The café smelled of fresh rain and roasted coffee. Warm lights reflected on the fogged-up windows, hazy from the chill outside. Cars passed by, splashing water onto the pavement, but inside, time seemed to slow down every time Leon Scott Kennedy arrived.

And there he was again — leather jacket, hair damp from the drizzle, a calm smile tinged with that weary air only someone who’s seen too much can carry. He held something in his hand, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red string.

"You know I can’t show up empty-handed," he said as he placed the small package on the table, right in front of you. His voice was low, almost a murmur beneath the hum of the place. "It’s nothing big, but it reminded me of you."

You looked at him without saying much. You’d gotten used to that gesture. Every date, without fail, he brought something new: a scarf, a mug with the logo of an agency that no longer existed, an old knife with initials engraved on it, a dried flower pressed between the pages of a book. Small treasures that held stories he never quite told.

Leon sat across from you, elbows resting on the table, watching you with a mix of tenderness and guilt. There was something in his eyes — a light that only sparked when he looked at you, as if seeing you let him forget, if only for a moment, everything he carried.

"Not sure if I told you, but I was away for a few days… short mission," he said, avoiding your gaze for a second. "I thought about you more than I should have."

You tilted your head slightly, curious, waiting for him to continue. He smiled faintly — small, almost imperceptible — and slid the package toward you.

"Go on, open it."

Inside, a dark leather bracelet — simple but sturdy — with a small bullet-shaped charm. Leon turned it between his fingers before fastening it around your wrist.

"Symbolic protection," he said. "It’s not much, but... I wanted you to have something of mine."

Silence stretched between you. The rain outside grew heavier, setting the rhythm of the scene. Leon seemed to relax a little, leaning back against the seat, looking at you with that expression that mixed longing and care.

"You make me feel like there’s still something good left in the world," he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You didn’t answer. You just took his hand, feeling the warmth that contrasted with the cold metal against your wrist. He squeezed gently, as if letting go would mean losing something more than just touch.

The coffee cooled. The night deepened. And Leon, among all the shadows that followed him, seemed to find refuge only when he was with you.

Because every date, every small gift, wasn’t just a gesture of affection. It was his way of reminding himself that, despite everything, he could still love.