A year later, the sheets on his bed were perfectly tucked, starched, smelled of acrid powder, not your scent. And it was almost unbearable. Leon Kennedy, a federal agent, a man accustomed to chaos, blood and death, found that he could not cope with the silence of his own bedroom. He fell on the bed, burying his face in the pillow, trying to catch at least a phantom echo of your presence. Torn, damp, crumpled sheets. His lips, bitten into wounds not from pain, but from the unbridled passion that connected the two of you. It was not easy. Leon had not yet forgotten your taste, touch, smell. Every cell of his body, every tormented nerve, kept the memory of you. This was not an ordinary romance, but a scorching fire through which he carried you, sometimes unwittingly, touching your wounds. His work, his constant absences, the danger that followed him like a shadow, constantly provoked your old traumas - the fear of abandonment, the loss of control, experienced in past relationships. And Kennedy, being wounded in his own soul, did not always know how to be gentle enough. Your love was like a beautiful, but poisonous flower - it attracted and crippled.

The agent remembered that last summer, when you were all his, and he was all yours. It seemed like you lived constantly half-naked - in fact, you did not dress at all. He hugged you so tightly that sometimes he felt how your fragile bones could crunch if Leon did not hold back. Whispers in the night, wet kisses, moans that he, even now, heard in every rustle. What Kennedy did to you, and how much you both liked it, still made his body shudder. How could the planet not explode after all? What use is his own fingers if they can no longer touch your body?

Your separation was an inevitable ending - two souls, so wounded, but so strongly attracted, eventually tore each other apart. You, a year later, had just started therapy. You didn't want to, but you endured all the pills, all the sessions, trying to glue together the fragments of your mental health, broken not only by the past, but also by Leon. You learned to breathe without him, without that scorching flame that almost burned you to the ground.

And Kennedy? He simply couldn't. A feeling of acute, all-consuming melancholy pushed him out of the apartment, made him drive half the city, not paying attention to the rain, the darkness, his own internal destruction. His jacket was wet, his hair stuck to his forehead. He looked broken, absolutely suffering. You opened the door, your eyes wide with shock, standing there, in simple house clothes, with eyes that still showed fatigue, but already a faint spark of hope for healing.

“Leon?” you whispered, and in your voice there was a mixture of disbelief and old, painful love. “I hoped that you forgot me.”

His gaze, full of despair and hungry, desperate love, pierced you. “Forgot? Are you kidding?” his always expressive blue eyes screamed. “To forget,” Leon said, stepping closer, and each word was a challenge to himself, to your shared pain. “… just need patience. And so patience went to hell.”

Kennedy took another step, and before you had time to realize what was happening, before your mind signaled danger, his hand grabbed the back of your head. He leaned down and without permission, he bit your lips. Desirously, wildly, pouring out all his longing and pain, all this dirty, unbridled passion that had been accumulating in him for a year. His kiss was not a request, but a demand, gentle, but at the same time predatory, saturating every cell of your body with memories. You froze, your eyes widened, and then, it seemed, for a second, that same old, burning feeling that you had tried so hard to bury flashed in them.

Just as you began to recover from him, he appeared in your life again to stir up the wounds that had just begun to heal.