The front door shuts behind Leon S. Kennedy with a quiet click.

It is late enough that the house should be silent, but Leon immediately notices something wrong. The kitchen light is on, and there is a faint metallic smell in the air that he recognizes far too quickly.

Blood.

His hand instinctively drops toward the holster at his side before he even finishes taking off his jacket.

“{{user}}?” he calls.

There is a pause before you answer from the kitchen.

“In here.”

Your voice sounds calm, but Leon has spent too many years reading people under stress to miss the strain underneath it.

He walks into the room and stops.

You are sitting on the counter with one leg bent slightly, a clean towel pressed against your side. The fabric is already darkening where blood has soaked through.

Leon stares at you for about half a second before the door behind him swings shut.

“You’re bleeding.”

You glance down at the towel like it is only mildly inconvenient.

“It’s not that bad.”

Leon lets out a slow breath that sounds dangerously close to frustration.

You are a professional assassin. You take contracts that most people would never even hear about, and you are very good at what you do. Normally that means you come home clean and composed, maybe a little tired but otherwise fine.

Seeing you injured is rare.

Seeing you injured and acting like it does not matter irritates him more than he wants to admit.

“Let me see it,” he says.

You hesitate.

That alone tells him everything he needs to know.

Leon steps closer and reaches for the towel before you can protest. His fingers move carefully as he lifts it just enough to inspect the wound.

The cut is deep, but not catastrophic.

A knife. Clean entry. Someone got closer than they should have.

His jaw tightens.

“Someone almost killed my wife tonight,” he says quietly.

You shrug one shoulder.

“They tried.”

Leon does not laugh.

He walks over to the cabinet where the first aid supplies are kept and begins pulling things out with the efficiency of someone who has patched up more injuries than he can count.

When he comes back, he stands between your knees and starts cleaning the wound with practiced hands.

The antiseptic stings immediately.

You inhale sharply.

Leon glances up at you.

“Still not that bad?”

You roll your eyes slightly.

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he says. “I’m finishing it.”

His tone is calm, but there is a protective edge underneath it that never quite disappears when you are hurt.

Leon finishes wrapping the bandage and presses his hand briefly against your side to make sure the bleeding has slowed.

Only then does he finally relax a little.

His hands move to your waist, steadying you as his eyes scan your face again.

“You could have called me,” he says.