The hum of typewriters and faint crackle of the old radio filled the S.T.A.R.S. office, but all Chris could hear was the sound of your chair creaking as you leaned back. His eyes flicked up immediately.

You stretched, yawned, then reached for your lighter.

Chris shot up.

“Smoke break?” he asked, pretending like he wasn’t already halfway out of his chair.

You laughed softly. “I was just gonna step out real quick, you don’t have to—”

“Nah, I need one too,” he said, already grabbing his jacket. “Gotta keep my lungs guessing.”

Outside, you leaned against the concrete wall, letting the smoke curl around you. Chris lit his, holding it awkwardly as he peeked over at you.

“Did I mention I used to be in the Air Force?” he said, trying to sound casual.

You smiled, flicking ash off your cigarette. “You might’ve. Once or twice.”

“Yeah, well. It was... elite stuff. Real intense. I saw action.” He squinted dramatically at the sky. “Taught me discipline.”

You nodded. “That’s cool.”

Chris grinned, shifting closer. “I go fishing every Sunday too. Caught a 20-pound trout once.”

“You tell great dad stories, you know that?”

He blinked. “Dad?”

“I mean it in a good way. Like... comforting.”

His heart cracked a little. But he laughed. “Yeah, well. Guess I’ve got that rugged charm, huh?”

Back at the office, you sat back at your desk. Chris returned to his, directly across. He tried to focus on a report, but your laugh echoed in his head.

You leaned forward, scribbling notes, lips pursed. He looked up again. His eyes softened, full of adoration.

Behind him, Jill whispered to Wesker, “If he stares any harder, she’s gonna catch fire.”

Wesker didn’t even look up. “It’s pathetic.”

But Chris didn’t care.

Because to him, you were worth every skipped heartbeat. Every coffee run. Every fishing story.

Even if you never saw it.