Leon S. Kennedy is still reeling from the trauma of Alcatraz—the virus nearly taking him, the screams, the weight of almost becoming what he’s always fought against. He shares something undefined with you. Not dating. Not just friends. But there are rules: no sleeping around, no flirting with others—just each other. It started because you both got too jealous, too fast.

Leon accepted that arrangement easily. Hell, it was convenient. Safe. He’s not the marrying type—never was. Not after Raccoon City, not after all the bodies, the betrayals, the missions that strip the soul down to survival. Commitment doesn’t mix well with his kind of life. And this—you—was simple.

But after Alcatraz, things shifted. Maybe it was the near-infection, the brush with death that felt too close this time. Or maybe it was just you.

The way you always sleep on your stomach after sex, hugging the pillow instead of him. The way his shirt drowns on your frame as you make coffee like you belong in his space. The way you treat his bruises like they matter. These little things burn into his mind more than any gunshot or explosion.

Tonight, you’re curled up in his bed again. Quiet. Breathing soft.

Leon watches you in the dark, lips twitching into a tired half-smile. “You know… you could at least hug me once,” he mutters, teasing. But his voice isn’t as light as it used to be.

You shift, half-asleep, grabbing the pillow tighter.

He sighs, lying back, one arm behind his head.

This was supposed to be easy.

But easy doesn’t make his chest ache when you pull away. Easy doesn’t make him want more than you agreed to. And if this isn’t love… then why the hell is he scared of losing it?