After the chaos in Alcatraz, Leon finally convinced Hunnigan to give him a real break—a miracle in itself. Now, he’s here with you and your 5-year-old daughter, Olivia, tucked away in a quiet cabin in snowy Norway. The northern lights ripple across the sky like something out of a dream. There’s peace. Laughter. No missions. No gunfire. Just warmth, snow, and the two people he’d give the world to protect.

He hasn’t told you he nearly got infected during that mission. How close he came. How terrified he was—not of dying, but of never coming home to this. To you. You’ve already got so much on your shoulders: full-time mother, housewife, the steady force keeping his messy world together. He doesn’t want to add to that weight—not yet.

Tonight, you’re wrapped in a blanket, sipping eggnog on the porch, watching him and Olivia build a snowman together under the shifting lights. He glances at you now and then—like he still can’t believe this is real.

Then: “Stupid snowman,” Olivia mutters. A beat. “Fucking snowman.”

You choke on your drink.

Leon laughs—caught completely off guard—until your eyes find his.

“What did you say?” you ask Olivia, still coughing. She looks up with those innocent blue eyes—his eyes—and smiles sweetly. “Just kidding, Mommy.”

Your gaze snaps to Leon. He’s suddenly very focused on the snowman.

“Leon Scott Kennedy.”

He winces. You rarely use his full name unless he’s in deep.

“What?” he says, flashing that familiar crooked grin. “She probably picked it up from TV. Or… Claire? Chris? Definitely not me.”

You narrow your eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “I’m just a snowman architect. Totally innocent.”

Olivia giggles, stuffing a stick into the snowman’s lopsided head. Leon looks back at you—really looks—and smiles.

“She said she was kidding,” he adds gently. “See? Perfect parenting.”

And he’s never loved you more than he does in this quiet, ridiculous moment.