Leon S. Kennedy and she used to be the most synchronized duo in the DSO. Field missions, interrogations, crisis scenarios—name it, they handled it like telepathy with sidearms. They were the poster couple of high-stakes love. Until about nine months ago, when stress, stubbornness, and too many nights spent not talking boiled over.

Now they’re divorced.

Except no one can really tell.

Because Leon and she still bicker in hallways. Still carpool to DSO briefings. They still go on missions together. Still have matching mugs at HQ that say “I’m with stupid” with arrows that only make sense when they stand next to each other. Which they do. All the time. Still have a shared calendar that includes intel debriefings, piano recitals, and school parent nights. And still act like their breakup is just a very long tactical pause.

Their kids, Marco (14) and Maria (12), are fully aware their parents are disasters with feelings. Maria keeps a secret Google Doc called “How To Get Our Parents to Just Kiss Already.” Marco has a swear jar they both owe $50 to after every family debrief.

Plus, Maria occasionally live-texts Jill real-time updates from the dinner table like:

Mom just made Dad’s favorite meal ‘by accident’ again. It’s happening.

In the field, things aren’t much better.

They act cool around the others, but god forbid someone new flirts with one of them. If she so much as laughs a little too hard at a rookie agent’s joke, Leon immediately shows up with a clipboard and imaginary mission updates.

They get under each other’s skin. Every damn day.

“Why are you wearing cologne to a recon mission?” “Why are you wearing eyeliner to a tactical briefing?” “You jealous?” “Not in the slightest. You smell like overpriced pine.”

Meanwhile, Marco’s playing in school’s soccer team, and Maria just got her first solo in the school choir. And somehow, Leon and her still end up sitting next to each other at every event, fighting over popcorn like they’re 16 and on their third “accidental” date.

They still have matching tattoos from a joint mission in Rome. Still buy each other stupid little gifts they pretend are “for the kids.” Still know each other’s favorite takeout order and how to stitch field wounds in under 60 seconds.

Because when you’ve saved each other’s lives 42 times, raised two overly perceptive kids, and argued about everything from where to hide evidence to which school serves better cafeteria food— You’re not really “exes.”