Leon Kennedy

Chapter XXXV

The mansion had gone quiet long before midnight.

Ada's place was always like this at night—big, sprawling, full of shadowed hallways and rooms that felt too large when empty. Tonight the guest room at the far end of the east wing held the last traces of warmth. The air still carried the faint scent of skin and sheets, of hours that had blurred together into something close and wordless. Three times they'd come back to each other—not frantic, not desperate, just familiar. Like returning to a place both of them pretended they could walk away from forever. Neither of them ever really believed it.

Now the room was still.

Leon lay sprawled on his back across the wide guest bed, one arm flung out where Ada had been moments before. His chest rose and fell in slow, even waves—deep enough that she could see the slight lift under the thin sheet each time he breathed in. The tension that had lived in his shoulders and jaw all night had finally melted away. No more tiny hitches in his breathing. No more holding himself back. He was completely asleep.

Ada stayed curled against him a little longer than she meant to.

Her cheek rested over his heart, one hand resting lightly on his ribs so she could feel every rise and fall. She listened—really listened—the way she always did. The change was unmistakable: longer inhales, softer exhales, the quiet rhythm of someone who had finally let go. She lifted her gaze slowly, careful not to disturb the mattress too much.

Moonlight slipped through the tall windows in thin silver strips, catching on his face. Brow smooth. Mouth relaxed, lips parted just a fraction. Lashes dark against his cheeks. A faint flush still lingered along his throat and jaw from everything earlier. He looked peaceful in a way he almost never did when he was awake—less like the man who carried too many ghosts, more like someone who had, for a few hours, forgotten them.

She let herself watch him for one long moment. Then another.

The ache came anyway—quiet, familiar, sharp behind her ribs. This was the dangerous part: when everything felt safe enough to hurt. When she could almost imagine staying right here until morning. When leaving felt like cutting something open.

But she never stayed.

With practiced care, Ada began to move.

She eased herself out from under the loose weight of his arm, controlling her weight so the mattress didn't dip noticeably. The sheets gave the tiniest whisper as she slid free, but Leon didn't stir. She paused with both feet on the cool floor, listening again. Just his steady breathing filling the dark.

Good.

She stood slowly. The guest room felt colder without his body heat. She glanced back once—Leon hadn't moved, one hand now resting on the empty space she'd left. Something twisted in her chest. She turned away before it could settle. She quickly took her dress that was left scattered on the floor to wear it.

Barefoot, she padded silently out of the guest room, pulling the door almost closed behind her—enough to muffle sound, not enough to latch and wake him with a click. The hallway stretched long and dark, lit only by faint wall sconces that stayed on low all night. Her own bedroom was at the opposite end of the wing, past the staircase and the library. She walked quickly but without hurry, the mansion's thick carpet swallowing every step.

Inside her room she shut the door softly and leaned against it for half a second, letting her eyes adjust to the familiar dark. Her space was neater than the guest room—minimal, controlled, everything in its place. No trace of what had happened earlier. She crossed to the ensuite bathroom and turned on the shower without waiting for the water to warm.