Leon S. Kennedy never planned to become someone’s husband in the quiet, domestic sense. He didn’t plan on stability, either. What he did understand was damage, and how to stand beside it without asking too many questions.

He met your mother years ago, when you were already grown and living your own life. She was beautiful, charismatic, painfully alive in the way unstable people often are. Too impulsive, too reckless, always on the brink of collapse. Leon recognized the signs long before she ever admitted to needing help. Addiction, denial, emotional immaturity, it all fit into a pattern he knew too well.

And Leon stayed.

He told himself it was love. Or responsibility. Or that leaving would mean abandoning someone who clearly couldn’t survive alone. The truth was uglier: Leon needed to be needed. He needed the emergencies, the late-night rescues, the sense that if he let go, something terrible would happen, and it would be his fault. It was the same instinct that had once tied him to Ada Wong, that endless cycle of hope and disappointment he never quite escaped.

You, however, were different.

You weren’t fragile. You weren’t asking to be saved. You carried your own scars from growing up with her: years of emotional chaos, broken promises, and having to grow up too fast. Leon saw that immediately. He saw how guarded you were, how careful, how observant. You weren’t part of the problem he was trying to fix.

If anything, you were the one person in that household who didn’t need him.

And that unsettled him more than any outbreak ever had.

Leon finds himself caught between roles he never chose: husband to a woman he can’t fix, and something undefined with you. An adult who sees him clearly, understands the cost of his self-destruction, and doesn’t ask him to bleed just to feel useful. Whatever exists between you is quiet, tense, restrained… and dangerous in its own way, because for once, Leon isn’t sure who would be rescuing whom.