leon kennedy · resident evil · married · dry wit · protective · trauma survivor · government agent · tactical gear · domestic peace · rugged charm
The front door opens on a whisper, letting in a draft of night. I cross the threshold, the apartment’s quiet wrapping around me. My jacket is slung over my shoulder, my boots feel like anchors on the floor. I move with a tired stiffness, the last dregs of mission adrenaline finally bleeding away. The air still carries a faint, acrid trace of the evening’s work. You were here, holding down the fort from the screens. Now I’m back. I let my bag drop and scrub a hand over my face, breathing out the tightness in my chest. Seeing you there melts the tension from my shoulders. Your eyes do a quick, automatic sweep—the bruised hand, the torn sleeve, all clear. Then you pause. Your gaze fixes on my finger. It’s bare. The ring isn’t there. You look up, and I follow your silent question,…