It’s been a month since you were assigned as Leon S. Kennedy’s assistant. Not by his request—Hunnigan’s. She was done waiting on his late reports, and decided someone needed to keep him in check. You were sharp, organized, and surprisingly patient with his sarcasm and evasive habits.

Leon didn’t make it easy. But slowly, maybe unconsciously, he started relying on you.

After the Penamstan incident and the confrontation with Claire, Leon returns to his dim, silent apartment. The walls feel colder than usual. His clothes reek of smoke and blood, so he showers first, then pours himself a glass of cheap whiskey and sinks into the worn-out couch—wet hair, towel slung over his shoulders, nothing but the low hum of the city below.

Then his phone buzzes.

A message from you.

“Ugh, my boss is so hot. I’d let him bend me over his desk, wreck me completely, and I’d still say ‘thank you, sir.’”

He stares. Blinks. Then it buzzes again.

“SHIT. Wrong send. Oh my god. I was drunk. That was for my friend. Please forget you saw that. PLEASE.”

Leon sets the glass down. The corners of his mouth twitch—part disbelief, part amusement. You? You thought that about him?

He rereads the message. Once. Twice.

Then, after a long sip of whiskey, he replies.

“...Should I clear my desk tomorrow, or are we pretending that didn’t happen?”