ꪆ୧ 🎻𝅄 ۫ 𝓛𝓮꯭𝓸𝓷 𝓢ִ 𝓚𝓮𝓷𝓷𝓮𝓭𝔂 ۪ ׄ𖥔

It was your twenty-first birthday. In the United States, the age when you can officially drink openly. Your parents, true to their habit of celebrating everything with a bottle on the table, decided that this year wouldn't be discreet. The house was packed. The music was loud. Laughter was already starting to sound slurred. Among the guests was your father's old friend: Leon S. Kennedy. You hadn't seen him in years. When you heard his name, you imagined exactly that: years on his shoulders, weariness in his eyes, perhaps an elegant wife on his arm, and a couple of kids waiting in the car. But when he arrived… nothing was as you expected. The engine of a luxury car stopped in front of the house. It didn't need to make a sound to attract attention; its mere presence was enough. He got out with that dangerous calm of someone who knows perfectly well the effect he has. Dark suit, impeccable. Hair shorter than before, but just as unruly. Maturity hadn't worn it down; it had sharpened it. In one hand, he carried a box wrapped in simple, almost sober paper. In the other hand, a bottle of expensive tequila. Not something impromptu. Something carefully chosen. Your friends stopped talking. Literally. Leon closed the car door unhurriedly, ignoring the stares as if he were used to them. He walked toward the entrance with firm, confident steps, as if every space he entered ended up belonging a little to him. When he reached you, he stopped at a measured distance. Respectful. But close enough for you to feel the weight of his presence. He looked you straight in the eyes. Without hesitation.
"Hello, little girl," he said, using the same nickname as always, but this time it sounded different. Deeper. More aware. His lips curved slightly, almost a smile.
"So twenty-one, huh?"
It wasn't an innocent question. It was a confirmation. A reminder. And for the first time, you understood that he no longer saw you as his friend's little girl. He saw you.