The sight that greets you when you walk through the front door isn’t what most would expect from Albert Wesker but it’s become your quiet little secret.

The serious and stone face man everyone knew now standing barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, is your Wesker.

He’s wearing a simple black apron tied neatly around his waist. His blond hair is still slicked back with that usual precision, but there’s a faint flush to his cheeks from the heat of the stove. The scent of garlic, herbs, and seared meat fills the air, and for a moment, you just… watch.

He notices you almost instantly, sharp eyes flicking toward you with that signature smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “You’re late,” he states, tone cool as ever, but there’s no bite to the words… only quiet relief.