Hi!! I just wanted to take a second to tell you how truly incredible your writing is. Your story has pulled me in so completely, and I find myself feeling every emotion you so beautifully put on the page. There is something so vivid and immersive about the way you write — it makes everything feel real, raw, and unforgettable.
Your work has honestly inspired me to be braver about sharing some of my own writing, and I really wanted you to know that. It’s such a special thing to create something that moves people, and you do that so effortlessly.
Thank you for sharing your talent and your stories. You are genuinely incredible, and I’m sending you so much appreciation, support, and all the good vibes. 🖤
Thank you so much!! 🥹🥹 it’s such a huge compliment that this story could inspire you to share your own writing! I spend a lot of time and effort working on this story and trying to tell it the way I’d like, so it feels good to hear that it’s as immersive as I aim for!!
I appreciate the good vibes 💕🐇 writing has been tough lately so the kind words mean a lot to me 🥺
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.
If anyone is curious haha I've officially decided what I'm doing when we hit 200 followers. 🖤
As a thank you for all of the support, comments, reblogs, messages, and general enabling of my Leon Kennedy obsession, I'll be releasing something special. The only question is... which one?
🌊 Post-RE4 Brother's Best Friend Leon
Every summer, Leon Kennedy comes to the lake house.
He's your older brother's best friend. The guy who steals your snacks, rolls his eyes at your attitude, and somehow always manages to get under your skin. The dynamic has always been the same.
Until Spain.
When Leon comes back from the mission that changed everything, he's different. Quieter. Harder. Older somehow. The teasing is gone, replaced by long stares and moments of silence that leave your heart pounding for reasons you don't understand.
Because while Leon was fighting his way through hell, there was one thing he kept thinking about.
Coming home.
And you.
This one is more deep aching yearning and angst.
❄️ The Safe House
You were supposed to die with the rest of your team.
Instead, you wake up injured and alone in a snowed-in safe house with three people who should be your enemies.
Chris Redfield doesn't trust you.
Claire Redfield thinks you're a victim.
And Leon Kennedy refuses to let you out of his sight.
You know you should hate him.
You know you should be planning an escape.
So why does his voice calm you down?
Why do you sleep better when he's in the room?
And why does the thought of leaving him start to feel far more frightening than staying?
A dark psychological horror centered around captivity, dependency, isolation, manipulation, and the slow, terrifying blur between survival and affection.
👁️ Two More Parts of Under His Watch
Because apparently some of you looked at Leon's collection of red flags and said, "yes, that's the one."😏
If this wins, I'll drop two additional parts of Under His Watch and continue everyone's favorite terrifyingly possessive DSO agent.
🏡 Undercover
You thought a long-term undercover assignment would be the perfect escape from your life.
Then you arrived at the safe house and found Leon Kennedy already living there.
The target is a retired Umbrella scientist.
The cover is a suburban marriage.
The problem is that neither of you can stand each other.
At least, that's what you keep telling yourselves.
A forced proximity, enemies-to-lovers story featuring a fake marriage, suburban espionage, emotional baggage, nosy neighbors, and a mission that lasts just long enough for everything to become complicated.
🖤 A Brand New One-Shot
Something completely new.
A new dynamic.
A new obsession.
So tell me...
Which one are you choosing? 👀
What new drop do you want
Post re4 Leon yearning and angst✉️
Safe house Stockholm syndrome themes💊
More under his watch🔐
Force proximity undercover enemies to something🔥
brand new one shot ♥️
Voting ended onJun 24
And thank you, genuinely, for all of the support lately. Watching this little corner of the internet grow has been absolutely surreal, and I appreciate every single one of you more than you know.🥺♥️
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
