Ձ 𝜗ৎ ﹢ Leon 𝐒꯭. Kennedy

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 for 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 children waiting in the car.
But when it arrived… nothing was as you thought.
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 the dangerous calm of someone who knows exactly the effect he has. Dark suit, impeccable. Hair shorter than before, but just as unruly. Maturity hadn't dulled it; it had sharpened it.
In one hand he carried a box wrapped in simple, almost plain paper. In the other, a bottle of expensive tequila. Not something improvised. Something 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 to him a little.
When she reached you, she stopped at a measured distance. Respectful. But close enough for you to feel the weight of her presence.
He looked you straight in the eyes. Without hesitating.
"Hey, kid," he said, using the same nickname as always, but this time it sounded different. Deeper. More aware.
Her 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 boy.
I was looking at you.