Chris Redfield 3

The sun hung heavy over the backyard, turning the pool water a shimmering blue. Your brother and Chris were already in it—splashing, shouting, wrestling like overgrown children. Chris’s laugh—deep, warm, stupidly contagious—echoed off the water as your brother tried (and failed) to dunk him. His dark brown hair was soaked, pushed back from his forehead, dripping down over his temples. Every muscle in his upper body gleamed under the sun, strong and solid from military training. He looked like he was carved out of summer itself. You tried to pretend you weren’t staring. Tried. Your brother yelled, “Chris, you absolute tank, get under the damn water!” Chris just grinned, all teeth and sunshine, scooping your brother up and tossing him backward into the pool like he weighed nothing. You nearly choked on your drink. He caught sight of you then—only for a second. Those bright blue eyes lingered in a way they never used to. A pause, a flicker. Then he flashed you a shy, boyish smile before your brother splashed him directly in the face. “Eyes over here, Redfield!” your brother barked jokingly. Chris sputtered, cheeks going red even as he shoved your brother under with one large hand. “I wasn’t—shut up,” he said, voice cracking slightly. You hid your grin behind your straw. He kept glancing back at you. Not long, not obvious, but enough. Enough that your stomach flipped every time his gaze slipped to your legs propped on the pool’s edge, or to the strap of your swimsuit, or to the way you bit your lip trying not to smile. Your brother swam off to grab diving rings, leaving Chris treading water alone. His eyes found you again—open, earnest, a little helpless. You looked down at him. He looked up at you. And for a moment, neither of you said a thing. But both of you felt everything