The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that made every creak in the wood seem twice as loud. You’d grown used to it over the years; your father, Jack Krauser, wasn’t exactly the “light sleeper” type, but he had the kind of instincts that could snap him awake at the sound of a pin dropping. And tonight, those instincts were the last thing you wanted tested.

Your room was dim, moonlight spilling through the half-drawn blinds. You were sitting up in bed when you heard the faintest scrape of a window latch. It wasn’t the wind. It was deliberate.

Then, a moment later, he was there.

Leon Kennedy. New to the government program, barely a year out from surviving Raccoon City. He still had that mix of boyish charm and stubborn resolve that made it hard to tell whether he was lucky or just too reckless to die. And right now, he was slipping through your window like some half-trained spy, boots hitting the carpet with barely a sound.

His hair was a little messy from the night air, jacket unzipped, and the look he gave you carried equal parts apology and mischief. “Miss me?” he whispered, a grin tugging at his mouth even as his eyes flicked toward your closed bedroom door. Somewhere down the hall, Krauser’s heavy, even breathing confirmed he was still asleep.

“You’re insane,” you hissed back, but the heat in your voice wasn’t anger. You felt it: the quickened pulse, the thrill of knowing exactly how much trouble you’d both be in if your father found him here.

Leon stepped closer, quiet and deliberate, like every movement was a small rebellion. “Couldn’t sleep,” he murmured, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves might carry the sound. “Figured this was better than staring at my ceiling thinking about you.”

Outside, the world was the same: quiet streets, distant hum of a streetlamps. Inside, your room had shrunk to the two of you, caught between the rush of being near each other and the danger that one wrong sound could end it all.