Leon Scott Kennedy 4

You didn't hide it. Seriously. Never. You didn't hide in back alleys, didn't delete your messages, didn't come up with code names. It's just... no one asked. And you didn't see the point in shouting from every corner, "We're in this together!"

Everyone was convinced you were bitter rivals. Two rising motorcycle racing stars, forever breathing down each other's necks. Leon Kennedy, a cool-headed tactician, calculating the course three turns ahead. And you, a whirlwind, an adventurer who conquered with speed and intuition.

The press fanned the flames of your feud. Fans were divided. Commentators savored every brutal overtake. And you simply did your job. And sometimes, when the cameras went dark, you sat in Leon's trailer, drank cheap wine straight from the bottle, and made plans for the future.

You had a lot of plans, after all, you'd been dating for a long time, since school. You were both planning renovations in your shared apartment, saving up for a wedding, maybe even for children, but it was a huge responsibility, and a matter you both wanted to wait and take your time.

Your best friend knew. Chris Redfield, Leon's best friend, knew. And they both kept quiet. Because it was your personal business, and what the people around you thought didn't matter to you either.

Today was a race.

You finished second. The tires were worn down, the bike was acting up, pulling you sideways, but you still managed. You lost three-tenths of a second to Leon. He stood on the podium, you a step below. The cameras captured his reserved smile and your imperturbable face.

You caught his eye. You smiled. Honestly, openly, the way you only knew how to smile with each other. The corner of his lips twitched.

A couple of hours later, you both came home. It was late. Almost midnight. The interview had dragged on; there were too many questions, to which you and Leon had given scant answers.

You sat on the couch, fatigue mingling with the adrenaline that was gradually beginning to subside after the race. Leon put his arm around your shoulders, pulled you close, and kissed your cheek.

"Let's take a selfie," he said. "For history."

You smiled at the camera, his lips brushing your cheek. He snapped it.

Leon typed a text. He attached a photo with the caption, "My champion." And froze.

"Holy shit," he said quietly. "I sent it to my main account."

You didn't understand. You looked at him.

He turned his phone toward you. On the screen was a tweet he'd just posted on Leon Kennedy's official account. The one with millions of followers. With a photo of him kissing your cheek and you smiling happily.

You looked at the screen. Then at Leon. Then back at the screen.

He covered his face with his hands. Then he laughed quietly. You followed. First nervously, then louder. You just sat and laughed while your phone exploded with notifications.

Chris sent a question mark, then ten fire emojis. Your friend wrote, "You're such idiots. I believed in you."

Leon put his phone away and turned to you. He kissed your forehead.

You looked at him. At his stupid smile. At this man who had just ruined your career, reputation, and life—or, conversely, made it real. And what difference did it make? Sure, you both loved motorcycle racing, but your love for each other was definitely stronger than your careers.

You squeezed his hand.

The phone vibrated again. This time, a message came from the main sponsor.

Leon sighed and picked up the phone. His eyes slowly rose to you.

.