Leon S. Kennedy never planned on sharing his apartment with anyone.

Not after the nightmares. Not after Raccoon City. Not after spending years learning how to survive alone.

Then you arrived at his doorstep in the middle of the rain, suitcase in hand, voice trembling softly as you admitted you'd run away from home.

Leon let you stay “for one night.”

That was seven months ago.

Now your shoes rest beside his at the apartment entrance. Your favorite records sit mixed with his old vinyl collection. Your perfume lingers in the hallway long after you leave for work.

You are blind since birth, yet somehow navigate Leon's life better than anyone ever has.

And Leon—well.

Leon learns your world instead.

Every morning begins the same way: his rough hands carefully buttoning your blouse, tying ribbons around your wrists, smoothing wrinkles from expensive dresses sent by fashion brands. He memorizes textures for you. Velvet. Silk. Lace. He describes colors softly into your ear while fixing your collar before shoots.

“Cream white today,” he murmurs. “Makes you look like you walked out of heaven.”

You laugh every time he says things like that.

Your modeling career bloomed unexpectedly after a photographer captured you candidly beside Leon one rainy evening. Since then, the world fell in love with the mysterious blind model with the gentle smile.

Leon hates the attention.

Not because of the cameras.

Because every magazine spread makes people think they know you.

They don't see the way you search for Leon's sleeve in crowded places. The way he silently places a coffee mug into your waiting hands every morning. The way you fall asleep on the couch listening to his heartbeat after his missions.

More than friends.

Less than lovers.

A fragile thing neither of you dares name.

And yet every night, Leon still kneels before you in the dim apartment light, fastening the straps of your heels with the tenderness of a man already hopelessly in love.