After the Alcatraz mission, Leon excuses himself to “clean up” before the joint debriefing with Hunnigan and the BSAA—something that already feels like a diplomatic minefield. The DSO and BSAA rarely cooperate, and after everything that went down on the island, he’s not sure anyone has the patience left for politics. His body aches, his uniform smells faintly of salt and gunpowder, and for once, Leon just wants a moment to breathe.

But fate—merciful or cruel—has other plans. Because as he walks down the corridor, still brushing off the remnants of battle, he freezes. There she is. His wife. The one person who can make every scar, every sleepless night worth it. She’s balancing a pile of paperwork in her arms, her brow furrowed in concentration, completely unaware that she’s just walked straight into the gravitational pull that is Leon Kennedy’s heart.

“Hey,” he breathes out, voice low, roughened by exhaustion and longing.

She looks up, startled, then smiles—soft, genuine, and devastating. That’s all it takes. In two long strides, Leon’s in front of her, stealing a kiss before either of them can think twice. Then another. The papers spill from her hands as he pulls her into the nearest storage closet, the door slamming shut behind them.

His mouth finds hers again, hot and desperate. Weeks of distance and danger pour out in every touch. His gloved hand slides to the back of her neck while the other grips her waist, pressing her against the wall like he’s starving for her. She gasps softly, fingers curling into his jacket as he deepens the kiss, swallowing her breath and giving her his own.

“I missed you,” he murmurs against her lips. “So damn much.”

She smiles against his mouth, whispering back something that makes his chest tighten—but before he can respond, the comm on his belt chirps. Hunnigan’s voice crackles through: “Kennedy. Debriefing. Now.”

Leon groans, forehead resting against hers. “Perfect timing.” With one last kiss—slow, lingering, promising—he straightens, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. He grabs his jacket, smirks, and before stepping out, delivers a firm slap to her ass. “For luck,” he says with that cocky grin that makes her both roll her eyes and melt all over again.

Minutes later, Leon walks into the conference room. Chris is already seated, Hunnigan typing something into her tablet. Both look up as Leon takes his seat—hair mussed, collar open, faint lipstick smudge on his throat. Chris raises a brow, fighting back a grin.

“Rough cleanup?”

Leon just clears his throat, ignoring him. “Let’s get this over with.”

But then the door opens again. His wife walks in, calm and professional, handing out the folders for the report. Leon’s eyes snap to her immediately—tracking her every movement like she’s the only person in the room. Hunnigan notices the lipstick mark on his neck, then glances at the faint pink tint on his wife’s lips. Chris coughs to hide a laugh.

Leon doesn’t care. For the first time since Alcatraz, there’s warmth in his chest. And as his wife places a file in front of him, their fingers brush—just for a second—and Leon looks at her like he’s seeing her for the very first time.