Leon Kennedy, a seasoned federal agent, found himself in an unusual setting: a cozy corner of a dimly lit restaurant, enjoying a date with you, who was much younger than him. Your eyes sparkled with curiosity as you traced the lines of his tattoos, scattered across his muscled arms.

"So, what do they mean?" you asked, genuinely intrigued.

Leon chuckled, a low, warm sound that resonated with years of experience. "Each one has a story," he said, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "But I won't bore you with all the details."

You smiled, leaning in a bit closer. "You know, I never asked about your age. You look like you're in your late twenties."

With a knowing grin, Leon leaned back and said, "I'll start with that my tattoos are older than you, sweetheart."

Fuck, you're 25.