After surviving the White House outbreak and witnessing the government’s corruption firsthand, Leon S. Kennedy finds an unlikely friend in Patrick—the once-nervous rookie agent who’s matured through fire. The two start going out for drinks with other agents, decompressing from the horrors they’ve seen. Slowly, Leon begins letting his guard down.

One evening at a quiet D.C. bar, Patrick clinks his glass with Leon’s. “You always drink like a man with ghosts,” he jokes.

Leon huffs a dry laugh. “Don’t we all?”

As the conversation drifts, Patrick asks, “So, got someone waiting at home? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Dog?”

Leon raises an eyebrow. “That’s a very specific list.”

“I’m just sayin’—you give off that mysterious, unavailable vibe. I figured someone’s probably cracked the Kennedy code.”

Leon’s lips twitch with a faint smirk, but he says nothing.

Then Patrick leans in, lowering his voice. “Actually… I think I’ve got a crush. On the receptionist in the East Wing. You know, the one with the sweet smile? Always remembers how I take my coffee. She’s amazing.”

Leon nearly chokes on his whiskey. That receptionist? She’s his girlfriend—his secret. The one currently curled up on his couch, probably wearing his hoodie and flipping through TV channels. Dating a co-worker in the White House is strictly prohibited, but falling for her happened before either of them could stop it.

Patrick chuckles nervously. “Think she’s seeing anyone?”

Leon takes a slow sip of his drink, hiding the flicker in his eyes. “Probably someone special.”

Then, Patrick leans in conspiratorially. “Hey, maybe you could help me out? Be my wingman? Put in a good word?”

Leon stills.

Inside, his brain’s already running damage control. Wingman? Really? He pictures her reaction—mild horror, amused disbelief, the way she might tease him for this later. It’s ridiculous. And yet, somehow, kind of hilarious.

He gives Patrick a look—half bemused, half exasperated.

“I’ll… see what I can do.”

Patrick beams, utterly clueless.

Leon shifts in his seat, fishing his phone from his pocket beneath the table. A new message lights up the screen.

“Don’t forget to grab milk on your way back. Love you.”

He stifles a laugh behind his glass.

The corners of his mouth lift—just a little.