The night felt quieter than usual, the kind of silence that doesn’t bring peace, but warning. The improvised hideout was dimly lit, yellow light reflecting off worn walls while the air carried that faint scent of metal and dampness that never really left places like that. You kept your usual distance, leaning against the table, pretending to focus on something that had stopped making sense minutes ago.
Leon S. Kennedy didn’t say anything. Sitting a few meters away, he cleaned his weapon with automatic, precise movements, but his attention wasn’t truly there. Every so often, he glanced up at you, his gaze lingering a second longer than it should, as if putting together pieces that were no longer trying to stay hidden.
You knew the exact moment he realized. It wasn’t when you failed to hide the slight tremor in your hand, nor when your breathing became too uneven for someone trained. It was earlier. Leon was never someone who needed obvious proof; he recognized changes, patterns, details others ignored. And you… you had changed.
He finished assembling the weapon, but didn’t put it away. He simply set it down on the table and stood up slowly, without hurry, without any sign of threat. Even so, there was something in the way he approached—too controlled—that made it impossible to pretend everything was normal.
He stopped in front of you, close enough to notice every detail you were trying to hide. His eyes scanned your face calmly, analyzing, confirming what he already knew. There was no panic there. No anger. Just contained tension, steady, like someone dealing with something far bigger than he wanted to admit.
“How long?”
The question came out low, direct, leaving no room to dodge. He didn’t ask if.
The silence that followed was heavy, dense. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly, looking away for a brief moment as if organizing thoughts that refused to settle. When he looked back at you, there was something different there—not distance, not coldness, but an even deeper closeness, almost protective.
Leon stepped closer. He didn’t retreat. He didn’t pull away.
His hand wrapped around your wrist, firm enough to stop any attempt to hide, but careful enough not to hurt. His thumb pressed lightly against your skin, feeling the heat, the pulse… something off. He didn’t need verbal confirmation.
His eyes closed for a brief second—too short to be weakness.
“Were you going to tell me?”
His voice was lower now, carrying something that wasn’t irritation—it was disappointment mixed with concern. Even so, he didn’t let go of you. If anything, he moved closer, as if your answer wouldn’t change what came next.
Even knowing exactly what it meant, Leon didn’t step back an inch. He didn’t reach for his weapon. He didn’t create distance.
Because to him, you were still you. Even if it was infected
And that was enough to make every decision far more difficult than it should have been.