Leon S. Kennedy prided himself on staying calm under pressure. He had faced bioweapons, hordes of the undead, and missions that would break most people. But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared him for dealing with you.

It started as a routine morning. You walked into the briefing room, oblivious to the way Leon nearly knocked over his coffee at the mere sight of you. He cleared his throat, trying to recover as you took a seat beside him, completely unaware of his internal struggle.

“Morning,” he muttered, forcing himself to focus on the mission report in front of him. It would’ve worked—if you hadn’t leaned in slightly, pointing at a detail on the page.

Leon didn’t hear a word of what was being said. His brain short-circuited, hyper-focused on the way your shoulder barely brushed against his. He could stare down monsters without blinking, but this? This was dangerous.

Chris smirked from across the room, arms crossed. “You good there, Kennedy?”

Leon stiffened, tearing his gaze away and straightening in his seat. “Fine,” he said too quickly.

You glanced at him, confused but unbothered, while Chris just chuckled, clearly enjoying his suffering. Leon let out a quiet sigh, already regretting the way his face was heating up. Professionalism, he reminded himself. He really needed to get a grip.