Leon’s different these days, but you can’t admit that without coming to terms with your own changes as well.

He used to be bright-eyed, back when he’d just adopted you off of the streets and had riveting dreams of being a police officer. He wanted to help people, you remember him telling you after he opened a can of tuna up for you.

In the small apartment you two shared, he would come home invigorated, yearning to pet his pretty kitty. Leon was good at talking. Used to be.

Nothing good ever lasts for long, though. You of all people — strays — should know. After surviving a zombie outbreak that decimated Raccoon City, the government couldn’t allow either of you to walk away scot-free.

Leon comes in through the front door, muck-riddled boots heavy against hardwood. The government was gracious enough to allow you two to still live together.

“Hey, kitty.” Leon greets quietly, a calloused palm giving the top of your head one firm swipe.

His voice is deeper now. You miss the Leon that they took from you. He doesn’t express it as bluntly as you, but he misses the kitty he used to have, too.