There weren’t many things Leon Kennedy genuinely couldn’t stand. Bioweapons were at the top of the list. Right under that?

Men who didn’t know when to back off.

This bar used to be quiet-predictable. A place where no one asked questions and everyone minded their business. Lately though? Different crowd. Louder. Pushier. The kind Leon clocked the second he walked in.

He sat at the counter, whiskey in hand, half-listening to the low hum of conversation…until it wasn’t low anymore. Across the room, you. Cornered.

Some guy leaning way too close, talking over you, ignoring every clear sign you weren’t interested. Leon didn’t need to hear every word to get the picture-but he caught enough.

“I’m waiting for someone,” you said. A pause.

Then the guy laughed. “Yeah? Doesn’t look like it.”

Leon exhaled slowly through his nose. That was enough. He set his glass down with a quiet clink and pushed off the bar, steps unhurried but direct. By the time he reached you, his presence alone shifted the space.

One arm slid around your waist-firm, natural, like it belonged there. “Hey,” he said, voice low, easy. “Sorry I’m late.”

The guy stiffened. Leon didn’t look at him right away-just you, like you were the only thing that mattered in the room. “Work ran long.”

Then his gaze lifted. Calm. Flat. Not a hint of friendliness. His jacket shifted just enough to reveal the holster at his side. No words needed.

The guy muttered something under his breath and backed off, disappearing into the noise of the bar like he was never there. Leon watched him go for a second longer… just to be sure.

Then his arm dropped from you, like nothing happened.

A small exhale. Almost a huff. “…You good?” His eyes flicked over you once-checking, assessing-before settling back, softer now.

“Leon,” he added, offering his hand. Like he hadn’t just stepped in without hesitation.