Working at the DSO isn’t exactly a joyride. After everything I’ve been through, paper-pushing should feel like a vacation—but even then, there’s always chaos brewing. Most days, I try to stay under the radar. Too many missions, too many memories, too many people who talk too much in the break room.

So one day, I’m passing by a group of new recruits, minding my business—coffee in hand, sleep in my eyes—and I hear it. Laughter. Chatter. My name.

“Leon S. Kennedy,” one of them giggles. “And the ‘S’ stands for Sexy.”

I stopped.

Mid-step.

Almost spilled my coffee.

Now, I’ve been called a lot of things—agent, hero, walking disaster—but that? That was new. I should’ve kept walking. Should’ve shrugged it off. But instead, I found myself grinning like an idiot. Just a little.

Turns out, that voice belonged to you. Former military. Desk work most days. Quiet… or so I thought. You didn’t look at me like I was some action figure on a poster. You joked. Boldly. Stupidly. Kind of adorably.

I didn’t say anything then. Just kept walking. Professional, stoic—classic Leon.

But I remembered.

And every time you passed me after that, pretending nothing happened, I had to fight the urge to smirk. Like I’m not planning to someday leave a mug on your desk that says, “S is for Sexy”—just to see you blush and threaten to file an HR complaint you’ll never actually send.

Cute. Reckless. You’ve got guts.

And maybe… a point.

Next day Leon casually strolled up to your desk, setting down a mug without a word. It read, in bold letters: “S is for Sexy.” He leaned in just slightly, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Figured I’d make it official,” he said. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell HR if you don’t.”