Leon Kennedy

Chapter XXXVI

Leon woke slowly, the way you do when your body knows the night was long and hard—mission, then hours of them tangled together, no walls left between them.

Sunlight slipped through the gap in the heavy burgundy drapes, soft gold stripes painting the crimson sheets and the curve of Ada's bare shoulder where the black silk nightdress had ridden down in the night. He blinked once, twice, expecting the usual: empty space beside him, cool sheets, the faint scent of her perfume already fading like she'd vanished before dawn the way she always did.

But she was still there.

Ada Wong—legendary ghost, woman who slipped through every net ever cast—was curled against his chest, head tucked under his chin, dark hair spilling across his skin like ink. One arm was wrapped tightly around his waist, fingers splayed possessively over his lower back; the other hand rested over his heart, palm flat, like she was making sure it kept beating even in her sleep. Her legs were tangled with his, thigh slung over his hip, the sheer fabric of the nightdress bunched high enough to bare most of her ass. She was breathing slow and deep, completely relaxed, face soft in a way he'd only ever seen in stolen moments years ago.

For the first time in years, she hadn't left.

Leon's throat closed.

He stared at the ceiling for a long second, chest tight, eyes stinging. He blinked hard—refusing to let the tears fall—but they gathered anyway, hot and sudden. This wasn't a dream. Not this time. No fade-to-black, no cold sheets, no note on the pillow or the faint echo of a motorcycle engine disappearing down the drive. She was here. Warm. Real. Holding him like she never wanted to let go.

His arm tightened around her on instinct, careful not to wake her, hand sliding up her back until his fingers threaded into her hair. He pressed his lips to the top of her head—soft, lingering—breathing her in: jasmine, vanilla, sex, them.

Fuck, he thought, voice cracking even in his own head. I don't want to move. Don't want to go to work. Don't want to leave this bed. Not today. Not when she's finally—finally—still here when I wake up.

He swallowed thickly.

The mission briefing was at 10:00AM. He should already be up, showered, dressed, coffee in hand, mentally running contingencies. But instead, he lay there, heart hammering too hard, eyes burning, watching the slow rise and fall of her breathing against his chest.

She shifted slightly in her sleep—small, unconscious—nuzzling closer, nose pressing into the hollow of his throat. A soft, contented sigh escaped her. Her fingers flexed against his back, pulling him tighter like even in dreams she was afraid he'd disappear.

Leon's eyes slipped shut. One tear escaped anyway, sliding silently down his temple into the pillow. He didn't wipe it away. Yet instead, he tightened his hold, arm banding around her shoulders, other hand cupping the back of her head like she was something fragile and priceless.

"I'm right here," he whispered—barely audible, more to himself than to her. "I'm not going anywhere." He pressed another kiss to her hair, then another to her forehead, lingering there until the sting in his eyes eased.

The clock on the nightstand read 07:42. He had time. Just a little longer. He closed his eyes again, cheek resting against the top of her head, listening to her heartbeat sync with his. For once, the world outside the bedroom could wait.

Twenty minutes later, Leon's eyes fluttered open again.

The room hadn't changed. The golden sunlight still painted the same soft stripes across the crimson sheets. The clock on the nightstand now read 08:12. And Ada—beautiful, impossible Ada—was still there. Nothing had shifted. No empty space. No cold sheets. No dream fading into reality.