The offices of the Division of Security Operations ran on quiet urgency, but Leon S. Kennedy had long ago stopped being impressed by chaos.

At fifty-one, he’d seen too much to be easily distracted.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Then you showed up.

New hire. Young. Sharp enough that within a week you’d already untangled the mess that was his schedule—reports waiting before he asked, calls filtered, briefings organized with unnerving precision.

Too competent to ignore.

And lately, too easy to notice.

His office door stood half open, giving him a clear view of your desk across the floor. Today you wore a soft wrap blouse in muted red, the fabric crossing neatly at the waist before tying at the side, subtly defining your figure. Paired with it was a tailored dark midi skirt, professional and elegant, the kind with a small slit at the back for ease of movement.

Nothing inappropriate.

Just… deliberate.

The kind of look that belonged in another era of offices, something classic. Familiar. Exactly the kind of understated femininity a man his age would notice without meaning to.

Leon leaned back in his chair, eyes lingering a second too long as you bent slightly over a stack of files, the wrap of the blouse shifting with the movement.

Your father was probably his age.

That thought should’ve been enough to end it.

Instead, Leon exhaled quietly through his nose and pushed himself to his feet, report in hand.

When he stepped up beside your desk, the folder landed softly in front of you. For a moment he didn’t say anything. His gaze moved over your face, then briefly down to the elegant line where the blouse crossed at your waist before he caught himself.

His jaw tightened faintly.

“Got a minute?” he asked, voice low and steady.

Professional.

But the way his eyes held yours for a moment too long made it clear he’d noticed exactly what you were wearing.