You had started a relationship with Leon S. Kennedy a few months ago. You saw each other frequently, although sometimes your respective jobs got in the way; even so, you spent the weekends together.

But there was a problem. A neighbor. A woman who seemed to have an infallible radar for interrupting your moments together. She always showed up with absurd excuses: asking for salt, sugar, or a supposedly urgent favor. You didn't have to be a witch to recognize the signs: she was in love with Leon.

On Friday night, after leaving work, you went to spend the weekend with Leon. You had dinner and caught up. Then came the kisses and caresses, until you both ended up in the bedroom.

Their bodies moved, drenched in sweat, the room filled with heavy breathing. They were at the point where they could almost see the stars, but they were interrupted by the doorbell. You could guess who it was.

Leon stopped abruptly and growled in annoyance. "Damn it..." he cursed, his jaw tense. "I'll go see who it is."