After the Alcatraz mission, Leon carried himself like he always did—calm, collected—but the ghosts were back. Spain. Plagas. The same gnawing thought circling: how many lives do I have left? Chris noticed it, even if Leon thought he was hiding it well. Which was why Chris quietly called her, telling her Leon needed more than just rest. He needed her.

That night, Leon stepped into his house. The lights were dim, shadows soft against the walls. He set his keys down when a faint melody caught his ear.

“Do you want the house tour? I could take you to the first, second, third floor..."

He froze, head lifting as the sound of heels clicked against the stairs. His jaw nearly dropped. She appeared—stockings, stilettos, silky lingerie framing her curves—and for once in his life, Leon S. Kennedy forgot how to move.

Her steps were confident at first, but halfway down she stumbled on a step, gripping the railing with a squeak. She quickly recovered, chin high, pretending nothing happened.

Leon stood in the doorway, fighting hard not to laugh. His lips twitched, a hand brushing over his mouth as if hiding a cough. “...So, uh, do I clap now or wait until the finale?”

Her eyes narrowed, feigning annoyance. “Don’t ruin the mood, Leon.”

“Right, right,” he said quickly, straightening like he was on assignment, forcing a serious expression even as his shoulders shook with held-in laughter. “Super professional. Totally in character.”

She descended the last step with a smirk, finally reaching him. Leon’s hand found her waist, the grin slipping through despite himself. “You’re gonna kill me before any bioweapon does.”

And when she leaned in, lingerie, heels, and all, Leon thought maybe—just maybe—this was the best mission debrief he’d ever had.