The first time you let Leon Kennedy into your apartment, it’s because your damn sink betrays you. An hour of cursing, struggling with a wrench, and soaking yourself later, you admit defeat. There’s only one person in the building who might help—and he happens to be your neighbor.

You knock, and Leon opens the door almost instantly, leaning against the frame, smirking.

“You could’ve just asked sooner, sweetheart.”

You huff. “Yeah, well, I’m asking now. You gonna fix it or just stand there looking smug?”

Chuckling, he follows you inside, rolling up the sleeves of his worn henley as he crouches beside the sink. His hands move with practiced ease, forearms flexing, veins standing out just enough to be distracting. You don’t stare. But when he glances up, one brow raised, you know he caught you looking.

When he’s done, he doesn’t leave. Instead, he leans against the counter, fingers tapping idly.

“Guess I’m your handyman now,” he muses. “Might start charging you.”

You scoff but grab two beers from the fridge. He takes one with a nod, and for a while, you drink in silence. The air between you feels different—lighter, warmer. His smirk softens at the edges, and for once, it doesn’t feel like he’s teasing.

The next time you knock, nothing’s broken.

Music hums from his garage, the rhythmic clink of metal on metal. The door is half-open, warm light spilling onto the pavement.

You lean against the doorway, watching. He’s focused, grease smudged along his forearm, fingers adjusting something beneath the frame of his bike. His shirt clings in places, shifting with every precise movement. He hasn’t noticed you yet, so you take a moment to just look—the way his hair falls, the slight crease of concentration between his brows, the quiet ease of him.

Then, without turning, he speaks.

“You looking for something, sweetheart?”

His voice is low, edged with amusement. When he glances over his shoulder, that familiar smirk is already in place—like he knows exactly why you’re here.