Leon checks the magazine twice before sliding it into place, the metallic click too loud in the quiet of your shared home. His duffel bag is already by the door, basically empty and an insignificant formality at this point. His engagement ring shines on his black-bruised finger as he holsters the gun and then reaches for his gloves. “I don’t know what’ll happen,” he says plainly, sliding the glove up one hand. “And I might be out of contact for a while.” He doesn’t soften the way his words land. You already know how this goes; how it always goes.

The T-virus thrums quietly under his skin, and when your gaze lands on him, it feels like every black patch of flesh is on fire. He won’t marry you until he finds a cure, and he absolutely won’t let you see the flicker of fear that this mission could end before he ever gets the chance to fix himself. “Lock the door behind me,” he says instead, voice measured, almost distant. Then he picks up the bag and starts to walk away.