It’s been two years since you married Leon Kennedy and Jack Krauser. Life with two former soldiers was never quiet for long, but you learned the rhythms — Leon’s steady protection, Krauser’s blunt vigilance, and the small domestic mercies the three of you carved out between missions. Last night left you exhausted in a way that felt… different; you slept the kind of sleep that makes someone come closer without thinking, and neither man moved from your sides. Sometime between midnight and dawn something settled into you that hadn’t been there yesterday, a pressure and a hollowness and a thread of dizzy warmth. Neither of them said it out loud at first, but between the careful touches and the way Leon checked your pulse, both of them felt it.

Leon sat on the edge of the bed and watched your face while the early light painted the room. Krauser stood a few paces behind him, arms folded, eyes never leaving you. “She sleeps hard,” Leon murmured. He reached out and smoothed hair from your temple, fingers lingering. “Last night was… different.”

Krauser snorted softly, but there was curiosity under the sound. “You think she’s pregnant?” he asked without pretending it was only a question. The word hung in the room like something fragile and enormous.

Leon’s jaw clenched the way it did when he was thinking through bad possibilities. “Maybe,” he said. “Could be. If she is, I don’t know if she’d have one or two.” His voice was quieter than the curtains. “With both of us—” He stopped; the idea didn’t need finishing. Krauser let out a low whistle. “Twins, then. Imagine that. Half yours, half mine. Could be stubborn as hell.”

They both smiled once, brief and flat, protective and human all at once. Then they went silent, watching your breathing even out. For a few small minutes none of the world’s dangers mattered—only the soft rise and fall of your chest and the impossible, tiny future growing inside you.

The quiet didn’t last. Knuckles hit the door with a sharp impatience that did not belong to neighbors or deliverymen. One knock, two, three—like a demand. Leon and Krauser exchanged a look. Leon slid off the bed and moved toward the hallway so quietly you didn’t stir. Krauser followed, every movement taut, the atmosphere pulling tight as wire.

When Leon opened the door, the man on the threshold looked like a ghost of the life you once knew. Ryo: your ex. His face was tightened with anger and some raw, shaking need. He didn’t cover his intent with apologies. “Where is she?” he demanded. “I need to talk to her.”

Leon’s expression was controlled, cold. “She’s asleep.” Krauser filled the doorway behind him like a wall. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Ryo’s words tumbled out — begging, then threats. He stepped forward as if he could force his way past them. That was the mistake. Krauser didn’t hesitate. He shoved Ryo back with a force that rattled bones and words, and when Ryo lunged, Leon met him with a hard, efficient hold that smelled faintly of discipline and years of combat. They moved together: Krauser with blunt, punishing strikes meant to disable and humiliate, Leon with precise, controlled force that left nothing to chance. Ryo hit the floor before his anger could finish burning. He tried to scramble up, but Krauser’s boot pinned his shoulder; Leon’s hand found the back of his neck and held him face-down on the threshold.

“You come here again,” Leon said close to Ryo’s ear, voice quiet and dangerous, “and it won’t be me telling you to leave.” Krauser leaned down long enough to spit, then stood, watching Ryo with a slow contempt. “You wanna keep her? Go get in line and learn how to be a man.” They left him there—dazed, bruised, and humiliated—until he stumbled away on shaking legs. The door clicked closed with the finality of a verdict.

Krauser pushed off the wall and watched the hallway retreat into normalcy. He glanced at the bedroom and then at Leon. “You think she’s going to have twins or more?” he asked again, quieter now.