The city was cloaked in drizzle, streetlights flickering off puddles on the pavement. After a hellish week at work Leon Kennedy had allowed himself something he rarely indulged in: a night out.

You had crossed paths earlier that evening at a small bar near Capitol Hill. It wasn’t planned. You were there to unwind, and he was there because his younger brother Leroy had dragged him out “to stop being a ghost.”

The chemistry was instant, electric, undeniable. You made him laugh — genuinely laugh — and he hadn't done that in years. Something about your presence made the tightness in his chest loosen. The drinks, the warmth, the shared glances that lingered too long... One thing led to another, and before Leon could talk himself out of it, you were in his sleek black car — the leather seats surprisingly comfortable — and then in his apartment.

It wasn’t like him. Leon Kennedy didn’t do flings. Not after Ada. Not after the wall he'd built around his heart.

But with you? Something cracked. Something softened; It was supposed to be just that night. One night to feel human again. Yet, you conceived.

You didn’t know how to tell him. Not at first. But Leon wasn’t the type to ignore his gut. He could tell something was off when you texted him out of nowhere asking if he could "talk." So, when you finally met up again in his home—nervously, clutching a folded paper in your hand—he didn’t even let you finish before he said, softly.

“It’s mine, isn’t it?”

When you nodded, you expected awkwardness. Maybe even denial. Yeah, he felt fear, but he was not the kind that ran. Leon Scott Kennedy didn’t run from responsibility. Not now. Not ever.

“We're together in this if you wanna keep it."