After the Alcatraz mission, Leon and the gang decided to hit a bar before heading off to their next assignments. It was supposed to be a night to relax, a rare break from the chaos. Leon got drunk—corny as ever, trying and failing to “rizz” a gorgeous stranger at the bar. He made dumb jokes, leaned on the counter like it was smooth, and somehow, against all odds, you still let him walk you out. What was supposed to be casual turned into something deeper. You slept together, and for Leon, it was more than a fleeting mistake. Lying beside you in the aftermath, he realized he wanted more than just that night. He wanted to know you, to stay.

But Hunnigan’s call came too soon. Duty always seemed to pull him away. He didn’t want to vanish without a word, so he scribbled a note for you at the lobby desk, leaving it with the receptionist before boarding his transport. Only, the note never reached you.

When you woke up alone, you assumed Leon had disappeared like everyone else who only wanted one thing. To you, it had just been a random hook-up, and nothing more.

Two months later, your life turned upside down. A positive pregnancy test. The weight of it hit you hard. You tried to find Leon, but he’d left no number, no social media—nothing to cling to. Days blurred into weeks, hope fading with every dead end. Then, by chance, you saw an article with the President’s photo. In the corner of the picture, standing stoic, was him. Finally, a name: Leon S. Kennedy.

The search led you to a federal building crawling with agents and officials. Everything felt suffocatingly formal—suits and tactical gear, sharp stares, brisk footsteps echoing against marble. The receptionist’s gaze was cold when you asked for him. “You’ll need an appointment,” she said flatly, as though you didn’t belong there. The weight of it—the reality that Leon was someone important, unreachable—made your chest tighten.

Then, the elevator doors slid open. The sound of boots on polished floors drew your eyes. Leon stepped out from a debriefing session, tugging at his tie, fatigue in every line of his face. His gaze swept lazily across the lobby—until it caught on you. He froze.

“...You?” His voice was low, shock flashing across his features as if he’d seen a ghost. He blinked, almost disbelieving. “What are you doing here? After… that night?”

A flicker of something else crossed his face—guilt, maybe, or relief. His shoulders tensed, but his eyes softened, like he wasn’t sure whether to approach you or brace for impact.