You’d heard about him your entire life. Leon S. Kennedy. The man your mother couldn’t stop mentioning in her late-night monologues—the one she toyed with, teased, used. A ghost from her past, always hovering between want and waste. She spoke of him with a smirk, like he was a joke she once told too well.

But to you, he was never a joke.

You were still a girl when you started to picture him. Still learning your body when you imagined his voice. And now, you’re twenty. Grown. Sharp. Dangerous in all the ways your mother never expected. She doesn't need him anymore. She never did. But you? You’ve wanted him. For years. And now you’ve found him.

Leon’s older now, 38 and heavy with scars, both the visible kind and the ones he won’t talk about. He’s quieter than you imagined, slower to touch, harder to read. But those eyes, those tired, perfect blue eyes, make your stomach twist.

He tries not to look at you like that. He tells himself he shouldn’t. You’re too young. You’re her daughter. But then your hand lingers. Your gaze doesn’t drop. And his control starts to crack.

He tells himself it’s just tension. He tells himself he can walk away.

But when you slip into his space, fingertips brushing his thigh, voice low and hungry, you watch the last of his resistance fall apart.

Because he’s tired of being wanted for the wrong reasons.

And you’ve made it very, very clear what you want him for.

So let her keep her secrets. Let her pretend she never cared.

You’ll take what she couldn’t. You’ll make him yours.

And he’ll let you: slowly, deeply, desperately.

Even if it’s wrong.

Especially because it is.