| she/her | 18+ only | weekly updates
Resident Evil / Leon Kennedy fanfiction
dark romance | angst | obsession | slow burn | psychological tension
MDNI. My work is intended for adult readers only and often explores dark themes, complicated relationships, trauma, obsession, grief, control, violence, and morally gray versions of canon characters. Please read individual warnings before each fic/chapter.
ao3 link:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
FLESH AND BLOOD
Leon Kennedy x Reader
COMPLETED
A dark, emotional, slow-burn story about survival, devotion, grief, and the kind of love that can either save you or destroy you completely.
After everything that has been taken from you, Leon Kennedy becomes the one person you cannot escape — not in memory, not in body, not in blood. What begins as protection slowly becomes something far more consuming, blurring the lines between safety and possession, tenderness and ruin, love and violence.
For readers who like: forced proximity, emotionally devastated Leon, obsessive devotion, trauma bonding, gothic romance vibes, morally gray love, angst-heavy chapters, and a relationship that feels both inevitable and dangerous.
───────────────
HOMECOMING
Ex-husband Leon Kennedy x Reader
ONGOING WEEKLY UPDATES
You survived the marriage. You survived the divorce. You thought you survived him.
Years after leaving Leon Kennedy, you are forced back into his orbit during a high-stakes DSO assignment — only to realize that the man you divorced has not let go of you at all. He is older now, calmer, sharper, careful in all the ways that make him more dangerous. Everyone else sees a man who has changed. You see the man who used to love you like ownership.
When the mission pulls you deeper into the past, old wounds reopen, buried memories resurface, and Leon begins rebuilding the life you ran from one careful piece at a time.
For readers who like: ex-husband angst, psychological horror, second-chance romance gone wrong, gaslighting, emotional tension, “he says he’s changed but has he?”, forced proximity, team dynamics, jealousy, and painfully intimate history.
───────────────
UNDER HIS WATCH
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Yandere Leon Kennedy x Reader
Fresh out of the academy and assigned to one of the DSO’s most legendary agents, you expect eight weeks of brutal training under Leon Kennedy’s watchful eye.
He is experienced, controlled, impossibly dangerous and, at first, protective in all the ways that make you feel chosen instead of trapped.
But Leon has been watching long before you ever stepped into the training room.
He was supposed to teach you how to survive the field.
Instead, Leon Kennedy decided the only place you would ever truly be safe… was with him.
For readers who like: older Leon Kennedy, DSO recruit/trainer dynamics, age gaps, power imbalance, yandere Leon, obsession disguised as protection, stalking, manipulation, gaslighting, jealousy, isolation, coercive control, captivity themes, predator/prey undertones, fear tangled with attraction, psychological horror, dark romance, and absolutely no happy healthy boundaries here.
Content Warnings: Explicit sexual content, age gap, older Leon Kennedy, DSO recruit/trainer dynamic, power imbalance, manipulation, gaslighting, stalking, obsessive behavior, yandere Leon, possessive behavior, isolation, jealousy, coercive control, dubcon themes, alcohol use, intoxication, predator/prey undertones, captivity themes, kidnapping implications, emotional manipulation, fear mixed with attraction, dark romance, psychological horror, no happy healthy boundaries here.
───────────────
BAD HABIT
Leon Kennedy x Reader
COMPLETED
Summary: Years after Leon Kennedy saved you as a child during the horrors surrounding Raccoon City, you find him again in a dive bar — older, exhausted, beautiful, and drowning in ghosts. You remember him as the man who carried her out of hell. He remembers you as another life he almost failed to save.
But you are not a kid anymore.
And Leon is about to learn what it feels like to be seen, wanted, and thanked by someone who remembers the worst of him and still chooses to sit beside him anyway.
For readers who like: yearning, age gap, messy history, emotional damage, sexual tension, push-and-pull dynamics, angst, bad decisions, touch starved Leon, and car sex.
───────────────
A quick note about requests/suggestions🖤
I love hearing ideas and seeing what everyone wants to read, but there are a few topics and tropes that just aren’t for me as a writer:
✘ Underage characters in romantic relationships
✘ Incest or family-related pairings
✘ Child abuse or harm to children
✘ Explicit infidelity/cheating as the main romance
✘ Scat, watersports, vomit, or other bodily-fluid-focused fetishes
✘ Extreme gore/torture as a form of entertainment
✘ Any content involving animals in a sexual or romantic context
✘ Animal abuse or cruelty as a central theme
Things I do love writing:
✔ Dark romance
✔ Psychological horror
✔ Obsession and possessiveness
✔ Slow burns that hurt before they heal
✔ Protective Leon
✔ Morally gray Leon
✔ Jealous Leon
✔ Angst with payoff
✔ Hurt/comfort
✔ Found family
✔ Emotional tension and yearning
✔ Characters who desperately need therapy
✔ Dead dove adjacent themes
Basically, I enjoy stories that are emotionally intense, character-driven, and a little unhinged and not stories that rely entirely on shock value. 🖤
If you have an idea and aren’t sure whether it’s something I’d write, feel free to ask! I always love hearing your thoughts and suggestions. ✨🖤
───────────────
ONGOING / UPDATES
Flesh and Blood — Completed
Bad Habit — completed
Homecoming — ongoing
Under His Watch — ongoing?
Unnamed re4 older brother's best friend
Unnamed Bodyguard older Leon
Unnamed Enemy Captured Stockholm Syndrome
Thank you so much for reading, commenting, reblogging, and going absolutely feral with me. It genuinely means the world. 🖤
A little update for anyone waiting on my work: Homecoming is officially about 90% finished, which is honestly both crazy and so exciting, and I cannot wait to see the reactions you all will have this it! The ending which I have been working on for a couple weeks has been something I have wrestled with for a while on which direction I wanted to take, but I have decided where it is going and how that possibly opens the doors for future things...😬 okayyyy sooo that 's the only hint you all will get! 😉 ANYWAYS I’ll be resuming updates on AO3 starting August 2nd, with one chapter posted each week. Hope you all are readyyy because if you thought this version of Leon was toxic before? hahahahahahah buckle up for his complete ✨unhinged menace era✨
For the rest of Homecoming, I’ll mainly be posting the full chapters on AO3 because honestly they’ve gotten pretty long and I don’t want to completely overpost them here. I’ll still share the links and all the update information on Tumblr every time a new chapter goes up.
Once Homecoming is finished, I’ll be moving on to Unspoken Devotion, which I literally cannot wait to share and has been sitting in my Google Docs for a while now. I recently transferred all of my writing over to Ellipsus and I am 1000% obsessed with it already, and have had a lot of fun using it!
Thank you all again for your patience, support, and for continuing to read my work. It genuinely means so much to me 🤍
And as always, if you don’t like my writing, please simply move on xoxo 🤍
-Gwen
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The muse is musing, so fingers crossed it keeps up for while!
Okay this is where things really start to deviate. I'm actually really excited to be doing Din's pov earlier in the story than it was originally, it's going to go along with my plans really well!
As always I'd love to hear your thoughts if you've got them and if you want to be added to the taglist just let me know! 💛
Losing Grogu was the worst experience of Din's life.
He'd heard people talk about what it felt like to lose a child, the all encompassing grief that accompanied it, the hole in your soul that'd be ripped open only to never be filled again.
He thought he understood what that might feel like.
Then he held Grogu in his arms as he died and nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared him for it. He wanted to cry—scream until his lungs gave out and he was no longer breathing. He wanted to tear the galaxy apart, burn it to the ground, and leave nothing but ashes in his wake. The mental agony was far worse than any physical wound he'd ever experienced. He'd rather take a vibroblade to the heart than to watch as Grogu's bright eyes turned dull and empty.
He didn't think he'd ever find peace.
He'd never find something in his life worth living for again.
There was a span of time where Din had considered giving up completely. One day he'd sat in the cargo bay of the Razor Crest with his blaster in his lap trying to come up with any reason he could to not press it to his head and pull the trigger. He wanted to end his suffering. He wanted to stop waking up with an ache in his chest and a hole where his heart should be. The ship was haunted by the ghost of Grogu. Everywhere he looked, he saw empty spaces that shouldn't be. He could barely look at the controls in the cockpit cause every time he saw the ball on that damn lever, he would think about how it'd looked in small green hands.
The blaster had made its way to his skull, the cold tip of it pressed against his temple, his hands shaking with every sobbing breath.
The worst part of all?
He was too much of a coward to do it.
No matter how much he wanted to stop this never ending pain inside of him, he couldn't.
And then, somehow, life continued on.
He kept up with bounties, though after a certain point more of his targets were brought in cold than warm. If anything, the violence kept him grounded. At least that's what he told himself. In reality he was inflicting his pain on others, as if he could get rid of it by forcing it upon someone else.
Din knew he'd had a life before Grogu, but he'd been changed so much he'd never be able to return to the man he was before. But after his death? Din became so much worse than he ever was before.
Din quickly became able to wield the weapon he'd taken from Gideon—the Darksaber—with ease. Sometimes it felt like he was no longer in control, as if the very blade itself was the thing leading all his movements. He cut down people with ease, their lives even less of an after thought than they'd ever been before. The saber seemed to sing with every fresh drop of blood spilt. It felt good, something in it helped to distract from his anguish.
There were times he thought he could hear it whispering to him, saying things in the empty silence of his ship. The longer he had the weapon—the more he used it—the louder and more frequent the voices got.
Then, he found you.
All that time spent traveling planet to planet alone left him feeling isolated. It never bothered him in the past but the silence felt too heavy—some cycles it bordered on unbearable. Din had never seen the draw of the HoloNet before, but in his days of desperation, he found himself turning to it—not even entirely knowing what he was looking for. Though he knew the variety of content on it—of how easy it could be to partake in certain indulgences.
When he came across you doing one of your live shows, he was immediately enamored. Something about your beauty catching his eye in a way no one else had. He hadn't engaged in physical indulgences in so long but watching the way you touched yourself, the soft sounds you made—he was spilling into his fist far faster than ever before.
He became hooked on watching you. A good amount of his time in hyperspace was spent watching your shows.
And when the whispers became easier to hear, when they'd follow him into sleep, his thoughts around you grew more and more obsessive. Then he thought about what you could give him, what you could help him replace.
He was starting to think there might be something that could actually fix this pain. The voices told him he should, they told him how much better it would feel if he finally had someone here. They told him how good it would feel to have somewhere to put his feelings when he didn't know what to do with them. You could fix him.
You could fix it all.
He knew you were his. It was just a matter of time until you knew it too.
With the set of skills he had, finding you was easy. In fact he was so confident he would get you, he began to toy with you. He wanted to be able to taste your fear once he found you. He wanted you to be expecting him.
It truly did make it better when he finally came for you. And now having you here is even better than he could have imagined. He was so eager he couldn't stop himself from taking you as soon as he'd got the ship into hyperspace. When he first pressed inside you, he couldn't help but think about how incredible you felt.
The voices murmured in satisfaction.
He finally had you. Now he had everything he could need to manage the pain—to make his grief stop. You were stuck with him, and whether you wanted it or not, you would give him what he wanted.
I’ve seen the confessional blog and I’ve seen the anonymous comments in my inbox. No I do not nor have I used ai to write my work. I am sorry if that was not clear from my writing and for previously using ai for a picture in promoting one of the chapters which I have not done since and was immediately transparent about that situation. With the messages I’ve received I realllly tried to let that roll off, but now? I’m not sure what else to say or how to prove that I do not use it. I have been criticized for yearssss by my professors about needing to proof read more/awkward writing at times and it’s something I’ve been working on. Questions or comments on my pacing I’ll definitely take that into consideration on moving forward especially with this being my first time with putting my work out there. Idk right now i think im gonna take a little break ✌️
Chapter 14 of homecoming had me on my TOESS it’s like 😮💨 almost felt like i was one the room with them
Ahhh thank you!! Sorry for the delay in responding but yes that is exactly how I wanted it to come across like after the heaviness from the previous chapter to this chapter was like healing to write in a way of like being listened to as a victim and like creating this small safe haven for even like a couple of minutes in this absolute hell… and then hearing the news about the mission 😩, high stress!! But thank you😊 from an outlining and writing standpoint I really try to convey that feeling of being there and feeling what the characters are feeling because that is my favorite aspect of writing is hearing feedback that people get lost in the story.♥️🥹
You Called 🖤Leon Kennedy x Reader One Shot Part 4/ Epilogue
This may be the most emotional Leon I've written yet. ❤️🩹
part 1 part 2 part 3
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐎𝐍𝐄-𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓 𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐏 ✈️❤️🩹
You Called
Leon Kennedy x Female Reader
After eight years as partners, the DSO makes a mistake they’ve never made before—they send you on a mission without Leon.
What starts as a simple retrieval operation quickly turns into a nightmare.
A compromised facility.
A mission gone wrong.
A phone call made from beneath rubble and blood.
And Leon Kennedy hearing your voice on the other end.
—
“You came.”
“You called.”
—
Themes:
✦ Older Leon Kennedy
✦ Protective Leon
✦ Long-term partners
✦ Friends-to-lovers energy
✦ Mission gone wrong
✦ Emotional hurt/comfort
✦ Hospital scenes
✦ Leon absolutely losing his mind
✦ Devotion that borders on insanity
⚠️ Content Warnings: Injury, blood loss, medical trauma, surgery references, emotional distress, near-death experience, pregnancy epilogue.
🔞 MDNI | 18+ ONLY
One year later.
The old farmhouse sat at the end of a gravel drive, tucked behind a long line of trees and open fields that stretched farther than you could see.
It had been ugly when you bought it.
That was what you told people, anyway.
Leon always said it had good bones.
You had laughed at him the first time he said it because half the porch had been rotting, the kitchen cabinets hung crooked, and something very dead had definitely been living in the upstairs wall.
But he had been right.
Of course he had.
The house did have good bones.
Wide plank floors.
Deep windowsills.
A wraparound porch that caught the morning light.
Old stone fireplaces.
Enough land that no one could sneak up on you without Leon knowing about it three miles away.
That part had been his favorite.
Naturally.
The renovations had taken months.
There had been arguments over paint colors.
Over flooring.
Over whether a grown man who worked for the government needed to install security cameras in a chicken coop.
Over why Leon considered “matte black hardware” a hill worth dying on.
Over why you absolutely did not need a gun safe hidden behind a built-in bookshelf in the nursery.
Leon had said, very calmly, “We don’t know that.”
You had stared at him for a full ten seconds before throwing a paint sample at his head.
He caught it.
Smug bastard.
Now the house was warm.
Lived in.
Yours.
Sunlight poured through the kitchen windows in soft golden sheets, spilling over the old wooden table Leon had refinished himself in the barn during a week he claimed he was “relaxing.”
Relaxing, apparently, meant sanding furniture shirtless in ninety-degree heat while you sat on the porch drinking lemonade and pretending not to stare.
A copper pot simmered on the stove.
Fresh bread cooled beneath a towel.
Outside, wind moved through the tall grass beyond the fence, making the field ripple like water.
It was quiet.
That was still the strangest part.
After years of gunfire, briefings, emergency flights, hotel rooms, safehouses, blood, and adrenaline—
Quiet felt unnatural.
At first.
Now, some mornings, you woke up before Leon and just listened to it.
The house settling.
Birds in the trees.
Wind against old glass.
His breathing beside you.
The absence of danger had become its own kind of music.
You stood at the kitchen counter in one of Leon’s old shirts, barefoot, slicing strawberries into a bowl and trying not to cry because the bread smelled too good.
That had been happening a lot lately.
Crying.
Over bread.
Over weather.
Over a video of a dog being reunited with its owner.
Over Leon bringing home the wrong kind of crackers and then going back out immediately because he saw your face fall for half a second.
You had not been dramatic before pregnancy.
You stood by that.
Leon disagreed.
Frequently.
From the hallway came the heavy sound of boots.
Then a pause.
Then:
“Why are you standing on a chair?”
You froze.
Knife in one hand.
Strawberry in the other.
One foot on the kitchen chair.
One foot on the counter ledge.
Very much caught.
Slowly, you looked over your shoulder.
Leon stood in the doorway.
Arms crossed.
Hair damp from the shower.
White T-shirt stretched across his chest.
Jeans low on his hips.
Wedding ring glinting on his left hand.
Your husband.
That still did something to you.
Even a year later.
Even seeing it every morning.
Even when he was looking at you like you had personally shortened his lifespan.
You smiled sweetly.
“I needed the cinnamon.”
His eyes flicked to the upper cabinet.
Then back to you.
“The cinnamon.”
“Yes.”
“The cinnamon I moved to the lower shelf yesterday.”
You blinked.
Then looked at the lower shelf.
There it was.
Leon’s mouth flattened.
You looked back at him.
“Well.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“In my defense, your child has taken my brain hostage.”
His expression shifted immediately.
It always did when you said that.
Your child.
Our baby.
Any reference to the life growing inside you.
For all his sharp edges, all his dry humor, all his years of surviving things that should have killed him—
Leon Kennedy went soft every time.
Not weak.
Never weak.
Just undone.
His eyes dropped to your stomach.
The shirt was loose, but not loose enough to hide the curve anymore.
Five months.
Twenty weeks.
Halfway there.
A small, undeniable swell beneath cotton.
His child.
Your child.
The reason both of you had stepped back from field operations.
The reason your passports were currently locked away.
The reason Chris had almost cried with relief when you both requested reassignment to training and tactical consultation.
Almost.
He would deny it.
Jill had sent flowers.
Claire had sent baby clothes and a card that said, “Finally, Kennedy is someone else’s problem.”
Leon had stared at it for a long time before saying, “Rude.”
You had framed it.
He crossed the kitchen in three strides.
“Down.”
“Leon.”
“Down.”
“I am pregnant, not made of glass.”
“You are pregnant and standing on furniture with a knife in your hand.”
You looked down.
Fair.
“Okay, but when you say it like that—”
“Down.”
Bossy.
Always bossy.
You rolled your eyes but let him take the knife from your hand first.
Then he reached for you.
Both hands settled at your waist.
Careful.
Warm.
Steady.
The same hands that had dragged you out of hell.
The same hands that had held yours through surgery, recovery, nightmares, rehab, and every terrible day after.
Now they lifted you down from a kitchen chair like this was the most dangerous operation of his life.
Your feet touched the floor.
He didn’t let go.
Of course he didn’t.
His hands stayed at your waist for a moment longer than necessary.
His thumbs moved once over your sides.
You looked up at him.
“You know, I did survive government training.”
“Barely.”
“I was top of my class.”
“You argued with a grenade instructor.”
“He was wrong.”
Leon sighed.
“He was not wrong.”
“He said I had an attitude problem.”
“You do have an attitude problem.”
You gasped.
“Your unborn child can hear you being mean to me.”
Leon’s eyes dropped again.
His mouth softened.
He crouched before you without warning.
One knee against the old kitchen floor.
Both hands sliding carefully around your waist as he pressed a kiss to the small curve of your stomach.
Your heart stopped doing anything useful.
It simply dissolved.
“Your mother has an attitude problem,” he murmured against the fabric.
You stared down at him.
“Leon.”
“She also climbs furniture when no one is looking.”
“Leon.”
“She is very brave.”
Your throat tightened.
His voice changed on that last part.
Quieted.
Deepened.
“She is very annoying.”
You laughed softly, but your eyes burned.
His hands spread wider over your stomach, protective without thinking.
“She is also the best thing that ever happened to me.”
The kitchen went still.
Completely still.
Outside, wind moved through the grass.
Somewhere upstairs, the old house creaked.
You looked down at him, kneeling in the morning light, his wedding ring warm against your shirt, his forehead resting gently against the place where your body held both of your futures.
For a second, you couldn’t speak.
Leon tilted his head back to look at you.
His eyes softened the moment he saw your face.
“Oh no.”
You sniffed.
“Don’t.”
“You’re crying.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“I know.”
“So legally it doesn’t count.”
His mouth curved.
That small, rare smile that still felt like something you had earned.
“Legally?”
“Yes.”
He stood slowly, hands sliding up your sides before settling at your face.
His thumbs brushed beneath your eyes.
The gesture was so familiar now it hurt.
He had done it in the hospital.
In the dark after nightmares.
In the bathroom mirror the first time you saw the surgery scar and couldn’t stop staring.
On your wedding day, when you cried halfway through your vows and he pretended his own voice hadn’t cracked.
Now, in your kitchen.
In your farmhouse.
With your baby between you.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You nodded.
Then shook your head.
Then laughed because both were true.
“I just—”
Your voice caught.
Leon waited.
He had become good at that.
Waiting.
Letting silence exist without filling it.
Letting you find the words.
You looked around the kitchen.
At the sunlight.
The strawberries.
The ridiculous cinnamon.
The ring on his hand.
The life you had somehow built out of the wreckage of almost losing each other.
“I didn’t think we’d get this.”
Leon’s smile faded.
His thumb stilled against your cheek.
“I know.”
“I mean, I wanted it.”
Your voice went softer.
“I think some part of me wanted it for years.”
His eyes held yours.
Steady.
Tender.
Devastating.
“But I didn’t think people like us got this kind of quiet.”
Leon was silent for a long moment.
Then he leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours.
His hands stayed on your face.
Warm.
Certain.
“We do now.”
Your eyes closed.
The words settled deep.
We do now.
Not because the world had become safe.
Not because either of you had stopped being haunted.
Not because the scars had vanished.
They hadn’t.
Your body still carried them.
So did his.
But the life around you was real.
The farmhouse.
The land.
The wedding ring.
The baby.
Leon making you tea at midnight because heartburn had become your newest enemy.
You falling asleep on his chest while he read baby name lists and vetoed anything that sounded like “someone who’d betray us in a briefing.”
His hand on your stomach every night.
Your hand in his every morning.
Real.
All of it.
You opened your eyes.
“You know you’re going to be unbearable when the baby gets here.”
“I’m already unbearable.”
“At least you’re self-aware.”
He brushed his nose lightly against yours.
“Someone has to keep you two alive.”
You smiled.
“You two?”
His eyes dropped to your stomach.
Then lifted back to yours.
His voice softened.
“My family.”
And there it was.
The word that still hit him hard.
Family.
You saw it every time he said it.
Like he didn’t fully trust himself with it.
Like some part of him still expected the world to punish him for wanting it too much.
You placed your hand over his.
Right where it rested against your stomach.
“You’re allowed to have this, you know.”
His jaw tightened.
Just slightly.
You felt it more than saw it.
“You’re allowed to be happy.”
Leon looked at you for a long time.
The morning light caught in his hair.
Softened the lines of his face.
Made him look younger.
Older.
Yours.
“I am happy.”
Your chest ached.
“Yeah?”
He nodded.
His thumb moved over your stomach once.
Slow.
Reverent.
“Terrified.”
You laughed quietly.
His mouth twitched.
“But happy.”
The baby moved then.
Small.
Barely there.
A flutter low in your stomach.
You froze.
Leon noticed immediately.
“What?”
You grabbed his wrist.
“Wait.”
His whole body went still.
“What? Are you okay?”
“Shh.”
He shut up instantly.
Miracle of miracles.
You guided his hand lower, pressing his palm gently against the curve of your belly.
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
Leon didn’t breathe.
Neither did you.
Then—
There.
A tiny movement beneath his hand.
Soft.
Quick.
Unmistakable.
Leon’s face changed.
Completely.
Every bit of teasing disappeared.
Every sharp edge.
Every guarded line.
Gone.
He stared at his hand like he had just felt the impossible.
Like the universe had reached up and touched him back.
Your eyes filled again.
This time, you didn’t bother pretending.
“Was that—”
“Yeah.”
His voice was barely there.
You smiled through tears.
“Yeah, that was them.”
Leon swallowed hard.
His hand stayed exactly where it was.
Afraid to move.
Afraid to miss it.
Afraid, maybe, that if he breathed too hard, the moment would end.
The baby kicked again.
His breath caught.
Actually caught.
You watched him break in the gentlest way.
“Oh,” he whispered.
One word.
Small.
Awed.
Devastated.
Your hand covered his.
His eyes lifted to yours.
Wet now.
Unashamed.
“That’s our baby,” you whispered.
Leon nodded once.
Like he couldn’t trust himself to speak.
Then he sank down again, both knees this time, hands careful on your hips as he pressed his forehead to your stomach.
Not dramatic.
Not performative.
Just overcome.
You threaded your fingers through his hair.
He turned his face slightly and kissed your stomach again.
Once.
Then again.
Then stayed there.
Breathing.
Holding.
Listening.
The kitchen blurred around you.
Sunlight.
Strawberries.
Bread.
The old farmhouse.
The life you never thought you’d live.
Leon’s voice came soft against your shirt.
“Hi.”
A sob caught in your throat.
He laughed under his breath, but it broke halfway through.
“Hi, baby.”
Your fingers tightened in his hair.
He closed his eyes.
“I’m your dad.”
The words were so quiet you almost missed them.
Then his hand spread over your stomach again.
Warm.
Protective.
Shaking.
“And I’m gonna be right here.”
Your heart cracked wide open.
Because you knew.
You knew what he meant.
Not just here in the kitchen.
Not just here in this house.
Here.
For all of it.
The fear.
The joy.
The sleepless nights.
The crying.
The first steps.
The scraped knees.
The nightmares.
The ordinary days he had once believed he would never deserve.
You bent over him as much as your stomach allowed, pressing your lips to the top of his head.
Leon turned his face into you.
Still holding you.
Still holding them.
The man who had once come for you in the dark now kneeling in the morning light, promising your child the same thing he had promised you.
I’m right here.
I’m not going anywhere.
I’ll be the first thing you see.
And maybe that was love.
Not the dramatic kind.
Not the easy kind.
But the kind that stayed.
The kind that came when called.
The kind that built a home from ruins and planted roots in old farmland.
The kind that held your hand through blood and fear and surgery, then held your belly in a sunlit kitchen one year later like it was the whole world.
Leon looked up at you finally.
Eyes soft.
Face open.
Yours.
“You still want the cinnamon?”
You blinked.
Then burst out laughing.
The sound filled the kitchen.
Warm.
Bright.
Alive.
Leon smiled.
Really smiled.
And when he stood, he kissed you.
Slowly.
Carefully.
One hand on your face.
One hand on your stomach.
Your husband.
Your partner.
Your home.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
The baby moved again beneath his palm.
You both went still.
Then Leon whispered, almost reverent:
“Yeah.”
His thumb brushed over your belly.
“I know.”
You laughed softly.
“What?”
His mouth curved against yours.
“They agree with me.”
You rolled your eyes.
“They do not.”
“They want you off chairs.”
“Oh my God.”
“And eating breakfast.”
“Leon.”
“And possibly apologizing to me for the stress.”
You shoved lightly at his chest.
He caught your hand and kissed your fingers.
Wedding ring against wedding ring.
His eyes stayed on yours.
Soft.
Steady.
Happy.
Terrified.
Alive.
And for once, there was no mission waiting.
No extraction plan.
No blood.
No goodbye.
Just morning.
Just home.
Just Leon reaching past you to retrieve the cinnamon from the lower shelf himself, smug as anything, while you threatened divorce over pancakes and he reminded you that technically you had already survived worse.
And when you laughed again—
Really laughed—
He looked at you like that was the whole point of surviving.
Like every terrible thing had somehow led him here.
To this kitchen.
To this land.
To your hand in his.
To your child moving beneath his palm.
To a life neither of you had believed was meant for people like you.
This may be the most emotional Leon I've written yet. ❤️🩹
part 1 part 2
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐎𝐍𝐄-𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓 𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐏 ✈️❤️🩹
You Called
Leon Kennedy x Female Reader
After eight years as partners, the DSO makes a mistake they’ve never made before—they send you on a mission without Leon.
What starts as a simple retrieval operation quickly turns into a nightmare.
A compromised facility.
A mission gone wrong.
A phone call made from beneath rubble and blood.
And Leon Kennedy hearing your voice on the other end.
—
“You came.”
“You called.”
—
Themes:
✦ Older Leon Kennedy
✦ Protective Leon
✦ Long-term partners
✦ Friends-to-lovers energy
✦ Mission gone wrong
✦ Emotional hurt/comfort
✦ Hospital scenes
✦ Leon absolutely losing his mind
✦ Devotion that borders on insanity
⚠️ Content Warnings: Injury, blood loss, medical trauma, surgery references, emotional distress, near-death experience, pregnancy epilogue.
🔞 MDNI | 18+ ONLY
You hadn’t realized how stale the facility had been until you were outside.
How dead.
How suffocating.
The sky above was black and endless.
Rotor blades thundered nearby.
The helicopter waited with lights blazing, wind whipping dust and leaves across the ground.
Too bright.
Too loud.
Too much.
Your eyes fluttered.
Leon squeezed your hand.
“Look at me.”
You did.
Barely.
He was walking beside the stretcher.
Still covered in dust.
Still pale beneath the blood smeared on his cheek.
Your blood.
His eyes never left your face.
Not for a second.
“You did good.”
You tried to laugh.
No sound came out.
He leaned closer as they carried you toward the helicopter.
“You hear me? You did good.”
Your lips trembled.
“I got the drive.”
Something shattered in his expression.
A laugh broke out of him.
Not happy.
Not relieved.
Just devastated.
“Of course you did.”
The stretcher reached the helicopter.
The medics climbed in first.
Hands guided the litter up.
Leon climbed in with you.
Immediately.
No hesitation.
A medic lifted a hand.
“Sir, we need room.”
Leon didn’t even look at him.
“Then make room.”
“Kennedy—”
“Make. Room.”
The medic stopped arguing.
Leon settled at your head, one knee braced hard against the floor as the helicopter lifted beneath you.
The medics surrounded your body.
Pressure.
IV.
Oxygen.
Scissors cutting fabric.
Commands shouted over the roar.
Everything blurred into sensation.
Hands.
Pain.
Cold.
Noise.
But through all of it—
Leon stayed.
His hand never left yours.
His other hand stayed at your temple, thumb moving slowly against your skin.
Not enough to distract from the pain.
Just enough to remind you he was there.
“She’s tachy.”
“Pressure’s dropping.”
“Hang another bag.”
“Keep her awake.”
Leon bent over you.
Close enough that he filled your entire world.
“You hear that?”
You blinked slowly.
“What?”
“They said keep you awake.”
His voice shook.
“Which means you get to be annoyed with me a little longer.”
Your mouth twitched.
“Tragic.”
“Yeah.”
His smile didn’t hold.
Not even close.
“Real tragic.”
Your eyes drifted shut again.
His hand tightened instantly.
“Hey.”
You forced them open.
He was closer now.
Terrified again.
“Don’t leave.”
The words came out before he could stop them.
Not command.
Not order.
Plea.
Your chest hurt.
Worse than the wound.
You tried to squeeze his hand.
Barely managed it.
“I’m trying.”
His face crumpled.
Just enough.
Just for you.
“I know.”
The helicopter banked hard.
The medics worked faster.
Leon leaned down until his forehead touched yours.
He closed his eyes.
Only for a second.
When he spoke, his voice was barely audible beneath the roar of the blades.
But you heard him.
You would have heard him anywhere.
“Stay with me.”
His breath trembled against your skin.
“Please.”
And for the first time in eight years, Leon Kennedy sounded like he was the one who might not survive this.
The medical center doors burst open before the helicopter blades had fully slowed, the thunder of rotors still beating against the building like a second heartbeat.
Light flooded your vision.
White.
Blinding.
Sterile.
It swallowed everything—the darkness you’d come from, the flashing red emergency lights, the chaos of the extraction. It erased it all in an instant, replacing it with something colder. Something sharper.
Too clean after the blood.
Too bright after the fear.
Your eyes squeezed shut on instinct, but it didn’t help. The brightness burned through your lids, searing itself into your skull.
You flinched before you could stop yourself.
Or tried to.
Your body barely listened anymore.
Every command you sent felt delayed, like it had to travel through water before it reached your limbs. Your fingers twitched uselessly. Your chest rose in shallow, uneven pulls that didn’t feel like enough.
Everything fractured.
Sound came in bursts.
Movement in flashes.
The stretcher wheels hit the pavement with a violent jolt that rattled through your spine, knocking a broken gasp from your lungs.
Voices overlapped—urgent, clipped, practiced.
“Careful—watch the line—”
“Vitals dropping—”
“Move, move—”
Cold night air rushed over your skin for half a second before it was replaced by the artificial warmth of the hospital interior, thick with antiseptic and something faintly metallic.
Fluorescent lights streaked overhead in long, endless lines, each one blurring into the next as you were rushed down the corridor. They felt too close. Too bright. Like they were pressing down on you.
Your stomach twisted.
Your vision swam.
Leon’s hand was still wrapped around yours.
That was the only thing that stayed real.
Solid.
Anchoring.
Everything else slipped.
The doctors met you halfway down the corridor.
Three of them.
Maybe four.
White coats flaring as they moved.
Scrubs in shades of blue and green.
Gloves already snapped tight over their hands.
Their faces were composed, controlled—but their eyes gave them away. Focused. Sharp. Calculating.
The kind of look that meant things were worse than they were saying.
“Female, early thirties, penetrating trauma to the right flank, possible shrapnel, suspected internal bleeding, blood loss significant—”
“Pressure’s unstable.”
“Pulse thready.”
“She’s been in and out.”
“Trauma bay two. Now.”
The words floated around you, detached from meaning.
Like they belonged to someone else.
Some other patient.
Some other body.
Not yours.
Not you.
You tried to turn your head.
Tried to find him.
Panic sparked weakly in your chest when your vision lagged behind the movement, when everything smeared together instead of focusing.
Then his hand tightened.
“I’m here.”
Immediate.
Grounding.
Right beside you.
Your eyes found him.
Barely.
Leon was moving with the stretcher, matching its pace without effort, still in full tactical gear. Dust clung to him. Blood—yours, not his—streaked across his sleeves and hands. His hair was disheveled, pushed back roughly, like he’d run his fingers through it too many times.
His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might crack.
But his eyes—
His eyes never left you.
Not once.
“You’re okay,” he said.
The lie was soft.
Careful.
You knew it wasn’t true.
He knew you knew.
But you nodded anyway.
Because it was Leon.
Because if he said it, some fragile, desperate part of you wanted to believe it.
The stretcher slammed through a set of double doors into the trauma bay.
The world exploded.
Movement everywhere.
Machines beeped and whirred.
Metal trays clattered.
Gloved hands reached for you from every direction.
Voices layered over each other in rapid succession.
Too loud.
Too fast.
Too much.
Hands touched you—lifting, adjusting, pressing.
Your breathing hitched sharply.
A doctor stepped to your side.
“We need to transfer her.”
Leon leaned closer instantly.
“Hey. Look at me.”
You tried.
God, you tried.
But someone was cutting through your vest.
Another hand pressed near your wound—
Pain detonated.
White-hot.
Blinding.
It tore through you so violently your back arched off the stretcher, a broken, raw scream ripping from your throat before you could stop it.
Leon’s face changed.
Completely.
“Easy,” he snapped.
The room froze.
Just for a second.
But it was enough.
The doctor looked up sharply.
“Agent Kennedy, we need space.”
“No.”
The word came out without hesitation.
Flat.
Final.
The doctor blinked, thrown.
“This is a sterile trauma bay. You need to step outside.”
Leon didn’t even look at him at first.
His focus stayed locked on you, one hand gripping yours like it was the only thing keeping you tethered, the other brushing damp strands of hair from your forehead with a gentleness that didn’t belong to the man still armed to the teeth.
“She asked me not to leave.”
The doctor’s expression tightened.
“I understand that, but—”
“No, you don’t.”
Leon finally looked at him.
And the air shifted.
Something colder settled into the room.
“You don’t understand anything.”
His voice stayed quiet.
That made it worse.
“She was sent into a compromised facility alone. She was trapped, bleeding, and conscious long enough to think no one was coming for her.”
His grip on your hand tightened.
“She asked me not to leave.”
A beat.
Then, colder:
“So I’m not leaving.”
The doctor held his ground for exactly two seconds.
“Sir, if you interfere with treatment—”
Leon stepped closer.
Not aggressive.
Not loud.
But deliberate.
“If I thought for one second I was interfering with treatment, I’d move.”
His eyes hardened.
“But if anyone in this room tries to separate me from her while she’s conscious and scared, you’re going to have a bigger problem than hospital protocol.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Absolute.
Even through the haze of pain, you felt it—the way the room recalibrated around him.
Then another doctor stepped forward.
Older.
Calmer.
Smarter.
“He stays at her head. He doesn’t cross the sterile field. He doesn’t touch anything we’re working on.”
Leon didn’t hesitate.
“Fine.”
“And if we need him to move, he moves.”
Leon looked down at you.
At your face.
At the tears slipping sideways into your hair.
At your fingers barely clinging to his glove.
Then back at the doctor.
“If she goes under, I’ll move.”
The doctor studied him.
Then nodded.
“Then stay there.”
The room snapped back into motion.
Straps were cut.
IV lines inserted.
Monitors pressed against your skin.
A cuff tightened around your arm.
A mask lowered toward your face.
You jerked away weakly.
Leon caught it instantly.
“Hey.”
Your eyes snapped to him.
“No,” you breathed.
Barely a word.
Barely sound.
But he heard it.
Of course he did.
“I know.”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
“I know. It’s just oxygen. That’s all.”
You shook your head.
The motion made everything tilt violently.
“I can’t—”
“You can.”
“Leon—”
“I’m right here.”
The mask touched your face.
Panic surged anyway.
A broken sound slipped out of you.
Leon bent lower immediately, his face filling your vision, blocking everything else out.
“Look at me. Not them. Me.”
Your eyes locked onto his.
“There you go.”
His voice softened.
Fragile.
“Breathe with me.”
You tried.
Air flowed through the mask—cold, artificial, wrong.
But Leon was there.
His hand in yours.
His voice steady, even when his eyes weren’t.
“In.”
You followed.
Barely.
“Out.”
Your breath trembled.
“Good girl.”
The words slipped out low, wrecked with emotion.
Not teasing.
Not light.
Just relief.
Just fear.
Just him holding you together with whatever he had left.
Pain hit again.
Harder.
Deeper.
You screamed into the mask.
Leon flinched like it struck him.
“I know. I know, sweetheart.”
“Pressure’s dropping.”
“We need blood ready.”
“Prep imaging.”
“No time. Stabilize here.”
The words sharpened.
Faster.
Urgent.
You understood enough to be terrified.
Leon understood all of it.
You saw it.
The moment it hit him.
The way his face drained.
The way his jaw flexed as he forced himself to stay still.
Because there was nothing to fight.
No enemy.
No target.
No door to break down.
Just you.
Breaking.
And him—
Powerless.
That broke him more than anything ever could.
“Leon.”
His eyes snapped to yours.
“I’m here.”
“Don’t let them…”
The words dissolved.
You didn’t even know what you meant.
Don’t let them hurt me.
Don’t let me be alone.
Don’t let me die.
Leon’s face crumpled.
“I won’t.”
His voice was raw.
“I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Your vision dimmed.
Edges softening.
Gray creeping in.
“No,” he said sharply.
Your eyes fluttered open again.
“No, no, no. Stay with me.”
“I’m tired,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“So tired.”
“I know.”
He leaned closer.
Close enough that you could feel his breath.
“You can sleep soon.”
“You said not to.”
“I know what I said.”
A weak, broken laugh escaped you.
His mouth trembled.
“But not yet,” he whispered. “Not yet, okay? Just a little longer.”
Tears slipped freely now.
“I was scared.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Leon went completely still.
“I was really scared.”
Something inside him shattered.
“I know,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
He shook his head.
Too many answers.
“I should’ve been there.”
“You came.”
“Not fast enough.”
“You came.”
A tear slipped down his cheek.
Fast.
Gone.
But you saw it.
Then—
The monitor changed.
Sharp.
Alarming.
“Pressure’s falling.”
“She’s crashing.”
“Move.”
Leon stepped back just enough.
Still holding your hand.
“Agent Kennedy—”
“Do not ask me again.”
Cold.
Final.
“If she is awake, I stay where she can see me.”
No one argued.
They moved faster.
Your world narrowed.
Lights.
Voices.
Pain.
Leon.
Always Leon.
“There you are,” he whispered, leaning back into your view. “Look at me.”
“I’m looking.”
Barely sound.
But enough.
“Good.”
They talked about surgery.
Internal bleeding.
Fragments.
Risk.
Consent.
Leon answered.
“She’d want the surgery.”
His voice cracked.
“She’d want you to save her.”
They moved you again.
Hallways blurred.
At the elevator, your eyes slipped shut.
“Hey.”
You forced them open.
He was there.
Still there.
“I’m gonna be right outside.”
Fear surged.
“No.”
“I know.”
“I can’t go in once they put you under.”
Your breathing hitched.
Machines reacted.
“But listen to me.”
You nodded faintly.
“I will be the first thing you see when you wake up.”
“Promise?”
His face broke completely.
“I promise.”
The doors opened.
Cold light spilled out.
Your fingers clung to his until they couldn’t anymore.
Until they slipped.
Leon caught them one last time.
Held tight.
Then pressed his lips to your knuckles.
Brief.
Desperate.
“I’m right here,” he whispered.
The doors closed.
And the last thing you saw—
Leon Kennedy standing outside the operating room—
covered in your blood,
hands shaking,
eyes locked on you like letting you go was tearing him apart too.
Waking up didn’t come all at once.
It broke through you in fragments.
Small.
Uneven.
Shaking.
Like something inside you was trying to come back together and couldn’t quite manage it.
A low beeping somewhere to your left—steady, mechanical, wrong. Too steady. Too calm for how your chest felt.
The faint hiss of oxygen, soft and constant, filling the silence between breaths that felt too shallow, too fragile, like they might stop if you didn’t think about them hard enough.
Warmth wrapped around you—too much of it. Suffocating. Heavy blankets pressing down like they were trying to keep you here, keep you from slipping somewhere else.
Pain sat deep beneath layers of medication.
Muted.
Distant.
But alive.
Waiting.
Like it knew you were coming back and was ready to greet you.
The smell of antiseptic burned sharp in your nose, clinging to the back of your throat.
Clean sheets scratched faintly against your skin.
Something plastic tugged at the back of your hand, taped too tight, pulling every time your fingers twitched.
Your mouth was dry.
Your throat raw.
Every breath scraped.
Your eyelids—
God, your eyelids—
They felt impossibly heavy, like they were being held shut, like opening them would take more strength than you had left.
For a moment—
You didn’t know where you were.
Didn’t know what happened.
Only that something was wrong.
So wrong.
Your fingers twitched weakly against the blanket.
Barely there.
And immediately—
A hand closed around yours.
Warm.
Rough.
Familiar.
So familiar it hurt.
Grounding in a way nothing else was.
You didn’t need to see.
You knew.
Leon.
“I’m here.”
His voice—
God.
It sounded wrecked.
Like it had been dragged through something sharp.
Rough.
Thin.
Too close to breaking.
“I’m right here.”
The words didn’t just reach you—they sank into you, slow and heavy, pushing through the fog, through the pain, through the fear that had been sitting in your chest since before you woke up.
You forced your eyes open.
It felt like lifting something impossibly heavy.
Your lashes fluttered, vision swimming, blurring, refusing to settle before finally—
Slowly—
The world came into focus.
White.
Gray.
Too bright.
A hospital ceiling.
Lights humming faintly overhead.
An IV pole beside you.
Monitors blinking, casting soft green reflections.
Curtains half-drawn.
And then—
Leon.
Sitting right there.
Exactly where he said he’d be.
He looked—
God.
He looked like hell.
Not hurt.
Worse.
Like he hadn’t slept in days.
Like he hadn’t moved.
Like he hadn’t let himself breathe.
Still in his undershirt, wrinkled and stained.
Dried blood at his wrist, caught between his fingers.
His hair a mess.
His eyes—
Red.
Not just tired.
Red like he’d been fighting something he couldn’t shoot.
Like he’d been losing.
The second your eyes met his—
Everything in him stopped.
Then cracked.
Just a little.
Just enough.
“Hey.”
It came out broken.
Soft.
Like he wasn’t sure he could say anything louder without it falling apart.
You blinked at him.
Your throat worked uselessly.
He leaned forward immediately, chair scraping.
“Don’t—don’t try to talk yet.”
His voice shook on the edge of that sentence.
You tried anyway.
Of course you did.
Nothing came out but a dry, broken rasp.
His face tightened like it physically hurt him to hear it.
“Water,” he said quickly, almost too quickly.
His hands moved carefully—too carefully—as he grabbed the cup, like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved wrong.
The straw touched your lips.
“Small sip. Please.”
You obeyed.
The water was cold.
Too cold.
Perfect.
It burned going down.
You swallowed.
Winced.
He saw it.
Of course he did.
“Easy… easy.”
You took one more sip before he pulled it away, like he didn’t trust himself not to give you too much.
His hand came back to yours immediately.
Like he couldn’t stand not touching you.
Your fingers curled faintly around his.
He froze.
Looked down at your hand like it was something fragile.
Something impossible.
And the look on his face—
God.
It hurt to see.
Relief.
Shock.
Something deeper.
Something breaking.
You opened your mouth again.
Your voice came out in a cracked whisper.
“You stayed…”
Leon looked at you.
For a second, he didn’t answer.
His thumb moved over your knuckles.
Slow.
Careful.
Like he needed to feel you move.
“I promised.”
Your eyes burned instantly.
Too fast.
Too much.
You didn’t have the strength to stop it.
A tear slipped sideways.
Leon saw it.
His jaw clenched hard.
“Hey… hey—”
He wiped it away so gently it almost made it worse.
Like you might shatter.
“You’re okay.”
You tried to laugh.
It came out broken.
“You keep saying that…”
His breath hitched.
“I’m—” he swallowed hard, voice catching, “I’m trying to believe it.”
That almost made you smile.
Almost.
But then—
Memory hit.
Not all at once.
Flashes.
Red lights.
Dust.
Blood.
Too much blood.
The mask.
His voice.
Please—stay with me—
Your fingers tightened around his.
Fear surged through you before you could stop it.
Leon felt it instantly.
He leaned closer.
“What? What is it?”
Your breathing hitched.
The monitor beeped faster.
“Hey—hey, easy, easy—”
“I thought…” your voice scraped, “I thought I was going to die.”
Leon went completely still.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Thick.
His hand tightened around yours.
“I know.”
Barely a whisper.
You stared at him.
Something in his face—
It wasn’t hidden anymore.
“I thought it too.”
Your breath caught.
Leon looked down at your hands.
His thumb moved again.
Slower.
Like he was trying to ground himself.
“I thought I was going to get there and you’d be—”
He stopped.
His voice broke.
He couldn’t finish.
His jaw worked.
Once.
Twice.
He looked like he was holding something back with everything he had.
“I’ve been scared before,” he said, quieter now. “You know that.”
You nodded faintly.
“But that…”
His voice cracked.
He shook his head, like he couldn’t even put it into words.
“That was different.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“Leon…”
He looked at you.
Really looked.
And whatever he saw—
It broke the last piece of him.
“I can’t do that again.”
The words came out raw.
Shaking.
“I can’t—” he swallowed hard, breath hitching, “I can’t sit somewhere knowing you’re out there and I’m not with you.”
Your eyes stung harder.
He leaned forward, gripping your hand with both of his now.
“I know you can handle yourself,” he rushed, voice uneven. “I know that. I’ve always known that.”
You believed him.
“That’s not—this isn’t about that.”
His eyes searched yours desperately.
“It’s just—” his voice faltered again, “for eight years, I’ve known where you are. I’ve known you’re okay. I’ve known—if everything goes to hell, I’m right there with you.”
Your breath trembled.
“I didn’t know what to do when you weren’t.”
There it was.
Everything.
Your fingers moved weakly.
“I called you…”
His face crumpled just slightly.
“You did.”
“I knew you’d come.”
Leon’s breath shook.
“I will always come for you.”
Immediate.
Certain.
But his voice—
God, it sounded like it might break.
You blinked, another tear slipping free.
His hand came to your cheek.
He hesitated.
Then touched you.
Warm.
Bare.
“I was so scared,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“I hated it.”
“I know.”
“I hated being there without you.”
His face tightened, breath leaving him in a quiet, broken exhale.
“Yeah…”
You looked at him through tears.
“I don’t want to do that again.”
The words felt huge.
Leon closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
When he opened them—
They were softer.
Wetter.
“Then don’t.”
You blinked.
He leaned closer.
“Don’t go where I can’t follow.”
A shaky breath left you.
“That sounds like an order…”
“It is.”
You gave him the weakest glare.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Then it fell apart again.
“It’s also—” his voice caught, “it’s also me asking.”
This may be the most emotional Leon I've written yet. ❤️🩹
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐎𝐍𝐄-𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓 𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐏 ✈️❤️🩹
You Called
Leon Kennedy x Female Reader
After eight years as partners, the DSO makes a mistake they’ve never made before—they send you on a mission without Leon.
What starts as a simple retrieval operation quickly turns into a nightmare.
A compromised facility.
A mission gone wrong.
A phone call made from beneath rubble and blood.
And Leon Kennedy hearing your voice on the other end.
—
“You came.”
“You called.”
—
Themes:
✦ Older Leon Kennedy
✦ Protective Leon
✦ Long-term partners
✦ Friends-to-lovers energy
✦ Mission gone wrong
✦ Emotional hurt/comfort
✦ Hospital scenes
✦ Leon absolutely losing his mind
✦ Devotion that borders on insanity
⚠️ Content Warnings: Injury, blood loss, medical trauma, surgery references, emotional distress, near-death experience, pregnancy epilogue.
🔞 MDNI | 18+ ONLY
A wet cough tore out of you.
Hot.
Thick.
Blood splattered across your hand and stained your lip.
The metallic taste flooded your mouth.
Your stomach dropped.
“No.”
Your voice sounded small.
Thin.
You hated that.
Hated it more than the pain.
Because for eight years you’d been the calm one.
The one who laughed through injuries.
The one who made jokes while getting stitched up.
The one Leon constantly accused of having a death wish.
And now…
Now you were sitting alone in the dark.
Bleeding.
Trapped.
Scared.
The realization settled heavily in your chest.
Not because you thought you were dying.
Because you didn’t know.
And not knowing was worse.
You forced yourself to move.
Training.
Focus on training.
Assess.
Adapt.
Survive.
Your trembling fingers found the wound.
The second you touched it, stars exploded behind your eyes.
A strangled sound escaped your throat.
Shrapnel.
At least one piece.
Possibly more.
Deep.
Very deep.
Too deep.
Your breathing quickened.
You immediately fought it down.
“Panic later.”
You whispered it aloud.
The same thing Leon always told you.
The memory hit harder than it should have.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
For one terrible second, all you could picture was him.
The way he’d looked that morning.
The way his voice had softened before hanging up.
Get home safe.
The knot in your throat tightened.
You suddenly wanted to hear his voice.
Not because you needed rescue.
Not because you couldn’t handle yourself.
Because you were tired.
God.
You were so tired.
You fumbled for your phone.
Almost dropped it.
Your fingers felt clumsy.
Heavy.
Sticky with blood.
The screen illuminated your face.
Missed check-in.
Three notifications.
Two command alerts.
One message.
Leon.
The timestamp was twenty-three minutes old.
Where the hell are you?
Your chest hurt.
And somehow that hurt worse.
A laugh escaped you.
Broken.
Breathless.
Of course.
Of course he was already worried.
You stared at the message.
Then at his contact.
Your thumb hovered.
You knew better.
You knew exactly what would happen.
The second he heard your voice, all hell would break loose.
Every protocol.
Every order.
Every command structure.
Gone.
Leon Kennedy had never once cared about rules where you were concerned.
You knew that.
Everyone knew that.
Another wave of dizziness rolled through you.
The decision disappeared.
Your thumb pressed call.
One ring—
It didn’t even finish.
The call connected immediately.
Like he’d been holding the phone.
Like he hadn’t put it down.
Like he’d been waiting for something to go wrong.
“Hey.”
The word came out wrong.
Too quiet.
Too strained.
Too late.
There was a sharp inhale on the other end.
Not subtle.
Not controlled.
Then silence.
A fraction of a second.
But eight years was enough.
He heard it.
Immediately.
Every bit of it.
The pain.
The exhaustion.
The fear.
His voice changed instantly.
“What’s wrong?”
No greeting.
No hesitation.
Just that.
Your eyes closed.
God.
There he was.
Just Leon.
Just your partner.
The person who always answered.
The person who always came.
You swallowed hard.
Suddenly fighting tears you didn’t understand.
Nothing about this felt fair.
You were a grown woman.
A federal agent.
A highly trained operative.
And somehow hearing his voice made you feel twenty-four again.
Fresh out of the academy.
Terrified.
Certain he knew exactly what he was doing.
While you just tried to keep up.
You laughed softly.
A sound that cracked in the middle.
“Well.”
Silence.
“That’s not a good start.”
Another laugh.
This one weaker.
You pressed your head against the wall behind you.
The concrete felt cool.
Grounding.
“I might have fucked up.”
The silence on the line became absolute.
Terrifying.
Not because he was angry.
Because he was listening.
Every breath.
Every shift.
Every tiny sound you couldn’t hide.
“What happened?”
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
You knew that voice.
It was the voice he used when things were very, very bad.
You looked down at the blood soaked through your tactical gear.
At your shaking hands.
At the rubble trapping you inside the collapsed corridor.
At the way your leg wouldn’t move the way it should.
Then stared at the darkness beyond.
Alone.
Completely alone.
Your throat tightened.
“I think…”
You swallowed.
Tried again.
“I think you were right.”
A long silence.
Longer this time.
Then:
“Yeah.”
The answer was quiet.
Not smug.
Not teasing.
Just… breaking.
Which somehow hurt worse.
Your laugh broke apart halfway through.
“You know what’s really annoying?”
“What?”
“You getting to say that.”
For the first time, you heard the faintest hint of him.
Your Leon.
The one who spent years trading insults and terrible jokes with you.
“The greatest tragedy of our generation.”
You smiled.
Actually smiled.
Even as tears stung unexpectedly behind your eyes.
“Asshole.”
“Takes one to know one.”
The words settled around you like a blanket.
Familiar.
Comforting.
Safe.
And for a moment—
You almost forgot the blood.
Then his voice changed again.
Softer.
Lower.
Tighter.
The way it always did when he was trying not to panic.
“Talk to me.”
Your smile faded.
Because there it was.
The thing you’d been avoiding.
The truth.
You looked down at the wound.
At the way the bleeding hadn’t slowed.
At the way your fingers were starting to go numb.
At the way your breaths were getting shorter.
Shallower.
Wrong.
And suddenly your voice came out much smaller than you intended.
“Leon…”
A pause.
Then quietly:
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
The nickname hit you like a punch.
Because he only used it when he was scared.
And for the first time all night—
You heard it.
Not just in the word.
But in the way his breathing had changed.
Too fast.
Too uneven.
Like he was already moving.
Already grabbing gear.
Already breaking every rule he’d ever followed.
“I’m stuck,” you whispered.
“How bad?”
You hesitated.
That was all it took.
His voice sharpened instantly.
“How bad?”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
“There was an explosion. Corridor collapsed. I—” your breath hitched, “I can’t get out.”
“Are you bleeding?”
You looked at your hands.
At the blood.
At how much there was.
“…yeah.”
“How much?”
You didn’t answer.
You couldn’t.
Because saying it out loud would make it real.
“Hey.”
His voice dropped.
Gentler.
More desperate.
“Hey. Talk to me.”
“I’m trying,” you whispered, your voice shaking now despite everything you’d done to keep it steady. “I just— I think there’s shrapnel. It’s deep. I can’t— I can’t reach it properly.”
A sharp, uneven breath on the other end.
“Okay. Okay. Stay with me. Where are you exactly?”
You tried to answer.
Your mind lagged.
Words slipping.
“Lower level… east wing… I think. It’s dark. I—”
Another cough tore through you.
This one worse.
Blood spilled over your lips again.
You couldn’t stop it.
“Hey—hey, no, no, no—”
His voice cracked.
Actually cracked.
You’d never heard that before.
“Stay with me. Don’t you dare—”
“I’m here,” you forced out, even as your vision dimmed at the edges. “I’m still here.”
“Good. Good. Keep talking. Keep talking to me.”
You swallowed hard.
Your throat burned.
“Leon…”
“Yeah?”
There was something raw in the way he said it.
Something unraveling.
“I don’t think I can—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
The command came sharp.
Immediate.
Terrified.
You let out a weak, breathless laugh.
“You always hated when I did that.”
“Because you always say stupid shit when you’re hurt.”
His voice was shaking now.
Barely held together.
“I’m almost there. Do you hear me? I’m right there. Just—just stay awake. Stay with me.”
Your chest tightened.
Because you knew.
You knew how close he had to be.
You could hear it in him.
The movement.
The urgency.
The way his breathing hitched like he was already running.
“…okay,” you whispered anyway.
Silence stretched between you.
Heavy.
Fragile.
Then, softer:
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“…stay on the phone with me.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Quieter than you meant.
More desperate than you wanted.
Your throat closed around the admission.
“I’m here,” he said immediately.
No hesitation.
No space for doubt.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Another pause.
Then, barely audible:
“Please don’t leave me alone.”
And that—
That broke something in you completely.
For a second, there was nothing on the other end of the line.
No response.
No joke.
No sarcastic comeback.
Nothing.
And somehow that scared you more than anything.
Because Leon Kennedy always had something to say.
Always.
Especially when things were bad.
Especially when you were scared.
The silence stretched longer than it should have.
Long enough for your pulse to start pounding in your ears.
Long enough for your grip on the phone to tighten until your knuckles ached.
Long enough for something cold and awful to settle in your chest.
Because you knew him.
You knew the rhythm of his breathing, the cadence of his voice, the way he filled space even when he didn’t mean to.
And right now—
There was nothing.
Then his voice came back.
Rough.
Low.
Like it had been dragged through gravel.
“You are not alone.”
The words didn’t just land.
They hit.
Hard.
They cracked something open inside you before you could brace for it.
Your eyes squeezed shut as emotion surged up too fast, too sharp.
Because for eight years, those words had never needed to be said.
They had simply been true.
Every mission.
Every firefight.
Every sleepless night.
You’d always known where he was.
Always felt him there.
Like gravity.
Like breathing.
Until now.
A cough tore out of you.
Violent.
Uncontrolled.
Pain followed instantly—hot, sharp, blooming through your ribs like fire.
You curled forward with a strangled gasp, your fingers slipping against the phone.
“Hey.”
His voice snapped, all softness gone.
“Hey, talk to me.”
You forced yourself upright again, dragging in a shaky breath that didn’t feel like enough.
The world tilted.
The red emergency lights smeared into streaks.
For a second—just one—you thought you might black out.
“Still here,” you managed.
“Good.”
Too fast.
Too tight.
Like he’d been holding his breath and finally let it go.
“Good.”
You swallowed, tasting copper.
Everything felt heavy now.
Your limbs.
Your chest.
Your head.
Your eyelids most of all.
God.
You were so tired.
You let your head fall back against the cracked concrete behind you, just for a second, just to rest—
“Don’t.”
The word cut through you instantly.
Your eyes snapped open.
“What?”
“Don’t close your eyes.”
You frowned weakly, trying to focus.
“I didn’t—”
“You did.”
His voice was steadier now, but underneath it—
Something raw.
Something unraveling.
“You just did.”
A breath of a laugh slipped out of you.
“Look at you.”
“What about me?”
“You sound awful.”
“Funny.”
There was noise behind him now.
Not subtle.
Not distant.
Movement—fast, urgent.
Metal clanging.
Voices shouting over each other.
Something heavy being shoved aside.
You could almost picture it without trying.
Chaos.
Pure chaos.
And he was in the middle of it.
You let out a weak breath, something like a laugh slipping through despite everything.
Then, quieter—
“Just stay with me.”
Like that was the only thing that mattered.
Like everything else could wait.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
Because it was.
It always had been.
A voice barked something in the background—sharp, demanding.
Leon ignored it completely.
“Tell me what you can see.”
You blinked slowly, forcing your eyes to focus.
The corridor swam in and out of clarity.
Red emergency lights pulsed overhead, bathing everything in a sick, rhythmic glow.
Dust hung thick in the air, drifting lazily through the beams.
The ceiling behind you had collapsed completely.
Concrete slabs.
Twisted rebar.
Shattered metal.
A dead end.
A grave.
Your stomach twisted.
You hated it.
Hated how small it felt.
How final.
“I see…”
Your voice wavered.
You swallowed and tried again.
“Red lights.”
“Good.”
“Dust.”
“Good.”
“Concrete.”
“Good.”
A weak laugh slipped out.
“You’re really lowering the standards.”
“I’ll take anything right now.”
The honesty in his voice hit deeper than anything else.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The silence settled between you—not empty, not uncomfortable.
Familiar.
Safe.
The kind of quiet that only existed between people who had spent years learning each other without words.
Then—
“Do you remember Romania?”
You blinked.
“What?”
“Romania.”
It took a second.
Then it clicked.
A faint smile tugged at your lips.
“Oh God.”
“Yeah.”
“You are not bringing that up right now.”
“I absolutely am.”
“You got bit.”
“It was one time.”
“You got bit.”
“You got stabbed.”
“Twice.”
“Exactly.”
You laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound echoed weakly through the ruined corridor, thin but real.
And for a moment—
Just a moment—
The fear loosened its grip.
Then the dizziness hit again.
Harder this time.
The world lurched violently.
The red lights blurred into streaks.
Your stomach twisted.
Your fingers slipped against the phone.
“Hey.”
Leon’s voice sharpened instantly.
“Stay with me.”
You tried to answer.
The words wouldn’t come.
Something was wrong.
More wrong than before.
Your thoughts felt thick.
Slow.
Like they were sinking.
“Sweetheart.”
The nickname came out strained now.
Fractured.
“Talk to me.”
You swallowed.
Nothing.
Your throat felt tight.
Your vision dimmed at the edges, darkness creeping inward inch by inch.
And suddenly—
You weren’t fully there anymore.
For a flicker of a moment, you were somewhere else.
Years ago.
Standing in a training room.
Sweat clinging to your skin.
Holding a pistol wrong.
Watching Leon walk toward you with that familiar, exasperated look.
Your chest ached.
The memory hurt.
Everything hurt.
“Leon.”
“I’m here.”
Immediate.
Unwavering.
“I’m right here.”
Your eyes burned.
You didn’t even realize you were crying until a tear slipped down your temple into your hair.
You couldn’t remember the last time you’d cried.
Years.
Maybe longer.
But now it wouldn’t stop.
“Hey.”
His voice cracked.
Actually cracked.
“Hey, don’t do that.”
You let out a shaky, breathless laugh.
“What?”
“That.”
“Very specific.”
“You know what I mean.”
Another weak laugh slipped out, dissolving into a shaky breath.
Then—
Something shifted.
A sound.
Faint.
So faint you almost thought you imagined it.
Your head lifted slightly.
“What?”
Leon’s voice sharpened instantly.
“What happened?”
You listened.
Straining.
Boots.
Distant.
Echoing faintly through the wreckage.
Your heart stuttered.
No.
That wasn’t—
It came again.
Closer this time.
Heavy.
Measured.
Real.
Your pulse spiked.
Hope surged up so fast it hurt.
You pushed yourself upright, ignoring the sharp protest in your ribs, the dizziness clawing at your vision.
“Leon.”
“Yeah?”
Your voice trembled.
“I hear something.”
A beat.
Then another.
The sounds grew louder.
Closer.
Boots crunching over debris.
Metal shifting.
Someone moving fast.
Your breath hitched.
“Stay where you are,” he said, voice low, controlled—but tight with something barely contained.
You nodded instinctively, even though he couldn’t see you.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The footsteps were unmistakable now.
Right outside the collapsed section.
Close.
So close.
Your heart pounded so hard it drowned everything else out.
Then—
A shadow moved through the dust.
A figure forcing its way through the broken concrete.
And suddenly—
He was there.
Right in front of you.
For one impossible second, neither of you moved.
You just stared at him.
At the broad shape of him cutting through the red-lit haze.
At the tactical vest strapped over his chest.
At the dust clinging to his hair and shoulders.
At the gun in his hand.
At his face.
God.
His face.
Leon looked exactly like you imagined he would.
Furious.
Breathless.
Terrified.
Beautiful in the worst possible way.
His eyes found yours through the dust.
Blue.
Sharp.
Wild.
And then everything in him changed.
The lethal focus cracked.
Just for a second.
Just long enough for you to see what had been underneath it the whole time.
Fear.
Real fear.
The kind that stripped him bare.
The kind that made Leon Kennedy look less like a legend and more like a man who had just found the one thing he couldn’t afford to lose.
Your lips parted.
You tried to say something smart.
Something stupid.
Something normal.
Instead all that came out was a broken whisper.
“You came.”
Leon crossed the distance between you in three strides.
His weapon disappeared somewhere to his side.
Then he was on his knees in front of you, hands hovering for one fragile second like he didn’t know where to touch first.
Like he was afraid of hurting you.
Like the sight of your blood had emptied him completely.
“You called.”
His voice was rough.
Almost ruined.
Like that was the answer.
Like that had always been the answer.
You called.
So he came.
No hesitation.
No question.
No world in which he wouldn’t.
Your face crumpled before you could stop it.
You hated that.
Hated how fast it happened.
Hated how your mouth trembled.
Hated the tears that slipped free the second he was close enough to touch.
But Leon didn’t tease you.
Didn’t tell you not to cry.
Didn’t look away.
He just reached for you.
Carefully.
So carefully it hurt.
One gloved hand came to your cheek, thumb brushing blood and dust from your skin with devastating gentleness.
“Hey.”
His voice dropped.
Soft now.
Too soft.
“I’m here.”
You tried to laugh.
It came out like a sob.
“Took you long enough.”
For a second, his eyes squeezed shut.
Just one second.
Then he opened them again and looked at you like you had just torn him in half.
“Yeah.”
His thumb moved once over your cheek.
“I know.”
That destroyed you.
Not the pain.
Not the blood.
Not the fear.
That.
Leon Kennedy apologizing without saying the words.
Because he believed it.
Because some part of him truly believed he had been late.
Your hand lifted weakly.
Found the front of his vest.
Your fingers curled into the straps.
“You were right.”
“I don’t care.”
“You always care when you’re right.”
“Not this time.”
His eyes flicked down.
Finally.
To your side.
To the blood soaked through your gear.
To the way one hand stayed pressed uselessly against the wound.
His expression changed.
The softness vanished.
Something colder took its place.
A controlled kind of horror.
He leaned closer, inspecting the damage with terrifying focus.
“How long?”
You blinked slowly.
“What?”
“How long have you been bleeding like this?”
You tried to answer.
Couldn’t.
Time had stopped meaning anything.
Leon seemed to understand anyway.
His jaw tightened so hard you saw the muscle jump.
“Okay.”
He pulled his pack forward.
“Okay, sweetheart, listen to me.”
There it was again.
Sweetheart.
Not teasing.
Not casual.
A lifeline.
Your eyes fluttered.
His hand snapped back to your face instantly.
“Hey.”
Your eyes opened.
“Don’t do that.”
“I’m tired.”
“I don’t care.”
“Mean.”
“Yeah.”
His voice shook.
Then steadied by force.
“I’m mean. I’m old. I’m an asshole. You can yell at me about it later.”
You tried to smile.
It barely worked.
“Promise?”
His expression broke again.
Just for a second.
“Yeah.”
He pressed gauze hard against your side.
Pain detonated through you.
White-hot.
Violent.
You cried out before you could stop yourself, body arching instinctively away from his hands.
Leon moved with you immediately.
One arm came around your shoulders, holding you against him while his other hand maintained pressure.
“I know. I know. I know.”
His voice was right against your ear.
Low.
Desperate.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby, I know.”
Baby.
The word slipped out so naturally you almost missed it.
Almost.
Leon didn’t seem to realize he’d said it.
Or maybe he did.
Maybe there just wasn’t room left to care.
You clutched at his vest harder, fingers shaking.
“That hurts.”
“I know.”
“Leon—”
“I know.”
His cheek pressed briefly against your temple.
A touch so small.
So intimate.
So unlike him in the field that it made your throat close.
“I’ve got you.”
You sobbed once.
Quiet.
Humiliating.
Broken.
His arm tightened around you.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to anchor you.
“You’re okay.”
“I’m not.”
“I know.”
Another sob caught in your chest.
He swallowed hard.
“But you’re going to be.”
A voice shouted somewhere behind him.
“Kennedy!”
Leon didn’t look away from you.
Not once.
“Over here!”
Footsteps thundered closer.
More flashlights cut through the dust.
Two medics appeared in the gap, followed by another extraction agent.
They took one look at you and moved fast.
Too fast.
Too many hands.
Too much noise.
“Agent, can you hear me?”
“Pressure dressing now.”
“She’s losing too much blood.”
“Get the litter in here.”
The words blurred together.
Professional.
Urgent.
Terrifying.
Hands reached for you.
Your body reacted before your mind did.
You flinched hard.
Pain ripped through your side.
A strangled sound broke out of you.
Leon shifted instantly between you and everyone else.
“Easy.”
His voice was quiet.
Deadly.
The nearest medic froze.
Leon looked at him.
Not like a partner.
Not like an agent.
Like a warning.
“Slow.”
The medic swallowed.
“Kennedy, we need to—”
“I know what you need to do.”
Leon didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t have to.
“You do it slowly.”
His hand returned to your face.
Gentle again.
Impossible contrast.
“Look at me.”
Your eyes found his.
Barely.
Everything else blurred.
The red lights.
The medics.
The dust.
The blood.
Only Leon stayed clear.
“That’s it.”
His thumb brushed your cheek.
“Just me.”
You trembled.
“I don’t want them to move me.”
“I know.”
“It hurts.”
“I know.”
Your voice cracked.
“Don’t let go.”
Something flickered across his face.
Devastating.
Raw.
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
His eyes held yours.
“I promise.”
The medics worked around him.
Because Leon didn’t move.
Not really.
He let them cut through your gear.
Let them pack the wound.
Let them slide supports beneath you.
But he stayed exactly where you needed him.
One hand holding yours.
The other at your face.
His body blocking as much of the chaos as possible.
Every time pain dragged a sound from you, his grip tightened.
Every time your breathing hitched, his voice came back.
Low.
Steady.
Yours.
“You’re doing good.”
A strap slid beneath your back.
You cried out.
Leon leaned closer immediately.
“I know. I know.”
“Make them stop.”
The plea escaped before you could bury it.
Childlike.
Broken.
Instantly humiliating.
Leon’s face twisted like the words physically hurt him.
For one horrible second, you saw the war inside him.
The instinct to stop everything.
To shove every hand away.
To pick you up himself and carry you out of there.
But he didn’t.
Because stopping them would hurt you worse.
So he bent closer instead.
Forehead nearly touching yours.
“I can’t.”
His voice broke on the words.
“I’m sorry. I can’t. They have to help you.”
Your tears slipped faster.
“I know.”
“I’ve got you.”
“I know.”
“They’re helping.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to be brave with me.”
That undid you completely.
A sob tore loose.
Ugly.
Painful.
Real.
Leon’s hand cupped the back of your head, careful of the debris and blood.
His mouth pressed to your hairline.
Brief.
Shaking.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered again.
Over and over.
Like a prayer.
Like if he said it enough times, the universe would have no choice but to listen.
The medics lifted.
Pain turned the world white.
You screamed.
Or maybe you only thought you did.
Everything fractured.
Sound disappeared.
Then slammed back all at once.
Leon was still there.
Still holding your hand.
Still speaking.
“Stay with me.”
The corridor lurched as they carried you through the wreckage.
Flashlights swept over broken walls.
Boots splashed through water and blood.
Someone kept calling vitals.
Someone else shouted for the extraction route.
Leon never left your side.
Not when the stretcher scraped against concrete.
Not when the passage narrowed and one of the agents told him he needed to step back.
This may be the most emotional Leon I've written yet. ❤️🩹
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐎𝐍𝐄-𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓 𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐏 ✈️❤️🩹
You Called
Leon Kennedy x Female Reader
After eight years as partners, the DSO makes a mistake they’ve never made before—they send you on a mission without Leon.
What starts as a simple retrieval operation quickly turns into a nightmare.
A compromised facility.
A mission gone wrong.
A phone call made from beneath rubble and blood.
And Leon Kennedy hearing your voice on the other end.
—
“You came.”
“You called.”
—
Themes:
✦ Older Leon Kennedy
✦ Protective Leon
✦ Long-term partners
✦ Friends-to-lovers energy
✦ Mission gone wrong
✦ Emotional hurt/comfort
✦ Hospital scenes
✦ Leon absolutely losing his mind
✦ Devotion that borders on insanity
⚠️ Content Warnings: Injury, blood loss, medical trauma, surgery references, emotional distress, near-death experience, pregnancy epilogue.
🔞 MDNI | 18+ ONLY
The hallway outside Operations was busy enough that most people wouldn’t have noticed the conference room door standing slightly ajar.
Leon did.
Not because he was paying attention.
Because he heard your name.
His stride faltered.
Just for a second.
The low hum of conversation inside the room sharpened, voices overlapping in clipped, professional tones—but your name cut through all of it like a blade.
A familiar photograph flashed across the large monitor inside the room, accompanied by a satellite image and a mission designation he didn’t recognize. The glow from the screen spilled into the hallway, casting pale light across the polished floor.
The coffee in his hand suddenly felt a lot less important.
“…deployment window opens at 0900,” someone was saying, voice steady, detached.
Leon frowned.
Deployment?
His grip tightened slightly around the cup, heat seeping into his palm unnoticed.
He took two steps backward.
Looked through the gap in the doorway.
And immediately knew something was wrong.
The screen displayed a mission briefing.
Maps layered with red markers.
Intel scrolling in tight columns.
Extraction points blinking in sharp, unforgiving lines.
Your photograph.
Your name.
Your assignment.
His stomach dropped, a cold, hollow sensation that spread fast and deep.
“What the hell?”
The words left him before he could stop them, rough and sharp in the quiet corridor.
Inside, the room went silent.
Every head turned.
Chris Redfield looked up from the end of the table.
For half a second, something suspiciously close to guilt flashed across his face.
That was all Leon needed to see.
The knot in his stomach tightened, twisting into something heavier.
Slowly, he pushed the door open.
The hinges creaked faintly, loud in the sudden stillness.
Nobody stopped him.
Nobody said a word.
Which somehow made it worse.
His boots echoed against the floor as he stepped inside, the air in the room thick, suffocating.
His eyes moved over the screen.
Mission objective.
Location.
Threat assessment.
Personnel.
His jaw tightened.
Then tightened further.
Because there was only one name listed.
Yours.
“No.”
The word came out flat.
Dangerously flat.
Nobody spoke.
Leon looked at Chris.
Then back at the screen.
Then at Chris again.
“No.”
Chris sighed, leaning back slightly, already looking tired—like he’d been bracing for this.
“Leon.”
“No.”
Leon stepped fully into the room.
Coffee forgotten in his hand, sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
Mission report forgotten under his arm.
The room felt suddenly too small.
Too warm.
Too quiet.
“What is this?”
“It’s a mission.”
“No shit.”
His eyes never left the screen, scanning every detail like he could will it to change.
“What is she doing on it by herself?”
“She’s not by herself.”
“Then where am I?”
Silence.
The kind of silence that answered the question.
Leon laughed once.
A humorless, hollow sound that didn’t reach his eyes.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Leon—”
“No.”
The word cracked through the room like a gunshot.
Several younger agents immediately found their laptops fascinating, eyes dropping, shoulders stiff.
“Absolutely not.”
Chris leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.
“She’s qualified.”
Leon finally looked at him.
Actually looked at him.
Blue eyes sharp enough to cut glass, burning with something far more dangerous than anger.
“When did I say she wasn’t?”
Nobody answered.
Because that wasn’t the issue.
And everyone knew it.
Eight years.
Eight years of deployments.
Eight years of operations.
Eight years of surviving things most people couldn’t imagine.
The DSO didn’t separate them.
They simply didn’t.
Not unless one of them was unconscious.
Or hospitalized.
Or dead.
And even then Leon would have argued.
“Put me on the team.”
Chris rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slowly.
“We need you here.”
“Find someone else.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is that simple.”
Leon pointed at the screen, finger rigid, unwavering.
“If you need an agent, send me.”
“We need her specific expertise.”
“Great.”
His voice was getting colder.
Quieter.
Which was somehow worse.
“Then I’ll go with her.”
“Leon.”
“I’ll go with her.”
Chris looked away.
And that was when Leon knew.
Really knew.
Because Chris wasn’t arguing anymore.
He wasn’t trying to justify it.
He was stalling.
The realization hit like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs.
Leon went still.
Completely still.
“When?”
Nobody answered.
His eyes narrowed, something dark settling behind them.
“When did she leave?”
Silence.
Then Chris sighed.
Slowly.
Like a man accepting his fate.
“Three hours ago.”
The room disappeared.
Three hours.
Leon stared at him, heartbeat pounding loud in his ears, drowning everything else out.
Certain he’d heard wrong.
“What?”
“She already deployed.”
Three hours.
Three fucking hours.
For eight years, you had boarded every aircraft together.
Every mission.
Every operation.
Every nightmare.
And somehow you’d been gone for three hours before anyone bothered telling him.
“Without me.”
It wasn’t a question.
Chris nodded once.
“Without you.”
Leon looked back at the screen.
At your photograph smiling back at him.
At the deployment timestamp.
At the flight information.
At the mission route.
Three hours.
A muscle jumped in his jaw, sharp and violent.
“You sent my partner into the field.”
Nobody answered.
“You separated us.”
Still silence.
“And nobody thought I should know?”
“We knew exactly how you’d react.”
Leon looked at Chris.
Cold.
Sharp.
Dangerous.
“Yeah?”
His voice dropped lower, quieter, edged with something lethal.
“So maybe that should’ve told you something.”
The room went dead silent.
Chris held his gaze.
Neither man looked away.
Finally Leon scoffed, a bitter sound scraping out of his throat.
Shook his head once.
Then turned toward the door.
“Leon.”
He stopped.
“She’s gonna be fine.”
For a second, nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
Then Leon looked over his shoulder.
And for the first time, there was something ugly in his expression.
Not anger.
Not frustration.
Fear.
The kind he only ever felt where you were concerned.
“You don’t know that.”
His voice was low, tight, barely controlled.
“And you better fucking hope she’s fine.”
And then he walked out.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the glass.
—————————————————————————
The aircraft vibrated beneath your boots.
Steady.
Predictable.
Comforting.
You sat near the rear of the transport plane, one leg stretched out in front of you while you absentmindedly spun a pen between your fingers.
Across from you, two agents from another division were reviewing mission details.
Neither had spoken much.
Which was fine.
You weren’t exactly in a social mood.
The mission packet rested open in your lap.
Simple retrieval.
Get in.
Recover the drive.
Get out.
Easy.
At least by DSO standards.
You’d certainly done worse.
A lot worse.
The thought made you smile.
Because most of your worst missions involved one particular blond pain in the ass.
Your hand drifted toward your phone.
No messages.
Not surprising.
Leon was probably still buried in paperwork from the last operation.
Or arguing with someone.
Possibly both.
You smiled to yourself.
Eight years.
Eight years of missions.
Eight years of training exercises.
Eight years of late-night debriefs, terrible coffee, endless airport terminals, and Leon Kennedy telling you every reckless decision you made was stupid right before helping you do it anyway.
You’d been twenty-four when they partnered you together.
Fresh out of the academy.
Terrified.
Determined not to show it.
The newest agent in the room assigned to one of the most famous operatives in the world.
You still remembered walking into the briefing room that first day.
Remembered seeing him leaning against the wall.
Arms crossed.
Expression unreadable.
Looking every bit as intimidating as everyone said he was.
You’d expected some hardened legend.
Some impossible standard you’d spend years trying to meet.
Instead he’d looked you over once and said:
“You’re shorter than I expected.”
You’d immediately responded:
“You’re older than I expected.”
The room had gone dead silent.
You’d been absolutely certain your career was over.
Leon had laughed so hard he’d nearly spilled his coffee.
The partnership had stuck.
So had the habit of giving each other shit.
Eight years later neither of you had stopped.
Your phone suddenly buzzed in your hand.
You looked down.
And immediately grinned.
Leon.
Of course.
You answered before the first ring finished.
“Miss me already?”
Silence.
Then:
“Turn around.”
You frowned.
“What?”
“Turn around.”
A laugh escaped you.
Actually turn around?
You looked over your shoulder.
Nothing.
Just cargo containers.
A sleeping agent.
The rear of the aircraft.
You rolled your eyes.
“You’re impossible.”
“I know.”
“You stalking government aircraft now?”
“I know what plane you’re on.”
You snorted.
“That’s not creepy at all.”
His voice remained suspiciously flat.
“I know where you’re landing.”
The smile slipped slightly.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Because something sounded off.
Leon wasn’t usually this serious unless somebody was actively bleeding.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Leon.”
“Nothing happened.”
Which meant something had absolutely happened.
You sat up straighter.
“Then why do you sound like you’re planning a homicide?”
“Because Chris is an idiot.”
“There it is.”
You relaxed immediately.
“Did he piss you off again?”
A beat of silence.
Then:
“When were you planning on telling me?”
Uh-oh.
You winced.
There it was.
You knew exactly what this was about now.
“Leon.”
“When were you planning on telling me?”
“I was going to text you.”
“You were already in the air.”
“Details.”
“You left.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Because underneath the irritation there was something strangely familiar.
Something almost comforting.
The same annoyance he’d displayed every time one of you ended up in medical.
Or got reassigned.
Or disappeared for more than twelve hours.
“You’ll survive.”
“Maybe.”
“You dramatic asshole.”
“Eight years.”
You blinked.
The irritation in his voice wasn’t fading.
If anything it was getting worse.
“Leon—”
“Eight years and suddenly somebody decides separating us is a good idea.”
A warmth settled in your chest.
Small.
Stupid.
Dangerous.
Because the truth was…
You hadn’t exactly loved the idea either.
The plane hit a pocket of turbulence.
You grabbed the armrest.
“Relax.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You sound one inconvenience away from a federal indictment.”
“I’m considering several.”
A laugh escaped you.
The agents across from you looked over curiously.
You waved them off.
“Chris survived?”
“Barely.”
“Poor guy.”
“He’ll be fine.”
You could practically hear him glaring through the phone.
The thought made your smile widen.
For a few moments neither of you spoke.
The familiar silence settled between you.
Easy.
Comfortable.
The kind that only came from years of knowing someone.
Years of existing in the same orbit.
You found yourself staring out the small window beside you.
Clouds stretched endlessly below.
The world looked impossibly peaceful from up here.
“Hey.”
His voice pulled your attention back.
“What?”
“You call me if anything changes.”
You rolled your eyes.
“There it is.”
“I’m serious.”
“It’s a retrieval mission.”
“You call me.”
“Leon.”
“You call me.”
The smile softened on your lips.
Because beneath the annoyance was concern.
Real concern.
The kind he never quite managed to hide where you were concerned.
“Okay.”
A pause.
Then:
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
“You promise?”
You barked out a laugh.
“Jesus Christ.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
Only then did he finally sound satisfied.
“Good.”
You shook your head.
Unbelievable.
Absolutely unbelievable.
“You know you’re insane, right?”
“Been told.”
“By me.”
“Frequently.”
Another beat of silence.
Then:
“Be careful.”
The words landed differently.
Softer.
Quieter.
Not Leon Kennedy, legendary government agent.
Just Leon.
Your partner.
Your best friend.
The person who had spent eight years making sure you got home.
Something tightened unexpectedly in your chest.
“Always am.”
The lie hung between you.
Because neither of you believed it.
Not for a second.
And judging by the low noise he made, neither did he.
“Call me when you land.”
“Yes, dad.”
“Don’t start.”
“You started.”
“You were born starting.”
You laughed.
And for the first time since boarding the plane, some of the tension in his voice eased.
“Go do your job.”
“I was already doing my job.”
“Go do it better.”
“Love you too, Kennedy.”
The words slipped out automatically.
The same way they always did.
Thoughtless.
Habitual.
Eight years of habit.
Silence met you on the other end.
Just for a second.
Then:
“Yeah.”
His voice was quieter than before.
“Get home safe.”
The line disconnected.
And for some reason, as you stared down at the dark screen in your hand, unease settled low in your stomach.
Small.
Persistent.
Impossible to explain.
Like the feeling you got right before everything went wrong.
The unease should have faded.
It should have slipped away the moment you powered down your phone, sealed yourself back into protocol, and let the mission take over like it always did.
Instead, it clung to you.
Not sharp. Not urgent.
Just there.
A quiet, stubborn weight coiled low in your stomach, like something waiting.
Annoying.
Persistent.
You hated instincts like that.
Because after enough years in the field, you learned the difference between nerves and intuition.
Nerves were loud—fast, jittery, full of noise that burned itself out.
Intuition was quiet.
Cold.
Patient.
And yours rarely spoke unless something was wrong.
You shifted in your seat, the leather creaking faintly beneath you.
The aircraft hummed steadily around you, engines vibrating through the frame in a constant, low-frequency thrum that settled into your bones. The descent had begun minutes ago—you could feel it in the subtle tilt, the pressure change in your ears.
Outside the window, jagged mountain peaks tore through the cloud layer below, their dark silhouettes cutting against the fading sky. The sun hovered low on the horizon, bleeding gold and amber across the landscape, casting long shadows that stretched endlessly across the terrain.
Beautiful.
The kind of view people would press their faces to the glass for.
You barely registered it.
Your focus had already drifted back to the mission file resting in your lap, its edges worn from repeated handling.
You opened it again.
Flipped through the pages.
Read every line like you hadn’t already memorized them.
Abandoned research facility.
Minimal threat assessment.
Possible bio-weapons research.
Recover hard drive.
Confirm data integrity.
Extract.
Simple.
Clean.
Efficient.
Exactly the kind of assignment they handed to newer agents still proving themselves.
Not agents with eight years of field experience.
Which was another thing that didn’t sit right.
The assignment felt…
Small.
Too small.
Like a piece was missing.
Like someone had trimmed the edges of the truth before handing it to you.
You frowned, your thumb tapping lightly against the paper.
Then you exhaled and shook your head.
Paranoia.
Nothing more.
You’d spent too many years working alongside Leon.
His suspicion had a way of seeping into everything.
A few hours later, boots hit concrete.
The aircraft doors opened with a hydraulic hiss, and a rush of cold air flooded the cabin, sharp enough to sting your lungs.
You stepped onto the tarmac.
The mountain air cut through your jacket instantly—dry, biting, carrying the faint scent of pine and stone. It filled your chest, grounding you, sharpening your senses.
The temporary forward operating base was tucked between dense forest and steep, unforgiving terrain. Floodlights cast harsh white beams across the area, illuminating rows of equipment, vehicles, and personnel moving with practiced efficiency.
Remote.
Quiet.
Isolated.
Exactly where someone would hide something they didn’t want found.
The team moved quickly.
Equipment checks.
Weapons inspected.
Comms tested.
Final briefing delivered in clipped, efficient tones.
Within thirty minutes, you were loaded into a vehicle, tires crunching over gravel as you pushed deeper into the forest.
The facility revealed itself just after sunset.
It didn’t emerge so much as loom.
Massive.
Decaying.
Concrete walls stained dark with years of neglect, streaked with water damage and creeping moss. Broken windows gaped like hollow eye sockets, reflecting nothing but darkness.
The structure felt wrong.
Not just abandoned.
Dead.
Like something that had been left to rot—and had taken something with it.
A graveyard.
You climbed out of the vehicle, boots hitting uneven ground, and stared at it.
The air felt heavier here.
Still.
The hairs on the back of your neck lifted without permission.
The agent beside you noticed.
“You okay?”
You nodded immediately.
“Fine.”
A lie.
Not a dramatic one.
Just enough to keep things moving.
The kind agents told themselves all the time.
The radio crackled to life.
Orders came through—clear, precise.
The team split according to plan.
You moved toward the eastern entrance.
Weapon raised.
Grip steady.
Heart controlled.
Breathing measured.
Training slid into place like armor.
The world narrowed.
Every sound sharpened.
Every shadow deepened.
Every movement mattered.
Years of experience wrapped around you like a second skin.
You slipped inside.
Darkness swallowed you whole.
Your flashlight snapped on, a narrow beam slicing through the black. Dust particles drifted lazily through the light, disturbed by your movement, hanging in the air like ghosts.
The smell hit you next.
Stale.
Rotting.
Air that hadn’t moved in years.
At first, everything aligned with expectations.
Empty hallways.
Abandoned offices.
Furniture overturned or left exactly where it had been, as if people had simply… stopped.
Broken equipment littered the floors.
You moved methodically.
Room to room.
Corner to corner.
Clearing each space with practiced precision.
Advancing steadily toward the objective.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
The deeper you went, the more Leon’s earlier concern felt misplaced.
You could almost hear his voice anyway—low, skeptical, always questioning.
You huffed a quiet breath, the corner of your mouth twitching.
“Relax.”
You whispered it under your breath.
To him.
To yourself.
Then your radio crackled.
“East wing clear.”
Another team.
Another confirmation.
Everything normal.
You continued forward.
The server room appeared exactly where intelligence said it would.
The reinforced door hung partially open, its heavy frame bent just enough to leave a gap.
Interesting.
But not alarming.
Not yet.
You stepped inside.
Rows of dead equipment lined the room—old monitors, dust-coated servers, cables snaking across the floor like veins long since drained.
But at the center—
One unit remained active.
Powered.
Alive.
A faint hum filled the space, low and constant.
Your stomach tightened.
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
Slowly, carefully, you approached.
The glow of the monitor cast a pale light across your face, flickering faintly.
Waiting.
You knelt beside the system.
Inserted the extraction drive.
Initiated the transfer.
The progress bar appeared.
5%.
10%.
15%.
Easy.
Too easy.
Your eyes narrowed slightly.
Something wasn’t right.
You stood, sweeping your flashlight across the room again.
Nothing.
No movement.
No sound beyond the quiet hum of electronics.
The transfer continued.
32%.
47%.
63%.
Then—
Movement.
You froze.
The sound was faint.
So faint it barely registered at first.
A metallic clank, distant, somewhere beyond the server room door.
Your pulse kicked once.
Hard.
You held your breath.
Listened.
Nothing.
Then—
Another sound.
Closer.
A footstep.
Slow.
Deliberate.
The hairs along your arms rose instantly.
Every instinct you had snapped awake.
Run.
Your grip tightened around your weapon, muscles coiling.
The radio crackled.
A burst of static.
Then—
Silence.
Complete.
Total.
Your stomach dropped.
“Command?”
Nothing.
You pressed your earpiece harder.
“Command, come in.”
No response.
Behind you, the transfer continued.
76%.
The room felt smaller now.
The air thicker.
The darkness heavier.
Another footstep echoed outside.
Then another.
Then another.
Not one person.
Several.
Your heartbeat accelerated, pounding against your ribs.
The realization hit all at once.
Cold.
Sharp.
Unavoidable.
The facility wasn’t abandoned.
It had never been abandoned.
And someone had known you were coming.
Somebody had known you were coming.
The realization didn’t just occur—it sank deep, heavy and undeniable, like ice water flooding your veins.
Not a guess.
Not a theory.
A fact.
Your pulse hammered violently in your ears, each beat loud enough to drown out reason.
You slowly backed toward the server rack, boots scraping faintly against the concrete, weapon raised, eyes locked on the doorway as if staring hard enough might force whatever waited there to reveal itself.
The transfer continued behind you.
79%.
80%.
81%.
Every second stretched, warped, unbearable.
The silence outside had changed.
It wasn’t empty anymore.
It had weight.
Presence.
It was waiting.
The distinction made your skin crawl, goosebumps prickling along your arms beneath your gear.
You pressed a finger against your earpiece, breath shallow.
“Command, respond.”
Nothing.
Only static—thin, lifeless, like a dead signal echoing into nothing.
“Alpha Team?”
Silence.
“Bravo?”
Nothing.
The radio was dead.
Completely dead.
A cold knot twisted tight in your stomach.
Because communications didn’t just fail.
Not like this.
Not all at once.
Not unless someone wanted them to.
The faint metallic sound came again.
Closer now.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Measured footsteps, each one placed with intent.
Like whoever was out there had no reason to rush.
No reason to hide.
Your grip tightened around your pistol until your knuckles ached.
The doorway remained empty.
Dark.
Still.
Too still.
Your training screamed at you to move.
To reposition.
To break line of sight.
To stop waiting to be cornered like prey.
But the drive—
The transfer was still running.
91%.
You swore under your breath, the word sharp and bitter.
Of course.
Of fucking course.
One more thing.
One more complication.
One more reason this couldn’t be simple.
The server hummed beside you, its steady vibration grounding and maddening all at once.
The progress bar crawled forward with agonizing slowness.
93%.
95%.
Then—
A shadow crossed the doorway.
Gone almost instantly.
Too fast to track.
Too deliberate to be accidental.
Your stomach dropped.
You fired.
Three rapid shots.
The sound detonated through the room, deafening in the enclosed space, the recoil snapping through your arms.
The muzzle flash lit the darkness in violent bursts.
Nothing.
No scream.
No body.
Only silence.
And then—
Laughter.
A man’s laughter.
Somewhere beyond the doorway.
Low.
Controlled.
Amused.
Your blood ran cold.
Because that was worse.
Far worse.
They weren’t afraid of you.
They weren’t even surprised you were armed.
They expected it.
97%.
98%.
Your eyes flicked to the monitor, desperation clawing at your chest.
Come on.
Come on.
Come on.
A loud clang echoed down the hallway.
Then another.
Then another.
Multiple footsteps now.
Heavy.
Fast.
Closing in.
Shit.
100%.
The screen flashed.
TRANSFER COMPLETE.
You ripped the drive free, fingers moving on instinct.
The second you did, the lights died.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Every single light in the facility vanished at once.
The room plunged into pitch black so complete it felt suffocating.
For one terrifying second, you couldn’t see anything.
Couldn’t hear anything except your own ragged breathing.
Then emergency lighting flickered to life.
Red.
Harsh.
The entire hallway beyond the door bathed in a blood-red glow that painted everything in something almost unreal.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
Every survival instinct you possessed screamed.
Move.
Now.
You bolted.
The server room vanished behind you.
Boots pounded against concrete, each step echoing too loud in the confined space.
Red lights pulsed overhead like a warning.
You turned left.
Then right.
Following the extraction route burned into your memory.
But the facility felt different now.
Alive.
Hostile.
Like it was shifting around you, corridors tightening, angles wrong, paths unfamiliar.
The radio crackled violently.
Static exploded in your ear, sharp and chaotic.
Then—
A voice.
Broken.
Distorted.
“…run…”
You froze.
Just for a second.
The transmission cut out immediately.
Your stomach twisted hard.
That hadn’t sounded like command.
That had sounded like one of your team.
You started moving again.
Faster.
A door slammed somewhere behind you.
Then another.
Then another.
The echoes bounced through the facility like a closing cage.
Closing routes.
Controlling movement.
Herding.
The realization hit like a punch to the chest.
They were directing you.
Steering you exactly where they wanted.
“Nope.”
You veered sharply, cutting down an alternate corridor without hesitation.
The map flashed through your mind.
Secondary exit.
North side.
Three hundred meters.
You could make that.
You just had to—
A figure stepped into the hallway.
You fired instantly.
The man dropped before he could react.
A second appeared.
Then a third.
And suddenly the hallway erupted.
Gunfire exploded around you, deafening and chaotic.
Concrete shattered.
Dust filled the air in choking clouds.
You threw yourself behind a support column, shoulder slamming hard into it.
Pain jolted through your body as you hit the ground.
Rounds tore through the wall inches from your head, fragments spraying across your face.
Your heart pounded.
Fast.
Too fast.
This wasn’t a retrieval.
This wasn’t a simple operation.
This was a trap.
And somehow you had walked straight into it.
You leaned out.
Fired twice.
One target dropped.
Another vanished behind cover.
The return fire intensified.
Far too many.
Far, far too many.
Your stomach sank.
Because now you understood what Leon had felt.
That nagging instinct.
That quiet warning.
That certainty.
Something had been wrong from the start.
And for the first time since arriving, you wished he was here.
Not because you couldn’t handle yourself.
Not because you weren’t capable.
But because after eight years of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him…
The absence of Leon Kennedy suddenly felt enormous.
Another burst of gunfire erupted.
You ran.
The hallway stretched endlessly ahead, red lights flashing like a heartbeat.
Boots pounded behind you.
The drive pressed tight against your chest.
Your lungs burned.
Every instinct narrowed to one command.
Get out.
Get out.
Get out.
Then the floor exploded beneath you.
The blast hit like a hammer.
The world vanished into noise and force.
Your body was thrown sideways, weightless for a split second before slamming into concrete.
Hard.
So hard your vision went white.
For several long seconds, you couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t move.
Only pain.
Everywhere.
A high-pitched ringing filled your ears.
You rolled onto your back with a strained groan.
Dust drifted through the air, thick and choking.
Chunks of concrete littered the floor around you.
The corridor was gone.
Collapsed into rubble and twisted metal.
Your chest heaved.
Something warm slid down your side.
You looked down.
And immediately felt your stomach drop.
Blood.
A lot of blood.
Far too much.
“Oh…”
The word barely escaped your lips.
Your hand came away slick and red.
The sight hit harder than the pain.
Reality crashing in all at once.
You were hurt.
Badly.
And for the first time since stepping into the facility…
You were completely alone.
Miles away, Leon’s name sat at the top of your recent calls.
And suddenly, more than anything else in the world—
You wanted your partner.
For a few seconds, you simply stared at the blood coating your hand.
Bright red.
Too bright.
Too much.
It wasn’t just smeared across your palm—it was pooling in the grooves of your fingers, dripping steadily from your wrist, pattering softly against the concrete beneath you. Each drop sounded too loud in the ringing silence.
The world still rang around you, a high-pitched whine drowning everything else out.
Your ears.
Your lungs.
Your thoughts.
Nothing felt real.
Nothing except the pain.
It came in waves now.
Not sharp.
Not yet.
A deep, nauseating ache spreading through your side and down your leg, like something inside you had been twisted wrong and left that way.
You sucked in a breath.
Immediately regretted it.
Pain lanced through your ribs, sharp enough to steal the air right back out of you.
“Fuck.”
The word broke apart on the exhale.
Your vision blurred.
Not from tears.
Shock.
You knew shock.
You’d treated enough agents to recognize it—the distant feeling, the strange calm, the way your body tried to lie to you.
Your older brother's best friend. Your family's unofficial third child. The boy who spent every summer at the lake house and somehow never stopped getting under your skin.
Now he's back. After a mission in Spain which you saw pieces about on the news & in the paper.
Three months under the same roof. One lake house. One very long summer.
And some things can only go unsaid for so long.
───────────────
⚠️ WARNINGS / TAGS ⚠️
18+ / MDNI
• Older Brother's Best Friend • Slow Burn • Mutual Pining • Summer Romance • Age Gap (6 years) • Emotional Angst • Family Friends • Jealous Leon Kennedy • References to trauma • References to past relationships • Alcohol consumption • Eventual mature themes • Lots of yearning • Everyone knows except them
───────────────
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The screen door slams so hard behind you that the entire porch shudders, the old wood groaning in protest as the frame rattles against its hinges.
Good.
Let it shake.
Let something else feel as unsettled as you do.
You storm down the steps, each footfall heavy and deliberate, the worn boards creaking beneath your weight. The air is thick with the scent of lake water and sun-warmed pine, but it does nothing to soothe the heat simmering under your skin. Your arms are crossed tightly over your chest, fingers digging into your sides as if you can physically contain the frustration clawing its way through you.
The dock stretches out ahead, sun-bleached and familiar, and you march straight onto it without slowing.
The lake is beautiful this morning.
It always is.
The surface glitters under the bright summer sun, a thousand fractured reflections dancing across the water. Gentle waves lap rhythmically against the wooden pilings, the soft, repetitive sound usually enough to quiet your thoughts. Somewhere in the distance, a boat engine sputters to life, its low hum carrying across the open water. Birds call from the treeline, their cries sharp and clear in the stillness.
Normally, this place calms you down.
Normally, it feels like breathing.
Today, it feels like nothing.
Because all you can hear—over the water, over the wind, over everything—is his voice.
Don't talk about things you know nothing about.
The words echo in your head, sharp and cutting, replaying over and over until they feel etched into your skull.
Like he hadn’t just spent twenty minutes grilling you.
Like he hadn’t walked back into your life after a year and immediately started acting like he knew better than everyone else.
Like he hadn’t made you feel small.
Like he hadn’t made you feel twelve years old again—awkward and defensive and desperate to prove something you shouldn’t have to prove.
Your jaw tightens.
You kick at the edge of the dock.
Hard.
Your foot connects with the wood, the impact jarring up your leg as a spray of water splashes up in response, droplets catching the sunlight before falling back into the lake.
"Jerk," you mutter under your breath.
The lake offers no argument.
By the time you finally drag yourself back inside, your irritation hasn’t faded—it’s evolved, sharpened into something more restless, more persistent.
The house greets you with a strange, hollow quiet.
The kind that feels temporary.
Your parents’ voices drift faintly from somewhere outside, muffled by distance and walls. Tyler’s laughter echoes from the garage, loud and careless, followed by the clatter of something metallic hitting concrete.
Which means—
Good.
No Leon.
You don’t hesitate.
You take the stairs two at a time, your hand barely grazing the railing as you move quickly, like if you slow down even for a second, you might lose momentum—or worse, run into him again.
Your bedroom door slams shut behind you with a satisfying thud.
Immediately, you move.
Drawers slide open with sharp, impatient motions.
If everyone is so determined to spend the day at the lake, then fine.
You’ll spend the day at the lake.
Just not with him.
You yank open your dresser.
Fabric shifts under your hands—soft cotton, worn denim—until you find what you’re looking for.
A swimsuit.
You toss it onto the bed.
Another drawer.
A cover-up.
Another.
Sunscreen.
Everything lands in a growing pile, your movements quick and forceful, fueled by something that feels suspiciously like spite.
It’s ridiculous.
You know it is.
But it’s also—
Satisfying.
You strip off your shirt, the fabric sticking slightly to your skin from the heat, and pull on a black bikini top. The elastic snaps lightly against your back as you adjust it, your fingers moving faster than necessary.
Then shorts.
Then you pause.
Frown.
Change your mind.
You tug them off again, tossing them aside before grabbing a different pair.
Then you hesitate again.
Then change again.
A frustrated sound escapes you.
Why do you care?
Why does it matter?
The answer comes immediately.
Leon.
Of course it’s Leon.
Everything today somehow circles back to him.
Everything is his fault.
At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself.
You finally settle on a swimsuit and an oversized button-up, leaving it open as you shrug it on. The fabric hangs loosely off your shoulders, light and breezy, barely brushing your skin. You gather your hair into a messy ponytail, securing it with a quick, practiced motion.
The mirror catches your reflection.
Your cheeks are flushed, whether from the heat or your lingering anger, you’re not entirely sure.
Your eyes are sharp.
Annoyed.
Still thinking about him.
Which only makes you more annoyed.
"Fantastic," you mutter.
You grab your sunglasses, your tote bag, your phone—everything you need to make a quick escape—and head for the door.
You yank it open.
And immediately collide with something solid.
You stumble backward, a startled curse slipping from your lips as your balance falters—
Strong hands catch your elbows instantly.
Firm.
Steady.
Grounding you before you can fall.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Leon.
Of course it’s Leon.
Because apparently the universe has a sense of humor, and you are the punchline.
For a moment, everything freezes.
His hands are still on your arms, warm and solid.
Your hands are pressed against his chest, fingers splayed against the fabric of his shirt.
Too close.
Way too close.
The hallway suddenly feels narrower than it should.
Warmer.
Charged with something you don’t want to name.
His gaze drops, just for a second.
Taking in the swimsuit.
The open shirt.
The sunglasses dangling loosely from your fingers.
Then his eyes lift back to yours.
Something flickers there.
Something quick and unreadable.
Gone before you can catch it.
You step back immediately, pulling away like the contact burned.
Distance.
You need distance.
Leon lets go just as quickly, his hands falling away as if he’s just as aware of it as you are. One hand tightens slightly around the strap of the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, the other gripping a smaller bag at his side.
So he’s unpacking.
Good.
Maybe he’ll unpack.
And then leave.
Forever.
"What?" he asks, his voice calm, almost too calm.
You hadn’t realized you were glaring.
"I can’t believe you’re still here."
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile.
"There it is."
"There what is?"
"Thought maybe you lost your ability to be mean."
You scoff, crossing your arms again.
"Thought maybe you lost your ability to be annoying."
A faint smile appears.
Small.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
"I was gone for a year and that’s the welcome I get?"
"You were here thirty minutes before insulting me."
His jaw shifts slightly, the smile fading into something more neutral.
"I wasn’t insulting you."
"Oh, please."
"You weren’t exactly making it easy."
You stare at him, incredulous.
The nerve.
The absolute nerve.
"You started it."
A short laugh escapes him, genuine disbelief threading through it.
"I started it?"
"Yes."
"Y/n."
The way he says your name stops you cold.
Not teasing.
Not mocking.
Not softened into some nickname.
Just Y/n.
Low.
Steady.
And somehow heavier than anything else he’s said.
Your stomach flips in a way that is deeply, deeply unhelpful.
You hate that.
You hate him.
You especially hate that he looks—unfairly—good standing there, sunlight spilling through the hallway windows behind him, catching in his hair and outlining his frame.
His hair is a little longer than you remember, falling slightly into his eyes.
His shoulders are broader.
His posture more grounded.
His expression calmer.
More controlled.
Until you really look.
Then you see it.
The faint shadows under his eyes.
The tension in his jaw.
The way his shoulders hold just a little too tight, like he’s bracing against something unseen.
Like he’s holding himself together through sheer force of will.
For a brief, fleeting moment, something soft pushes against your anger.
Concern.
Sympathy.
Something you don’t want to feel.
You shut it down immediately.
"So where are they sticking you this year?" you ask, your tone sharper than necessary.
"The guest room."
"Poor guest room."
His eyebrow lifts slightly.
You shrug.
"It’s been nice knowing it."
The smile returns.
God.
You wish he’d stop doing that.
"I’ll let it know you said goodbye."
You roll your eyes.
"Maybe it’ll survive."
"Maybe."
Silence settles between you.
Thick.
Lingering.
Neither of you moves.
Which is ridiculous.
All he has to do is walk past you.
All you have to do is leave.
Instead, you both stay exactly where you are.
Looking at each other.
The tension shifts.
Softens.
Becomes something quieter.
Something heavier.
The kind that makes your pulse suddenly loud in your ears.
Leon glances briefly toward the staircase, then back at you.
"Still hate me?"
The question catches you off guard.
Not because he asked.
But because of how he asked it.
There’s no teasing in his voice.
No edge.
Just something honest.
Curious.
Like he actually wants to know.
Your mouth opens.
Then closes again.
"Depends."
"On?"
You cross your arms, holding onto the last scraps of your irritation like a shield.
"Whether or not you plan on interrogating me again."
Something flickers across his face.
Regret.
Quick.
Real.
Gone almost as soon as it appears.
His gaze drops for a second before lifting back to yours.
"I’m not interested in interrogating you."
The words should feel simple.
Harmless.
But they land heavier than expected.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
The hallway feels smaller.
Closer.
His eyes stay on yours.
Steady.
Intent.
Like there’s something he wants to say.
Like he doesn’t know how.
Then—
"Y/N!"
Tyler’s voice explodes from downstairs, loud and abrupt, shattering the moment completely.
You both blink, the tension snapping like a stretched wire.
Reality rushes back in.
Thank God.
"Saved by the idiot," you mutter under your breath.
Leon’s quiet laugh follows you as you brush past him, the sound warm and familiar in a way that unsettles you more than anything else.
And as you head down the stairs, neither of you realizes that something has shifted.
Something subtle.
Something dangerous.
Because for the first time all morning, neither of you is angry anymore.
And that might be worse.
The staircase creaks beneath your feet as you make your way downstairs.
One hand trails along the smooth wooden banister polished by decades of summers, family gatherings, and bare feet running through the house.
Your pulse has finally started to settle.
Mostly.
Unfortunately, every few steps your brain decides to replay the hallway.
The way he said your name.
The way he looked at you.
The way he laughed.
You immediately shove the thoughts away.
Absolutely not.
Not happening.
Not today.
By the time you reach the bottom step, you've almost convinced yourself the entire interaction was meaningless.
Almost.
The familiar sounds of the lake house wrap around you again.
Your mother's laughter drifting in through the open windows.
Tyler yelling about something from outside.
The screen door opening and closing.
Life continuing exactly as it always has.
Normal.
Comfortable.
Safe.
You adjust your sunglasses on top of your head and head toward the back door.
Three months.
That's all.
Three months of Leon Kennedy under the same roof.
Three months of avoiding him.
Three months of not letting him get under your skin.
Easy.
You can do easy.
Outside, the lake sparkles beneath the afternoon sun.
Behind you, somewhere upstairs, a guest room door quietly clicks shut.
And neither of you realizes that this summer has already begun changing everything.
Your older brother's best friend. Your family's unofficial third child. The boy who spent every summer at the lake house and somehow never stopped getting under your skin.
Now he's back. After a mission in Spain which you saw pieces about on the news & in the paper.
Three months under the same roof. One lake house. One very long summer.
And some things can only go unsaid for so long.
───────────────
⚠️ WARNINGS / TAGS ⚠️
18+ / MDNI
• Older Brother's Best Friend • Slow Burn • Mutual Pining • Summer Romance • Age Gap (6 years) • Emotional Angst • Family Friends • Jealous Leon Kennedy • References to trauma • References to past relationships • Alcohol consumption • Eventual mature themes • Lots of yearning • Everyone knows except them
───────────────
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
You wake to the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires.
At first, it slips into your dream.
A distant, meaningless noise—something your mind tries to fold into whatever half-formed story you were drifting through. It becomes waves. Wind. Something harmless.
Then a car door slams.
Sharp.
Real.
The sound echoes across the lake, bouncing off the water and the trees like it always does, carrying farther than it should in the quiet morning air.
Your eyes snap open.
For a moment, you don’t move.
You just lie there, staring up at the ceiling, letting reality settle slowly back into place.
The familiar white-painted wooden beams stretch overhead, worn smooth with age, faint cracks running along the grain. Sunlight filters through the thin curtains, spilling gold across the room in soft, shifting patterns. Dust motes drift lazily in the light, suspended in the stillness.
Somewhere downstairs, you hear the soft clink of dishes.
The low hum of the coffee machine.
Cabinet doors opening and closing.
Your mother is already awake.
Of course she is.
She’s always awake before everyone else, moving quietly through the house like she’s part of it—like the lake itself, constant and steady and always there.
The Johnson family lake house has always operated like its own little universe.
Unchanging.
Predictable.
Comforting.
Coffee brewing before sunrise.
Your father sitting on the screened porch with the newspaper, glasses perched low on his nose, occasionally muttering under his breath at whatever headline has offended him that morning.
Your mother tending to her flowers, watering them even when they don’t need it, humming softly to herself.
Tyler sleeping until noon unless someone physically drags him out of bed.
The same routines.
The same people.
The same place.
Every summer.
Every holiday.
Every birthday.
Every version of you that has ever existed somehow lives here, layered into the walls and the floors and the dock stretching out into the lake.
The lake itself lies just beyond your window, hidden behind a line of trees, but you can feel it. You always can. The faint scent of water and pine drifts through the cracked window, cool and clean.
You learned everything here.
How to swim.
How to drive a boat.
How to bait a hook without flinching.
How to fall off a paddleboard with something resembling dignity.
Well.
Mostly dignity.
Your room hasn’t changed much since you were sixteen.
It still feels like a snapshot of a younger version of you, frozen in time.
Photos are taped haphazardly to the mirror—friends, family, blurry moments captured on disposable cameras and old phones. Some are curling at the edges now, faded slightly from years of sunlight.
Stacks of books crowd your nightstand, some read, some half-finished, some abandoned entirely.
The faded blue quilt your grandmother made lies tangled around your legs, soft from years of use, stitched with uneven care that somehow makes it more perfect.
The small white desk beneath the window is still there, paint chipped at the corners, covered in faint pen marks and scratches. You spent entire summers sitting there, studying while everyone else laughed outside, convincing yourself you didn’t mind.
Home.
Comfortable.
Safe.
Then another car door slams.
Your stomach drops instantly.
The sound cuts through everything—through the warmth, the familiarity, the quiet peace of the morning.
"No."
You groan, dragging an arm over your eyes like you can block it out.
"No. Absolutely not."
Because there is only one person on earth capable of ruining a perfectly good morning simply by existing.
Leon Kennedy.
The realization hits you like a brick.
He’s here.
You sit up so fast the blankets twist around your legs, nearly sending you tumbling off the bed.
Three months.
Three whole months.
An entire summer.
Your parents had mentioned it casually months ago, like it wasn’t a life-altering piece of information.
Leon would be staying at the lake house.
Again.
Like he always did.
Because somehow, over the years, your parents had unofficially adopted your brother’s best friend without ever actually discussing it.
Your father refers to him as a second son.
Your mother fusses over him like he’s been hers since birth.
Tyler treats him like a brother.
And Leon?
Leon walks through this house like he belongs here.
Like he always has.
Like he always will.
Which, frankly, is infuriating.
You shove the blankets aside and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, your feet hitting the cool wooden floor. The boards creak softly beneath your weight as you stand, running a hand through your hair.
You move toward the window, each step filled with a growing sense of dread.
The SUV parked outside confirms everything.
Black.
Sleek.
Expensive.
Obnoxiously nice.
Very Leon.
You hesitate for half a second before pulling the curtain aside.
And there he is.
Stepping out of the driver’s side.
The sight catches you off guard.
Not because it’s Leon.
Because it’s…
different.
The last time you saw him was nearly a year ago.
Back then, he’d looked tired.
Now he looks exhausted.
Even from this distance, you can see it.
The subtle hollow beneath his cheekbones.
The tension in his shoulders, like he’s carrying something invisible and heavy.
The way he pauses after closing the door—just for a second—like his body forgot what it feels like to be still.
Like he’s bracing for something that isn’t there.
Your chest tightens before you can stop it.
Then he looks up.
You duck away from the window instantly, heart jumping into your throat.
Your pulse stutters, then picks up too fast.
Your heart does something stupid.
You hate when it does that.
It’s been doing that since you were sixteen.
Back when Leon Kennedy first became the single most annoying person you’d ever met.
You met him when you were ten.
Tyler was fourteen.
Leon was sixteen.
Your brother came home one afternoon with a tall blond boy carrying fishing poles and announced—without warning—that Leon was staying for dinner.
Then he stayed for breakfast.
Then weekends.
Then holidays.
Then, apparently, forever.
Leon was everywhere.
Family vacations.
Cookouts.
Movie nights.
Boat trips.
Every important memory somehow includes him standing somewhere in the background, leaning against a wall or sitting on the dock, watching everything with that infuriating, knowing smirk.
God.
That smirk.
You hated that smirk.
Because Leon spent years treating you like his personal source of entertainment.
Pulling your ponytail when you walked past.
Stealing food right off your plate.
Calling you short.
Calling you trouble.
Calling you kid.
And when you were older always toeing that line between teasing and something else—something you refused to name.
You spent years convincing yourself he was just obnoxious.
It was easier that way.
Much easier than acknowledging the way your chest felt tight when he left.
The way the house felt quieter.
Emptier.
Not that you’d ever admit that.
To anyone.
Ever.
Especially not now.
You drag yourself away from the window and pull on a pair of jean shorts and an oversized black t-shirt, moving through the motions automatically.
The house creaks softly as you step into the hallway, the familiar sounds wrapping around you again.
The smell of coffee hits you halfway down the stairs.
Warm.
Rich.
Comforting.
Home.
Voices drift from the kitchen.
Your mother’s light and cheerful.
Your father’s deeper, steady.
And one—
One that makes your entire eye twitch.
You round the corner.
And stop.
Leon stands at the kitchen island, one hand wrapped around a coffee mug, the other resting casually against the counter.
For a moment, no one notices you.
Which gives you time to really look.
And the difference is impossible to ignore.
This isn’t the twenty-two-year-old who used to wrestle Tyler off the dock and laugh like nothing in the world could touch him.
This Leon looks older.
Not just in years.
In weight.
In presence.
Harder.
Not cold.
Just… worn.
Like life has taken something from him and never given it back.
A faint scar disappears beneath the collar of his shirt.
Another traces along his forearm, pale against tanned skin.
The muscles beneath the black cotton are broader now, heavier, built from something more than lazy summers and pickup games.
He looks like someone who has lived through things you don’t understand.
Things he’ll never talk about.
Then his head lifts.
Blue eyes find yours instantly.
Like he knew exactly where you were the entire time.
Every thought in your head disappears.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly.
Not quite a smirk.
Not quite a smile.
Something softer.
Something quieter.
Something that makes your chest feel tight in a way you don’t like.
"Morning, trouble."
There it is.
That stupid nickname.
That stupid voice.
That stupid man.
You immediately turn to your mother.
"Did he have to come?"
Your father nearly chokes on his coffee.
Your mother bursts into laughter, shaking her head.
Leon looks genuinely offended.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
Because despite everything—
Despite the year apart.
Despite how different he looks.
Despite the fact that he’s somehow become older, broader, sharper, and undeniably more attractive—
He still feels like Leon.
And that’s the problem.
Because what you don’t know—
What no one in this room knows—
Is that six weeks ago, your parents picked him up from the airport.
The terminal had been loud in that hollow, echoing way airports always are—rolling suitcases rattling over tile, overhead announcements blurring into white noise, people rushing past in every direction like they all had somewhere more important to be.
Your mother had spotted him first.
Of course she had.
She always did.
“Leon!”
Her voice cut clean through the noise, bright and warm and unmistakably hers.
He turned immediately.
Like he’d been waiting for it.
Like he’d been listening for it.
There was a split second—just a flicker—where something in his expression softened. Shoulders loosening, tension easing just enough to notice. Then it was gone again, tucked neatly back behind that familiar composure he wore like armor.
But your mother didn’t miss it.
She never missed anything.
She hurried forward, pulling him into a hug before he could even set his bag down properly.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, squeezing him tight. “You look exhausted.”
Leon let out a quiet breath against her shoulder, one hand coming up to pat her back in that slightly awkward way he always did when he didn’t quite know what to do with affection.
“I’m okay,” he said, voice low, a little rough around the edges.
Your father stepped in next, clapping a firm hand on Leon’s shoulder.
“Good to see you, son.”
Leon nodded once, offering a small, tired smile. “Good to see you too, sir.”
They didn’t linger long.
They never did.
But as they turned to leave, a voice called out from somewhere behind them.
“Hey—wait, are you—?”
Leon paused.
Just slightly.
A couple stood a few feet away, staring at him with wide, uncertain eyes. Recognition flickered across their faces, hesitant at first, then certain.
“You’re him, right?” the man said, stepping closer. “The agent—the one who saved—”
Leon’s jaw tightened.
Your mother felt it immediately.
She slipped her arm through his, grounding, steady.
“He’s just getting home,” she said gently, offering them a polite smile that didn’t invite further conversation.
The woman nodded quickly, flustered. “Right—sorry. We just—thank you. Really.”
Leon gave a small nod.
Nothing more.
No smile this time.
Just acknowledgment.
Then your parents guided him away before anything else could be said.
Out of the terminal.
Into the parking lot.
Into the car.
The doors shut.
And for a moment—
Silence.
Real silence.
The kind that feels heavier after noise.
The engine started.
The car pulled away.
And for a few minutes, no one spoke.
Leon sat in the backseat.
Hands loosely clasped together.
Staring out the window like he was trying to remember what normal looked like.
Your mother glanced at him through the rearview mirror.
Watched the way his gaze tracked passing cars without really seeing them.
Watched the way his shoulders stayed just a little too tight.
Watched the way he hadn’t quite settled yet.
She let the quiet stretch.
Gave him space.
Then, gently, she filled it.
“We stopped by the lake house last week,” she said, voice light, easy. “Got everything opened up. Tyler nearly fell off the dock trying to fix the ladder—”
“How’s Y/n?”
The words cut in before she could finish.
Soft.
But immediate.
Like they’d been waiting right at the front of his mind.
Your mother blinked.
Just for a second.
Then her expression softened.
“She’s good,” she said gently. “She’s been busy. Same as always.”
Leon nodded.
Once.
Eyes still fixed on the window.
“Good,” he murmured.
Your mother picked back up, undeterred.
“We had to replace one of the porch chairs—Mike swears it just gave out under him, but I think—”
“How’s Y/n?”
This time your father’s mouth twitched, just barely.
Your mother paused.
Then answered again, patient as ever.
“She’s okay, Leon.”
Another nod.
Another quiet “Okay.”
She tried again.
“The neighbors asked about you, actually. Mrs. Carter keeps saying she hopes you’ll—”
“How’s Y/n?”
Your mother turned in her seat this time.
Fully.
One arm draped over the backrest as she looked at him properly.
Really looked.
At the faint shadows under his eyes.
At the way his jaw tightened like he was bracing for something.
At the way he kept asking the same question like the answer might change if he heard it enough times.
“Leon, honey” she said softly.
He stilled.
Her voice had that tone.
The one that meant she understood more than he’d said out loud.
“You’ve asked me that already.”
For a split second, something like embarrassment flickered across his face.
Subtle.
Quick.
But there.
His gaze dropped, shoulders tightening just slightly.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
Your mother’s expression softened even more.
“Oh, honey,” she said gently. “It’s okay.”
She reached back, resting her hand briefly against his arm.
“She’s okay,” she repeated, softer this time. “I promise.”
He held her gaze for a second.
Then looked away.
Out the window again.
But something in his shoulders eased.
Just a fraction.
Because he’d asked so many times he’d lost count.
Because somewhere between sleepless nights and things he’ll never say out loud, thoughts of you had become tangled with thoughts of home.
Because in his mind, the two had stopped being separate things.
And he hadn’t even realized it.
Not until she pointed it out.
Not until she said it like it was the simplest thing in the world.
“You can stop worrying,” she added gently. “She’s okay.”
Leon let out a slow breath.
One he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
But his fingers still tapped once against his knee.
Just once.
Like he wasn’t entirely convinced yet.
For now, all you know is that Leon Kennedy is standing in your kitchen.
Staying for three months.
Looking at you like he’s glad you’re here.
And for reasons you absolutely refuse to examine—
That realization feels far more dangerous than it should.
The moment stretches.
Just long enough for something uncomfortable to settle beneath your skin.
Leon is still looking at you.
Not in the old way.
Not with that teasing, smug amusement he'd worn for years whenever he managed to get under your skin.
Just... looking.
Like he's trying to make sure you're real.
You immediately decide you hate that.
"Stop staring at me."
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Your mother sighs.
Your father looks entertained.
Leon's eyebrow lifts slightly.
"I've been here thirty seconds."
"And already causing problems."
"Good to know some things never change."
You open your mouth.
Before you can fire back, a crash echoes from upstairs.
Then another.
Then—
"LEON!"
The entire house shakes as Tyler comes flying down the staircase.
At twenty-five, your brother is somehow still incapable of moving through life like a normal human being.
His socks slide on the hardwood.
He catches himself on the railing.
Nearly dies.
Recovers.
Continues anyway.
"LEON!"
Tyler launches himself across the kitchen.
Your mother gasps.
Your father winces.
You brace for impact.
The collision rattles half the dishes in the cabinet.
Leon barely moves.
One arm shoots out automatically, catching Tyler before he can knock them both into the island.
A laugh escapes him.
A real one.
Deep.
Warm.
Unrestrained.
You freeze for a second.
Because you haven't heard that laugh in a long time.
Not since before he started disappearing for months at a time.
Not since before whatever happened out there turned him into the man standing in your kitchen.
Tyler slaps both hands onto his shoulders.
"Dude."
"Hey, Tyler."
"Dude."
"You said that already."
"I know but holy shit."
Your brother pulls him into a hug.
A real hug.
The kind men only give each other when they genuinely thought there was a chance they might never see one another again.
And suddenly the kitchen gets a little quieter.
The laughter fades.
Just for a second.
Because everyone remembers.
The news.
The reports.
The things nobody talks about.
The things Leon never talks about.
Your father clears his throat.
Your mother busies herself with breakfast.
Tyler lets him go and immediately starts talking.
Fast.
Questions piling on top of questions.
How was the flight?
How long are you staying?
Did you bring your fishing gear?
Are we taking the boat out today?
Can you believe Y/n still sucks at wakeboarding?
"Excuse me?"
Tyler points.
"You do."
"I don't."
"You absolutely do."
"I was eight."
"You cried."
"I was drowning."
"You were six inches from shore."
Your father starts laughing.
Your mother starts laughing.
Tyler is laughing.
You narrow your eyes.
"You're all dead to me."
Leon's grin appears.
Small.
Brief.
Gone again.
But he laughs.
And the sound does something weird to your chest.
Your mother sets a plate of pancakes onto the table.
"Everyone sit."
Immediately nobody listens.
"Now."
Everybody moves.
Including Leon.
The table has always been the heart of the lake house.
Huge.
Handmade.
Your grandfather built it decades ago.
Every scratch tells a story.
Every stain has a memory attached.
Family dinners.
Birthday cakes.
Christmas mornings.
Countless games of cards.
Thousands of conversations.
And somehow Leon is in almost all of them.
You take your usual seat.
Unfortunately.
Leon sits directly across from you.
Your mother immediately starts piling food onto everyone's plates.
Eggs.
Bacon.
Pancakes.
Fresh fruit.
Enough food to feed a small army.
"You still cook like we're preparing for winter," you say.
Your mother points a spatula at you.
"You'll eat it."
"Threatening me before coffee is abuse."
Your father snorts.
Tyler nearly chokes.
And unexpectedly—
Leon laughs.
A genuine laugh.
His head actually dips.
Like he couldn't stop it.
Your eyes flick upward.
And find him already looking at you.
Again.
There it is.
That look.
You can't quite figure it out.
It isn't amusement.
Isn't teasing.
Isn't flirting.
It's almost...
fond.
The realization makes you uncomfortable.
So naturally you decide to be annoying.
"You know," you say casually while reaching for the syrup, "I always wondered if the government taught you how to brood or if that came naturally."
Tyler immediately loses it.
Your father groans.
"Oh no."
Your mother hides a smile.
Leon's mouth twitches.
"I brood?"
"You've been staring dramatically out windows since approximately 2008."
"I have not."
"You absolutely have."
"You kept a journal about me, didn't you?"
You point your fork.
"That sounds like something a brooding person would say."
Another laugh.
This one stronger.
And that's when everyone notices something strange.
Because normally Leon would fire something right back.
Always.
For years it was practically a sport.
You'd insult him.
He'd insult you.
Tyler would referee.
Your parents would threaten to separate you.
The cycle would continue.
But this time?
Nothing.
Leon just shakes his head.
Smiling into his coffee.
Like your sarcasm isn't irritating him.
Like he's enjoying it.
Your mother notices first.
Of course she does.
Your father notices second.
Then Tyler.
The three of them exchange a glance.
Quick.
Silent.
The kind family members exchange when they've all realized the exact same thing.
You miss it completely.
Too busy glaring at Leon.
Meanwhile Leon's coffee grows cold in his hand.
Because despite Tyler talking.
Despite your father telling some story.
Despite your mother asking questions.
His attention keeps drifting.
Back to you.
The freckles scattered across your cheeks.
The messy morning hair.
The way your nose wrinkles when you're annoyed.
The way you steal bacon off Tyler's plate when he isn't looking.
Little things.
Stupid things.
Tiny things.
Things he shouldn't notice.
Things he definitely shouldn't remember.
But he does.
Every single one.
And sitting across from you at the breakfast table, watching sunlight spill through the windows and catch in your blonde hair, Leon has one overwhelming thought:
She's okay.
The same thought he'd carried through airports.
Through sleepless nights.
Through endless flights.
Through months away.
She's okay.
And for the first time in a very long time, something inside him finally feels quiet.
The comfortable quiet doesn’t last long.
It never does in your family.
Your mother is halfway through refilling coffee cups when she pauses mid-pour, eyes drifting toward the calendar hanging beside the refrigerator. The pen clipped to it taps softly against the wall as the ceiling fan turns.
“Oh,” she says, like she’s just remembered something important. “Is Emma still coming up this weekend?”
You don’t even try to hide your reaction. Your whole face lights up.
“Yeah,” you say, leaning forward a little. “She texted me last night—she’s leaving Friday morning.”
Your mother’s smile is immediate, warm and genuine.
“Good. I’ve missed her.”
“Finally,” Tyler groans, dragging a hand down his face like he’s been personally suffering. “Someone in this house who actually likes me.”
You snort. “I like you.”
He doesn’t even look at you. “No you don’t.”
You take a sip of coffee, deadpan. “That’s fair.”
Tyler points at you triumphantly. “See?”
Your father chuckles under his breath, shaking his head as he reaches for the syrup. “You two haven’t changed.”
Emma has been your best friend since freshman year of college.
Roommate.
Study partner.
Designated bad decision enabler.
The person who once held your hair back at three in the morning while you swore you’d never drink again—and then handed you a mimosa the next day anyway.
The person who knows every embarrassing story you’ve ever accumulated and continues to love you anyway.
She’s been around enough that she just fits here now.
Your mom always makes a little extra when she visits, and your dad never forgets to ask about her plans.
Tyler claims she’s the better sibling.
Honestly?
He’s not entirely wrong.
“She’s staying the whole week?” your mother asks, already mentally planning meals.
“I think so,” you say. “She said she might leave early if her internship stuff gets crazy, but… yeah. Probably the whole week.”
“Good,” your mother says firmly, like she’s decided it.
“We need backup,” Tyler adds, leaning back in his chair.
Your father nods with mock seriousness. “Against Y/n.”
The conversation drifts easily after that, like it always does.
Lake plans.
Boat days.
Tyler insisting he’s going to wake up early for sunrise fishing—your father immediately calling him out.
Bonfires.
Your mother reminding everyone about the Fourth of July barbecue.
Emma’s arrival becoming the center of it all.
You barely notice Leon listening.
Mostly because he isn’t saying much.
He sits slightly angled away from the table, one arm resting on the back of his chair, fingers loosely curled around his coffee mug. His gaze moves between speakers, quiet, observant.
Occasionally smiling.
Occasionally answering when spoken to.
The old Leon would’ve dominated the conversation—loud, teasing, impossible to ignore.
This Leon seems content to sit back and absorb it.
Then Tyler ruins everything.
Naturally.
“So.”
You don’t even look at him at first—you just narrow your eyes slowly, already bracing.
Because that tone never leads anywhere good.
“So what?” you ask.
Tyler’s grin spreads, slow and dangerous.
The same grin he wore at age eight before pushing you into the lake.
The same grin he wore at sixteen before telling your parents about the fake nose piercing.
The same grin he wore last Christmas before exposing approximately every secret you’ve ever had.
“Oh, nothing,” he says, way too casually.
Your father sighs like a man who has seen this play out too many times.
Your mother closes her eyes briefly.
Everyone recognizes the danger signs.
“Tyler,” you warn.
“What?”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
You point your fork at him. “If you finish that sentence, I will push you into the lake. I swear to God.”
He leans forward, grin widening. “Should Emma bring what’s-his-face too?”
Silence.
It drops over the table like a weight.
You freeze.
Your mother freezes.
Your father’s eyebrows shoot up, immediate interest lighting his face.
And unfortunately—
Leon looks up.
“Who’s what’s-his-face?” your mother asks, already suspicious.
Tyler gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “You don’t know about what’s-his-face?”
“Tyler,” you say through clenched teeth.
“Oh my God.”
“Tyler.”
“The guy.”
“What guy?” your father asks, now fully invested.
Tyler leans back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. “The guy Y/n was seeing. Well—‘seeing.’”
Your stomach drops.
“Tyler,” you warn.
“What?” he shrugs. “I’m just saying. The friends-with-benefits guy.”
Your fork slips from your fingers and clatters loudly against your plate.
“TYLER.”
Your father nearly chokes on his coffee, coughing into his hand.
Your mother slaps a hand over her face. “Oh my God.”
And across the table—
Leon’s expression doesn’t change.
Not even a little.
Except somehow every muscle in his body goes still.
Completely still.
Like a predator freezing in tall grass.
Your father nearly chokes on his coffee, coughing into his hand. “Friends with benefits?” he repeats, eyes wide.
“It was nothing,” you rush out, mortified. “It wasn’t—he wasn’t—”
“His name was Jake, right?” Tyler cuts in, completely unhelpful.
You glare at him. “Stop talking.”
“Jake?” your father echoes, like he’s filing it away for later interrogation.
“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “It was casual. It’s over. It’s done. Can we please drop it?”
Tyler snorts. “Yeah, super casual. You only hung out with him like every—”
“TYLER.”
Your mother points a warning finger at him. “Leave your sister alone.”
But it’s too late.
The damage is done.
Because now everyone is looking at you.
Including Leon.
Especially Leon.
And for the first time all morning, he speaks.
His voice is casual.
Too casual.
“College boyfriend?”
You immediately look away, grabbing your mug just to have something to do with your hands.
“No.”
The answer comes faster than you intend.
Tyler snorts. “Definitely wasn’t her boyfriend.”
“Tyler.”
“What?”
“Shut up.”
“I’m helping.”
“You’re actively making this worse.”
Your father is openly amused now, watching like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week.
Your mother looks like she regrets having children.
And Leon—
Leon is still watching you.
Quietly.
“What happened?” he asks.
The question shouldn’t bother you.
It’s harmless.
Normal.
Reasonable.
Yet somehow it immediately gets under your skin.
“Nothing happened,” you say, sharper than you mean to.
Leon leans back slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to notice. “Right. Because you always get defensive over nothing.”
“I’m not defensive.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
You look up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he says, voice still calm but edged now, “you’re acting like there’s something to hide.”
“There isn’t.”
“Then why won’t you just answer the question?”
“I did answer it.”
“Barely.”
Tyler lets out a low whistle. “Oh, this is getting good.”
“Tyler,” you snap.
“What? I’m invested now.”
Leon doesn’t even look at him. His attention stays locked on you. “So he wasn’t your boyfriend,” he says, slower this time. “What was he, then?”
“Why do you care?”
The words slip out before you can stop them.
Something flickers across his face—quick, sharp.
“I don’t,” he says immediately.
You raise a brow. “Could’ve fooled me.”
His jaw tightens just slightly. “Just trying to understand why you’re acting like this is classified information.”
“It’s not.”
“Then say it.”
You hesitate.
And that’s all it takes.
Leon exhales through his nose, a quiet, irritated sound. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Tyler chooses this exact moment to contribute.
Again.
“The guy was kind of a douche.”
“Tyler.”
“What?”
“He wasn’t a douche,” you snap.
“Oh, now we’re defending him?”
You drag a hand down your face, fingers pressing into your temples like you can physically push the conversation away. “I am literally begging everyone to stop talking.”
“How long did you see him?” Leon asks.
The question cuts through everything else.
Not loud.
Not demanding.
Just… there.
And somehow that makes it worse.
You glance up before you can stop yourself.
He’s not looking at you.
Not directly.
His attention is on his coffee, thumb dragging slowly along the rim of the mug like he’s got all the time in the world. Like this is casual. Like he didn’t just steer the entire conversation back to you.
“Few months,” you say, trying to sound unaffected.
“Serious?”
“No.”
“Then why’d you stop seeing him?”
There’s no hesitation. No softening.
Just question after question, steady and precise.
Something tightens in your chest.
You don’t know why it bothers you so much.
Maybe because you’ve spent the last ten minutes being picked apart at the table.
Maybe because Leon has been home for less than an hour and already managed to get under your skin.
Or maybe it’s the way he’s asking—like he’s assessing something. Like he’s already decided something about you and is just waiting for you to confirm it.
“Because I wanted to,” you say, sharper now.
His gaze finally lifts.
Blue eyes locking onto yours.
Steady.
Unblinking.
Like he’s weighing your answer.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
A beat.
Then—
“Okay.”
You hate it.
You hate how flat it sounds.
How dismissive.
Like he doesn’t believe you for a second.
Like he’s humoring you.
Like you’re a kid giving a half-baked excuse and he’s letting it slide because it’s not worth correcting.
Your jaw tightens.
“You know what? Maybe I just got bored.”
Something flickers across his face.
Quick.
Gone before you can name it.
“Maybe,” he says.
But there’s something in it now.
Something edged.
You set your coffee down harder than you mean to, ceramic cracking against the table with a dull, sharp thud.
“You seem weirdly invested.”
The table goes quiet.
Tyler immediately leans forward, eyes lighting up like he just got front row seats to a fight.
Your mother exhales under her breath. “I need stronger coffee.”
Leon leans back in his chair, slow and deliberate, one arm crossing over his chest. His posture shifts—more closed off, more controlled.
“Just making conversation.”
“Bullshit.”
Your father pinches the bridge of his nose.
Your mother stares at the ceiling like she’s counting to ten.
Leon watches you for a second.
Really watches you.
And then something in his expression changes.
It’s subtle.
But colder.
Sharper.
“You’ve known him what?” he says, voice still even.
“A semester?”
You blink at him. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“No.” You sit back, crossing your arms, mirroring him without realizing it. “What does that mean?”
His jaw ticks.
A small movement.
But you catch it.
“Means,” he says slowly, like he’s choosing each word on purpose, “you don’t actually know someone after a couple months.”
Your stomach twists.
“That’s not—”
“And it means,” he cuts in, not raising his voice but somehow still talking over you, “you probably missed a few things.”
There it is.
That tone.
Measured.
Controlled.
And just condescending enough to make your skin prickle.
You stare at him. “You don’t know anything about it.”
“No?” His brow lifts slightly. “Then enlighten me.”
The challenge lands hard.
You open your mouth—
Close it again.
Because suddenly you don’t want to explain anything to him.
Don’t want to justify yourself.
Don’t want to feel like you’re being evaluated.
“Or,” Leon adds, tilting his head just slightly, “you could just admit you didn’t see it coming. That you were naive enough to think calling it ‘friends with benefits’ would make it hurt less.”
Like it’s that simple. Like all of this—everything you’re feeling, everything that went wrong—can be boiled down to you just being blindsided. Like you were careless. Naive.
Like you should’ve known better.
Your chest tightens.
“That’s not what happened.”
“Sure.”
It’s the way he says it.
Short.
Flat.
Like he’s already decided you’re wrong.
Like he’s humoring you again.
Like you’re—
God.
You feel twelve.
Sitting at this same table, trying to argue with him while he looks at you like you’re missing something obvious.
“You don’t get to do that,” you snap.
“Do what?”
“Talk to me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m—” You cut yourself off, frustrated. “Like I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
His gaze doesn’t waver.
“If you did,” he says, voice dropping just enough to feel heavier, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Sharp.
Clean.
Borderline mean.
And suddenly you’re furious.
“Oh.”
You let out a short, sharp laugh.
“Right.”
Leon goes still.
“Right what?”
“You should definitely be the expert on relationships.”
Your mother’s eyes widen instantly.
Dangerously.
“Y/n—”
But you’re already committed.
“You know, maybe you should just date Ashley Graham.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Your father stops moving entirely.
Tyler’s mouth drops open.
Your mother whispers, horrified, “Oh no.”
“What? We all saw the photos and articles about you saving her when you came back” you snap
And for the first time since Leon walked into the house—
You hurt him.
You see it happen.
A flash.
Quick.
Almost invisible.
But there.
Pain.
Real pain.
Gone so fast you almost think you imagined it.
The entire table freezes.
Because whatever you just touched—
It wasn’t a joke.
It wasn’t harmless.
And Leon’s expression closes immediately.
Like a door slamming shut.
His voice is quiet when he speaks.
Which somehow makes it worse.
“Don’t.”
Every hair on your arms stands up.
“What?”
“Don’t talk about things you know nothing about.”
The words aren’t loud.
They’re not cruel.
But they land like a slap.
Standing on the outside of a life you’ll never understand.
A kid.
Just a kid.
And he knows it.
The realization burns.
Heat rushes into your face.
You push your chair back so hard it scrapes across the floor, the sound sharp and jarring.
“Fine.”
Nobody stops you.
Nobody knows how.
You stand, hands shaking just slightly at your sides.
Heart pounding.
Humiliation and anger tangling together in your chest.
“Enjoy breakfast.”
Then you turn and storm out of the kitchen.
The screen door slams behind you, rattling in its frame.
The sound echoes across the lake.
And inside the kitchen, silence settles over the table.
Leon stares down at his untouched coffee, fingers tightening around the mug.
The knot in his chest pulling tighter.
Because he knows he shouldn’t have said it.
And worse—
He knows exactly why he did.
Because hearing another man’s name attached to you had felt like being punched.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Leon Kennedy has always been part of your life.
Your older brother's best friend. Your family's unofficial third child. The boy who spent every summer at the lake house and somehow never stopped getting under your skin.
Now he's back. After a mission in Spain which you saw pieces about on the news & in the paper.
Three months under the same roof.
One lake house.
One very long summer.
And some things can only go unsaid for so long.
───────────────
⚠️ WARNINGS / TAGS ⚠️
18+ / MDNI
• Older Brother's Best Friend
• Slow Burn
• Mutual Pining
• Summer Romance
• Age Gap (6 years)
• Emotional Angst
• Family Friends
• Jealous Leon Kennedy
• References to trauma
• References to past relationships
• Alcohol consumption
• Eventual mature themes
• Lots of yearning
• Everyone knows except them
sooooo I saw this on Pinterest at like an unreasonable hour of the night and then proceeded to write the most devastating Leon Kennedy one-shot ❤️🩹 😭
“You came?”
“You called.”
Eight years of being partners.
Eight years of surviving impossible missions together.
Then, for the first time, the DSO sends you out without him.
It should have been an easy retrieval mission.
In and out.
A few hours and home before dinner.
Instead, everything goes wrong.
And somewhere between blood loss, bad decisions, and one phone call, Leon Kennedy learns exactly how far he’ll go when the person he trusts most is the one trapped on the other end of the line.
Protective Leon.
Older agent Leon.
Eight years of partnership.
A rescue that absolutely spirals into emotional damage.
Question is…
Should I post it tomorrow or make everyone suffer until Sunday? 👀
Homecoming Chapter 14: Twenty Minutes updated ao3 link
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Word Count:12.2k words
Rating:Explicit / Mature — 18+ only
Summary:
You wake sore, aching, and still caught in the strange softness Leon left behind.
He stayed where he promised he would.
He made you tea.
He kept his distance.
He almost made restraint look like change.
Almost.
But the house is too quiet now. Too clean. Too careful. And when Ryan, Jill, Chris, and Claire arrive through the snow, everything begins to shift beneath your feet.
No one raises their voice.
No one says the dangerous thing out loud.
No one makes a move too quickly.
Because whatever is happening inside this house, everyone seems to understand one thing at once:
You are not as okay as you look.
And leaving may not be as simple as opening the door.
Content Warnings / Triggers:
Dark Leon Kennedy, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, coercive control, stalking, surveillance, emotional abuse, gaslighting, psychological manipulation, unsafe safe house, captivity-adjacent themes, forced proximity, snowed-in setting, drugging/sedation aftermath, suspected lingering drug effects, altered mental state, impaired memory, confusion, delayed processing, sluggish pupil response, medical examination, injury examination, foot injury, blood mention, wrist restraint marks, bruising, bruising from sexual encounter, implied sexual coercion, ambiguous/impaired consent aftermath, body betrayal, trauma responses, panic, dissociation, trauma bonding, fear of separation from abuser, dependency, protective Ryan, protective Jill, rescue under tense circumstances, emotional breakdown, references to prior explicit sexual content, references to abuse, psychological horror, dead dove adjacent themes.
MDNI / 18+ Only:
This chapter contains dark relationship dynamics, coercive control, drugging/sedation aftermath, impaired consent themes, trauma responses, medical examination after a coercive/sexual encounter, abuse manipulation, and psychological horror. This is not a healthy romance. Please read the warnings carefully and prioritize your own comfort.
I was able to get a better looking link for this chapter so I’m posting again!😬😂🖤 and a song that was on repeat for writing this which kinda gets across this this hazy feeling 😏
Not me getting emotionally attached to another Leon Kennedy story…
Anyway.
I’ve decided to post Chapter One of the new post-RE4 series today. 🖤 the title?…… Unspoken Devotion ✨🌊
This story won the poll by a pretty decent margin, and the more I worked on it, the more I realized I was completely obsessed with it.
So instead of keeping it hidden in my drafts folder any longer, I’m sharing the first chapter with all of you.
And because we’re getting incredibly close to 200 followers (which still feels unreal), I’ve decided that’ll be the point where I start posting the rest of the story.
Thank you for all the love you’ve shown Homecoming and all of my other little Leon-induced spirals lately. I appreciate every single one of you more than I can put into words.
— 🖤
Here is the summary:
Unspoken Devotion
Every summer feels the same at the family lake house—sunrise over the water, bonfires on the shore, old memories tucked into every corner of the house.
Then Leon Kennedy comes home.
He’s been your older brother’s best friend for as long as you can remember. A permanent fixture in your life. A source of endless irritation. The boy who never really left, no matter how many times he drove away.
But this summer feels different.
Maybe it’s the years that have passed.
Maybe it’s the way he looks at you now.
Or maybe it’s because some things can only stay unsaid for so long.
Set against long lake days, late-night dock conversations, and a summer neither of you will forget 🖤🌊✨
