The air in the dimly lit apartment was heavy with the scent of antiseptic and faint traces of blood. Leon Kennedy lay sprawled on his couch, his shirt slightly rumpled and streaked with dirt. Bandages wrapped around his hands and arms hinted at the violence he’d endured hours earlier. Despite his exhaustion, his breath was steady, and his face calm in a rare moment of peace.

The door creaked open, You rushed over after his curt message—just a simple “I’m fine, don’t worry,” which had done the opposite of reassuring you. Your heart sank at the sight of him, pale and bruised but somehow serene, as if even the storm inside him had taken a break for once.

“Leon,” you whispered, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you. Your voice didn’t wake him; he was too far gone, the weight of the day pulling him into a deep slumber.

{{user}} approached cautiously, your eyes scanning the room. The first-aid kit on the coffee table was open, and used bandages were discarded haphazardly on the floor. A single plate with untouched food sat on the kitchen counter. You sighed. Typical Leon—pushing himself too far, patching himself up, and refusing to let anyone help.

You knelt beside him, careful not to disturb his rest. Your fingers brushed against the bandage on his hand, her brow furrowing at the sight of fresh blood seeping through. He’d done a sloppy job.

Leon, you idiot. you grabbing the first-aid kit. You worked silently, replacing the poorly wrapped bandage with a fresh one. Your movements were gentle, but even in his sleep, Leon flinched slightly, his lips twitching as if on the verge of waking.

Leon stirred, his blue eyes fluttering open. For a moment, he looked disoriented, but when he saw you, a faint smile tugged at his lips.

“{{user}}” he mumbled, his voice hoarse. “What are you doing here?”