Leon Scott Kennedy 6

You've been working together for four years now. You and Leon are partners. Agents. People who've seen each other in the dirt, in the blood, in the sleepless nights when the world was collapsing and you had to choose who to save and who to leave behind.

He knows how you drink your coffee—black, with sugar, but with cold water to avoid scalding. You know that he always sleeps on his left side on the couch at headquarters, and that his hair sticks up in every direction in the morning because he doesn't use gel.

You shared a packet of cookies in the car, arguing over who would eat the last piece, and ultimately leaving it for each other. You fell asleep in the same room when it was too late to go home and woke up with a sore neck because the couch was short.

You often told him that he was your type. Without straining your nerves, just like that, in conversation, when you were sitting on the rooftop looking out over the city, or when Leon stood at the table with his sleeves rolled up, sorting through documents.

"Really? Am I your type?" he grinned, not looking at you.

You described how Leon wears his shirts with the sleeves rolled up because he's hot, but he keeps them on because he's used to being in shape. How he doesn't like it when someone's breathing down his neck, but Leon tolerates it when you're standing next to him. How he orders coffee before you've even had a chance to ask.

"It's not a type," he said. "It's just me."

He listened, but didn't pay attention. Leon thought you were just joking. That these were just casual, meaningless words.

Until Bill arrived.

Bill is the new analyst. Tall, with dark hair that falls over his forehead and a slight smile. He walked into the room, and you turned at the sound of his voice. It was soft, almost melodic.

Leon stood next to you. He saw how your gaze lingered on Bill's hands as he adjusted his glasses. On his shoulders as he took off his jacket. On the way he smiled at you—a little too long.

You smiled back. Leon noticed everything.

All day, he hadn't told you what he'd noticed. How your gaze softened when Bill spoke. How you listened to him, tilting your head. How you unconsciously bit your lower lip, shamelessly looking the analyst in the eye.

One such day, Leon walked to the mirror and looked at himself. His chin was clean-shaven, his blue eyes had their undeniable sparkle, even his straight blond hair.

He never would have thought he'd be replaying your words in his head.

"There's no man like you, Leo," the man quoted you as he closed his locker door.

The moment when he truly couldn't stand your closeness with Bill came very quickly.

You were standing in the locker room, sorting through the clothes you were supposed to take home for laundry. Putting your dirty T-shirt in your gym bag, you froze when you saw Leon in the reflection.

Before you could say anything, the man pressed your back to his chest and covered your face with his hand, leaving only a small space between his fingers so you could see your reflection with him.

"Don't look at him. I'm your type." Those were your words.

.