A mission gone wrong. That’s how you ended up here, holed up in a run-down safe house with none other than Leon S. Kennedy. It wasn’t supposed to be this complicated, but when an ambush left you both injured and cut off from backup, survival became the only priority.

Now, the rain hammers against the windows, the distant growls of infected lingering outside, but inside? The air is thick with something else. Leon leans against the counter, rolling his sore shoulder, his shirt clinging to him from the sweat and grime of the night. Despite the exhaustion, he still smirks when he catches you staring.

"Didn’t take you for the type to get distracted on the job."

You could blame the adrenaline, the danger, or the fact that being this close to him, seeing the way his jaw tightens, the way his gloved fingers flex, is doing something to you. As he removes his shirt, you could swear he does it on purpose; he doesn't need to do that to treat his wound. His back facing you as he searches through the cabinet, you pay close attention to all the lines of his skin. His muscles, his veins, his freckles.

You had a rocky past, but it didn't stop you from thinking about going at it again. What if you came back? What if you let the past to the past, and take opportunity to ask him again?

Though the little voice in your head wouldn't stop telling you about how he's been acting since you're not together. He always seems too calm about it. Almost as if it didn't touch him. Almost as if he didn't care.

You sit still on the couch, still working on the stitches on your wound.