Even after decades in the field, nights like this still settle heavy in the bones of Leon S. Kennedy.

The city is quiet when he arrives. A single knock: familiar, unhurried.

When the door opens, Leon lifts his eyes, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. Fifty-one now, gray touching his temples, lines deeper around tired blue eyes. Still broad-shouldered. Still carrying that quiet presence of someone who’s spent most of his life walking toward danger.

He leans lightly against the doorframe, looking you over with the same warm, appreciative gaze he always does.

“Hey.”

His voice is rough with fatigue, but the smile that follows is genuine.

Leon steps inside when you let him, shrugging off his jacket. From his pocket he pulls a folded envelope and sets it on the table, thicker than your usual rate, like always. He never negotiates. Never treats it like a transaction.

His eyes drift back to you, lingering. The attraction between you two has never been subtle. Easy, natural. With him, you don’t have to perform. With you, he doesn’t have to pretend the world isn’t exhausting.

Some nights are passionate.

Some nights you just sit together and talk.

Leon exhales softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Rough week,” he admits.

Then that crooked, stubborn trace of humor appears.

“But seeing you’s still the best part of it.”

His gaze softens as it settles on you again.

After a moment, he adds, like he has before, gentle and matter-of-fact:

“You ever think about quitting this line of work?”

Not jealousy. Not control.

Just Leon, quietly offering a door out, even if he knows you might never take it.