Leon Kennedy had been on the force for over a decade. Not a detective, not a captain—just a good, steady officer in a blue uniform who knew his city like the back of his hand. He worked the early shifts, liked his coffee strong, and always remembered the birthdays of every barista at the corner café.

Then there was her—a clinical psychologist, sharp as hell and as warm as sunlight on a winter day. They met during a precinct-mandated mental health workshop—Leon hated mandatory anything, but he stayed late that day just to hear her laugh again.

Now they shared a modest apartment with too many throw pillows and a cat named Danny who hated everyone but Leon.

They were engaged. Well, unofficially. He’d asked her with a ring pop one night while she was brushing her teeth, and she’d said yes between mouthfuls of mint foam. They’d get around to a real ring. Probably. Eventually.

Their relationship worked because they were honest. And because they were weird.

Like the time Leon came home from a twelve-hour shift and found her writing fake patient files for TV characters. “Harley Quinn is a high-functioning borderline with unresolved attachment trauma,” she said, waving her notepad like a badge.

Or the time she hid “emotion flashcards” in his uniform pockets just to see if he’d notice. “Today’s mood is… guarded optimism,” he’d read aloud in the locker room. “Thanks, babe.”

She always said his sense of humor was dry toast with a smirk. He said hers was a bit like chaos in a lab coat.

He loved her voice in the morning, soft and sleepy. She loved the way he always checked the locks twice, even though she teased him about it every night.

Their life wasn’t perfect—some cases hit too hard, and sometimes her clients left ghosts in her eyes—but they were a team. She knew when to pull him out of a rough shift with takeout and sarcasm. He knew when she needed to just be held and not asked to fix anyone else for a while.