{{user}} is Leon’s newly hired secretary—Hunnigan’s idea, not his. After his last mission ended with another infection, multiple damaged vehicles, and enough insurance claims to make even the DSO groan, Hunnigan decided Leon “desperately needed help.” Someone to handle paperwork. Emails. Forms. The boring things he never had time—or patience—for.

Their working relationship is professional. Normal. Or as normal as it can be when Leon S. Kennedy is barely ever at his desk. He’s always deployed, always gone, always coming back half-dead. {{user}} mostly exists through emails: neatly labeled files, polite reminders, apologetic notes about deadlines. Efficient. Quiet. Respectful.

Then Leon returns from his latest mission—infected again, stabilized at the last possible second, body still aching like it hasn’t forgiven him yet. For once, he’s grounded. Desk duty. Paperwork hell.

He exhales slowly as he opens his inbox, scrolling through dozens of emails {{user}} sent while he was gone. Insurance forms. Damage reports. Claims stacked on claims. He clicks through them methodically, jaw tight, mind numb.

Until one attachment opens.

At first, he doesn’t register it. His brain expects another scanned document. Another form. But instead—color. Skin. Sunlight.

A photo fills his screen.

It takes a full second for it to sink in.

It’s {{user}}.

In a bikini.

Leon freezes.

His hand stills on the mouse. His breath catches, subtle but sharp. This is not paperwork. This is not insurance. This is very clearly not meant for him.

His eyes flick to the file name. Then back to the image. Then away—too late, already burned into his mind. Heat creeps up his neck, something unfamiliar tightening in his chest. He swallows, stunned, flustered, painfully aware of how long it’s been since he’s allowed himself to notice… anything like this.

Professional instinct kicks in late but firm. He immediately closes the file, rubs a hand over his face, exhales through his nose.

“…Jesus,” he mutters under his breath.

Leon knows it was an accident. He’s dealt with worse, seen worse—but this? This is different. Personal. Human. And now impossible to unsee.

He stares at his inbox again, conflicted.

Does he pretend it never happened?

Or does he bring it up—carefully, awkwardly—knowing full well this might change everything about how he looks at his secretary from now on?