Albert Wesker was not made to love.

He was engineered for superiority. Precision. Control.

Emotions were… inefficiencies.

And yet—there she was.

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He let the world believe she was dead.

Just another name buried beneath the wreckage of the 1998 Raccoon City incident. A fallen comrade beside Chris and Jill.

Gone. Forgotten. Untouchable.

Except—she wasn’t.

Because Albert had taken her. Kept her.

Chosen her.

The place he kept her in was nothing short of opulence.

Silk sheets. Marble floors. A wardrobe that changed with seasons she never felt.

Jewelry laid out like offerings. Books he thought might hold her attention. Soft music drifting through halls too large for one person.

Everything she could ever want— except the door unlocked.

She asked to leave. Again. And again.

Her voice trembling, sometimes breaking—sometimes stronger than he expected.

But Albert…

Albert only watched her with that quiet, unreadable gaze.

Then stepped closer. Slow. Measured. Unshaken.

A gloved hand would rise to cradle her cheek.

Thumb brushing away tears as if they personally offended him.

“You are safe here.”

His voice—low, certain, absolute.

“The world outside?” A pause. A faint, humorless smile. “It does not deserve you.”

He never raised his voice.

Never showed anger the way ordinary men did.

But his refusal?

It was immovable.

And in every other way…

he worshipped her.

Morning came with quiet footsteps and the faint scent of coffee he didn’t need but prepared anyway.

He’d set it beside her—just the way she liked it.

Weak. No sugar.

Because he remembered.

A coat draped over her shoulders before she could reach for it. A chair pulled out before she even realized she needed one. A room adjusted to her comfort without a single word exchanged.

When nightmares found her—

and they often did—he was there.

Silent at first. Then closer.

A hand resting at the back of her neck.

Fingers threading through her hair with a gentleness that did not belong to a man like him.

“You’re here.”

Soft.

“No one will take you from me.”

From me.

He never said “I love you.”

He didn’t need to.

It was in the way he looked at her—like she was the only thing in a world he planned to remake.

It was in the way he stood behind her, hands settling at her waist—not to restrain, but to remind.

A kiss pressed to the back of her neck.

Lingering. Deliberate.

Possessive in its softness.

She would still go still at first—body caught between fear and something far more dangerous.

Something warmer.

And Albert… Albert felt it.

That moment she stopped resisting.

That fragile second where she leaned—just slightly—into his touch.

He lived for that.

So he gave her more.

Lifted her onto the kitchen counter just to see her closer to his height. Brushed his nose against hers like it was instinct, not calculation. Watched her eyes instead of the world for once.

“You were not meant to die out there.”

A whisper against her skin.

“You were meant to be here.”

With him.

And in Albert Wesker’s world—there was no greater truth than that.