couch, with her daddy beside holding her hand, tracing the tiny fingers that were a mixture of you and him.Ā
āAy, Ay, mommy! The big captain and I will be staying here to navigate the waters!ā
āIāll just bring her to bed once Iām done here, sweet.ā Your husband tells you, fingers still holding on to small ones.
You sigh, a slow smile appearing. You pulled your fingers away from her hair. āOkay, little and big captain.ā You then snickered behind your hand. āLet me prepare your blankie and your alligator on the couch.ā
āTick-tock the alligator?ā She gasps with large doe eyes sparkling under the lamp and the low ambiance of Leonās home office, āCan you also please bring Mister Hook. Thank you, mommy!āĀ
You did what your little captain asked, left tender kisses on both of their cheeks, with extra kisses to your husbandās lips (to which he happily reciprocates) and your daughterās chubby cheeks, bidding them goodnight.Ā
"And no staying up late past 12, got it?"
She was fast asleep, the stuffed alligator and Captain Hook plushies had fallen off the couch. Her fruit-designed pjs and blanket were ruffled from the constant turning from her dreams. She was also clutching a heavily illustrated hardcover book of Peter Pan that she had gotten with Leonās help reaching for it, from the office bookshelf earlier.Ā
He smiles, a familiar warmth following in his chest, the weight of DSO paperwork being forgotten for a while. He slid out of his chair and turned his lamp off, slippers silent against the floor. He knelt down, his hands gently pulling the book away from her.Ā
Her eyes fluttered. She let out a tiny puff of air through her nose, her blue eyes, staring down to a familiar set, cracking open just enough to register the room.Ā
āDaddy?ā She murmured with slurred confusion.Ā
āHi, peanut.ā Leon whispers softly, thumb smoothing and feeling the plush of her cheeks. āCāmon, Letās get you into your proper bunk, huh? A captain deserves her rest.ā
The little one sleepily moves her hand around the creases of the couch where she was lying in, then stops, and then shows a paper with what seems to be an illustration of a mapā¦ in outer space?Ā
āOh? Whatās this baby?ā
āTreasure planet, daddy.ā She sleepily replies, leaning into her father. āWill find itā¦tomorrow. Itās in the Hula-Hoop Ball planetā¦.and, with the big red dotā¦āXā marks the spotā¦ā
Leon hides a chuckle, choosing to bury his face into her locks of hair, inhaling the strawberry shampoo you picked for her. He figured that his baby was just saying what her dreams wereāfull of pirates, treasures, cookies, and all those warm things, he hoped.Ā
āIs that Jupiter, peanut?ā He asks, trailing his finger on the ball with a red circular shape on its interior.Ā
āMhmā¦ā She mumbles into his neck, breathing slowly down to a pattern. āTreasureā¦cookiesā¦āĀ
Leon lets out the chuckle. Oh, how his daughter was so adorable. A perfect blend of you and him. He stood up, shifting her weight until she was perfectly secure in the crook of his massive arm. Leon pauses for a moment, sinking in the present. Heās afraid that one day he blinks and thenā¦his daughter won't be small enough to fit in his arms anymore. He shakes the thoughts off, thatās still in a decade or so.Ā
āTreasure cookies, huh?ā He repeats, walking out of the office and shutting the lights all the while holding his sleeping child.
āGot it. Sweet dreams, my little captain. I love you.ā
āThe paperwork can wait.ā He smiles to himself and presses a kiss to his daughterās hair.
As a total newbie in the fandom, I hardly know anything about the lore, but fell in love with these two. As I have seen this is a controversial ship, so please only read if you like this pairing. I also love to see Leon with any other characters, no ship shaming around my page.
Part 1, Part 2; Part 3, Part 4
Description: After the events in Rhodes Hill, both Grace and Leon try to move on with their respective lives. Not like they could forget about each other. Longing thoughts, intrusive ones, inappropiate ones. Must be one-sided, they think. He doesn't want to be weird, she doesn't want to be stupid. So Leon does the only thing he can justify. He brings flowers for International Womenās Day.
Tags: Soulmates, Comfort No Hurt, Survivor Guilt, Semi-slow burn, Falling in love, Explicit sexual content, Grace is a grown and competent woman, Younger Woman/Older Man, Domestic Fluff, They are sweethearts, Eventual smut, Body Worship, Oral sex, Vaginal sex, Blowjobs, Awkward flirting, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating
dividers credit: @strangergraphics
He watched her hands, the graceful little fingers curled around the semitransparent lemonade bottle. They tensed, then relaxed. The soft fuzz along her neck shimmered gold beneath the sunlight; the sun itself had begun drifting lower across the sky, a gigantic dandelion floating through a field of cheerful blue.
The arms heād kept resting on his knees until now wrapped around Graceās waist. Not tightly, because then he would have lost whatever remained of his self-restraint. The smoothness of her top against the youthful firmness of her stomach felt almost obscene beneath his rough palms, one knuckle still carrying the pale memory of a scar left by a scalpel. When had he gotten that one? Back in 2006? Spain?
Grace didnāt care about his scars, and even less about the possibility that maybe he should have been keeping himself under control. She offered him the bare line of her neck despite how cautious she usually was. A technical analyst always calculates risks.
āI am safe with you.ā
Leon drew in a deep breath of her scent: almond, the flower crown perched atop her head, and the delicate sweetness of perspiration warmed by the sun. Being this close to her was wrong. Pressing his mouth against her skin, tasting her warmth and salt, was wrong.
It had been a fucking disaster from the very moment he started feeling this way about her, back in the middle of a burning chapel, when she looked up at him with those big, wet green eyes and cared only about Emilyās wellbeing. The way she'd said his nameā
Leon!
āwith relief he hadnāt earned at all back then.
Maybe never would.
Her clawing pleadingly against his thigh, holding his face even when it had been blackened by infection. Ā She couldāve left him there, the wheezing old man whoĀ disgustinglyĀ wanted her, even while her eyes brimmed with tears, bruises and scratches covered her body, and panic barely let her breathe.
You sick fuck.
And now she fit in his arms far too perfectly, and the sweetest sigh in the world escaped her lips beneath the gruff scrape of his kiss against her neck.
Leon felt drunker than he ever had in his life, and his blue eyes were no excuse for it.
āLeonā¦ā
āYeah,ā he murmured, his mouth still on her skin. Grace trembled so much he could almost have believed she was afraid, and he found himself stubbornly trying to decode her. This was so different from what he was used toāthe bold sex appeal, putting a collar around his neck and handing out affection in measured portions so he would bark like a good boy. āWant me to stop?ā
āNo!ā she responded immediately.
That wasnāt something he could misunderstand.
He wasnāt restraining her, only holding her. She could have pulled away, but Grace leaned into him instead like a tame cat aching for affection. Leonās lips moved slowly, only brushing over her skin. He didnāt suck or bite, didnāt want to leave marks, only wanted to feel her.
A faint, damp shine remained in the wake of his kisses. When he reached the sensitive spot beneath her ear, he paused there, touching the soft little lobe with his nose and drawing a shy smile across Graceās face.
Emilyās dandelion tumbled free from behind Leonās ear.
Grace turned toward him, closing the last inches between them. Their foreheads knocked together lightly, and her lips searched for his with purpose.
Then Leon kissed her properly.
It was even sweeter than he had imagined, carrying the fruity imprint of her lipstick and her own taste. They opened for each other at the same time, deepening the kiss, and Grace cupped his face in her palm. Leon felt her slightly bitten-down nails scratch at the nape of his neck, pulling him even closer.
The tiny sound that broke from her shattered whatever strength he had left to dust. He was a feather in a tornado, a marshmallow held over a bonfire, something that could not have stood further from the reality of his everyday life, from gun holsters, death throes and guts smeared under his boots.
Weakness had never felt this comforting.
He had kissed women before, plenty of times, actually. Back at the academy, you practically couldnāt pry him away from his girlfriendās mouth. Then Ada. Claire too, a few times, then neither of them ever spoke of that again. Women beside whom he occasionally woke up during his thirties, years spent mostly at airports, mission briefings, hospitals and rolling-drunk. Booze used to make him forget how dry and underwhelming emotionless sex felt for him. He hated looking them in the eyes afterward; hated hurting them, hated feeling hurt in return, just because God had given him this quirk of instantly getting attached after exchanging body fluids.
Graceās kiss was pure. Free of planning, free of expectation, free of burdens. There was only desire sparkling in every little flutter of her, palpable, almost out there to taste and touch. So much so that it felt as if the meadow itself exhaled around them, lascivious scents breaking loose into the spring air.
The dandelion crown slipped forward over Graceās forehead. Leonās face fell back against her half-bare shoulder, his lashes sweeping softly against her skin.
āHey.ā
āH-hi,ā Grace echoed, her voice hitching.
āI like this shirt.ā Another small kiss against her neck. āFor the recordā¦ Iām finding this a little suspicious.ā
Grace nearly choked. āS-suspicious?ā
āI meanā¦ around now I usually either wake up, or some mutant Nemesis weed bursts out of nowhere.ā
Her nails dug crescent moons into his scalp as Grace pulled him back in and kissed him again. She was rushed, self-conscious, pink blooming across the peaches of her cheeks, yet somehow Leon was the one forced to retreat. Grace tried to press closer, and it took every tactical instinct he possessed to let her do it without letting her notice how hard he was becoming in his jeans.
Goddamn Elpisā¦ or ElpisĀ da bomb. And bees. Dandelions ripe with seeds the wind could scatter in a million directions.
Grace was warm even through the blue fabric of her shirt. He could feel the flailing of her muscles under his hands, and Leon desperately tried not to wonder whether her pussy had got wet a bit for him. This was neither the place nor the time. Grace didnāt seem like the type who would ever be comfortable with something like that in public anyway, and he himself had aged out of that. Long ago.
Grace, pressed against a tree, back taut as a bowstring, blonde hair all messy, an FBI analyst and a DSO agent going at it like festival teenagersā
He broke the kiss and shifted awkwardly where he sat, heat flooding his face.
āJust got a little sunburned,ā he improvised after noticing Graceās searching eyes had caught the redness.
She stared at him for a moment.
Then she stifled a tiny grin.
āI see.ā
āGraceāā
She covered her mouth with her palm, trying to swallow back her laughter. There was no escape for Leon S. Kennedy: the facts were clear. In the end, his downfall had not been some grotesque genetic experiment, a presidential-level conspiracy, or a chainsaw-waving fanatic, but a beautiful twenty-six-year-old woman who had placed her hand on his knee at the bottom of a garbage chute.
He tilted his head to the side, enjoying the way that delicate hand smoothed down the hair at the nape of his neck.
Leon had certain weak points. Terrorists and some of his haters at the DSO or BSAA would have sold their souls to learn them, though chances were they had never considered that bumper-to-bumper traffic moving at the speed of a snail might be one of them.
Leon sucked on his teeth and gripped the steering wheel near the airport exit ramp. Beside him, Sherry visibly wasnāt nervous about missing her flight. She had kicked off her ballet flats, her necklace resting against the collar of her white blouse. She no longer wore gloves. Leon still hadnāt managed to break himself of that habit.
A driver behind them leaned on the horn as if that would magically change anything. If Leon hadnāt loved the Porsche so much, he might have reversed straight into him.
āSo. Matching tattoos.ā He circled back to their earlier topic. Transparent film covered the tiny tattoo on the inside of her wrist, keeping it sterile: a little smiling half-avocado. āWhose idea was that?ā
āOh, donāt pull my leg.ā Sherry shot him a sidelong look. āYou two are just going to end up seeing each other later because of this.ā
āI raised a real little gremlin.ā
āClaire helped too.ā She nudged him with her shoulder. āAlso, you still havenāt told me a single thing about the picnic.ā
Traffic lurched forward for maybe half a minute, and in the distance the outline of a descending Boeing became visible. Leon had crashed in planes like that before. Honestly, it would have taken less time to list things thatĀ hadnātĀ happened to him yet, though quite a few of those missing experiences had finally been crossed off on that sunlit meadow.
āIt was a good idea. Thanks, kiddo.ā He sent her a warm half-smile. āEmily loved it.ā
āOnly Emily?ā
āYouāre in remarkably good spirits when youāve got a mind-numbingly boring conference waiting for you in fucking New York.ā
āWhatās wrong with New York?ā
āEverything.ā
āThat isnāt an answer, Leon. And you failed to answer my previous question too.ā
Sherry unwrapped one of the granola bars Leon had brought her. Among other reasons, she wasnāt worried about missing her flight because she knew he always thought of everything, as long as it wasnāt for himself. Just to be safe, Leon had shoved a paper bag full of painkillers, hand sanitizer, wet wipes, three granola bars, and a Subway sandwich into Sherryās luggage.
You never knew.
āAnd Grace liked it too,ā Leon finally answered, and that inevitably brought the memories of that day rising back to the surface. The frustration from the traffic melted away like ice under hot water. āAnd I kissed her. Or she kissed me. Weād need a sports referee to settle that.ā
āOh,Ā that.ā Sherry didnāt seem especially surprised, though after sending him eggplant emojis, pretending wouldāve been ridiculous. āGood.ā
āLetās not blow this out of proportion, okay?ā
āNot blow out of proportion the first healthy, amazing thing thatās happened to you since the Bronze Age?ā
āHa-ha. Very funny.ā
Leon rubbed at his jaw. Sherry stayed quiet, only looking out the window, crumpling the granola bar wrapper into the pocket of her leather skirt. Leon knew that techniqueāoh, heĀ knewĀ it. Even as a kid sheād already been a master at squeezing the truth out of him through apparently disinterested silence.
Another airplane roared overhead nearby, this one heading toward the sheep-clouded sky.
āIt really was,ā Leon sighed. āThe best thing thatās happened in a long time. InĀ thatĀ sense.ā He looked at Sherry for a moment, a soft light in his eyes. āRight after hearing you're recovering.ā
Sherry touched his arm over his Hamilton watch and squeezed gently.
Weāre in this together too,Ā she had told him through the headset back in Gideonās lab, when heād been forced to face the cold facts. The worst part of dying had been knowing he couldnāt save his daughter from that ending either.
āYou still taking the Oxy?ā
āWay less now. Iām coming off it.ā Then Sherry looked at him. āBut Leonā¦ I can tell youāre still chewing on something. Is it the age gap?ā
At first, the answer was only a grunt, because he was wrestling with the parking machine.
The barrier lifted, and Leon smoothly backed the Porsche into a spot thatĀ lookedĀ available. He wasnāt entirely convinced parking was actually allowed there, but good luck to the poor soul whoād have the nerve to ticket him.
āItās more complicated than that.ā He pulled Sherryās suitcase from the trunk and slid the handle free before handing it over. Sturdy, sand-colored, zip-lockedāthe Christmas gift from her boyfriend. āThis isā¦ a power thing. I know damn well what itās like when control gets taken out of your hands. I know even better what itās like when someone makes you think thatās good for you.ā He averted his gaze. āGrace being attracted to meā¦ maybe it isnāt even about me. You get it? She was under insane stress, and I came shambling in, throwing out my usual dumbass routine.ā
āAnd you kind of fell for her.ā
āYeah, thanks for clarifying.ā
He lit a cigarette, because at this point, there really wasnāt another option. The usual airport chaos unfurled around the terminal; suitcase wheels screeched over thresholds, the automatic doors tirelessly sliding open and shut. Armed guards with walkie-talkies paced back and forth, occasionally throwing suspicious glances toward rougher-looking travelers with a backpacks. Someone spilled their coffee.
āYou knowā¦ā Sherry said, āif you're done demonizing yourself in forty different ways, I have a thought.ā
āForty?ā
āAt least.ā She looked at him. āListen, Grace isnāt eighteen, and she didnāt just fall out of a school desk. Yeah, she saw you handstand-kicking zombie heads off, but from whatĀ youĀ told me, she also saw you as a disgusting drunk idiot. Facts are facts. Grace is raising a child. Sheās not some confused little duckling that imprinted on you.ā
Leon stared at the cigarette in his hand. It was probably time for him to quit too. āVery specific wording.ā
āJust donāt make decisions for her. There are very few more irritating things you could do in a relationship like this.ā They started toward the terminal, and Leon flicked the half-smoked cigarette into a storm drain. āThe woman who yanks a piss-bucket over your head because you disappeared again like usual? Sheās not being oppressed.ā
Leon smothered a smile. There was something to that.
Grace didnāt only look at him with those impossibly cute, devotion-filled eyes when he was playing save-the-world with a shotgun in his hands. She looked at him like that while fumbling around with his herb plants, and awkwardly shuffling in front of her holding that Womenās Day bouquet.
No. He shouldnāt have thought about Ada. There was nothing in common betweenĀ thatĀ story and this one. The silver ring on his finger reminded him never to confuse life-threatening danger with passion again, pain with destiny, care with whimsy.
Not in either direction.
āOh.ā His daughterās voice yanked him back into reality. Sherry was grinningānot teasingly, but with genuine excitement. āYou are lost.ā
āNo.ā
āYouāre in love.ā
āKiddo. Iām leaving you here.ā
āOkay, Iām already where I need to be.ā
Instead of answering, Leon just pulled her into a hug. āGo before you actually miss your flight.ā
Sherry hugged him back, nodded, and thanked him for the ride. She pulled out her phoneāmaybe to coordinate the conference one last time, or maybe to call her mysterious boyfriend.
Partner, he corrected himself. A forty-year-old woman doesnāt have aĀ boyfriend,Ā right?
Hard getting used to that.
āCall her,ā she ordered him with that real, smart Birkin smile. āAfter a first kiss sheās definitely checking her phone like a maniac, you old dork.ā
The office felt especially soul-killing that day.
Most of Graceās coworkers had been infected by the complaint-virus, which could be nearly as dangerous as some of the Progenitor variants. Between organizing and cataloguing two dozen crime scene photos, Grace listened to the struggles of dog-hair allergies, someoneās son applying to college, and several other things she immediately forgot.
Work wasnāt entirely to blame.
The photos had been taken in a half-burned building: zero casualties, but plenty of evidence of black-market activity and strange organic substances being sold. Another case handed to her because she was the initiated oneāthe FBI agent splashed over with a bucket of DSO-colored paint.
No. The real reason was that sheād been texting Leon under the desk. Leon Kennedy, with whom she had undeniably and irreversibly made out over the weekend, while Emily slept in the car beneath an emergency blanket cocoon, like an adorable little caterpillar.
Grace bit down on her finger as she replayed the film of that kiss in her mind again, for maybe the hundredth time now. Leonās lips against her shoulder, against her neckāsoft, unbelievably soft. Exactly like the way he spoke. Not a predatorās hunger, only warmth, only yearning, only the need to be closer to her.
That contradiction in him was agonizingly attractive.
Grace had done a little more digging too, and among other things found the database list of service vehicles assigned to Agent Leon S. Kennedy from 2010 onward. Cars totaled beyond repair. Motorcycles. SUVs. A bus. Even a goddamn airplane.
And this was the same man who always spoke to her so kindly, who even while kissingĀ herĀ seemed entirely preoccupied with making sureĀ sheĀ felt safe.
The question of whether she felt safe around him wasnāt a problem. The danger was that she might explode from desire right there on the spot. Even in retrospect it gnawed at her that no matter how willfully sheād tried to curl closer against him, Leon had always pulled back a little.
Obviously to bring her back to her senses. Cool her down.
Because they couldnāt do anything...Ā like that.Ā Not there. Maybe not at all.
She was gawking at a selfie she'd somehow managed to talk Leon into taking. If it had been literally anyone else, it wouldāve been terrible: shot from below, mildly confused expression, no filters, no flattering lighting, and a shower stall in the background.
Leon, however, wasnāt anyone else. And even in that amateur selfie, he looked so ridiculously handsome that heat immediately flared between Graceās thighs. The thought crossed her mind that she could retreat to the restroom and take care of herself (not seriously, of course, because the very idea of getting caught already gave her a screaming panic attack).
She hurriedly pushed her phone beneath a pile of folders when an unexpected window flashed across her monitor.
Green, squared letters on a black background. Encrypted line. Not internal.
The computer didnāt label an intrusion, and Grace only had a wandering second to consider calling someone.
@>>>hunn>>miss ashcroft, perhaps someday over tea you could tell me how you managed to get access to fragments of Agent Kennedyās files
@>>>hunn>>though not the interesting ones.
@>>>hunn>>these messages will disappear in fifteen seconds. don't worry, i'm merely the one who noticed you found this database with outdated security. since i happen to understand your motivations, let's overlook it
@>>>hunn>>please somehow convince Leon to finally sit his ass down and stop trying to get himself killed. goodbye
It felt as if the air had been sucked straight from Graceās lungs. Her eyes widened, and for a moment she thought she might actually piss herself, despite having fought Lickers in close combat before.
She shouldāve known the DSO would notice that sheād shown any interest at all in one of their agents, let alone one of their most high-profile ones. Their system probably flagged anyone who searched Leonās name in anything even slightly more sophisticated than Google. Grace had a bit of an affinity for computers. Extra university courses, and a fair amount of autodidactic learning during a very long period of her life spent wrapped in blankets between four walls.
āJesusMary,ā she groaned, and returned to the black-market case photos. Metal cases full of packets. Tweezers stained with tar-like liquid. Discarded protective gloves and goggles.
She didnāt dare check, but she suspected the mysterious messages had indeed vanished without a trace. Still, she looked around her cubicle out of reflex, but thankfully no one was paying attention to her, or what she was doing. Dempsey had the day off.
She only dared text Leon back once she was sitting in her car, a safe distance from coworkers and cameras. Sheād also saved the picture of him.
Grace: Emily has classes tomorrow afternoon. Would you maybe have the timeāand wantāto finally do our gaming date?
Leon answered first with a thumbs-up emoji, and Grace couldnāt decide whether it was a teasing callback, or simply Leon being Leon. Had that agent told him Grace had been snooping? It had to be someone who knew him and liked himābut probably not his adopted daughter.
Sherry.
Neither of them knew her, yet both of them knewā¦ about this thing between them. They surely had opinions about it, too. Under any other circumstances, Grace would have thrown herself headfirst into that pit and tortured herself sick with the certainty that people must despise and judge her, but looking at Leonās clumsy selfie, such warmth flooded every inch of her that it buried those urges beneath itself.
Would he kiss her again?
When he dropped her and Emily off, all she had gotten was a modest little kiss on the cheek. But not once since then had he tried to deny it or explain it away ā it had become the new status quo.
Leon:Ā š
Leon: Before this comes up, this is not a passive-aggressive thumbs up. This is a yes on my part.
Grace: Who briefed you about texting etiquette?
Those three dots she simultaneously loved and hated hopped across her screen.
Leon: A reliable source.
His daughter, Sherry. One hundred percent, Grace concluded, and that instantly made the black window with green text flash through her mind again. She bumped her forehead against the steering wheel and, holding her breath, typed her next message at lightning speed:
Grace: Leon, I looked into some of your old files. not entirely legally
What are you doing, what are you doing?!Ā Her heart was pounding in her throat, and it only got worse when the three dots appeared again, just to terrorize her. She couldnāt unsend it anymore. Damn it, but it was better if he heard it from her, right? What would it look like if Sherry spilled it?Ā "That little twenty-something youāve been making out with has been spying on you."
Oh no. Someone kill me.
Leon: Sunshine
I hope one of those files wasnāt how many service vehicles Iāve totaled.
Grace exhaled with such force she nearly coughed up her own heart with it. She turned the ignition and turned up the radio, needing something to dilute the silence inside the car. Nelly Furtado was singing at the top of her lungs about man-eating.
Grace: ā¦
and there was a bus too, right?
Leon: Look, those were difficult times.
Grace started driving home before someone walked up to her car and asked why she was sitting there tomato-red, simultaneously panicking and grinning.
Her phone buzzed again, and another photo arrived ā another selfie. Leon on his couch (Grace recognized it: gray fabric, barely used, almost new, with long pendant lights hanging above it). Some sports broadcast played on the TV, only the corner visible. Sandy bangs hung over his forehead, his stubbled face resting against his fist.
Leon: See? Iām trying really hard.
Grace couldnāt answer. She was too busy saving the picture. Wallpaper material. Hundred-and-fifty-times enlargement straight onto the wall. She wouldāve been ready to go to war with this photo taped to her helmet.
She only had to pick Emily up at six after physical therapy, so she had enough time to make dinner. She changed out of her black business suit into something more comfortable, but this delay apparently planted doubts in Leonās mind.
Leon: I didnāt accidentally send a nude, did I?
Grace chortled. After the selfies sheād received, she couldnāt imagine Leon taking naked pictures of himself, but if sheād been a little braver than she was, she mightāve floated the topic.
So many times she wished she were more daring. That she could just say the thoughts that absolutely appeared in her mind instead of locking them behind iron bars with her anxiety.
She poured the pre-packaged taco shells onto the kitchen counter, trying to picture a dick pic from Leon. She knew heād never send her something like that.
Unprompted, at least.
In the end, she replied with a blushing cat GIF.
Leon: So if you come over tomorrow... can I kiss you again?
To hell with all her coworkers, dog allergies, college applications, and especially the DSO servers. Grace squirmed where she stood like a newborn fawn that still hadnāt learned how to stay upright.
Because the question ā Leonās question ā wasnāt whether heĀ wouldĀ kiss her.
It was whether heĀ could.
She would have found her way there from memory, but Leon had given her the address anyway.
It was a modern, secure building with a twenty-four-hour concierge service. Black, glossy floors and extravagant decorations on the beige-and-gold walls that resembled three-dimensional braids. Even the elevator made no sound, as though a light breeze had simply carried her up to Leon. It suited him perfectly, and not because of the elegance: it was pragmatic, easy to defend, safe.
In the silence, Grace thought she could hear her blood racing through her veins, the pressure of hot liquid straining against elastic walls. Under her taupe jacket she wore a white blouse and a red corduroy pinafore dress with black tights, though she had changed her outfit more than three times before finally leaving home. She had only put on lip gloss, and even that sparingly, because Leon had mentioned kissing, and she hoped it would happen as soon as possible.
Because thisĀ wasĀ a date. There was no arguing with that anymore. Just the two of them. This was really happening: Grace stepping out of the elevator, and Leon already waiting there, standing in the open doorway. He wasnāt much taller than her, and yet he still felt enormous, gigantic compared to her, as his hand smoothed up her arm in greeting, and those bicepsāwhose shape the fitted black turtleneck concealed absolutely nothing of. The material looked incredibly soft, and Leon had rolled the sleeves up, so Grace could once again see the upraised veins, the dusting of hair trailing toward his wrists.
She grabbed onto him and rose onto her tiptoes.
āHello, gorgeous,ā Leonās voice rang out, smoother than usual.
āM-me? Oh. N-no, not really.ā She shouldnāt have said that, but who on planet Earth would have thoughtĀ sheĀ was the prettier one between them?
Smiling, Leon maneuvered them inside while Grace remained latched onto his arm like she intended to stay there all evening. āCareful, step. Closing the door.ā
The thick security door clicked softly shut. Leon helped her out of her jacket when she finally, reluctantly accepted she couldnāt spend the entire evening hanging off him like that.
āI had a plan.ā
āMmm?ā
āThat youād come up, Iād say something funny, youād laugh, and then Iād kiss you.ā
Grace blinked up at him, lips parting. It could have sounded like a smooth charmer line if Leon hadnāt said it with visible embarrassment, scratching the back of his neck with his left hand. Suddenly he didnāt seem much older than her at all, and Grace found herself wondering, involuntarily, how many girlfriends heād had before. WithĀ thatĀ face? She would have guessed armfuls.
āI l-liked it t-this way too,ā she smiled, adjusting her glasses.
Everything around Leon smelled of cedar, bergamot, and something light and salty that was maybe the lingering trace of freshly made popcorn. His apartment had gained a little more color since Grace had last been there; an electric guitar and a landscape painting had appeared on the wall, and sealed military storage crates sat stacked near it. The little plants in the kitchen window still looked miserable, although he had managed to save the rosemary and parsley.
On the coffee table, beside a volume of Guns&Ammo left open, waited a large bowl of hot popcorn and two PS4 controllers. As Grace looked around, she could feel Leon watching her; at her neck, her back... and a little lower, too. The skirt only just covered her ass, and the neckline would have beenĀ veryĀ daring if not for the blouse underneath. The awareness made her cheeks heat, but it stroked her pride too.
Ā āSo, before I embarrass myself againāā
āA-again?ā
āI just informed you I developed an actual strategy for kissing you, girl,ā Leon hummed. A black belt circled his hips, and the cut of his black jeans was loose, a littleĀ 2000s. He took Graceās hand; the coolness of his ring was paradoxically scorching against her burning skin. āIf I remember correctly, I asked your permission for something.ā
Grace nodded and wrapped her arms around his neck when she finally felt his lips against hers. It was slow, tentative, his fingers resting at her waist. Only then was she truly able to believe she hadnāt dreamed the whole thing in the meadowāthat Leon really did thirst for her kiss, her scent,Ā her, the result of one of Spencerās horrific experiments.
The afternoon was still young. By the time they settled onto the couch, Leon tucked into the corner and Grace comfortably leaning back against his side, golden splinters of sunlight danced over their faces and hair, shining through the half-drawn curtains. The PS4 came to life with a familiarĀ beep, and Grace examined Leonās game library with sparkling eyes. She had to admit that while Leonās list of neutralized mutant horrors was considerably longer, she had collected more platinums.
She had already been rambling aboutĀ Elden RingĀ lore for twenty minutes before it hit her that someone might actually find this boring. Leon, however, only listened, faint crowās-feet gathered around his cool blue eyes, his thumb absently circling the analog stick on the controller. He took her hand again and lifted it to his lips.
āSo this is an Elden Lordās hand.ā
He kissed the backs of her fingers, and Grace swallowed the urge to launch into an explanation about the gameās different endings. Besides, who cared about any game at all whenā¦
Leon launchedĀ CODĀ in split-screen. Grace let out an appreciative whistle at the sight of his achievements and rank, though obviously there wasnāt much reason to be surprised. She felt sorry for the poor people the matchmaking system threw into lobbies with himā
āand then realizedĀ sheĀ was about to be his teammate, and immediately broke into a sweat.
Not long afterward she was shouting at bat frequency while her character ran frantically back and forth across the screen.
āLEON, B-BEHIND YOU!ā
āI see him.ā
āYOU D-DON'T SEE H-HIM! NO!ā
Grace couldnāt see Leonās expression, partly because she was using him as a backrest, and partly because she hadnāt taken her eyes off the TV at all. One thing was certain, though: he fired with complete cold-blooded composure, thereby inflicting severe emotional trauma on someone somewhere in the depths of the internet.
HEADSHOT. VICTORY.
āYou can come out from behind the dumpster now,ā Leon chuckled, his chest brushing against Graceās shoulder blades. The light had turned amber over the passing hours, and half the popcorn was gone too, which was salted exactly the way Grace liked it.
āI-it was just strategy,ā Grace retorted, but even with her competitive spirit flaring up again, one thing was obvious: Leon had been carrying these matches on his back. āOkay, y-youāre insanely g-good at this too. Is t-thereĀ anythingĀ youāre not?ā
She set down the controller and reached for the popcorn bowl, but it unexpectedly slid farther across the table, onto the open magazine. Smiling to himself, Leon pinched a handful and shoved it into his mouth.
āSorry, Sunshine.ā
āLeon.ā
āItās a tax. Victory tax.ā
Grace turned to face him, utterly incapable of hiding the curve tugging at her lips. Yes, axe-grinding Leon was appealing, and so was his sensitive, vulnerable selfābut this impossible dipstick stealing popcorn from her outranked both by a mile.
For a long second she simply looked at him: the stunning hair falling over his forehead, the hands that had felt so wonderful touching her. She swung her tights-covered legs onto the couch, between the two of them, the tips of her toes brushing Leonās shin.
She lowered her eyes, but regardless, her leg continued its sly journey. Pale skin showed faintly beneath the black tights, skin that bruised so easily, and beneath it Leonās muscular thigh felt steel-hard. She lifted her other leg into his lap too, slowly, and dragged the sole of her foot along his inner thigh with a gentleness she could only hope was arousing.
The memory still lived vividly inside her of the moment she had massaged Leonās aching toes, and how instantly wet his touch and his care had made her.
Leon froze. On the television screen his character collapsed, and maybe this was the first time he had lost, but he didnāt seem to care in the slightest. His controller joined Graceās on the table, and he slid his hand over her ankle. His nostrils flared, and he opened his mouth to speakābut he didnāt say the first thing that came to mind.
āGrace, Iām afraid you have no idea how badly I want you.ā
Grace drew in her lower lip. She didnāt dare speak because she was afraid sheād blurt out something that ruined everythingāinstead, she just kept stroking his thigh, a little higher this time. She saw Leonās gaze flicker toward her leg, carrying that same thirst barely reined in as on that night when sheād brought him home from that putrid bar.
With feather-light gentleness, she brushed her foot against his crotch, and heat nearly raced down her spine when she felt the beginning hardness of Leonās erection.
āNaughty.ā Leon grabbed her waist and pulled her into his lap with irresistible force. Grace thought he was going to kiss her, but instead he scooped her up and rose to his feet with her, so effortlessly it was as though she weighed nothing at all. āThe little lady spies on me, and afterward tries to kill the old man with her shapely little leg?ā
āOops,ā Grace squeaked, her fingers tangling in Leonās hair. She kissed him, nearly losing her glasses in the process.
Not long after, she found herself on her back on Leonās bedsheets, which frankly deserved changing by now. From Graceās perspective, though, in that moment he could have tossed her onto a pile of hay and she wouldnāt have cared. She propped herself up on her elbows and willingly let Leon firmly, yet gently, peel off her tights. He slowly rolled the nylon from her foot and immediately pressed his lips there afterward, scattering hungry kisses along her ankle, her calf, the edge of her knee.
āBeautiful,ā he muttered, his large, broad hand gliding over her now-bare thigh. āGrace, tell me ifāā
āI want it.ā
It wasnāt entirely clear what exactly she meant by that, but it didnāt matter. Grace knew perfectly well that Leon would never knowingly do anything to her that didnāt feel good. Excitement left her barely able to breathe as Leon pushed up the corduroy skirt all the way to her navel, revealing her white panties decorated with little watermelon slices.
Fuck. At home she had thought they were cute. She hadnāt known how the afternoon would turn out, and she hadnāt wanted him thinking she had planned something. No lace, no thong, no strings. Still, she didnāt have long to dwell on it, because contrary to what she expected, Leon didnāt unbuckle his belt or climb over her. Instead, he knelt beside the bed, pulling her closer and hooking his fingers into the waistband of her panties.
āCāmere.ā
Oh God oh God oh God
Her panties landed on the floor beside her tights, and in her embarrassment she immediately tried to snap her thighs shut, but Leon resisted. He spread her legs apart, staring at her as though she were a lavishly loaded buffet table, and then his eyes flashed.
āLeon, are you sure thatāā
āYes, Sunshine, Iām sure I want to taste your sweet pussy.ā
He clasped his fingers around her thighs and drew an exploratory, wet stripe with his tongue along the line of Graceās petals. Gently, he made his way in, finding her clit, tasting at first. When he traced the first circle over it, a muffled moan broke from Grace, and she grabbed the blanket beside her, jaw hanging slack. The sight aloneāLeon with his head buried between her legsāwas too much. Too perfect, especially with what he was making her feel.
Leon loved eating pussy, and it didnāt take a genius for someone to figure that out. He spoiled her with a devotion that seasoned every knowing movement. He closed his lips around Graceās sensitive little spot and sucked at it, enjoying the way she trembled beneath his hands, trying more and more to rub herself against his face.
āOh, fuckā¦ā
Leonās tongue found her entrance, sticky with her arousal to an almost embarrassing degree. He wet one finger, then his tongue wandered back to her clit while he first sank one knuckle inside her, then two. He started circling faster, sometimes sucking at her again, his finger moving in and out of Graceās painfully throbbing pussy in a gentle but rhythmic pace.
Sounds escaped her she hadnāt even known she was capable of making. With one hand she tangled her fingers into Leonās hair, trying not to pull, though she still ended up tugging it, and the sound that slipped into a groan against her thighs suggested he enjoyed it. Heat bubbled in Graceās lower stomach, her breathing turning more and more ragged, her legs trembling around Leonās head.
She screamed his name, humiliatingly loud, and came with her back arching into a curve. Looking down, she saw Leon lift his head andā¦ his whole chin was slick with her. Embarrassed, she leaned toward him, still panting, and tried to wipe it away.
āOhāā
āRelax, this isnāt cocoa powder,ā Leon said, trailing his fingers over his chin.
Grace burst into laughter, disguising her embarrassment, and almost melted into the kiss Leon initiated. Still, she had to glance at her watch, which very clearly informed her she had only half an hour left to get back home to Emily.
She crept off the bed and stepped back into her panties. She waited for Leon to say something, but he didnāt seem like he had expected anything in return at all. He only looked at her, hands tucked into his pockets, face flushed and satisfaction obvious.
āSorry, butā¦ b-but l-laterā¦ā
āShhh.ā Leon smoothed down Graceās tousled strands of hair. āYou never have to apologize. Emily comes first. Weāll have plenty of chances for this.ā
Grace searched for his eyes, but despite the easy, crooked smile on his face, she could feel something rippling beneath it.
Noānot disappointment. Not expectation.
More like confusion, somehow, and Grace sincerely wished they had time to talk about it.
But Leon was right: the worldās time belonged to them now. They werenāt being chased anymore. They had each other now.
At the door she turned back toward him, her shoulders drooping a little.
āDid I d-do something w-wrong?ā
āWhat?ā Leon looked genuinely stunned. Horrified, even, by the thought alone; his palm immediately came up to cup her cheek. āNo, Grace. Of course not.ā
He pressed a light little kiss to her lips.
āYouāll text me when you get home?ā
Grace rose onto her toes so she could breathe in the scent of his hair, eyes slipping shut.
Masterlist
AO3
Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader
Summary: Leon falls victim to the cat distribution system.
As an emergency vet, you have strict rules about giving out your personal number to clients. But when a soaking wet, broad-shouldered man walks into your clinic holding a shivering neonate kitten like it's a live grenade, you make an exception. Strictly for cat emergencies, of course.
(It does not stay strictly for cat emergencies. Not when he keeps using "suspicious sneezes" as an excuse to see you)
Content: Sick animals, grief and loss, burnout, alternating POV, no Y/N, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, gentle romance, Leon becomes a cat dad, flirting, awkward Leon, domesticity, reader is a veterinarian, realistic vet med content
DM or Comment to join the taglist
The rain is a relentless, gray sheet that turns the Washington D.C. outskirts into a blurred watercolor of brake lights and misery.
Inside his Porsche Cayenne, Leon S. Kennedy feels the familiar, hollow hum of a post-mission comedown. His suit is wrinkled, his tie is loosened to the point of uselessness, and the smell of stale coffee and government-issued paperwork seems to have seeped into his very pores.
The debriefing had been a disaster. Four hours of bureaucrats in sterile rooms asking him to quantify the "unquantifiable horrors" heād seen in a damp basement in Eastern Europe.
They want data; Leon just wants a drink and a decade of sleep.
"Note to self," he mutters, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely carries over the rhythmic thwack-thwack of the windshield wipers. "Next time Hunnigan calls with an 'easy' reconnaissance job, tell her Iāve retired to open a bakery. At least bread doesn't try to grow extra heads."
Heās doing sixty on the slick highway, his grip on the leather-wrapped steering wheel light but practiced. His mind is already drifting toward the bottle of aged bourbon sitting on his kitchen counterāhis only roommate in an apartment thatās too quiet and too clean.
Itās a dangerous headspace to be in. In his line of work, the moment you start looking forward to the end of the night is the moment something bites you.
Suddenly, the world narrows.
A flash of neon orange darts into the cone of his high beams. Itās smallātoo small for a deer, too erratic for a trash bag.
"Son of aā!"
Leon reacts before he thinks. Itās a muscle memory honed by years of dodging charging Ganados and careening through Raccoon City in a stolen cruiser.
He slams the brake pedal, the ABS system pulsing violently beneath his boot. The car skids, its tires screaming in a high-pitched protest against the wet asphalt. The back end fish-tails, a graceful but terrifying slide that Leon corrects with a sharp, disciplined jerk of the wheel.
The car lurches to a halt, the engine idling with a low, mechanical pant. Leonās heart is hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm he usually reserves for when a Tyrant is breaking through a drywall.
"Great. Just great," he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "If Iāve totaled the suspension for a squirrel, Iām never living this down."
He throws the car into park and steps out. The rain hits him instantly, soaking through his dress shirt and plastering his blonde hair to his forehead. He rounds the front of the car, expecting to find a mess on the road. Instead, he sees a tiny, shivering lump huddled against the front passenger tire.
Itās an orange kitten. It couldn't be more than five weeks old, its fur spiked into pathetic, sodden needles. It looks less like a predator and more like a very angry, very wet dandelion.
Leon stares at it. The kitten stares back with wide, watery eyes, letting out a pathetic, high-pitched mew that sounds like a rusty hinge.
"Youāve got a real sense of timing, kid," Leon says, crouching down. The water is already pooling in his expensive shoes. "Of all the lanes in all the world, you had to walk into mine."
He reaches out, and the tiny creature tries to hiss. Itās a valiant effort, reallyāa miniature display of bravado that makes Leonās chest ache with an unexpected, sharp tug of empathy.
He knows what itās like to be small, cornered, and surrounded by things much larger and meaner than you.
"Easy. I'm not a zombie. Well, not on the weekends, anyway," he murmurs.
He sheds his suit jacketāthe one that cost him more than an average paycheckāand scoops the kitten up. The creature is so light itās terrifying; he can feel every individual rib beneath the soaked fur. Itās vibrating with a bone-deep chill. Without a second thought, he swaddles the kitten in the heavy fabric of his jacket, shielding it from the downpour.
Back inside the Porsche, the heat is blasting, but the kitten is still shaking. Leon sets the bundle on the leather passenger seat, watching as a tiny, pink nose pokes out from the lapel of his jacket.
"Come on, little guy," Leon mutters, his voice softening in a way he hasn't heard in years. "Don't clock out on me yet. I didn't almost wreck my favorite car just for you to quit now."
He taps the GPS on his dashboard with a frantic, wet finger. 24-hour emergency vet.
"Alright, hold on," he says, shifting the car back into gear. He glances at the kitten, who has now curled into a ball inside the jacket, looking exceptionally small against the vastness of the interior.
"I hope you like German engineering, because weāre about to break some speed records."
As he pulls back onto the highway, the bourbon is forgotten. His focus is entirely on the tiny, rhythmic rise and fall of the orange fur beside him. For the first time in a long time, the mission isn't about saving the world or stopping a virus.
It's just about making sure one small thing makes it to tomorrow.
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
The clock on the wall of the treatment area mocks you. Itās 3:00 AM, the literal witching hour of veterinary medicine, where the cases are either bizarre, tragic, or a headache-inducing combination of both.
You take a sip of coffee that has reached a temperature and consistency best described as "over-brewed sludge," feeling it burn a slow path down your throat. Itās the only thing keeping your eyes open.
"The tulips really did a number on him," you mutter to Sarah, your lead tech, as you both stare down at a sedated domestic shorthair in cage four. "Bloodwork looks like a disaster zone. His liverās basically thrown in the towel and headed for early retirement."
Sarah sighs, rubbing her eyes behind her glasses. "Are we starting him on the lactulose titration now?"
"Yeah," you say, your fingers dancing across the sticky keyboard of the workstation with a weary, mechanical rhythm. "And hang the fluids. Iāve already typed in the orders. Honestly? I could use a Propofol coma myself right about now. Just ten minutes of medically induced silence. Is that too much to ask of the universe?"
The chime of the front bell ringsāa sharp, cheerful ding that feels like a physical blow to your sleep-deprived brain.
"The universe says yes," you grumble, pushing off the counter.
You catch a glimpse of the security monitor. Standing in the lobby is a man who looks like he just crawled out of a shipwreck. Heās soaking wet, broad-shouldered, and wearing a look of such raw, high-octane panic that your professional instincts override your exhaustion.
"Well," you mutter, adjusting your stethoscope around your neck. "This is going to be interesting."
You head out to the lobby, the smell of wet pavement and expensive leather hitting you before you even reach him. Heās strikingāharsh jawline, blonde hair plastered to his forehead in messy clumps, and eyes a startling, piercing shade of blue that seem to be vibrating with adrenaline. Heās cradling a high-end suit jacket like itās made of glass.
"Exam room one," you say, your voice blunt but not unkind. You don't wait for him to move; you lead the way, the squelch of his boots following behind you.
Once the door clicks shut, he gingerly places the jacket on the stainless steel table. "I found him on the highway," the man rasps. His voice is deep, underscored by a slight tremor heās trying very hard to hide. "He almost... I almost hit him. I think heās dying."
"Letās see the damage," you murmur. You carefully peel back the wet fabric, expecting a gore-fest. Instead, you find a tiny, orange scrap of fur that lets out a pathetic, high-pitched squeak.
Your hands, practiced and steady, move over the tiny body. You grab a warm, chlorhexidine-soaked gauze to wipe away the road grime and grease. You check the gumsāpale, but pinking up. You listen to the heartāfast, but steady. No broken bones. No internal bleeding. Just a very cold, very hungry little life.
"Good news, sir," you say, looking up at him. "Heās not dying. Heās just a dramatic, malnourished neonate."
"Leon," he corrects instantly, his voice slightly breathless. "Just... Leon."
You blink, then tap your ID badge with a tired, playful smirk. "Okay, Leon. We can do first names. It saves time in an emergency." You go back to drying the kitten with a soft towel. "Heās probably five weeks old. Heās thin, heās got a bit of a chill, but heās remarkably intact for someone who took on a car and won."
Leon sags against the counter, his hands shaking as he runs them through his wet hair. The relief on his face is so profound it makes your chest twinge with a rare spark of empathy. Usually, people are just annoyed about the bill. He looks like he just saw a ghost be resurrected.
"So, what happens now?" he asks. "You... you have a shelter? Or a rescue?"
You stop scrubbing and give him a long, grim look. "Itās kitten season, Leon. Every rescue within a three-state radius is currently overflowing. They won't take a bottle-baby right now. If I send him to the city shelter, his chances are... well, they aren't great."
The silence that follows is heavy, thick with the sound of the rain lashing against the exam room window. You watch the conflict play out across his faceāa man clearly burdened by a world of "heavy" things, staring at a three-ounce kitten. He rubs his temples, looking at the orange scrap that is currently trying to burrow into his damp shirt.
"I don't know the first thing about cats," he admits, a dry, self-deprecating humor touching his lips. "I'm more of a... tactical entry kind of guy. Not a 'nanny' guy."
"You managed to not squash him with a car," you shrug, reaching into the cabinet to pull out a starter kit. "Thatās a passing grade in my book."
He sighs, a long, defeated sound that ends in a nod. "Fine. Iāll take him. What do I do?"
For the next ten minutes, you give him the 'Neonatal 101' crash course. You pack a box with formula, tiny bottles, and a snuggle-safe heating pad. You show him how to hold the kittenābelly down, never on his backāand how to test the temperature of the milk.
"And hereās the best part," you say, a mischievous glint in your tired eyes. You pick up a cotton ball and dip it in warm water. "Since heās this small, his mom would usually lick him to make him go. Since you are now the mom, you have to stimulate him to go to the bathroom after every meal."
You hand him the cotton ball. Leon stares at it as if youāve handed him a live grenade with the pin pulled.
"I have to... what?"
"Stimulate," you repeat, suppressing a grin. "Gently. Itās glamorous, I know. Welcome to parenthood, Leon. Try not to get any on the suit."
The moment of levity is shattered when Sarahās head pops through the door, her expression grim. "Doc, weāve got a hit-by-car ten minutes out. Itās a Golden Retriever, multiple fractures, looks like heās in shock. Weāre prepping the crash cart."
The shift in your energy is instantaneous. The playful vet vanishes, replaced by the clinical commander. You reach for a pen stuck in your pocket and use it to shove your messy hair up into a makeshift bun, tightening the knot with a sharp tug.
"Copy that. Get the O2 ready and start a warm saline bag," you say, already moving toward the door. You look back at Leon, who is standing there holding a box of formula and a terrified-looking orange kitten.
"Leon, he's stable. Take the kit, go pay the tech at the front desk, and get that cat into a warm bed," you say, your voice now a sharp, professional staccato as the adrenaline begins to flood your system. "Iāve got a real crisis coming through those doors. Good luck. Don't be a stranger if he stops eating."
You don't wait for a goodbye. You're already sprinting toward the treatment area, the "Propofol coma" forgotten.
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
The apartment is a monument to a man who expects to leave it at a momentās notice and never return.
Itās located in a quiet corner of D.C., all cold granite countertops, brushed steel, and a sofa so ergonomically perfect and devoid of character it might as well have come with the lease. There are no photos on the walls. No stray mail on the entry table. The air usually smells of nothing but filtered ventilation and the faint, metallic tang of the gun oil he uses to clean his gun.
Now, it smells like kitten formula and desperation.
Leon sits on the edge of his bed, the glow of his phone illuminating the deep grooves of exhaustion etched into his face. He sets an alarm for 02:00. Then 04:00. Then 06:00.
"Great," he mutters, his thumb hovering over the save button. "I've gone from tactical extractions to a scheduled piss-watch for a creature that weighs less than a standard-issue magazine. My career trajectory is really peaking."
He looks down at the shoebox heās lined with one of his softest, most expensive hoodies. Inside, the orange kittenāwhom he has tentatively dubbed 'Cheeto' in a moment of sleep-deprived weaknessāis a vibrating ball of fluff.
The 02:00 alarm blares with the subtle grace of a flashbang. Leon is upright in half a second, his hand flying toward the nightstand before his brain registers that heās not in a trench in Edonia. Heās in a climate-controlled bedroom, and the only 'hostile' is a hungry five-week-old feline.
He stumbles into the kitchen, his movements stiff. The process of heating the formula is an exercise in agonizing precision. He uses a meat thermometer to ensure the liquid is exactly 98.5 degrees Fahrenheit. If itās 98.4, heās convinced the kitten will get hypothermia; if itās 98.8, he fears heās essentially serving lava.
"Okay, kid. Chow time. Don't make it weird," Leon whispers as he gathers the kitten into his lap.
His handsāhands that have steadied a sniper rifle in high-wind conditions and punched through the reinforced glass of Umbrella laboratoriesāare shaking slightly. He holds the tiny plastic bottle like itās a detonator with a frayed wire.
When the kitten finally latches, a frantic, rhythmic tug-tug-tug vibrating through the silicone nipple, Leon finds himself holding his breath.
"Easy there, tiger. Itās a buffet, not a race," he says, a small, lopsided smirk tugging at his mouth. "You eat like a zombie at an all-you-can-eat brain buffet."
The "glamorous" part comes next. Leon stares at the box of cotton balls you had handed him with that knowing, mischievous glint in your eyes. He can still see your faceāthe way your hair was a mess, the way you didn't even flinch when he walked in looking like a drowned rat.
You had looked at him like he was just a guy, not a government asset, not a survivor. Just a guy with a cat.
"Stimulate," he repeats your words, his voice a flat, dry monotone. "She said it would be fun. She lied. Iām definitely filing a complaint with the veterinary board for emotional distress."
He performs the task with a grimace of intense concentration, murmuring apologies to the kitten the entire time.
By day three, the "sterile" nature of the apartment has surrendered. There are half-washed bottles in the sink. A trail of discarded paper towels leads from the sofa to the trash. A stray sock, mangled by tiny needle-teeth, sits in the middle of the hallway.
Leon should be annoyed. He should be furious that his sanctuary has been breached by an orange chaos-agent. But as he sits on the sofa at 4:30 AM, watching the sun begin to bleed over the D.C. skyline, he realizes his internal monologue has gone quiet. The angerāthat low-simmering hum of PTSD that usually keeps him company in the darkāhas been drowned out by a tiny, motorized purr.
The kitten crawls up his chest, stumbling over the buttons of his shirt, and tucks its head directly under Leonās chin. The fur is soft, smelling faintly of the soap youād used to clean him.
Leon freezes, his arms hovering awkwardly for a moment before he slowly, tentatively, rests a hand over the kittenās back. He feels the tiny heart beating against his own.
For the first time since the world ended in a rain of missiles over Raccoon City in 1998, the crushing weight in his chest feels... lighter.
"I think the vet might be onto something, Cheeto," Leon breathes into the quiet room, his eyes heavy with a sleep that feels, for once, like it might be dreamless. "But don't tell her I said that. She already thinks Iām a pushover."
He closes his eyes, the minimalist apartment finally feeling like something it has never been before: a home.
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
The fluorescent lights of the clinic are humming at a frequency that is starting to feel like a drill against your temple.
Youāre leaning your lower back against the cabinetry of the pharmacy station, clutching a lukewarm cup of coffee like itās a holy relic.
"I mean it, Sarah," you mutter, watching your tech draw up meds with terrifying efficiency. "One more pyometra. Just one more emergency spay where the uterus looks like it might burst, and Iām done. Iāll donate my scrubs to a thrift store and start a new life. Maybe Iāll go into accounting. Numbers don't bleed on your shoes or try to bite your face off.'"
"Youād be bored in a week," Sarah chirps, not even looking up. "Besides, you love the drama. Oh, speaking of dramaālook whoās back."
The front bell dings. You peer around the corner. Itās Leon.
He looks like heās been through some shit. The rugged, leading-man handsomeness is still there, but itās buried under a layer of profound sleep deprivation. Heās got dark, bruised circles under his eyes that rival your own, and his blonde hair is a mess of spikes. But then you look at his hands.
Heās holding that plastic carrier with a level of tenderness that is honestly offensive. Itās like heās carrying a box of nitroglycerin.
"Room two," you tell Sarah, snapping into a professional mask that is mostly held together by caffeine and sheer stubbornness.
You walk into the exam room and find him standing by the table, looking at the carrier like itās a bomb he forgot how to disarm.
"Back for more punishment, Leon?" you ask, your voice dropping into that comfortable, blunt cadence. "You look like youāve been living in a war zone. Which, granted, is a normal Tuesday for a kitten owner."
"He doesn't stop," Leon rasps, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that makes your nerve endings tingle. "I followed the schedule. I monitored the intake. But he just keeps screaming. Is he broken?"
"Itās called meowing, Leon. Itās how they demand your soul." You reach into the carrier and scoop out the orange scrap. Heās already gained weight; his belly is a round, healthy little pear, and his eyes are bright. "Wow. Look at you. Youāve actually kept him alive. Iām impressed. Most guys usually give up by the third bottle feeding."
"I don't like failing assignments," Leon mutters, though thereās a flicker of a lopsided smile on his face as he watches you examine the tiny creature.
You perform the check-up, checking the heart rate and the lungs, all while Leon stands way too close. He smells like woodsmoke and laundry detergent, a combination that is currently frying your brain.
You praise him for the kittenās hydration levels, and you see his shoulders drop about two inches in relief.
As you move to pack the kitten back into the carrier, Leon starts firing off a string of hyper-specific, borderline neurotic questions.
"The water for the formulaāIāve been using a thermometer to keep it at exactly 98 degrees. Is 98.5 too high? Does it cause thermal shock? And the cotton ballsāare the quilted ones too abrasive for his skin?"
You stare at him. This man is currently worried about the abrasive quality of a CVS-brand cotton ball. Itās the most endearing thing youāve ever seen, and your filterāalready weakened by a twelve-hour shiftācompletely disintegrates.
Heās hot, your brain shrugs. Heās a good dad. And you haven't been on a date in ages. Just do it.
"Leon," you interrupt, putting a hand on his arm to stop the frantic flow of questions. The muscle beneath his sleeve is hard as a rock, and the heat of him makes your palms itch. "Stop. Youāre doing great. The cat is thriving. You, however, look like you're about to have a stroke."
He pauses, looking a little sheepish. "I just... I don't want to mess it up."
"You won't." You reach over to the counter, grab a neon-pink sticky note and a pen, and scribble your personal cell number on it. You press the note into his large, calloused palm, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
"Look," you say, flashing him a playful, slightly crooked smirk. "If you have any more midnight panics about formula ratios or quilted vs. non-quilted cotton, just text me. Strictly for cat questions, of course. My expertise is limited to things with four legs, but I can talk you off a ledge."
Leon stares at the pink paper in his hand like itās a piece of top-secret intel. He looks up at you, his blue eyes searching yours, and for a second, the sarcastic vet and the stoic man are just two people standing in a cramped room with a tiny cat.
"Strictly for cat questions," he repeats, his voice low and a little amused.
"Obviously," you say, walking him toward the door. "I'm a professional, Leon. Now get out of here and go take a nap before you face-plant in the lobby."
As he walks away, you lean against the doorframe, watching the swing of his shoulders.
"What was that?" Sarah asks, appearing out of nowhere with a smirk.
"Professional consultation," you mutter, taking a final, cold sip of your coffee.
Oh god, what did I just do? If he texts me a picture of his cat's poop at 2:00 AM, I'm never living this down.
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
Leon is a man who understands protocol. He understands mission parameters, chain of command, and the strict rules of engagement. So, when you handed him that sticky note with your number on it, his brain filed it under a very specific, very restricted category: Emergency Technical Support.
He spends the better part of forty-eight hours staring at the digits, convinced that a woman like youāsomeone who handles life-and-death crises with a sarcastic quip and a steady handāhas better things to do than talk to a government-sanctioned blunt instrument like him.
Youāre light, and full of life, and you probably have a social circle that doesn't involve handler-reports and ballistic testing. In Leonās mind, you are firmly out of his league, occupying a world that isn't stained by the things heās seen.
But then, the kittenāCheetoāstarts doing things. Weird things.
His first text is sent at 11:30 PM. He attaches a grainy photo of the kitten standing in the middle of the hallway, arched like a Halloween decoration, scuttling sideways with a chaotic energy that Leon can only describe as "biological anomaly."
Leon: Heās moving at a forty-five-degree angle and his tail looks like a pipe cleaner. Is this a neurological tremor? Do I need to bring him in for an MRI?
Your reply comes three minutes later, and Leon feels a pathetic jolt of electricity at the buzz in his pocket.
You: Leon, heās just playing. Itās called crab-walking. Heās trying to look big and scary. Is it working?
Leon looks at the kitten, who has just tripped over its own paws and face-planted into the carpet.
Leon: Iām terrified.
By Thursday, the anxiety reaches a fever pitch. Leon is sitting on his bed, watching the kitten knead a fleece blanket with a rhythmic, intense focus. He doesn't text this time. He calls. He needs a professional voice to talk him off the ledge.
"He's vibrating," Leon says the moment you pick up, his voice a deadpan, military monotone that betrays the fact that his eyes are currently dinner-plate wide. "The whole cat. Heās vibrating and poking the blanket with his claws. Itās some kind of repetitive motor reflex. Is he having a seizure? Should I be checking his airway?"
He hears you let out a long, melodic breath on the other endāa laugh youāre trying to stifle.
"Leon," you say, and the way you say his name makes him grip the phone a little tighter. "He's making biscuits. He's purring. It means he's happy. It means he thinks the blanket is his mom."
Leon looks down at the orange fluff currently 'baking' against his thigh. "Making biscuits. Right. So itās a culinary instinct, not a medical emergency. Iāll cancel the medevac."
"Please do," you chuckle. "Go to sleep, Leon."
But sleep doesn't come easily. The climax of his "cat-dad" neurosis hits at 1:00 AM on Saturday. Cheeto had been particularly enthusiastic about his bottle, guzzling the formula until his stomach was a hard, round little marble. Afterward, the kitten had simply... collapsed.
Heās sprawled out on his back, limbs limp, unresponsive to Leonās frantic prodding.
Leonās heart is in his throat. He hits the FaceTime button before he can talk himself out of it.
The screen flickers to life, and suddenly, you are there. Youāre in your pajamasāsomething soft and mismatchedāand your hair is a magnificent, messy birdās nest that tells him he definitely just woke you up. You look soft, blurry around the edges, and devastatingly beautiful in the low light of your bedroom.
"Leon?" you mumble, squinting at the screen. "Is everything okay?"
"Heās unresponsive," Leon says, his voice dropping into a low, intimate rasp of genuine distress. He turns the camera toward the kitten. "Heās just... lying there. I tried poking his paw and he didn't even hiss. I think I broke him."
You lean in closer to the camera, your eyes scanning the image. Then, you smile. Itās a gentle, warm expression that makes Leonās apartment feel ten degrees warmer.
"Just a milk coma, Leon," you explain softly. "Look at that belly. Heās just full. Heās passed out in a food haze. Heāll be up and terrorizing your curtains in two hours."
Leon sags back against his headboard, the adrenaline draining out of him and leaving a hollow, aching exhaustion in its place. He covers his face with one hand, letting out a jagged sigh.
"I'm a disaster at this," he admits, his voice sounding raw even to his own ears. "I've faced things thatāthings that shouldn't existāand I'm losing my mind over a cat that's just... full."
"It's because you care," you say. Thereās no mockery in your tone, no punchline. Just a simple statement of fact that cuts right through his armor. "Most people would have just ignored him on that road, Leon. You didn't. Youāre a good man. Even if you are a neurotic cat-dad."
Leon lets the words sink in. A good man. He hasn't felt like one in a long time. Usually, heās just a weapon that the government points at problems.
"A 'cat-dad,'" Leon repeats, a dry, self-deprecating smirk appearing as he looks back at the screen. "Is there a badge for that? Or do I just get a lifetime supply of lint rollers and a permanent coating of orange fur on all my tactical gear?"
You laughāa real, bright sound that echoes through his quiet bedroom. Leon finds himself staring at the screen, watching the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, the way a stray lock of hair falls over your forehead.
He realizes, with a sudden, jarring clarity, that heās stopped looking at the kitten. Heās just looking at you.
The silence stretches, becoming something heavy and electric. Leon realizes heās spent the last forty-eight hours coming up with increasingly flimsy, ridiculous reasons to see your name light up his phone.
He isn't worried about the cat anymore. Heās worried about how much he doesn't want to hang up.
"You look tired," he says softly, his thumb tracing the edge of the phone. "I should let you get back to sleep. Sorry for the... milk coma false alarm."
"Itās okay, Leon," you say, your voice dropping to a sleepy, tender murmur. "Call me anytime. Even if itās just for biscuits."
As the screen goes black, Leon stares at his own reflection in the glass.
Heās a mess. Heās a DSO agent who just got called a "good man" by a woman who makes him feel like heās eighteen again, before the world turned into a horror movie.
He looks at the sleeping kitten and then at the phone.
"You've failed miserably, Kennedy," he whispers to the empty room. "Youāre definitely flirting now."
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
The daily text updates from Leon have become the highlight of your grueling, twelve-hour rotationsāa digital breadcrumb trail of "cat-dad" neurosis that youāve come to rely on more than caffeine. What started as a clinical safety net has morphed into a steady stream of orange-furred chaos. You find yourself smiling at your phone in the middle of the surgery prep, looking at a blurry photo of a kitten stuck in a tissue box.
But lately, the digital interaction isn't enough for him.
"Heās back," Sarah, your tech, sings out from the pharmacy area. She leans against the doorframe with a devious, toothy grin. "The hot brooding guy with the orange accessory is in the lobby. Third time this week. Whatās the 'emergency' today? A crooked whisker? A suspicious meow?"
"Shut up, Sarah," you mutter, though you can feel the heat crawling up your neck. You instinctively reach up to smooth a stray hair back into your ponytail.
"Oh, please. Youāre wearing the 'fancy' scrubs and you actually used mascara today. I see you," she teases, checking the clipboard. "Heās here for... a bag of gastrointestinal kibble. The kind we sell for a 20% markup that he could literally Prime-deliver to his door in four hours."
You roll your eyes, grabbing a clean lab coat. "Maybe he just likes supporting small businesses."
"Maybe he likes supporting your specific business," she retorts, following you toward the lobby. "The girls in the back have a pool going. Twenty bucks says he asks for your number by Friday. Fifty says heās already got it and heās just a massive coward."
"I don't think 'coward' is in his vocabulary," you whisper, though your heart is doing a rhythmic thud against your ribs that feels suspiciously like a drumroll.
You push through the double doors and there he is. Leon stands near the display of prescription diets, looking entirely too large and too handsome for a sterile veterinary lobby. Heās wearing a charcoal sweater that hugs his shoulders in a way that should be illegal, his blonde hair perfectly tousled despite the humidity outside.
"Leon," you say, your voice landing in that sweet spot between professional and playful. "Don't tell me. Heās developed a sudden, life-threatening allergy to his own tail?"
Leon turns, and the way his blue eyes light up when they land on you makes your stomach do a slow, dizzying somersault. He clears his throat, shifting his weight. He looks incredibly cool until he opens his mouth, and then that slight, charming awkwardness leaks out.
"He sneezed," Leon says, his voice a serious, low rumble. "Three times in a row. It was... rhythmic. I thought it might be the early stages of a respiratory collapse. Or a dust mite allergy."
You walk over, taking the carrier from him. Your fingers brush against hisājust for a secondāand you feel the static electricity zip up your arm. You peek inside at the kitten, who is currently busy trying to eat a loose thread on his bedding.
"He looks like heās on deathās door, truly," you say, your voice dripping with dry sarcasm. "The 'rhythmic sneezing' was likely just him being a cat, Leon. But since youāre here, I suppose I can perform a very expensive, very rigorous five-second nose check."
"I also needed food," he adds quickly, gesturing to the shelf. "The bag I have is... getting low. Maybe."
"You have half a bag left at home, don't you?" you ask, tilting your head, a smirk playing on your lips.
Leon stays silent for a beat too long, his gaze dropping to your name tag before meeting your eyes again. "I like the atmosphere here," he says, a bit of that one-liner bravado returning. "Very... clinical. Good lighting."
"Right. Everyone comes to the vet for the 'ambiance' of barking dogs and the smell of anal glands," you retort. You lead him to the counter, ringing up the overpriced kibble. Youāre acutely aware of the techs watching from the window, probably exchanging silent high-fives.
You feel a pang of doubt as you hand him the receipt. A guy like thisārugged, mysterious, probably used to high-octane thrill-seekersācouldn't possibly be interested in you.
Youāre a woman who spends her days getting peed on by Chihuahuas and her nights smelling like antiseptic and wet fur. Youāre exhausted, your under-eye circles are permanent residents, and your social life is a graveyard.
But then Leon reaches out, his hand hovering over yours for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary as he takes the bag.
"Thanks," he says softly. The way he says it isn't like a client. Itās a low, intimate vibration that makes the bustling clinic fade into the background. "Iāll... let you know if the sneezing returns. Or if he looks at me funny."
"I'm sure you will," you say, your bluntness softened by a gentle, tired smile. "Go home, Leon. Your cat misses you."
As he walks out, his stride confident and his shoulders broad, you lean against the counter and let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
"Twenty bucks!" Sarah yells from the back. "Heās totally into you, Doc! Heās just waiting for the cat to give him the green light!"
You just shake your head, looking down at the counter where he stood. You find yourself hoping the kitten sneezes again tomorrow. Just once. Just to be safe.
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
The air in the treatment area is thick with the scent of antiseptic, metallic blood, and the heavy, lingering stillness of the recently departed. Youāre standing over the stainless steel prep table, your hands steady despite the tremor of exhaustion in your knees as you pull the heavy plastic of a cadaver bag over a sweet, senior Greyhound who just couldn't fight any longer.
"If the shift keeps up like this, we're going to run out of freezer space," your tech, Marcus, sighs, his voice flat with the kind of gallows humor that keeps hospitals running at 2:00 AM.
"Donāt," you whisper, zipping the bag with a sharp, final schlick. "I hate this part the most. Every time. Packing up someoneās best friend in a glorified trash bag. Itās a hell of a way to say goodbye."
You lean your forehead against the wall for just a second, letting the grief wash over you and then drain away. You have to stay empty. If you let the "sad" stay in your lungs, youāll drown.
Then, the front bell doesn't just chimeāit screams. Someone is leaning on it.
Youāre moving before you even think, your clogs squeaking on the linoleum. You burst into the lobby and stop dead.
Itās Leon. But the charming, awkward "cat-dad" who buys too much kibble is gone. In his place is a man who looks like heās standing in the middle of a war zone. His face is pale, his eyes are blown wide with a jagged, frantic terror, and his chest is heaving.
He isn't holding a carrier. Heās holding the orange kitten against his chest, his large hands trembling so violently you can see the tremors from the doorway.
"Please," Leon chokes out. The sound is raw, a jagged piece of glass in his throat. He thrusts the limp, tiny body toward you. "I can'tādon't let him die. Please. Not him too."
The kitten is a wet rag. His breathing is a shallow, agonizing raspāthe "guppy breathing" that makes every vetās blood run cold.
You swear under your breath and snap into action the internal "vet-mode" slamming into place. You snatch the kitten and sprint back through the swinging doors. "Marcus, get the O2 cage prepped! I need a 24-gauge IV and a dose of dex. Now, move!"
For the next twenty minutes, you are a machine. You slide the needle into a vein thinner than a piece of thread. You listen to the crackle in the tiny lungsāpneumonia. Aspiration, likely. The kitten is tucked into the oxygen-rich plexiglass box, a tiny, fragile heartbeat under a mountain of IV lines and telemetry wires.
You finally step back, wiping a smear of blood off your thumb. You look toward the door. Leon is standing in the entryway of the treatment area, looking utterly lost. Heās hovering in the "no-man's land" between the lobby and the sterile zone, his hands still curled as if heās holding a ghost.
"Heās in the cage, Leon. Steroids, antibiotics, and oxygen," you say, your voice softening as the adrenaline begins to ebb. "Itās touch-and-go. The next six hours are the decider. You should go home. Get some sleep. Iāll call you the second anything changes."
Leon doesn't move. He just looks at the floor and then slides down the wall, his long legs stretching out across the cold linoleum directly in front of the kennel bank.
"I'm staying," he says. Itās not a request. Itās a directive.
"Leon, I have four other critical patients in here trying to find the light at the end of the tunnel. Itās not exactly a five-star hotel," you say, trying to inject a bit of your usual dry bite into the air to break the tension.
"I don't care," he mutters, leaning his head back against the cages.
You leave him there because you have to. You spend the next three hours wrestling with a diabetic ketoacidosis cat and a bloated Doberman. Every time you pass the kennel ward, you see him sitting on the floor like a dejected kid, watching the rhythmic puffing of an orange kitten in a plastic box.
Around 5:00 AM, you find a lull. You walk over and nudge his boot with your clog.
"Leon. Seriously. The floor is disgusting, and you look like youāre about to vibrate out of your skin. Go home."
He looks up at you, and the sheer weight of the shadows under his eyes hits you. "Sometimes," he says, his voice a low, hollow echo, "I feel like I can't save anyone. Not my teammates. Not the people Iām sent to protect. And now... not even a cat."
You feel the breath hitch in your throat. You slide down the wall next to him, your shoulder brushing his. The warmth of him is startling against the sterile chill of the room.
"You and me both, Leon," you sigh, staring at the rows of monitors. "The 'God complex' they give us in vet school is a lie. Most days, weāre just finger-plugging a leaking dam."
Leon looks at you, his gaze intense. "Sorry. I shouldn't... this has been a hell of a shift for you, hasn't it?"
"They all are," you say, leaning your head back. "Some just have more body bags than others."
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
Your shift officially ends at 7:00 AM. Your relief vet walks in, and you should leave. You should go home, take a scalding shower, and sleep for a week. But you don't. You go to the break room, grab two lukewarm coffees, and walk back to the floor.
You sit down next to Leon again.
"You're still here," he notes, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"Iām a glutton for punishment," you mutter, handing him the cup.
For the next hour, the barriers crumble.
You find yourself telling him about the "soul-crushing" partsāthe people who bring in their pets to be euthanized because theyāre moving, the neglect cases that make you want to break things. But then you tell him about the good partsāthe dog that woke up after three days of a coma, the kitten that beat the odds.
Leon listens with a terrifyingly focused intensity. He doesn't interrupt. He just watches you speak, his blue eyes mesmerized by the way you navigate the darkness of your profession without letting it turn you cold.
"Youāre a lot stronger than you look," he says softly.
"I'm not strong, Leon. I'm just stubborn," you retort, nudging him with your shoulder. "But thanks. Youāre not a bad listener."
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
Leon is no stranger to stakeouts.
Heās spent weeks in cramped vans eating lukewarm rations, and heās spent months in damp trenches waiting for a target to blink. But this? Sitting on a stool thatās three inches too short for his frame, staring into a plexiglass box at a creature that weighs less than his handgun? This is the most grueling mission of his career.
Over the next week, the clinic becomes Leonās base of operations. He shows up at the start of your night shift and doesn't leave until the sun is high enough to make his eyes ache. Heās become a fixture in the kennel wardāthe tall, brooding man in the leather jacket who looks like he could snap a neck but spends four hours straight whispering to a kitten with a congested nose.
You become the highlight of his vigil.
Whenever the clinic settles into that eerie, midnight lull, you find him. You don't just check the charts; you check on him. You start bringing him half of your sandwichāusually something with way too much sprout-to-protein ratio for his liking, but he eats it like itās a five-star meal because you made it. You sit on the floor next to his stool, your shoulder occasionally brushing his knee, and the contact sends a low-voltage jolt through his system that heās doing a poor job of ignoring.
"You look like you're trying to intimidate the pneumonia into leaving," you murmur one Tuesday at 3:00 AM, sliding a container of pasta toward him. "I hate to tell you, but bacteria doesn't care about your 'scary agent' eyes."
Leon takes the plastic fork, his thumb grazing yours in the exchange. He lingers for a second too long, his gaze dropping to your lips before he catches himself and looks back at the kitten.
"Iām just providing overwatch," Leon grunts, though his tone is fond.
The conversation drifts, as it always does, into the quiet, heavy things. You talk about the "little miracles"āthe paralyzed dog that wagged its tail for the first time today, the elderly cat that finally started eating. You speak with a weary, glowing passion that Leon finds intoxicating.
He realizes heās spent years surrounded by people who are hollowed out by their work, but you? Youāre tired, sure, but your heart is still terrifyingly intact.
The weight of his own secrets starts to feel like a physical burden. Heās used to being a ghost, a name on a redacted file. But sitting here in the dim light of the clinic, with you looking at him like heās someone worth knowing, the lie feels like a wall heās tired of leaning against.
"I don't just do 'security,'" he says suddenly. The air in the room shifts. He stares at the oxygen monitor, his voice dropping into that professional, gravelly register. "I work for the DSO Division of Security Operations. Directly under the President."
He waits for the shift in your expression. Heās seen it beforeāthe way peopleās eyes go cold when they realize heās a professional dealer of death, or the way they start prying for gruesome details like heās a character in a movie. He explains the bio-terrorism, the BOWs, the constant cycle of violence that has defined his life since the night he drove into Raccoon City as a rookie cop.
He braces for the disgust. For you to realize that his hands, the ones that have been helping you bottle-feed a kitten, are stained with things you couldn't imagine.
Instead, you just take a slow bite of your sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. You look at him with a gentle, tired smile that makes his breath hitch.
"So, you fight bio-weapons," you muse, leaning your head back against the cold kennel. "I guess that means we have the same primary skillset."
Leon blinks, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "Which is?"
"We both try really hard not to get bitten on the clock."
Leon stares at you. He waits for the punchline, for the horror, but all he sees is your playful, sparking gaze. A laugh bubbles up in his chestānot the dry, sarcastic bark he uses to deflect trauma, but a genuine, soft sound that echoes off the metal cages. Itās a sound he hasn't heard from himself in years.
"Thatās... one way to put it," he says, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. The heavy weight he carries every day feels, for a moment, like itās been halved.
"I'm serious," you say, laughing softly as you nudge his arm. "I've seen the teeth on a grumpy Malamute, Leon. I think I could handle a zombie."
"Don't test that theory," he says, but heās smiling nowāa real, lopsided Kennedy smirk.
He looks at you, and the tension thatās been simmering for weeks suddenly boils over. The ward is quiet, the only sound the hum of the oxygen machine and the soft rain against the window. Youāre closeāclose enough that he can see the gold flecks in your eyes and the way your scrub top dips at your collarbone.
Leon reaches out, his hand hovering near your face before he loses his nerve and settles for tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger on the skin there, warm and soft, and he sees your breath hitch.
"You're a strange woman," he whispers, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy longing.
"And you're a very dramatic cat-dad, Leon," you whisper back, not pulling away.
For a second, the mission, the BOWs, and the world outside don't exist. Thereās just the smell of antiseptic, the hum of a kittenās recovery, and the terrifying realization that heās falling for you faster than he ever fell into a trap.
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
The dawn light is a sickly, pale yellow as it bleeds through the clinicās high windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing over the surgical bays. You feel like a ghost inhabiting a body made of lead and caffeine. Your neck cricks as you stand up from the floor, your joints popping in a rhythmic protest that sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies.
Leon is still there. Heās slumped on that too-small stool, his head bowed, his hands clasped between his knees. He looks like a man waiting for a verdict from a hanging judge.
"Alright," you murmur, your voice sounding like it was dragged over gravel. "Letās see if the little guy is ready to join the land of the living."
You walk over to the incubator. The hum of the oxygen concentrator has been the soundtrack to your week, a mechanical heartbeat that youāve grown to loathe. You unlatch the plexiglass door with a soft click.
Inside, the orange scrap of fur is no longer a limp rag. Heās sitting up, his head wobbly, his copper eyes half-open.
"Hey, tough guy," you whisper. You scoop a tiny dollop of calorie-dense recovery mousse onto your finger and hold it to his nose.
For a heartbeat, nothing. Then, a tiny, sandpaper tongue darts out. Then another. He starts to lap at your skin with a desperate, frantic hunger. A weak, high-pitched mew vibrates through his chestāa sound of life, demanding and stubborn.
"Heās eating," you breathe, and the sheer, ridiculous relief of it makes your vision blur for a second. "Heās actually eating. The little bastard made it."
You turn to Leon, a triumphant, sleep-deprived grin plastered on your face. "Heās actually eating. Heāsā"
The words die in your throat.
Leon has stood up, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the kennel ward. Heās staring at the kitten, but his face isn't the stoic mask of a government agent. His jaw is trembling, just a fraction, and his eyesāthose piercing, icy blue eyesāare brimming with tears that heās desperately trying not to let fall.
He looks shattered. Not because of the danger, but because of the hope.
Oh, Leon, you think, your heart doing a slow, painful squeeze. You really were ready to lose everything again, weren't you?
You don't think. Thinking is for people who aren't running on thirty minutes of sleep and pure empathy. You are about to do something wildly unprofessional. You don't care.
You step across the linoleum, closing the distance between you and the man who fights monsters, and you wrap your arms around his waist.
Leon goes rigid instantly.
Itās like hugging a statue carved from granite. He stays perfectly still, his breath hitching, his arms hovering uselessly at his sides. He feels like a man who expects a blow to follow the touchāsomeone whose only experience with physical contact in the last decade has been a struggle for survival or a professional handshake. Itās jarring, feeling the tension radiating off him, a high-voltage wire ready to snap.
"Itās okay," you mumble against his chest, squeezed tight. "Heās okay. You can breathe now."
Slowly, agonizingly so, the statue crumbles.
You feel a shudder rip through him, a deep shift of his shoulders. Then, his weight collapses into you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching against your skin, and his arms finally come around you.
They are heavy. They are massive. He wraps them around you with a crushing, desperate strength, as if youāre the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. You can feel his heart thudding against your collarboneāslow, heavy, and raw.
He doesn't say anything, but the way he clings to you tells you everything. He isn't just relieved about the cat. Heās drowning in a decade of loneliness, in the weight of the bodies he couldn't save. Heās so touch-starved it feels like heās trying to absorb the warmth of your scrub top through his skin.
Itās not just "heās hot and Iām tired." Itās the feeling of two people who spend their lives in the trenches finally finding a place to put their packs down.
Your hands move up his back, rubbing small, soothing circles into the expensive fabric of his shirt. You feel the dip of his spine, the hard muscle of his shoulders, and the way he lets out a long, shaky exhale into your hair.
"You're okay," you whisper again, your voice softening, losing its sharp, sarcastic edge. "Heās got you."
Leon pulls back just an inch, his hands sliding down to rest on your waist. He doesn't let go. He looks down at you, his lashes wet, his face mere inches from yours. The air between you is thick, charged with the scent of his woodsy cologne and the clinical tang of the ward. His gaze drops to your mouth, and for a second, the world stops spinning.
"I don't... I don't know how to do this," he rasps, his voice a broken low-frequency hum.
"Do what? Hug? You're doing a C-plus job, Kennedy," you tease, though your voice trembles. "A little less 'death-grip' and a little more 'gentle human interaction' next time."
He lets out a watery, huffed laugh, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "I think I've forgotten what 'gentle' feels like."
"Well," you say, closing your eyes and leaning into him, savoring the solid, terrifying warmth of him. "Stick with me. Iāve got plenty of practice. Usually with Golden Retrievers, but I think I can make an exception."
He squeezes your waist, a silent, grateful pressure. In the quiet of the dawn, with a recovering kitten purring in the background, you realize youāre in a lot of trouble. Because Leon Kennedy isn't just a client anymoreāheās someone youād fight a world-ending virus just to keep holding onto.
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
Leonās smartphone vibrates against the granite countertop with the persistence of a terminal alarm. He doesn't need to look at the ID to know itās Hunnigan.
The universe has a twisted sense of humor; the moment his life gains a shred of stabilityāsymbolized by an orange kitten currently trying to disembowel a feathered toyāthe DSO decides itās time for him to jump out of a plane.
"Yeah, Ingrid," Leon sighs into the receiver, his eyes tracking the kitten's chaotic movements. "Tell me it's a seminar on file organization. Tell me Iām being sent to Hawaii to count palm trees."
"It's a hot-zone extraction in the Balkan periphery, Leon. Transport leaves in four hours," Hunniganās voice is crisp, devoid of the sympathy heās looking for.
"Four hours. Right. Iāll just tell the cat to order pizza and lock the deadbolt behind me," he mutters, his mind racing.
Panic, cold and sharp, stabs at him. He canāt leave Cheeto. Not after the pneumonia, not after the nights spent on a linoleum floor praying for a meow. The idea of a stranger from a boarding appāsome teenager who might forget the water bowl or leave a window crackedāmakes his skin crawl. He finds himself dialing your number before heās even processed the thought.
When you answer, Leonās cool persona is nowhere to be found. Heās just a man with a cat and a very specialized, very annoying career.
"I have a problem," he says, skipping the pleasantries. "Work called. I'm being... deployed. A week, maybe more. Do you know a medical boarder who doesn't mind a kitten with a God complex and a lingering cough?"
He hears you pause on the other end. "Leon, itās short notice. Most medical boarding is booked out through the month. Is it somewhere... dangerous?"
"Itās never a spa day," he says dryly. "Look, if I have to, Iāllā"
"Iāll do it."
Leon freezes. "What?"
"I can stay at your place. I'm overqualified and I can keep an eye on his lungs. Besides," you add, your voice taking on that playful, blunt edge heās grown addicted to, "your apartment probably needs a womanās touch. Or at least someone to throw away the three-week-old takeout."
"You'd... stay here?" Leon asks, his throat suddenly tight.
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
An hour later, youāre standing in his foyer. Leon is dressed in his tactical gearādark, reinforced fabrics and heavy bootsālooking every bit the agent he tried to describe to you. He holds out his keychain. The metal is warm from his palm. As he drops the keys into your hand, his fingers linger against your skin.
It feels like a surrender. Heās giving you the keys to his sanctuary, the only place on earth where he doesn't have to look over his shoulder.
"The alarm code is 1998," he says, a flicker of dark, self-deprecating humor in his eyes. "Try not to set it off. The response team is... unfriendly. And if he stops eating, call me. I don't care if I'm in a tunnel. Make them patch you through."
"1998? Creative," you remark, looking at the keys. "Go save the world, Leon. Iāll make sure the kitten doesn't burn the place down."
He lingers at the door, the weight of the mission pulling at him, but the sight of you standing in his living roomāframed by his sterile, gray wallsāmakes him feel like heās actually leaving something behind for once.
"Don't eat all my cereal," he says, a lopsided smirk appearing. "It's the only thing I have left."
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
Leonās apartment is exactly what you expected: a high-end, minimalist cave that screams 'I don't plan on being here for long.'
The furniture is expensive but looks like itās never been sat on. The fridge contains three bottles of high-end bourbon, a jar of pickles, and enough Gatorade to hydrate an army. Itās a gorgeous space, but itās inhabited by a ghost who clearly spends his life waiting for the next disaster.
"Alright, Cheeto," you sigh, dropping your bag on the granite island. "Letās see if we can make this place look like a human actually lives here."
Over the next week, you start a quiet insurrection against Leonās minimalism. You buy a soft throw blanket to cover the "ergonomic" sofa. You bring over a small succulent that Leon will almost certainly forget to water. You organize the chaos of his mail and make sure the kittenās toys aren't just limited to "stray socks."
It becomes a semi-regular occurrence. Every time Leon gets the call, you get the keys. Youāve mastered the 1998 alarm code and you know exactly which floorboard creaks near the bathroom. You send him daily updatesāphotos of the kitten sleeping on his discarded hoodies, or videos of Cheeto "hunting" his toys.
When heās home, you linger. Youāll stay for an hour after he returns, leaning against his kitchen counter while he tells youāin vague, redacted termsāabout where heās been. You find yourself liking the routine. The way he looks at you when he walks through the door, his eyes scanning you first before they even find the cat.
"You moved the blender," he notes one evening, leaning against the doorframe, looking exhausted but softer than youāve ever seen him.
"I put it where a normal person would use it, Leon," you retort, not looking up from your phone. "You had it stored like it was a classified weapon."
"It's a high-RPM motor," he deadpans. "Itās practically a turbine."
You laugh, and you see his shoulders drop an inch.
The messages between you two have evolved from 'Is he breathing okay?' to 'Saw this and thought of you' and late-night Facetimes where you talk about nothing and everything. Youāre becoming a permanent fixture in a life that was never meant to have any.
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
The wind in the mountains is a serrated blade, cutting through his tactical layers and biting into his skin. Leon is crouched in a blind, his rifle steady, the world around him a monochrome blur of snow and gray rock. His breath mists in the air, his fingers numb despite the heated gloves.
Itās the kind of environment where his mind usually goes to dark placesāto the faces of the people heās lost, to the smell of burning plastic in Raccoon City, to the weight of the kills heās had to rack up to keep the world spinning.
But today, his mind wanders somewhere else.
He thinks about you. He thinks about you sitting on his couch, probably wrapped in that fuzzy blanket you "donated" to his living room. He thinks about the way his apartment smells like your shampoo instead of gun oil when youāre there. You are currently three thousand miles away, probably complaining about a difficult client or a dog that wouldn't stop barking, and the thought is his only anchor to reality.
He pulls his phone from a secure pocket, shielding the screen from the wind. He has one bar of satellite signal. A photo from you has managed to crawl through.
Itās a picture of you on his bedāthe kitten curled up on your stomach, both of you looking half-asleep. Itās a domestic, quiet image that has no place in his world of bioluminescent horrors and political assassinations.
"Hunniganās going to kill me if she sees Iām using secure bandwidth for cat photos," Leon mutters to himself, a tiny, genuine smile cracking his frozen face.
He wouldn't admit it to youānot yet, maybe not everābut heās stopped dreading the "end" of the mission. He used to hate coming back to the silence of his flat. Now, he finds himself checking his watch, calculating the hours until he can walk through his door and hear your voice.
He doesn't just have a cat to come home to anymore. He has a presence. He has a reason to stay sharp, to stay fast, to stay alive.
"Target in sight," his comms crackle.
Leon shifts his grip, his eyes focusing. He feels steady. The cold doesn't matter. He has a cat-sitter to get back to.
"Copy that," Leon whispers, his thumb flicking the safety off. "Letās wrap this up. Iāve got a date with some bad takeout."
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
The shift didnāt just break you; it ground you down into a fine, bitter powder and scattered you across the linoleum.
It started with a car crash that sent two mangled retrievers into your bay and ended with a client screaming at you that you were a "heartless gold-digger" because you couldn't perform a miracle on a sixteen-year-old cat for the price of a drive-thru burger.
Youād spent four hours in emergency surgery, your hands slick with blood and your back screaming in protest, only for the monitor to flatline anyway. Youād had to tell a ten-year-old boy that his best friend wasnāt coming home, and then youād been reprimanded by management for the "negative impact on wait times" caused by you taking five minutes to cry in the supply closet.
By the time you let yourself into Leonās apartment, youāre less of a human and more of a walking bruise. You don't even turn on the lights. You just drop your bag, kick off your clogs, and collapse onto the sofaāthe one with the soft throw blanket you boughtāand bury your face in your hands.
The kitten, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, trots over and lets out a concerned chirrup. He kneads your thigh, his tiny claws snagging on your scrubs, before curling up against your chest.
"I hate it, Cheeto," you sob into his orange fur, the tears finally bursting the dam. "I hate the people, I hate the blood, and I really, really hate the wait times."
The front door clicks. The 1998 alarm code beepsāone, nine, nine, eightāand then the heavy thud of boots hits the floor. You don't even look up. Youāre too deep in the salt and the snot to care that the owner of the house is back early.
Leon freezes in the entryway. Even in the dim light of the city skyline peeking through the window, he looks like heās been through a meat grinder. His shirt is torn at the shoulder, thereās a nasty, dark bruise blossoming across his cheekbone, and heās limping slightly. He looks like a man who just survived a war, only to find a different kind of casualty in his living room.
"Hey," he says, his voice a low, startled rumble. "Whatāis the cat okay? Did something happen?"
"The cat is fine," you choke out, wiping your nose with your sleeve and failing miserably at looking composed. "Everything is fine. Iām just... Go away, Leon. You look like you need a medic and a gallon of ibuprofen."
He doesn't go away. He drops his duffel bag with a heavy thud and walks over, his movements stiff and cautious. He looks wildly out of his depth, his hands hovering at his sides as if heās trying to remember the manual for 'Human Comforting 101.'
"Youāre crying," he notes, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly register.
"Astute observation. They really do pay you for the big brain, don't they?" You let out a jagged, watery laugh. "I just had a shitty day, Leon. A patient died after four hours of me playing God, and then some guy called me a bitch because he had to wait forty minutes for his dog's ear cleaning while I was doing CPR. Iām just... done."
Leon stands there for a beat, the blue of his eyes scanning your face with a terrifying intensity. Heās seen trauma, heās seen death on a global scale, but seeing you falling apart on his couch seems to rattle him more than a BOW ever could.
"Move over," he says.
"Leon, youāre bleeding on my 'donated' blanketā"
"Move over," he repeats, firmer this time.
You slide over, and Leon sinks onto the sofa next to you. He smells like gunpowder, cold rain, and woodsmoke. He doesn't say anything at first; he just reaches out, his large, scarred hand hesitating before he pulls you tentatively toward him. You collapse against his side, your head landing on his shoulder.
"I've got you," he murmurs.
He wraps an arm around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and starts to stroke your hair. His touch is awkwardāclumsy, evenāas if heās afraid heāll break you, but itās the most grounding thing youāve ever felt. You grab the front of his torn shirt and just sob, letting all the bitterness and the exhaustion pour out of you and into his expensive, ruined gear.
"Itās just... so much sometimes," you whisper, your voice cracking. "I try so hard, and itās never enough. The world just keeps biting."
"I know," Leon says, his voice vibrating against your temple. "Believe me, I know. But you did your job. You showed up. Thatās more than most people can say."
He keeps stroking your hair, his calloused fingers snagging slightly on the tangles, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't try to "fix" it with a one-liner or a tactical solution. He just holds you. You realize, as your breathing finally starts to level out, that this is the first time in your life someone has held the weight for you instead of you holding it for everyone else.
"You look like hell, Leon," you mumble against his chest, feeling a flicker of your usual bluntness returning through the haze of grief.
"You should see the other guy," he retorts, a ghost of a smirk in his voice. "Actually, don't. Heās currently a smudge on a highway in Sarajevo."
You let out a tiny, genuine huff of a laugh, and you feel his arm tighten around you.
"See? There she is," he whispers.
You stay like that for a long timeāa battered agent and a broken vet, curled up on a minimalist couch with a kitten sleeping between you.
In the quiet of the apartment, the monsters and the body bags feel a million miles away. Youāre still tired, and your heart still aches, but as Leon rests his chin on top of your head, you realize that maybe the "ghost" has finally moved out of this apartment.
And for the first time in a long time, you don't feel like you're fighting the dark alone.
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
The transition from "emergency technical support" to "semi-permanent fixture" happens so gradually that Leon doesn't even see the trap until heās happily walking into it.
It starts with you dropping by after your shift to "check the kitten's weight," and then somehow youāre staying for a coffee, and thenāsuddenlyāyou have your own designated spot on his couch and a spare toothbrush in the guest bath.
Leon finds himself leaning against the kitchen island, watching you move through his kitchen with a grace that is utterly at odds with the clinical chaos of your day job. For years, this kitchen has been a graveyard for styrofoam containers and a shrine to a single bottle of high-end bourbon. His culinary skills are limited to reheating things and not burning the water.
"You know, the FDA suggests that a human being cannot actually survive on a diet of ninety percent spicy tuna rolls and ten percent Scotch," you remark, your back to him as you chop fresh parsley with a rhythmic, practiced speed.
Leon takes a slow sip of water, leaning his hip against the counter. "Iāll have you know I also eat the occasional multivitamin. And once, a piece of fruit that I'm reasonably sure wasn't plastic. I'm practically a health nut."
"You're a disaster," you retort, but the look you throw him over your shoulder is fond, lacking the sharp bite of your usual sarcasm.
Itās a sensory overload that makes his chest ache with a sudden, sharp pang of nostalgia he wasn't prepared for.
"Is that... actual garlic?" Leon asks, his voice dropping into a low, slightly dazed register. "I forgot it came in cloves. I thought it was just a powder that lived in the back of the pantry until it turned into a solid brick."
"God, you're pathetic," you laugh, sliding a pan of chicken onto the burner. The sizzle is loud in the quiet room. "Go sit down. You look like you're having a religious experience over a bulb of garlic."
"I might be," he mutters, though he doesn't move.
He likes watching you. He likes the way your hair starts to frizz slightly from the steam and the way youāve tucked your ID badge into your back pocket.
He realizes, with a dry, self-deprecating twist of his gut, that heās become addicted to this. To you. The mission-driven part of his braināthe part that usually keeps him scanning for exits and checking his sixāhas gone completely quiet. He feels safe. Not "perimeter secured" safe, but actually safe.
He walks over, ostensibly to reach for a glass, but he lingers in your space. Heās still a touch awkward with the physical stuff, his hands hovering near your waist before he settles for gently bumping his shoulder against yours.
"Smells better than my grandmother's Sunday gravy," he admits, the honesty feeling like vulnerability. "And she would have hit me with a wooden spoon just for thinking that."
"Well, don't tell her ghost I'm trying to upstage her," you say, nudging him back. Your smile is gentle, and Leon feels the last of his professional walls crumbling. "I just figured since you're busy saving the world, someone should make sure you don't succumb to scurvy."
"It's a noble cause," Leon says, his blue eyes softening as they fix on you.
"Just doing my civic duty, Agent," you tease.
Leon watches you stir the sauce, and he feels a surge of protectiveness so fierce it surprises him. He spends his life in rooms with people who want to tear the world apart, but here, in the dim light of his kitchen, youāre putting things back together. Youāre making a home out of a man who thought he was just a weapon.
"You're staying for dinner, right?" he asks, and he hates how much he hopes the answer is yes. "The cat gets lonely if you leave too early. And I... Well, I'm not great at talking to the furniture."
"I'm staying, Leon," you say, reaching out to pat his hand. "Relax. I'm not going anywhere."
Leon breathes out a sigh he feels in his very marrow. He looks at the garlic, the herbs, and the woman currently occupying his heart's center of mass, and he decides that if this is a trap, he never wants to be rescued.
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
The blue light of the television flickers across the living room, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. On the screen, some generic action flick is playing at a low volumeāsomething about a heist that Leon has already found sixteen tactical flaws inābut he isn't watching the movie.
Heās watching you.
You are out cold. Your head is tilted back against the cushion at an angle that looks like itāll require a chiropractor by morning, and your breathing is deep and rhythmic. On top of you, Cheetoāwho has graduated from a palm-sized scrap to a lanky, teenage chaos-agentāis sprawled across your stomach like a heavy, orange weighted blanket.
Leon sits in his armchair, a glass of bourbon sweating in his hand, and feels a strange, terrifying tightness in his chest.
He should wake you up. He should tell you that the movie is over and offer to call you an Uber. That would be the professional, just friends thing to do.
"Right," Leon whispers to the empty room, his voice a dry rasp. "Because Iāve always been so great at following the 'sane' path."
He sets his glass down with a soft clink and stands, his joints popping. He gently nudges the cat aside. Cheeto lets out an offended mrrp but settles into the crook of the sofa, watching with wide, glowing eyes as Leon slides one arm under your knees and the other behind your back.
He braces himself, expecting you to be dead weight, but as he lifts, heās struck by how light you feelāand how perfectly you seem to slot into the space against his chest. You let out a tiny, sleepy sigh, your head rolling naturally into the hollow of his neck, and Leon freezes. His heart kicks against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Don't wake up, don't wake up, don't make this weird, he thinks, his internal monologue screaming in a way it never does during a fire-fight.
He carries you down the short hallway, his boots silent on the hardwood. His bedroom is the inner sanctumāa place that usually feels like a cold, utilitarian bunker. But as he lays you down on the mattress, the room feels different. It feels occupied.
He pulls the heavy duvet over you, tucking the edges in with a focused, military precision. He lingers there for a moment, his hand hovering over your face. He can't help it; his thumb grazes your temple, smoothing away a stray lock of hair, before his knuckles lighty brush the warmth of your cheek. Your skin is soft, a stark contrast to the rough, scarred texture of his own hands.
"Rest up, Doc," he murmurs, his voice barely a breath. "Youāve earned it."
He backs out of the room, closing the door with a click so soft itās almost silent. When he turns around, Cheeto is standing in the middle of the hallway, tail twitching, staring at him with unblinking, judging eyes.
"What? Iām being a gentleman," Leon grunts, stepping past the cat toward the sofa. He doesn't go back to his chair. Instead, he collapses onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. The cat hops up onto his chest, pinning him down and staring directly into his soul.
"Iām a DSO agent," Leon tells the cat, his voice flat and defensive. "Iām stoic. Iām professional. Iām a guy who deals with world-ending threats and international conspiracies. I definitely don't have a 'crush' on the veterinarian who makes me eat kale salad."
Cheeto blinks slowly, looking entirely unimpressed by the lie.
Leon sighs, rubbing his face with both hands. The lie is thin. Itās paper-thin and tearing at the seams. He lies there in the dark, listening to the silence of the apartment. For years, heās filled this silence with the burn of cheap whiskey, the hum of a background news cycle, and the crushing weight of old regretsāRaccoon City, Krauser, the faces of people he couldn't pull out of the fire.
But tonight, the silence feels... full.
He thinks about the way youāve invaded his space. The way you cook him actual meals because you know heād live on protein bars and spite if left to his own devices. Most of all, he thinks about the night you fell apart on this very sofa, and how holding you felt more important than any mission heās ever been assigned.
He realizes then, with the terrifying, crystalline clarity of a man staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, that he isn't just "interested."
He is completely, hopelessly, and dangerously gone for you.
Itās a catastrophic tactical error. Heās spent his entire adult life running from attachments because in his world, attachments are liabilities. Attachments get turned into leverage. Attachments get you killed. But as he looks at the closed door of his bedroom, knowing youāre safe inside, he knows the truth.
Heād burn the whole world to the groundāheād take on an army of Ganados with a pocket knifeājust to make sure you wake up tomorrow without a care in the world.
"Great," he mutters, his hand dropping to scratch Cheeto behind the ears. "Iām officially a Hallmark movie protagonist with a body count. Hunnigan is going to have a field day with this."
The cat purrs, finally satisfied, as Leon closes his eyes and accepts his defeat.
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
The air in Leonās apartment has changed.
Itās no longer just the scent of high-end bourbon and your lavender shampoo; itās thick, electric, and heavy with the kind of "will-they-won't-they" energy that usually precedes a season finale. Every time youāre near him, the space between you feels like a magnetic field, pulling you toward him until you can practically hear his heart thudding in sync with your own.
Youāre not an idiot. Youāve seen him look at you when he thinks youāre not lookingāthat soft, guarded yearning that makes your own chest tighten. Youāve felt the way his hand lingers on your waist when you pass him in the kitchen. Heās a DSO agent, a man who survived Raccoon City and global bio-terrorism, but apparently, asking a veterinarian on a date is the one mission that has him completely paralyzed.
And then, thereās the cat.
"You know, I was thinking," Leon starts, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that usually makes your knees feel like theyāre made of cotton candy. Heās leaning against the kitchen island, his blue eyes fixed on yours with a terrifying intensity. He takes a step closer, his hand reaching out toward your arm. "Iāve been meaning to ask youā"
CRASH.
You both jump. Cheeto, now a lanky, orange blur of destruction, has successfully swiped a half-full glass of water off the side table. The glass doesn't shatter, but the water spreads across the hardwood in a slow, mocking puddle.
Leon closes his eyes, his hand dropping back to his side. He lets out a long, weary sigh that suggests heās currently contemplating buying a kennel.
"Heās just expressive, Leon," you say, struggling to keep the smirk off your face. You grab a roll of paper towels, your internal monologue providing a dry commentary. Mission failed, Kennedy. The orange menace has you beat.
Ten minutes later, the puddle is gone, and the tension is back, sweltering and inescapable. Youāre sitting on the sofa, and Leon is beside you, closer than usual. The movie on the TV is just background noise now. He turns toward you, his arm draped along the back of the couch, his fingers inches from your neck.
"Anyway," he says, his voice a breathy murmur. "What I was trying to say before we were so rudely interrupted by the feline Special Forces... is that Iāve really appreciated you being here. Not just for the cat. For me."
He begins to lean in. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of his woodsy cologne wrapping around you like a promise. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, a frantic thump-thump-thump that screams finally.
"I was wondering ifā"
Suddenly, there is a soft fump sound, followed by the sensation of four pounds of orange fur landing directly on Leonās face.
Cheeto hasn't just jumped; he has launched himself from the top of the bookshelf with the precision of a heat-seeking missile. He is now perched on Leonās head, his tail flicking rhythmically against Leonās nose.
"Are you kidding me?" Leonās muffled voice comes from beneath the cat.
You burst out laughing. You can't help it. The legendary Leon S. Kennedy is currently being used as a landing pad by a cat who still hasn't figured out how to bury his own poop correctly.
"Itās not funny," Leon grumbles, gently detaching the cat and setting him on the floor. Cheeto just looks at him, lets out a smug little mrrp, and starts grooming his shoulder like he didn't just ruin the most romantic moment of the year.
"Itās a little funny, Leon," you wheeze, wiping a tear from your eye. "I think heās gatekeeping you. He knows youāre about to make a move and heās not ready for a stepmother."
"I am a professional," Leon says, straightening his shirt, though his ears are a distinct shade of pink. He looks adorableāawkward, frustrated, and so deeply human it makes your breath hitch. "I have survived international conspiracies. I have navigated minefields. I can handle a five-pound orange domestic shorthair."
"Can you, though?" you tease, leaning back and watching him with a playful, expectant look. "Because so far, the score is Cheeto: two, Leon: zero."
Leon looks at the cat, then back at you, a lopsided, determined smirk finally breaking through his frustration.
"The night is young," he says, his voice regaining some of its cocky, one-liner edge. "And eventually, that cat has to sleep."
"Good luck with that," you retort, your heart singing even as your inner skeptic sighs. Heās going to chicken out again. Iām going to have to be the one to do it, aren't I?
You watch him settle back into the couch, his eyes fixed on you with a renewed focus. The tension is still there, humming under the surface, but now itās tempered with the hilarious reality of your domestic life. You realize you don't mind the interruptions. If anything, they make the quiet, stolen moments feel even more earned.
You just hope the cat doesn't decide to launch a third offensive when things finally get interesting.
āāāāāāā¢ā¦ā¢āāāāāā
The dinner is kind of a disaster.
Leon has spent the last hour trying to act like a normal human being, which is difficult when his heart is trying to beat its way out of his ribcage like an escaping experiment. Heās made pastaāthe one dish he canāt screw upāand the table is set, the wine is poured, and you are sitting across from him looking so devastatingly beautiful in the low light that heās forgotten how to use a fork.
The air between you is thick enough to choke on. Every time your eyes meet his, Leon feels like heās standing on the edge of a skyscraper with no parachute. He clears his throat, leaning forward, his hands clasped tight.
"So," he begins, his voice dropping into that low, serious register he uses for briefing the President. "I was thinking that maybeā"
Clank.
In one fluid, chaotic motion, the catāwho has apparently developed a taste for expensive Pinot Noirāswipes a paw at the wine bottle. Leon lunges, catching it before it tips, but the moment is shattered. The cat lets out a defiant meow and begins to weave through Leonās ankles, tripping him as he tries to sit back down.
Leonās patience, a resource he usually has in abundance when dealing with global catastrophes, officially hits zero.
"That's it," Leon mutters.
He doesn't hesitate. He scoops up the lanky, protesting orange blur with the efficiency of a man clearing a room. He strides to the hallway, ignores the indignant squawk from the feline, and gently but very firmly sets the cat on the other side of the door. He shuts it with a definitive thud and turns the lock.
Silence. Blessed, complete silence.
Leon turns back to you, leaning his back against the door. Heās breathing a little hard, his blonde hair a mess, and his face is flushed with a heat that has nothing to do with the stove. He rubs the back of his neck, the "cool agent" mask finally crumbling into a thousand pieces.
"I face bio-terrorists for a living," he starts, his voice rough and stripped of its usual bravado. He looks at his boots, then finally, desperately, at you. "Iāve survived things that defy the laws of physics and biology. But asking you out is officially the most terrifying thing I've ever done. My heart rate is higher right now than it was when I was being chased by a ten-foot-tall man in a trench coat."
He takes a step toward you, his hands trembling just enough for him to notice. "I don't want to just be the guy with the cat anymore. I don't want to be the guy who only sees you when things are bleeding or when Iām being deployed to some hellhole. I want to be... yours. If youāll have me."
He braces himself. Heās ready for a "letās just stay friends," or a polite laugh, or even a tactical retreat. Heās spent his life waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the mission to fail.
But you don't say a word. You just stand up, and the look in your eyes makes Leonās knees go weak. You cross the kitchen in three purposeful strides, your gaze locked on his.
Scritch. Scritch. MEE-OWW!
From behind the door, the cat begins a frantic, rhythmic assault on the wood, accompanied by a series of yowls that sound like a siren. Leon flinches, his eyes darting toward the hallway.
"Dammit," he curses softly, his shoulders sagging.
He never finishes the sentence. You reach out, your hands snaking up his chest to grab the collar of his shirt. With a strength that catches him entirely off guard, you pull him down toward you.
You can feel the exact moment Leonās brain goes entirely offline. There is no more DSO. No more missions. No more orange cats trying to sabotage his life. Beneath your hands, his chest seizes with the shock of a man who has finally stopped running and found exactly what he was looking for.
He freezes for a millisecond, his body going completely rigid. He is so utterly unaccustomed to physical contact that doesn't involve violence or a medical triage that he genuinely doesn't know what to do with his hands. But then, a low, fractured groan vibrates from deep in his chest, and the dam breaks.
His hands, clumsy and hesitant at first, suddenly scramble to find purchase at your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He kisses you back with the terrifying, unbridled hunger of a man who has been starving in the dark for years. Itās a searing, desperate collision that tastes like red wine and the heavy weight of shared secrets.
You can feel the slight tremor in his fingers as they dig into the fabric of your shirt, gripping you like a lifeline. Months of suffocating tension, of late-night FaceTime calls and lingering, aborted touches, all shatter in this frantic, messy connection.
He feels you smile against his mouth, and he forces himself to pull back just an inch, his breathing ragged as he rests his forehead against yours. Heās delightfully dazed, his blue eyes blown wide and glassy, completely stripped of his cool-agent armor.
"Took you long enough," you whisper, your voice breathless and playful, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "Iāve been waiting for you to do that since I gave you my number."
Leon blinks, his mind clearly struggling to process the information. A slow, lopsided smirk finally pushes through his shock, accompanied by a faint, boyish flush on his cheeks. "You have? I thought... I thought that was really just for cat questions."
"You are so incredibly clueless," you laugh, grabbing his shirt and pulling him back down by his collar.
"Maybe," Leon breathes, his hands tightening possessively around your waist, completely ignoring the cat that has begun to scream and scratch at the hallway door. "But I think I'm starting to get the hang of it."
He kisses you again, and the second kiss is even better than the first.
Where the first was a desperate, panicked collision, this one is a slow, deliberate exploration. Heās a man carefully mapping out a territory he never thought heād be allowed to claim. His initial awkwardness melts into a heavy, intoxicating rhythm.
Leonās hands are surprisingly gentle as they slide up your spine, settling warmly at the small of your back. He pulls you in tighter until you can feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against your chest.
Heās so profoundly touch-starved that it aches; he chases your lips when you pull back to catch your breath, his mouth hot and insistent, sliding a hand up to cradle the back of your neck so he can tilt your head exactly how he wants it. His thumbs trace small, rhythmic circles against your skin.
Your inner monologue, usually a sharp-tongued critic, has finally been silenced. About fucking time, you think, your fingers tangling into the soft, blonde hair at the nape of his neck. I was starting to think Iād have to perform a personality transplant to get you to make a move.
The moment is perfect. Itās cinematic. Itās everything a slow-burn romance should be.
And then, thereās the scratching.
Scritch. Scritch. Mrow?
The sound of claws on wood is followed by a heavy thud against the door, as if the cat has decided to use himself as a battering ram. The rhythmic, indignant yowling has escalated into a sound that can only be described as a feline operatic tragedy.
You huff a laugh into Leonās mouth, the vibration of it making him let out a low, frustrated groan. You reluctantly pull back just an inch, your hands still resting on his broad shoulders. He looks absolutely wreckedāpupils blown wide, lips slightly swollen, and a dazed expression on his face that youāre definitely going to tease him about later.
"He's going to tear through the drywall, Leon," you whisper, your voice breathless and playful.
Leon leans his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. "Let him scream. Iāve survived interrogations in darker rooms than this hallway. I can outlast him."
"Heās a cat, Leon. He has nothing but time and spite."
With a reluctant sigh, you disentangle yourself from his armsāfeeling the immediate, cold void where his body heat wasāand walk over to the door to pull it open.
Cheeto doesn't even hesitate. He streaks into the kitchen, his tail puffed out to the size of a bottle brush. He doesn't go for the food bowl. He doesn't go for the toy. He marches straight to the space between you and Leon, sits down, and begins to lick his paw with a level of smugness that is almost impressive.
"See?" you say, leaning back against the counter and crossing your arms. "Heās the third wheel we never asked for."
Leon watches the cat, then looks at you. The adrenaline of the confession is still fading, replaced by a soft, domestic glow. He walks over, invading your personal space again, and traps you against the counter with a hand on either side of your hips. Heās smiling nowāthat lopsided, cocky Kennedy smirk that usually means heās about to say something incredibly cheesy.
"You know," he says, his voice dropping into a low, teasing rumble. "I just realized something. As a professional, I have to ask... is this even allowed? Isn't it a little unethical to be dating a patient's owner? I feel like thereās a code of conduct for this."
You stare at him, a deadpan expression flat on your face. Oh, here we go. Tactical awkwardness at its finest.
"Leon," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "The 'patient' is currently trying to eat his own tail. And his 'owner' is a man who carries a handgun to the grocery store. I think the ethics board has bigger fish to fry than us."
"I'm just saying," he continues, his blue eyes dancing with mischief as he leans in closer, his nose brushing yours. "Iād hate to be the reason you lose your license. 'Vet caught in scandalous affair with local cat-dad.' The headlines would be brutal."
"You are such a dork," you mutter, though you can feel the stupid, helpless grin breaking through your defenses.
"I have my moments," he murmurs.
"Shut up, Leon," you say softly, the playfulness fading into something warmer, something real. You reach up, grabbing the front of his shirt again to bridge the tiny gap heās left between you. "And kiss me again. Before the cat decides to jump on the ceiling."
Leon doesn't need to be told twice. He closes the distance, his mouth finding yours with a renewed confidence. This time, thereās no hesitation, no tactical stallingājust the quiet, certain knowledge that the empty apartment isn't empty anymore.
And as the lanky orange cat finally settles on the floor to watch you both, Leon realizes that for the first time in his life, he isn't just surviving a day.
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