Wesker is a formidable man, and he lives accordingly.
His life is measured in objectives. Milestone after milestone, deadline after deadline, each day is reduced to data, results, and progress. He thrives within that structure. The research conducted in his laboratories is more than work; it borders on devotion. Every study, test, and every carefully recorded observation brings him closer to perfection.
His personal life is no less disciplined.
A man who lives alone must learn to regard himself as an experiment. Habits are evaluated. Weaknesses are corrected ā no, eliminated. Time is allocated with purpose. There is no pleasure in idle social engagements or unnecessary outings and is therefore, useless. His hours outside the laboratory are spent maintaining himself: from his fitness to his hygiene. The body, like the mind, is a tool. It should be sharpened accordingly.
The arrangement suits him. Or rather, it did. Then you arrived.
You stepped into his carefully ordered life and disturbed its rhythm with an alarming ease. His schedules remain intact. His work remains flawless. Yet somehow, his thoughts wander where they never wandered before.
The newest intern in his division. Brilliant enough to border on prodigious, with an optimism he finds vaguely irritating. Under his supervision, your work quickly began approaching a standard he would expect from senior researchers. He would never admit his approval, but he definitely noticed.
But the curious thing, what unsettled him, was not your intelligence. It was your presence.
Everyone around him is cautious. Reserved. Their words are measured before they are spoken, as though one mistake might be all it takes to be sent away.
But youāreā¦not? You speak freely. You laugh with the other interns. You ask questions without hesitation. You seem entirely unconcerned by the invisible barriers everyone else erects around him. He would watch you through the glass of the labs, thoroughly enjoying your work and being around your colleagues. More puzzling still, you stay late.
Long after your shifts have ended and the building has emptied, he often finds you working nearby. No talking or interrupting. A silent companion. He cannot explain why he finds the presence comforting. The realisation irritates him.
Wesker exhales sharply and returns to the glow of his laptop screen. An unfinished spreadsheet stares back at him. His jaw tightens. How had he allowed himself to become distracted? More importantly, how had he become distracted by you?
Before the thought can progress any further, he forwards the document to a subordinate.
The spreadsheet is to be completed and submitted to me by Tuesday.
This is a priority. Ensure it is finished on time.
Several weeks ago, unfinished work would have occupied his attention for the remainder of the evening. Hell, he would lose sleep over it. Instead, he finds himself reaching for his coat. By the time he questions the decision, he is already standing outside your assigned laboratory. The door slides open with a mechanical hiss.
You are bent over a workstation when he enters, a faint crease between your brows as you study the figures on the screen. He approaches silently behind you. You do not notice him until he is standing beside you. "These numbers don't look right, sir."
Wesker leans over your shoulder, close enough for you to feel the cool presence of him at your back. "Let me see."
A shiver runs down your spine. You step aside to give him room, only to find yourself immediately aware of the absence he leaves behind. His gaze scans the data.
One gloved finger taps the screen. "You've duplicated a variable." Heat rises to your cheeks.
"I'm sorry, sir. I havenāt slept. I must've missed it." His expression remains unreadable behind the dark lenses.
"You can't afford mistakes like that." The words are blunt, but not cruel. "Silly errors are the product of fatigue." His head tilts slightly.
"I've been here all day, sir." The admission draws his attention immediately, making him perk up. "Why?"
"Why have you been here all day?"
His eyes flick briefly to the watch on his wrist. 11:47 PM. You straighten instinctively. "There were discrepancies in yesterday's data. I wanted to resolve them before morning." Wesker folds his arms across his chest. "Overworking compromises accuracy." The reprimand is calm. You donāt feel that nervous, at least. "That kind of carelessness has no place in this laboratory."
You lower your gaze. "I'm sorry, sir."
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then you feel his hand beneath your chin. Cold fingers guide your face upward. Your breath catches. Behind the dark lenses, his attention moves across your features with unsettling focus, as though committing each detail to memory. His hand shifts to your jaw. Not possessive. Itās moreā¦evaluative. Studious, even.
Yet somehow infinitely worse.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asks quietly. Something in his voice you canāt quite put a finger on. You should be scared. Most people are. But why arenāt you? But the answer never leaves your lips. Wesker leans closer. For the first time since you've known him, he hesitates. Only briefly. There is no ceremony when the distance disappears.
The kiss is neither rushed nor tentative. It arrives with the same certainty he brings to every decision he makes. His hand settles at the back of your neck, drawing you nearer. Your lungs fill with his scent. Black pepper. Bergamot. The dry, restrained elegance of vetiver. It is a scent as controlled as the man himself. And yet, beneath it, something warmer lingers.
Something infinitely more dangerous.
When you finally pull away for air, your pulse is racing. He doesnāt even appear winded. Your wild eyes search for some answer, some meaning in this, on his face. There is nothing. At least, nothing obvious. The expression he wears is as controlled as ever, save for the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. So fleeting you must have imagined it.
Without thinking, you step forward and wrap your arms around his neck. For the first time that evening, Wesker genuinely looks caught off-guard. The reaction is brief, but it persists. His hands hover uncertainly at his sides. As though he has spent years preparing for every conceivable outcome - except for this one. Cautiously, you feel him settle them at your waist. The gesture is awkward only because it is unfamiliar.
You press your cheek against his collarbone, no intention of pulling away. To your surprise, neither does he. The laboratory falls silent around you, only a mechanical hum that remains. Nothing pulls his attention away from you. Reports and spreadsheets be damned.
Just you. A luxury he would normally consider a waste of time. And yet, he remains perfectly still. Moments pass, and you feel the subtle shift of his posture. His chin comes to rest atop your head. A small movement. Unthinking, maybe. But why did it feel more intimate than the kiss?
Wesker exhales quietly through his nose. āYou are becoming a distraction,ā he murmurs. The words sound like criticism, but you know the way his arms tighten around your waist says otherwise.
When you finally pull away, Wesker canāt believe it. He looks down at you, your innocent eyes searching his face, and the sight tugs at his heart. What the hell is this feeling? He has spent his entire life mastering himself. Every thought examined, every weakness identified and eradicated. His emotions are most useful when controlled and discarded when they are not. Yet, you standing here in his arms, he finds a feeling he cannot categorise. A warm feeling. Protective, maybe? Dangerously soft. His jaw tightens. You should absolutely not have this effect on him. And yet, every time he looks at you, the rigid order of his world comes apart.
His gaze lingers on you longer than it should. The concern etched on your features, into your furrowed eyebrows. Is that trust in your eyes? You seem entirely unaware of the hold you have over him. A hold he never granted, nor should he want to. And still, his hand remains on your waist. No effort is made to step away.
And for the first time in years, Albert Wesker finds himself facing a problem he cannot solve. And he hates how much he doesnāt mind.
