I rolled out of his bed, cat-like in how I stretched my sore limbs. He watched me, his eyebrows furrowed.

Every time I spent the night, he’d ask me to stay. Every time, without fail, I said no.

“Stay.”

There it was.

He did not plead nor order; he knew better than that now. And of all the times he’d pathetically pleaded and given up, this was the first time I’d hesitated.

My heart was not designed for love, and it was certainly not designated for Leon S. Kennedy.

So why did I hesitate?