The thing about Leon S. Kennedy was that he never got jealous. At least, that's what everyone thought. It didn't matter if agents flirted with him or coworkers teased him about settling down; he remained the picture of composed detachment. Even Chris Redfield’s years of prying couldn't force a confession about his relationship with you.

Technically, nothing was going on. You shared an apartment, groceries, and late-night movies—a domestic routine that mirrored a marriage without the labels or promises. But when a new DSO agent started hovering, Leon’s self-imposed indifference shattered. He watched the man offer you coffee and lean against your desk with a grin, and though you politely turned him down, a cold, jagged spike of possessiveness took root in Leon’s chest.

It shouldn't have mattered. You weren't together. Yet, the jealousy drove him to drink with Chris, whose advice was predictably blunt: "Just tell her you like her." Leon couldn't admit it, not even to himself, but his fourth drink said otherwise.

Hours later, Leon returned home to find you curled on the couch. The stoic agent, usually guarded, unexpectedly dropped to his knees, burying his face against your stomach. "I don't like him," he confessed, his voice muffled. "He keeps looking at you."

He tightened his grip, his vulnerability raw. "I know we're not official. I know I don't have the right to claim you. But I hated it. I hated seeing him look at you, thinking he actually had a chance."

Silence filled the room, thick with years of unspoken longing. He sighed, resting his forehead against you. "God, Chris was supposed to help." It was a clumsy, honest admission that stripped away his defenses, finally bridgeing the gap between the life you were living and the life he was finally brave enough to ask for.