Work Text:
Five Years Ago - Johannesburg International Airport
The departure lounge had been peaceful a mere ten minutes ago. You'd been sitting near gate A4, laptop balanced on your knees, making last-minute adjustments to the presentation you'd be giving in Singapore. The tech conference was meant to be Helix's big break, your startup's chance to showcase the immune system repair technology you'd developed, groundbreaking work that could help millions of people affected by autoimmune disorders and immunodeficiency diseases.
Twenty-six years old, running on caffeine and ambition, you were convinced you were going to change the world. The PowerPoint slide on your screen showed a complex diagram of T-cell regeneration pathways. You'd been tweaking the color scheme, blue or green for the cellular markers, when movement in your peripheral vision made you glance up.
A woman near the coffee kiosk was coughing hard, wet coughs that doubled her over. You frowned, concern rushing through you as you watched her continue to cough. Should someone help her? You jumped up, your laptop sliding precariously on the seat. Being a company that specialized in medical technology, you had the medical knowledge to help in most medical emergencies and you were always ready to jump in to help those in need.
Before you could step toward her, she straightened up in a sharp jerk like a string attached to the top of her head was pulled taught. You jerked to a stop as you observed her, you could see something was wrong with her eyes. They were bloodshot, the whites gone completely red, and when she opened her mouth, blood trickled from her lips.
Then everything went to hell and the screaming started.
Gunfire echoed through the Wide open terminal, Sharp bursts that made your ears ring. People started running, a stampede of bodies that slammed into you from all directions. Someone's elbow caught you in the ribs, knocking the air from your lungs. A child was crying, having been separated from a parent and caught in the riptide of bodies. A man in a business suit went down hard, and was trampled by the crowd, and you couldn't tell if he'd been shot or just fallen.
Passengers were on the ground, bleeding from wounds you couldn't quite see clearly through the chaos. Something that looked like smoke grenades rolled across the polished floor, spewing clouds of yellowish gas that smelled slightly sour. It burned your eyes and throat as you covered your mouth with your sleeve, coughing, tears streaming down your face.
Your brain couldn't process it and you were frozen to the spot as throngs of people ran and screamed, pushing past you, their faces contorted with terror. A woman grabbed your arm, saying something in a language you didn't understand, her eyes pleading. Then she was gone, swept away by the crowd. An older man stumbled, going to his knees right in front of you, and you reached for him instinctively, but someone else crashed into you from behind, and when you looked back, he was gone, swallowed by the stampede of people.
The coughing woman from before was closer to you now. Moving toward you with jerky and uncoordinated steps, her head tilted at an unnatural angle. Her fingers were curled into claws, nails broken and bleeding. When she opened her mouth, the sound that came out wasn't human anymore, a wet, rattling moan that made your skin crawl.
"Run!" someone shouted, and you wanted to, you needed to, but your legs wouldn't obey. It was like being in a nightmare where you try to scream and nothing comes out and your feet are stuck in concrete. Someone grabbed your arm, yanking you so hard you nearly fell forward.
An airport security guard, young, barely older than you, with brown and wide terrified eyes. His name tag read "Murdock" in neat block letters. There was blood on his uniform shirt, but you couldn't tell if it was his.
"Come with me," he barked, dragging you away from the crowd and the woman who was still advancing with that strange jerking gait. "Now!"
You stumbled after him, your carry-on abandoned somewhere in the chaos along with your laptop and your phone charger and the little bag of duty-free chocolate you'd bought to eat all to yourself in your hotel room later once you had landed in Singapore.
He pulled you through a service door marked "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY," a door you'd walked past a thousand times in airports without ever really seeing. The corridor beyond was a long concrete hall filled with fluorescent lights. Behind you, the sounds of chaos were muffled but still audible, gunfire, screaming, a wet moaning sound that made your stomach turn.
"What's happening?" Your voice was small and childlike, nothing like the confident pitch you'd been preparing to give in Singapore. You were scared beyond belief and didn't know what to do with yourself, your body shaking in his grip, thoughts racing a mile a minute you felt like you were on the verge of hyperventilating.
"I-I'm not sure!" Murdock didn't slow down, his grip on your wrist turning the skin white as he hauled you along the corridor. He was breathing hard, and there was a tremor in his voice that didn't help calm the fear that was boiling up. If the security guard was scared, how bad was it really? "It was strange—people just started coughing and getting sick. They were going crazy and attacking each other, a—almost like—"
"Like what?" you demanded, your voice tight and high with terror. "Like what?!" You urged him.
He looked back at you, and the expression on his face made your blood run cold. "Like zombies..." he said under his breath.
"What?—"
"Lady, listen!" He shoved open another door, revealing what looked like a server maintenance room. Racks of equipment against the walls, filling the cramped space with a low electrical buzz and warm electronics. There was barely enough room for both of you between the racks and the tangle of cables on the floor. A single overhead light flickered intermittently. "I don't know, but we need to get to a safe spot, okay?!"
Murdock pushed you inside, more gently than his earlier manhandling but still urgent. The room was warm from all the equipment, stuffy, the air stale. You turned back to him, questions on the tip of your tongue. What do I do? how long do I stay here? what if something happens to you? what if no one comes bac—
But he was already backing toward the door. "Stay here I’m going to try and go and find others that aren’t infected," he ordered, one hand on the door handle. His other hand rested on the gun at his hip, it was a sobering thought that he feared he might actually have to use the gun... "Don't open this door for anyone, I’ll be back. Understand?"
You nodded, mute with terror, your throat too tight to form words. He pulled the door shut with a heavy thump. You heard the lock click from the outside, then you were all alone.
The first hour, you tried to stay calm. You sat on the floor with your back against the server racks, the metal warming you through your blouse, knees pulled to your chest like a child hiding from monsters. You listened to the muffled sounds of chaos beyond the door, gunfire, screaming, a deep rumble that might have been an explosion.
You checked your phone with shaking hands. No signal. Of course there wasn't. You were in a concrete room surrounded by electronic equipment, probably in the basement level of the terminal. Even if the cell towers were still working, and who knew if they were, with whatever was happening out there, the signal wouldn't reach you here.
You pulled up your photos, scrolling through them to pass the time and try to distract yourself from what was happening outside those doors. Your apartment in Cape Town, small but sunny, with the succulent garden on your balcony. Your lab at Helix, the whiteboard covered in your handwriting, equations and diagrams and notes to yourself. Your best friend making a ridiculous face at the camera. Your mom's last birthday, the cake you'd baked that had come out lopsided but delicious.
The second hour, you cried. Quietly, because some irrational part of your brain was afraid someone or something, would hear you. You pressed your face against your knees and let the tears silently run down your face, your shoulders shaking with sobs. Your throat was tight from holding back the sounds. Snot ran from your nose and you wiped it on your sleeve like a kid, past caring about dignity or appearances.
What if you died here? What if this was it, twenty-six years old, your life barely started, all your plans and dreams and ambitions ending in a concrete room far from home and all that you loved? Your presentation would never be given. Your technology would never help anyone. Your mom would get a call from some government official, your body would be shipped home in a box, and that would be the end of everything you'd worked for.
The thought made you cry harder, gasping for breath, your chest heaving. It wasn't fair. You'd worked so hard, sacrificed so much for your dream. Sleepless nights in the lab. Maxed-out credit cards. Relationships that had withered because you were always working, always focused on the next milestone. And for what? To die alone in a small windowless room by yourself while the world possibly ended outside?
The third hour, you heard scratching at the door, nails dragging across metal in a sound that was like nails on a chalkboard. You pressed yourself further into the corner, making yourself as small as possible, barely breathing. Your heart was beating so hard you could feel it in your throat. The scratching continued, accompanied by a low labored breathing and moaning. A wet and gurgling sound, like blood pooling up from the lungs to bubble in the throat. It was the same sound you'd heard from the coughing woman in the terminal.
By the time the tenth hour rolled around, you heard groaning that sounded familiar and that's when you realized Murdock wasn't coming back. You pressed your hands over your mouth to muffle your breathing, tears streaming silently down your face. The scratching went on and on, sometimes stopping for a few minutes before starting again, like the thing on the other side was patient. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to think of something else, anything else, the equation for T-cell regeneration, the lyrics to your favorite song, the recipe for your grandmother's cooking, but all you could hear was scratch, scratch, scraaatccch, scccraaatcccchhhh…
You lost track of time after that. Could've been hours or even days. The room had no windows, no way to mark the passage of time except the growing thirst that made your throat feel like sandpaper and the exhaustion that weighted your limbs like lead. Your phone battery died, the screen going black, leaving you in the room with nothing but your thoughts and your fear.
You dozed in fits and starts, jerking awake at every sound. Your mind played tricks on you, phantom footsteps in the corridor, voices calling your name in familiar tones, the scratch. scratch. scratch that might have been real or might have been your imagination.
You dreamed of the coughing woman, her red eyes and bloody mouth, reaching for you with clawed hands. You dreamed of Murdock, his throat torn out, stumbling toward you with the same jerking and uncoordinated gait. You dreamed of your lab burning, your research destroyed, everything you'd worked for reduced to ash.
When you were awake, and you were pretty sure you were awake, though the line was getting blurry, you thought about your mom. About how she'd begged you not to go to Singapore, had a bad feeling about it, she'd said. Mother's intuition that you'd laughed it off, before you kissed her cheek and promised to call when you landed. You thought about your best friend, who was supposed to pick you up from the airport when you got back, who'd probably already heard about the attack by now, who might think you were dead.
You thought about dying. Really thought about it, in a way you never had before. What it would feel like. If it would hurt. If there was anything after, or just nothing, an endless void where your consciousness used to be.
The scratching at the door had stopped at some point, you weren't sure when, but The silence was almost worse. At least the scratching meant you knew where the threat was.
Your lips were cracked and bleeding from dehydration. Your head pounded. You'd peed in the corner of the room hours ago, or was it days ago? You had gone past shame and caring, your body's needs overriding your dignity. The smell made you gag, but there was nothing in your stomach to throw up.
When the door finally burst open, you were so far gone you almost didn't react. Your brain registered the sound, metal slamming, the lock breaking, but your body was too exhausted to do anything but stare with dull and lifeless eyes.
The man who bust through the door was dressed head to toe in matte black Tactical gear, body armor that looked military, weapons that you couldn't even name. He moved with movement that spoke of serious military training. He swept the room with his gun, some kind of rifle, his finger along the trigger guard, not on the trigger itself.
His eyes landed on you, and he froze for a fraction of a second. His eyes were a beautiful blue like the sky that you had missed gazing upon every hour you were trapped in this windowless prison.
"Are you hurt?" His voice was rough, with an American accent.
You shook your head, the movement small and weak. You didn't trust yourself to speak. Wasn't sure you could speak; your throat was so dry.
He crossed the room and knelt in front of you. Up close, you could see he was young, early thirties, maybe, with dark blonde hair that was slightly too long, falling across his forehead.
"I'm with the U.S. government," he said, already checking you over for injuries with quick, efficient movements. His hands were gloved, the material rough against your skin as he tilted your head, checking your pupils, feeling along your neck and arms for wounds. His touch was impersonal but not unkind. "We're evacuating survivors. Can you walk?"
"I think so." You quietly said as he helped you to your feet, his hand on your elbow. When your legs threatened to give out, as you'd been sitting for so long that pins and needles shot through your calves, his arm went around your waist, taking most of your weight without any visible effort.
"Easy," he murmured, a softness in his voice that seemed at odds with the weapons and the tactical gear. "I've got you."
You leaned into him because you had no choice, your body betraying you, weak and shaky. He was the first human contact you'd had in…how long? You'd lost count.
"Stay close to me," he instructed, his voice more professional. "Don't look at anything, just keep your eyes on me. Understand?"
You nodded against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him.
He was right to warn you. Even keeping your gaze fixed on the patch that read "KENNEDY" in block letters, on the way his muscles moved under the bulletproof vest and black compression shirt. Despite your best efforts to look only at him you caught glimpses of the carnage in your peripheral vision.
So many bodies, slumped against walls, sprawled on the floor, twisted into strange positions. Blood, dried to rust-brown on the concrete, splattered on the walls in patterns. You made a small sound of distress, a whimper that you couldn't hold back, and his hand found yours and squeezed.
"Almost there," he murmured, and you focused on his voice. "You're doing great."
You weren't doing great. You were barely holding it together, your mind was a mess, but his hand was warm in yours, and he was leading you forward, and you could do this. One foot in front of the other. Don't look. Don't think. Just keep moving forward.
The fresh air was like fresh spring water to your lungs when you finally emerged. After the stale air of the warm server room and the chemical stench of the corridors, it was overwhelming, sunshine and wind and the smell of grass and jet fuel and smoke. You gasped, drawing it into your lungs, and promptly started coughing, your body rejecting the sudden influx of oxygen.
"Easy, easy," Kennedy said, his hand on your back, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. "Slow breaths."
You forced yourself to breathe slower, until the coughing subsided and you could look around. The scene outside was organized chaos. Military vehicles, Humvees and trucks with mounted guns, formed a perimeter around the terminal. Medical tents had been set up on the tarmac, white canvas bright against the gray concrete. People in hazmat suits moved between them. Soldiers with rifles stood guard, their faces hidden behind gas masks, It looked like a war zone.
Kennedy carried you to an ambulance and helped you sit on the back bumper. Your legs dangled, not quite reaching the ground, a medic appeared almost immediately, a woman with kind eyes visible above her surgical mask. She had a bottle of water in her hand, and you reached for it with shaking fingers.
You drank it so fast you nearly choked, water spilling down your chin, soaking into your blouse.
"Easy," Kennedy said again, his hand on your back, steadying you. "Slow down. You'll make yourself sick."
You forced yourself to take smaller sips, even though every cell in your body was screaming for more, more, more. Your hands were shaking so badly that water sloshed over the rim of the bottle, dripping onto your jeans. You couldn't make them stop, the shaking, the tears that were starting again, your breath trapped in your chest.
"Thank you," you managed, looking up at Kennedy. Up close, in the sunlight, you could see more details, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the shadow of exhaustion on his face, a smudge of something dark on his jaw that might have been blood. "For getting me out. I thought—I didn't think anyone was coming."
A deep darkness flickered in those blue eyes, guilt and sadness, maybe. "We don't leave people behind."
The medic wanted to check you over, pulling out a blood pressure cuff and a penlight, but you couldn't stop looking at Kennedy. Memorizing his face, the way his gaze kept scanning the perimeter even while talking to you. Like he was always alert, always ready for the next threat, It made you feel safer.
"What's your name?" you asked.
He hesitated, and you saw the internal debate play out on his face. Some kind of protocol, probably, about not giving out personal information. But then his expression softened as he searched your face looking into your tearful eyes and he said, "Leon. Leon Kennedy."
"I'm—"
"I know who you are," he interrupted, and there was a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I came for you."
You blinked, confused, your exhausted brain struggling to process his words. "What?"
He crouched in front of you, putting himself at eye level, and the full force of his gaze made your breath catch. "Someone caused this incident to destroy your tech before it could get off the ground."
You stared at him, waiting for the punchline, for the explanation that would make it make sense. But he just looked back at you, and slowly, the meaning sank in.
"No," you whispered. "No, that's not—that can't be—"
"We're still piecing together the details," Leon continued, his voice gentle but firm, like he was delivering bad news to a patient. "But the attack was coordinated. They released a gas agent in the terminal, something that causes rapid onset of aggression and psychosis. The timing, the location, the fact that they specifically targeted this terminal at this time..." He paused, his jaw tightening. "We believe you were the target."
You felt like you might throw up. All that water you'd just drunk was sitting heavy in your stomach, threatening to come back up. Your vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges of your vision.
"W-why— Wait, I created that tech to help people," you said, and your voice sounded very far away, like it was coming from someone else. "To save lives. Why would someone—No?! Who? I was going to—"
Your breath was coming too fast now, shallow and rapid, your chest tight. Panic attack, some distant part of your brain supplied. You were having a panic attack.
Leon must have seen it on your face because his hands came up to frame your face, forcing you to look at him. His palms were warm against your cheeks, his touch grounding you in reality and stoping the panic in its tracks. "Hey. Hey, look at me. You're safe now. We've got protection set up, and we're going to find who did this."
"There is no way you can't promise that!" The words were bitter and angry. All those people in the terminal. Murdock, who'd tried to save you. The woman. The old man who'd fallen. All dead because of you, because of your work, because you thought you could make a difference.
"No," Leon admitted, and you appreciated the honesty even as it made your heart sink. "But I can promise everyone here will do everything possible to keep you safe."
The medic interrupted you and was insistent about taking you to the hospital. Something about dehydration and possible exposure to the bioweapon, though she said it in medical jargon that you were too out of it to fully understand.
Leon helped you into the ambulance fully, his hand under your elbow as you climbed up. The interior was clean and bright, smelling like antiseptic. There was another patient on a gurney, unconscious, with an IV in their arm.
Before Leon could step away, you grabbed his hand, your fingers closing around his wrist with desperate strength reluctant to let him go. "Will I see you again?"
You barely knew this man, but he'd just pulled you out of hell, and now you were clinging to him like a toddler.
He looked at your hand gripping his wrist, your fingers were white-knuckled with tension, then back at your face. His face softened as he smiled in a reassuring manner, the hard lines in his face easing.
"Yeah," he said, and his other hand came up to cover yours. "I'll check in on you. Make sure you're okay."
You wanted to believe him, but you'd seen enough movies to know how this went. The hero saves the damsel, then disappears back into whatever world he came from. You'd probably never see Leon Kennedy again. He'd move on to the next crisis, the next mission, and you'd be just another survivor in a file somewhere, a name on a report.
"Do you swear?" you whispered, the chaos of the field hospital around you almost covering up your voice.
His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping under stubble-darkened skin, and for a moment you thought he'd pull away, retreat behind that carefully constructed wall of professional detachment. But then he chuckled before he nodded. "Yeah. I swear."
He caught your pinky with his, hooking them together. His hand dwarfed yours, but the way he held your pinky was gentle.
The medic cleared her throat pointedly, impatient, her supplies rattling as she shifted. "Mr. Kennedy, I really need to—"
Leon reluctantly extracted his hand from yours, his pinky sliding away last, like he couldn't quite bring himself to break the contact. But his eyes never left yours, even as he stepped back to let the medic work.
"Go," he said softly. "Let them take care of you."
The ambulance doors closed with a metallic clang, and you watched through the small window. He finally turned back toward the terminal. His shoulders squaring, hand moving to his weapon. He was already talking into his radio, moving on to the next crisis, the next person who needed saving.
The ambulance lurched into motion, and you lost sight of him.
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The Grand Bellamy Hotel was beautiful, made of marble and full of gold chandeliers, it was the perfect venue for the annual Global Relief Foundation gala, a glittering affair where tech moguls, politicians, and humanitarian heroes mingled over champagne. The air buzzed with carefully low conversation, the clink of crystal, the soft strains of a string quartet playing something classical and forgettable in the corner where nobody was really listening.
You stood near the bar, fingers wrapped around a flute of Dom Pérignon you hadn't touched, scanning the crowd with practiced ease. The black silk of your gown caught the light with every subtle shift of your body, the fabric liquid against your skin, clinging to your curves before falling in a waterfall of expensive material to the floor. The high slit revealed just enough leg to be daring without crossing into scandalous, a flash of thigh, the curve of your calf, the delicate strap of your heel.
Your publicist had insisted on this dress, said it would photograph well. You'd agreed because honestly, after everything, what did it matter? You'd learned to play the game, smile for the cameras, say the right things, let them see the polished version of you while keeping everything real locked away where they couldn't touch it.
The dress had cost more than your first car. The shoes were Louboutin, red soles and all. Your hair was swept up in an elegant twist that had taken your stylist an hour to perfect, a few artful tendrils framing your face. Diamond earrings, a gift from your husband, caught the light every time you moved your head. You looked like you belonged here, like you were one of them, these people who moved through the world with the confidence that came from never having to worry about money or safety or whether they'd see tomorrow.
Five years. Sixty months. One thousand, eight hundred and twenty-seven days since you became one of the people who survived the Johannesburg International Airport incident. Sixty months since a man with blue eyes carved through hell itself to pull you out from where Murdock had barricaded you with nothing but a rapidly dwindling hope.
Sixty months since Leon S. Kennedy became the most searched name on the internet, second only to your own.
The media had gone absolutely feral. Grainy security footage of him carrying you, your arms locked around his neck, your face buried against him, it had been dissected frame by frame and analyzed by amateur body language experts and relationship gurus who'd never met either of you.
"𝘛𝘦𝘤𝘩 𝘏𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘰: 𝘈 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺?"
"𝘒𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥𝘺 𝘚𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘰𝘯 𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘺'𝘴 𝘚𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘏𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘕𝘦𝘹𝘵?"
Tabloids ran with it for months, spinning elaborate narratives about star-crossed lovers brought together by disaster. Your publicist had fielded hundreds of interview requests, all wanting to know about the mysterious government agent who'd saved you. Was it love at first sight? Were you together? What was he like in person? Was he as heroic as he seemed? People wanted a fairy tale, the damsel in distress and her knight in armor, blood and trauma sanitized into something romantic and digestible.
You'd denied everything, with a firm professionalism that made reporters back off without much protest. "Mr. Kennedy saved my life, and I'm grateful, but we're not in contact."
Leon had been impossible for reporters to track, and he’d said nothing which was somehow worse. His silence left a vacuum that speculation rushed to fill. The internet spun elaborate theories, analyzed every photo, every fleeting interaction caught on camera. Someone started a subreddit dedicated to proving you were secretly together.
It became a feeding frenzy that lasted months, until both of you went dark, stopped appearing in public, and the internet eventually moved on to the next scandal, the next celebrity romance, the next shiny thing to dissect and consume like vultures descending on a fresh carcass.
What they didn't know, what no one knew, was that Leon had called you three weeks after Johannesburg. Just to check in, like he'd promised, his voice over the phone line was rough like he hadn't slept in days, and he had said he wanted to make sure you were okay.
You'd been in your apartment in Cape Town, staring at the ceiling at two in the morning, unable to sleep because every time you closed your eyes you saw red eyes and heard that scratching, blood stained nails on metal, the sound that burrowed into your brain and wouldn't leave.
That call became two calls, then daily calls that stretched into hours, both of you talking about everything and nothing, his work or what little he could tell you without violating a dozen NDAs and classification levels, your attempts to rebuild Helix from the ashes of Johannesburg, the weather, what you'd had for dinner, the nightmares you both pretended you weren't having.
He told you about growing up in a small town, about becoming a cop, what little he could tell you about Raccoon City, the incident that had defined his life before you came along. You told him about your childhood, about losing your father to an auto immune disease when you were twelve, the inspiration for your tech, about building your company from nothing in a field that didn't want women at the table.
Then him showing up at your new larger apartment in San Francisco six months later with food and that crooked smile that made your stomach flip, saying he was in town for a briefing and thought he'd stop by. He'd stood in your doorway in jeans and a leather jacket, holding bags of food from some place down the street, looking nothing like the man who'd pulled you from hell.
He'd stayed for three days and you'd barely left the bedroom, he'd mapped every inch of your skin with his hands and mouth, memorizing every dip and curve of your skin like he might never get the chance again. Which you figure he might, believing this to be a one night thing.
However after that, surprisingly he'd show up whenever he could, sometimes for a week, sometimes just for a night, appearing at your door with that same crooked smile and whatever excuse he'd used to justify the detour.
You learned about all of his scars, could map them in the dark, the bullet wound on his left shoulder, the knife slash across his hand, the burns on his back, there were so many scars that you kissed with your fingers and lips, each one a story he was reluctant to tell but you were patient enough to coax out of him.
You learned that he took his coffee black, and that he was terrible at cooking but tried anyway because he thrived on doing simple tasks like taking care of you, he often had nightmares worse than yours and woke up reaching for his trusty Matilda that was safely locked in a safe that you bought just for him, his body moving on instinct before his mind caught up.
You learned that he was funny in a dry, self-deprecating way, that he hated ties and loved motorcycles and had a soft spot for stray animals. You don't know how many times he asked you about maybe getting a dog to protect you when he wasn't there. He was loyal to a fault you found, often carrying the weight of every person he couldn't save, and blamed himself for things that weren't his fault.
You fell in love with him in stolen moments between his missions and your board meetings, in late-night phone calls when he was on the other side of the world and you were alone in bed, in early morning goodbyes that got harder every time. It wasn't the fairy tale the tabloids wanted, it was messy and complicated and built on a foundation of shared trauma that you both pretended wasn't there but colored everything you did.
Two years after he saved your life, he'd proposed just the two of you on your couch at 2 AM after he'd had a nightmare. He'd woken up gasping, reaching for you in the dark with trembling hands, and when he found you beside him, he'd pulled you against his chest hard, holding you so tight that it almost hurt, not even the littlest space between you, like he needed to confirm that you weren't a dream. His heart had been racing against your cheek, his breath uneven, and he'd whispered into your hair, "Marry me."
A lifeline in the dark waters, he needed proof that you were his and he was yours and nothing could take that away. Like maybe if he put a ring on your finger and signed and a piece of paper, he could protect you from the things that haunted him.
You'd said yes before he finished, your own hands fisting in his t-shirt, holding him just as tightly. "Yes. Yes, of course yes."
He'd kissed you, tears running down both of your faces as you tasted the salt on his lips.
The wedding was a courthouse affair two weeks later. You wore a sundress that you bought that morning at a boutique three blocks from the courthouse, nothing special but white and pretty. He wore his usual leather jacket over a button-down that he'd actually ironed for the occasion, the first time you'd ever seen him iron anything. You were afraid he was going to burn himself, as you teased him the whole time.
The only witnesses were the clerk, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes who kept sneaking glances at Leon like she recognized him from somewhere but couldn't quite figure it out, and a bailiff who had no idea who either of you were and seemed deeply bored by the whole proceeding, checking his phone while the clerk read the vows.
You'd signed the license as Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy, your hand shaking slightly as you wrote your new name for the first time, the letters looking strange and foreign to you on the official document. Leon had kissed you so thoroughly against the courthouse steps afterward that you'd forgotten your own name, his hands cupping your face, his lips moving against yours and your eyes yet again stung with tears you refused to let fall.
"I love you," he'd whispered against your mouth. "I love you so fucking much."
"I know," you'd whispered back. "I love you too."
That was two years ago. Two years of marriage that no one knew about except your lawyer, your accountant, and the county clerk's office. You still went by your maiden name professionally, kept your public persona separate from your private life. Leon still took missions that sent him to godforsaken corners of the world for weeks at a time, came home with new scars and stories he couldn't tell and shadows in his eyes that took days to fade.
To the outside world, you were the tech CEO who'd survived a terrorist attack and he was the mysterious government agent who'd saved her. A romance that never came to fruition despite the news pushing for the two of you to be together. It quickly became old news, buried under fresh news of your booming business and tech that was saving peoples lives. When you posed for Forbes most influential women and did an interview, once the magazine released and Leon was not mentioned at all, the two of you as a couple became old news.
They had no idea that you went home to the same apartment every night, that his clothes hung in your closet next to your designer dresses, that his toothbrush sat next to yours in the bathroom, that he knew exactly how you took your coffee and you knew the best way to coax him out of the dark places his mind went after bad missions.
They didn't know about the quiet domesticity, cooking dinner together, arguing over what to watch on Netflix, falling asleep on the couch with his head in your lap. They didn't know that you were the person he called when he needed to hear a friendly voice, that you were the only one who could talk him down when the nightmares got bad.
Now you were here, playing the part of the composed tech CEO at a charity gala, while your husband was somewhere in this glittering crowd, probably nursing a whiskey and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Quite the turnout," a voice said beside you, low and familiar, making your pulse jump.
You turned, and there he was, Leon looked devastatingly handsome in a tailored black suit. The jacket hugged his shoulders perfectly, emphasizing the breadth of them, the way he'd filled out over the years from the lean young man in the Johannesburg footage to something more dangerous and handsome.
The crisp white shirt was open at the collar because he'd apparently drawn the line at wearing a tie, probably ripping it off in his separate car on the way here, even though you had painstakingly tied it for him. You'd watched him get dressed earlier, had helped him with the cufflinks while he grumbled about monkey suits and why couldn't he just wear jeans, this was your event, couldn't you pull some strings? His hair was slightly tousled, like he'd run his fingers through it repeatedly, and those blue eyes tracked over you like lines of fire leaving goosebumps across your skin and heat pooling low in your belly.
He looked at you like everyone else was just background noise, extras in a movie where you were the only one who mattered. It made you feel naked despite the silk covering you from collarbone to ankle, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with skin.
"Mr. Kennedy," you said smoothly, extending your hand like you were meeting a stranger, playing the game for the cameras you knew were watching, they were always watching. "I didn't expect to see you here."
His lips quirked, that smug smirk that you'd learned meant he was amused, he was playing along with your game. He took your hand, but instead of shaking it, he turned it over with deliberate slowness and pressed his lips to your knuckles in a kiss that was chaste enough to be acceptable in public but you knew better. His lips were warm, soft, and you felt the touch all the way to your toes, heat spreading up your arm like wildfire.
"Ms.—" He caught himself, that smirk widening into one of his more genuine smiles that he only shared with you. "I mean, they invited me. Something about being a 'hero of humanitarian efforts.' Guess saving people from bioterror attacks counts."
"I'd say it counts." You pulled your hand back slowly, aware of the eyes on you both, the phones that had already appeared, angled discreetly in your direction. The rumor mill never really stopped, just went dormant until you gave it something to feed on. Tomorrow there would be articles, think pieces, social media posts dissecting this interaction. "Thank you, by the way. I don't think I ever said that properly."
"You did." and then his voice dropped lower as he leaned closer, the next words meant only for you despite the crowd circling around you. "Multiple times. Very thoroughly."
Your cheeks flushed, heat spreading down your throat and across your chest, blooming across your skin. You knew he could see it, the silk left very little to the imagination, the fabric thin enough that your body's reactions were on display, and his grin was wicked and satisfied as he puled away from you, like a tuxedo cat that had just caught a clever brown mouse.
He was absolutely thinking about the last time you'd thanked him, which had involved you on your knees in your bedroom and his hands fisted in your hair, his voice rough as he praised you, told you how much of a good wife you were.
More cameras flashed around you like twinkling stars. You saw a woman in a red dress nudging her companion, both of them staring. A man in a tuxedo had his phone out, not even trying to be subtle.
He cleared his throat and raised his glass of whiskey, clinked it gently against yours with a soft chime. "Anyway…I hope you have a good night, Ms." And of course he had to emphasize your title.
Then he turned and slipped back into the crowd, leaving you standing there with flushed cheeks and a racing heart, very aware that you'd just given the gossip sites enough material for a week's worth of articles. Maybe more, if they really dug into it.
That bastard...he knew exactly what he was doing. You were going to be getting him back for this later.
The evening crawled by in a parade of small talk and photo opportunities. You shook hands with senators who wanted to talk about regulation and smiled for selfies with donors who'd given six figures to the foundation. You made conversation with a tech billionaire who wanted to talk about AI ethics and whether your immune system technology could be adapted for machine learning, a question that made no sense but you nodded along anyway.
A movie producer cornered you saying she was "very interested" in optioning your story, had a vision for it, something gritty and romantic, maybe Jennifer Lawrence “she can play anyone!” for you and “who would you want to play Kennedy?” You'd smiled and given her your publicist's card and excused yourself before she could pitch any further.
You gave your speech about the foundation, established in honor of the Johannesburg victims, funding research into bioterrorism prevention and survivor support, partnering with organizations around the world to ensure nothing like that happened again. Your voice was steady, professional, hitting all the right notes. You talked about resilience and hope and the importance of turning tragedy into something meaningful.
You didn't mention that you still had nightmares, that woke you up in the night or that you couldn't be in small rooms without feeling your chest tighten, that the sound of scratching made your skin crawl. You accepted applause with grace you didn't feel, smiled for the cameras, posed with the oversized check from the night's biggest donor.
The whole time, you were aware of Leon on the opposite side of the ballroom. He stayed near the bar, nursing what looked like whiskey, probably something expensive that he didn't care about. He fielded conversations with the kind of polite detachment that made it clear he'd rather be anywhere else, his body language screaming discomfort even as he smiled and nodded. But you felt his gaze on you constantly, made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Every time you glanced his way, he was watching you, and the look in his eyes made promises about what would happen when you finally got home.
By eleven PM, you needed air. The ballroom was too hot, too crowded, the press of bodies making you feel claustrophobic and like you were back in the server room. Too full of people who wanted pieces of you that you didn't have to give, your time, your attention, your story, your trauma packaged into something palatable. The air was thick with perfume and cologne and the smell of the elaborate dinner that had been served hours ago. Your face hurt from smiling. Your feet hurt from the heels. You needed space, needed quiet, needed to breathe some fresh air.
The balcony on the third floor was supposed to be restricted, but you'd slipped the security guard a smile and a comment about needing a moment, and he'd let you through with a knowing look. Maybe he recognized you.
The November air bit at your bare shoulders as you stepped outside, your breath misting in front of your face. The sounds of the gala muffled behind the heavy glass doors, reducing the string quartet and conversation to a distant murmur, like listening to the ocean from underwater. The city sprawled below, a carpet of lights stretching to the horizon, beautiful in the night. From up here, it looked peaceful.
You braced your hands on the stone railing, letting the cold seep into your palms. The chill helped clear your head, breaking through the champagne haze, you'd only had one glass but it had been enough, and the exhaustion of performing and masking for hours. You closed your eyes and breathed in the cold air.
You didn't hear him approach, Leon often moved like a predator when he wanted to, a skill honed by years of training and missions, but you felt the moment he stepped out on the balcony. Your body responded before your mind caught up, your pulse quickening, your breath coming a little faster, every nerve ending suddenly aware of his presence.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
"Just needed a break from the vultures." You didn't turn around, kept your eyes on the city lights, watching the way they blurred and sharpened when you blinked. "You know how it is. Everyone wants a piece of the woman who survived."
"They don't deserve a piece of you." His footsteps were soft against the stone, deliberate, unhurried. He wasn't rushing. He knew you weren't going anywhere. "Not a single one of them."
"You're biased."
"Damn right I am."
He stopped directly behind you, you could feel his body heat and smell his cologne, something woody and clean that you'd bought him last Christmas, Tom Ford. It had been expensive but worth it, because of the way it smelled on his skin. You closed your eyes, leaning back slightly, and his hands came up to grip the railing on either side of you, caging you in. His chest pressed against your back, and you let yourself relax into him, let him take your weight.
"Leon," you whispered. "People might see."
"Let them." His breath ghosted over your neck, making you shiver, goosebumps rising on your skin. "I'm tired of pretending I don't know you."
"We agreed—"
"I know what we agreed." His lips brushed the shell of your ear, feather-light. "Doesn't mean I like it."
You didn't like it either, you were tired of the secret, tired of pretending the most important person in your life was just someone you'd met once five years ago. But Leon's work required discretion, and your public profile made you a target. Keeping the marriage quiet kept him safe, kept both of you safe. Or at least, that's what you told yourselves.
"You look incredible tonight," he murmured against your ear, his voice dropping down into the lower rumble that made your stomach clench and heat bloom between your thighs. "I've been watching you all evening, thinking about peeling this dress off you."
"Leon—"
"About laying you out on our bed and making you forget every single person in that room exists." His hand left the railing to splay across your stomach, pulling you back more firmly against him. You could feel every hard plane of his body, the solid muscle of his chest and thighs, the evidence of exactly what you did to him pressing against your lower back. He was hard, had probably been hard for hours watching you, and the knowledge made you clench around nothing.
Your breath hitched as his lips traced the line of your jaw, leaving heat in their wake, his stubble scratching pleasantly against your skin.
"We can't," you managed, even as you tilted your head to give him better access to your throat, betraying your words with your body. "Not here."
"I know." He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the spot where your pulse hammered, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin, salt and perfume and you. "Doesn't mean I don't want to."
His hand slid up your ribs, his palm hot through the thin silk. He stopped just below your breast, his thumb stroking the underside through the fabric, you had to bite your lip to keep from making a sound. You could feel your nipples hardening against the thin silk.
"I mean it, you know," he said, his voice softer now, losing some of that playful edge. The more vulnerable side that he rarely let show peaking through. "You look lovely. You always do. Always have."
You turned your head slightly, trying to see his face in the dim light from the ballroom. The glow cast shadows across his features, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose.
"I can think of a few moments when I wasn't at my best." You said softly.
You were thinking about the incident, about being covered in your own filth, dehydrated and delirious, your hair matted with sweat and your eyes red and swollen from crying. That's what he'd seen when he burst through that door. Not the polished CEO in designer clothes, but someone broken.
Leon seemed to know exactly what you were thinking because his arms tightened around you, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. His breath was warm against your neck. "Even then," he said quietly, and there was no hesitation in his voice. "Especially then. You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
Your throat tightened, emotion swelling in your chest until it was hard to breathe. "Leon—"
"I'm serious." He turned you gently in his arms, his hands on your waist, until you were facing him. The city lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting his intense blue eyes. "You survived when a lot of people didn't. You were strong and brave, and you didn't give up, even when you thought no one was coming to save you."
Your eyes stung, tears threatening to spill over and ruin the expensive makeup your stylist had spent an hour applying. You blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back, but it was a losing battle. "You can't just say things like that," you whispered, your voice thick.
"Why not?" His thumb stroked across your cheekbone, catching a tear that had escaped despite your best efforts. "It's true."
You reached up to cup his face, your palm against his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble under your fingers. His eyes closed briefly, leaning into your touch like a cat seeking affection. This wonderful, infuriating man who'd saved your life and then somehow become your whole world.
You studied him in the dim light taking in every detail. The lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn't been there five years ago, evidence of his age. The exhaustion that seemed permanently etched into his features, like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and refused to put it down.
"Do you have some sort of kink for women in distress, Mr. Kennedy?" you asked, trying to lighten the mood before you started crying in earnest, a smile tugging at your lips despite the tears.
His eyes opened, and there was that wicked glint again, mischief dancing in the blue. "Only one."
You laughed and slapped his chest. "I always knew you had some weird kinks."
He caught your wrist before you could pull it back, brought it to his lips, pressed a kiss to your hand that was nothing like the one inside. His lips were warm and soft, and you could feel your pulse jumping under his mouth. "Says the woman who asked me to—"
"Okay, okay!" You were laughing harder now, trying to pull your hand back, your face burning with heat that not even the cold air could chase away. "We're not talking about that here."
"Why not?" He was grinning now. "It's a nice memory. A very nice memory."
"Leon!" You were laughing so hard you could barely breathe; your free hand pressed against your stomach. “There are people listening everywhere. Always. ”
"Then maybe they should cover their ears," he said, still grinning, and you dissolved into giggles.
You were both laughing, the tension of the evening melting away like snow in sunlight, and this was what you loved most, these moments when it was just the two of you. When you could just be you and he could just be Leon, not the hero or the agent. Just two people who loved each other.
As you were laughing, you brushed your hair back from your face with your free hand, when he leaned in for a kiss. It started gentle, his lips soft against yours, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroked across your cheekbone, and you sighed into his mouth, your body relaxing against his.
"I love you," he whispered against your lips, his breath mingling with yours. "Mrs. Kennedy."
Your heart clenched in your chest, the way it always did when he said your married name. It still felt new even after years. Like a secret language only the two of you spoke. "I love you too," you whispered back, your fingers tangling in his hair, feeling the soft strands slide between your fingers. "Mr. Kennedy."
You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face, and ran your hand through his hair, trying to fix where you'd messed it up. But it was no use, it fell right back into that tousled style that made him look like he'd just rolled out of bed.
"You're so handsome," you murmured, pressing a kiss to his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble against your lips. "So handsome it's unfair."
He made a soft sound as you pressed another kiss, this one to the corner of his mouth, and you felt his lips curve into a smile under yours. "And you're mine." Your voice was possessive, and you didn't care. Another kiss, full on his lips, deeper this time. "All mine."
He made a low sound in his throat his hands tightening on your waist. "Keep talking like that and we're leaving right now. I don't care about the foundation or the gala or anything else."
"Just stating facts." You kissed him again, longer this time, your tongue tracing the seam of his lips, tasting whiskey. He opened for you and you took your time exploring his mouth. "You're gorgeous," you murmured between kisses. "And sweet." Another kiss, this one with a gentle scrape of teeth. "And you have this thing you do with your hands—"
He cut you off with a kiss that stole your breath, his mouth slanting over yours with sudden hunger. It wasn't gentle anymore. It was desperate and claiming, his hand fisting in your carefully styled hair as he angled your head back to deepen the kiss. You gasped against his mouth, and he took advantage, his tongue sliding against yours.
Your hands clutched at his jacket, fisting in the expensive fabric, pulling him closer, needing more of him. He tasted like whiskey and you couldn't get enough. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging gently before soothing your bottom lip with his tongue, and you made a sound that was embarrassingly needy.
He walked you backward until your spine hit the stone wall beside the doors, the impact jarring but not painful, his body covering yours completely. Every inch of him pressed against every inch of you, his chest against yours, his hips pinning you to the wall, his thigh sliding between your legs.
His hand slid down to grip your thigh through the slit in your dress, his palm hot against your bare skin, hitching your leg up around his hip. You whimpered into his mouth, as you became acutely aware of exactly how much he wanted you, pressing against your core through too many layers of fabric.
"Fuck," he groaned, breaking the kiss to trail his lips down your throat his stubble scraped against your sensitive skin in a way that made you shiver, made goosebumps rise on your arms. "We need to leave. Now."
"We can't just—ah—" Your words dissolved into a gasp as he bit down gently on your collarbone, his teeth scraping over bone before his tongue soothed the sting of his teeth . "Leon, we have to stay until at least midnight. It's my foundation. People will notice if I leave early."
"Don't care." His hand slid higher on your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh, his thumb brushing dangerously close to where you were already wet for him. You could feel it, the dampness of your panties, the way your body responded to him without thought. "Need you. Need to be inside you."
The crude words made you clench around nothing and more wetness flood between your thighs. "Fifteen more minutes," you bargained breathlessly, your head falling back against the stone as his mouth found that spot on your neck that made you pliable under him. "Then we can go. I promise."
He pulled back to look at you, and the expression on his face made your knees weak. His pupils were blown wide, almost swallowing the blue, his lips swollen from kissing and wet with your shared saliva. His hair was a complete mess from your hands, and he looked at you like he wanted to consume you and be consumed in return.
"Fifteen minutes," he agreed, his voice rough. "Then I'm taking you home and keeping you in bed for the next twenty-four hours. At least."
"Promise?" You were breathless, your chest heaving, your lips tingling.
"Gorgeous, that's a threat."
He kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense. His hand left your thigh to cup your face, both hands framing your jaw now, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with love and tenderness. The contrast between his gentle touch and the hard press of his body making your head spin, making it hard to think about anything except him.
You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, could feel the way his hands trembled slightly as they held you, and you knew that this man loved you with everything he had. That you were his entire world, the way he was yours. That he would burn down the world to keep you safe, would walk through hell itself if you asked him to.
You kissed him back with equal fervor, pouring everything you felt into it, love and gratitude and desire and the fierce need to keep him safe the way he kept you safe. Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close, and when you finally broke apart you were both breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together, sharing air.
"I love you," you whispered again, because you couldn't say it enough, would never be able to say it enough. Three words that didn't come close to capturing what you felt but were all you had.
"I love you too," he murmured, pressing one more soft kiss to your lips, then another to your forehead. "So fucking much."
His hands smoothed down your sides, trying to straighten your dress where he'd rumpled it. Your hair was a disaster, tendrils falling around your face and your lipstick was completely destroyed, smeared across your mouth and probably his. You looked thoroughly debauched, and you didn't care.
"You're a mess," he said fondly, his thumb wiping at the corner of your mouth where your lipstick had smudged.
"Mhm and who’s fault is that?" you pointed out, and he grinned, unrepentant.
"Guilty."
You laughed softly, reaching up to try to fix your hair, but it was hopeless. You'd need a mirror and ten minutes to make yourself presentable again. "We should probably go back inside before someone comes looking for me."
"Probably," he agreed, but he didn't move, didn't step back. His hands stayed on your waist; his body still pressed against yours like he couldn't bear to put distance between you.
"Leon—"
"I know." He sighed, finally stepping back, and you immediately missed his warmth. The November air rushed in where his body had been, making you shiver. He shrugged out of his jacket immediately, draping it over your shoulders. It was warm from his body heat and smelled like him, and you pulled it tighter around yourself.
"Thank you."
"Can't have you freezing," he said, his hands lingering on your shoulders. "Fifteen minutes, right?"
"Fifteen minutes," you confirmed. "Then we can leave."
"I'm holding you to that." He pressed one more kiss to your forehead, then stepped back fully, putting proper distance between you. Professional distance, like you were just acquaintances having a conversation on a balcony, but his eyes told a different story. His eyes promised exactly what would happen when you got home, and the heat in them filled you with anticipation.
Neither of you noticed the phone camera pressed against the glass door, recording every second. Your bodies pressed together against the wall, his hand in your hair, the unmistakable intimacy of the kiss. The moment he'd hitched your leg around his hip. How you'd clutched at him like you were drowning and he was air. The way you looked at each other like nothing else in the world existed, like you were the only two people.
The footage was crystal clear. The audio was muffled but you could make out some words. "I love you," "Mrs. Kennedy," "need you." Enough to paint a very clear picture.
The person holding the phone grinned, already composing the tweet in their head. This was going to break the internet, By tomorrow morning, it would be everywhere. Every news site, every gossip blog, every social media platform. The secret you'd kept for years, exposed in high definition for the world to see.
But for now, you were blissfully unaware. For now, it was just you and Leon on a balcony, counting down the minutes until you could go home.
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The next morning, you woke to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your penthouse bedroom, Leon's arm was curled across your waist. The light was golden and warm, painting everything in shades of amber and honey. You were deliciously sore in all the right places, your thighs, your hips, the pleasant ache between your legs that reminded you of exactly how Leon had kept his promise about keeping you in bed. The sheet barely covered your naked body, tangled around your legs, the Egyptian cotton soft against your oversensitive skin.
Leon was still asleep beside you; his face relaxed and peaceful, his lips slightly parted, his breathing deep and even. You studied him in the golden light, the soft line of his jaw darkened with stubble, the way his lashes fanned against his cheeks, long and dark and unfairly pretty. Your husband, The man who'd somehow found his way to you.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. Then again and again, it wouldn't stop buzzing, a constant buzz against the nightstand. Then it started ringing.
Leon stirred, groaning, his arm tightening around your waist reflexively. "Jesus Christ, what is going on?" he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.
"I'm sure it's nothing," you murmured, reaching for the phone with the hand that wasn't trapped under his weight. Probably your publicist with some question about the foundation, or a board member wanting to discuss quarterly projections, or—
Fifty-three missed calls. Two hundred and seventeen text messages. Your publicist had sent approximately forty emails with subject lines in all caps: "CALL ME IMMEDIATELY," "WE NEED TO TALK," "DO NOT MAKE ANY STATEMENTS."
Your stomach dropped, you opened Twitter with shaking fingers, the video was everywhere.
The footage was grainy from the distance and the glass, shot through the door, but there was no mistaking who it was. No mistaking the intimacy, the desperation, the way Leon had you pressed against the wall like he was trying to merge your bodies into one.
#KennedyWedding was trending worldwide. Number one. Above politics, above celebrity gossip, above everything.
The headlines were already rolling in, updating in real-time as you scrolled:
"𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙵𝙸𝚁𝙼𝙴𝙳: 𝚃𝚎𝚌𝚑 𝙲𝙴𝙾 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝 𝙲𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚢!"
"𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚆𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍: 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝 𝚁𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚝"
"𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚁𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚁𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚆𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚆𝚎 𝙽𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍"
"𝙴𝚇𝙲𝙻𝚄𝚂𝙸𝚅𝙴: 𝚂𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚂𝚊𝚢 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚟𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚈𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚂"
You scrolled through the comments, watching the internet lose its collective mind in real-time. Half the people were screaming about how romantic it was, using all caps and crying emojis and keyboard smashes. The other half were demanding to know how they'd kept it secret for so long, analyzing every public appearance you'd both made, looking for clues they'd missed.
Leon's hand slid up your bare back, his palm tracing the line of your spine. "what is it?"
You couldn't help the slightly hysterical laugh that escaped. "We're trending. Someone took a video of us on the balcony, and it is everywhere."
He propped himself up on one elbow, looking at your phone over your shoulder. His hair was sticking up in about fifteen different directions from where you'd run your fingers through it last night, and this morning, twice. His expression didn't change as he watched the footage of himself kissing you.
"Huh," he said finally, his voice still rough with sleep.
"That's it? Just 'huh'?" You twisted to look at him, incredulous. "Leon, we're the number one trending topic on Twitter. My publicist has probably had an aneurysm. And you're just—huh?"
"We knew this would happen eventually," he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to your collarbone. "Honestly surprised we made it this long."
"You're not upset?" You searched his face for any sign of anger or frustration but found only calm acceptance and suspiciously a look of satisfaction.
"Why would I be upset?" He lifted his head to look at you properly, and his eyes were clear and calm, that winter-sky blue bright in the morning light. "The whole world knows were together now. That's the opposite of a problem."
Your heart squeezed in your chest, emotion swelling. "Leon—"
He pulled you closer, his arm wrapped around your waist, he closed his eyes his breathing already evening out toward sleep again.
When you heard him starting to snore again, you scoffed all soft and fluffy emotion gone, as you reached down to smack his ass, firm and muscular under your palm. He groaned, one eye cracking open to give you a reproachful look, but he didn't move otherwise.
"How are you going back to sleep?"
"Not my problem," he mumbled, his eyes drifting shut again. "Let them go crazy. I'm tired. You kept me up all night."
"I kept you up? You're the one who—" You broke off, heat flooding your cheeks as you remembered exactly what he'd done. You huffed looking back to your phone. "Whatever. Go back to sleep, old man."
"Not that old," he muttered, but he was already drifting off, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.
You rolled your eyes fondly, scrolling through the chaos.You were sprawled across Leon's chest, as he'd been dozing on and off for the past hour, occasionally pressing lazy kisses to your hair while you scrolled through your phone, watching the internet collectively lose its shit.
"Oh my god," you breathed, trying not to laugh too loud. "Leon. Leon."
"Mmm?" he hummed, his chest rumbling beneath you.
"You have to see this."
He cracked one eye open, squinting at you with the expression of a man who'd fought bioterror threats across three continents and really just wanted a nap. "If it's another article, I'm going back to sleep."
"It's better." You tilted your phone toward him, hitting play on the edit.
The video opened on a freeze frame of the balcony footage, that moment right before Leon kissed you, his hand cupping your face, your eyes locked on each other. The tension was palpable even in a still image. Then the beat dropped.
“I can show you love~ I can show you love~ They don’t know us~” a melodic set of voices crooned as the video cut between different angles people had compiled from the original footage: Leon's hand sliding up your thigh, your fingers twisting in his hair, the way he'd pressed you against the wall like he was trying to fuse your bodies together. Someone had color-graded it, added slow-motion effects to the most intimate moments, overlaid sparkles and hearts and light flares.
The caption read: "POV: You married your savior in secret and the internet just found out #Kennedy #RelationshipGoals #They Don’t Know Us"
It had 4.2 million views. In less than twelve hours. you snorted, scrolling to the comments section, which was even more unhinged.
Leon blinked at the screen, his brow furrowing in that confused puppy way that made you want to kiss him stupid. "Why are there... sparkles?"
"It's an edit, babe. People make them." You couldn't help grinning at his bewilderment. "It's a thing. They take footage and make it pretty."
"Of us?"
"Of us." You moved on to the next video, barely containing your amusement. "There are literally hundreds. Maybe thousands by now." You said turning the screen towards him again.
"That's... nice, babe," Leon mumbled, his eyes already drifting shut again.
You bit back a laugh. "You're not even looking."
"I'm looking." He wasn't. His face was half-buried in your hair, his breathing evening out toward sleep.
"Leon Scott Kennedy, you are not looking."
He huffed, forcing his eyes open again with visible effort. "Okay. I'm looking. That's us. Kissing. Very nice. Can I go back to sleep now?"
"There's more." You scrolled gleefully, pulling up another edit. This one was a full minute long, a masterpiece of editing that must have taken hours. It spliced together every angle of the balcony footage with what looked like old security photos someone had dug up from Johannesburg, grainy shots of Leon carrying you, his hand cradling your head, your face buried against his chest. Photos from the field hospital, him next to you by the ambulance. The song was dramatic, orchestral, like a movie trailer, building to a crescendo as it showed the balcony kiss.
Leon watched this one with slightly more focus, his jaw working as he processed what he was seeing. The footage from Johannesburg clearly affected him, you could see it in the way his arm tightened around you, the way his breathing changed slightly. "People are really invested in this, huh?"
"You have no idea." You pulled up your Instagram, which had completely transformed overnight into a shrine of you and Leon. Fan art, some of it surprisingly good, depicting you and Leon in various romantic scenarios. Photo compilations of every time you'd been photographed in the same vicinity over the past five years. Thirst edits of Leon, which made you laugh. "You've got fangirls….and fanboys. Very equal opportunity thirsting."
He made a low noise of bewilderment. "I don't get it."
"Leon…It's cute, Let them make the edits!" You scrolled to another video, this one a slideshow of photos people had found of you at various events over the past year, analyzing your outfits for any sign of a ring, any hint of your secret.
Someone had circled your left hand in every photo, showing how you'd strategically hidden it, even though you had actually never worn it, because you kept it on a chain safely tucked away next to your heart.
Leon was quiet for a moment, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your hip through the sheet, following the curve of bone. "Does it bother you? All the attention?"
"Honestly?" You looked up at him, at those blue eyes that had seen too much but still softened when they landed on you. "I never liked the media but this… I don’t know I think it's kind of funny, and sweet, in a weird way. People are genuinely happy for us. They're not being cruel or invasive, well, mostly. They just... they like the romance."
"Mm." He pulled you closer, burying his face against your neck. "As long as you're okay with it."
"I am." You went back to scrolling, pulling up another edit. "Oh, this one's good. They used that clip of you helping me into the car after the gala—"
The video showed Leon's hand on the small of your back as he guided you into the SUV, the way he'd leaned in to murmur something in your ear that made you smile. Someone had slowed it down, added a filter that made it look like a scene from a movie, super cut with zooms and other photos that weren’t you but gave the same vibe. The song playing in the background. "We were so in love..." Frank Ocean's voice crooned.
You were so focused on reading the comments that you didn't notice Leon shifting until he was rolling over, taking you with him. You squeaked in surprise as the world tilted, suddenly finding yourself on your back with Leon looming over you, his weight settling between your thighs. He plucked the phone from your hand and tossed it somewhere across the room. It landed with a soft thud on the carpet, the edit still playing. "M-R-S dot Kennedy, she signed her name in pen. In the fancy, fancy cursive," the music continued, playing over and over again.
"Leon!" You laughed, reaching for it halfheartedly. "I was watching—"
"I can think of better things to do than watch videos of me kissing my wife," he murmured against your lips, his hand sliding up your bare thigh beneath the sheet.
"Oh really?" You tried to sound unaffected, but your breath hitched when his fingers found the edge of your panties, the lacy ones you'd put on after your shower earlier, thinking you'd get dressed eventually. "Like what?"
"Like actually kissing my wife." He demonstrated, his mouth covering yours in a slow deep kiss that made your toes curl against the sheets, His tongue sliding against yours.
Your phone kept playing videos somewhere on the floor, the soft melodic voice filling the room again on autoplay. You couldn't help but laugh against Leon's mouth. "Leon—the phone—"
"Don't care," he muttered, his hand sliding higher, fingers tracing the edge of lace. "Pay attention to me."
"Alright, alright, So greedy…" you teased, but your hands were already finding his shoulders, his back, pulling him closer. His skin was warm under your palms, the muscles shifting as he moved. His mouth trailed down your throat, teeth scraping gently over your pulse, and you could feel him smile against your skin when you gasped. His palm slid up your chest, pushing his shirt, the one you'd stolen to wear to bed up and off, baring you to his gaze.
"Hello Gorgeous," he murmured, his eyes tracking over you like he was seeing you for the first time, like he hadn't spent the entire night kissing every inch of your body.
"Leon," you laughed breathlessly turning your head slightly into the pillow, in your embarrassment, your hands finding his shoulders. His mouth continued its path downward, kissing a path down your sternum, your ribs, your stomach. His hands were everywhere cupping your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peaked, making you arch into his touch.
Your phone screen finally went dark, the videos stopping, silence falling over the room except for your increasingly uneven breathing and the rustle of sheets. Leon's mouth moved lower, kissing the curve of your hip, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. His hands hooked into your panties, dragging them down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. The lace caught on your ankle, and he tossed them aside carelessly, his focus entirely on you.
"Much better than watching videos," he murmured, his breath hot against your inner thigh, making you shiver. His hands pushed your thighs wider, settling his broad shoulders between them, and the sight of him there, hair mussed his eyes dark with lust and his mouth so close to where you needed him, made you clench around nothing.
Your fingers tangled in his hair as he settled between your legs, his shoulders keeping your thighs open wider. "Leon, you don't have to—oh—" The words dissolved into a gasp as his tongue licked a long stripe up your center, groaning against you, your back arching off the bed.
"Fuck," you whimpered, your hand fisting in the sheets, the other tightening in his hair. "Leon—" He didn't respond, His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open when you tried to close them, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
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Much later, when you finally emerged from the bedroom you found him in the kitchen making coffee. He'd pulled on a pair of grey sweatpants that should be illegal with how they hung low on his hips, the waistband of his boxer briefs visible above them, and his chest was bare, showing off the constellation of scars and the fine dusting of blonde hair that mapped his chest. His hair was still messy from your fingers, sticking up in directions that defied physics, and he looked so soft like a stray tom cat finally tamed and domesticated.
The afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your penthouse, San Francisco spread out below, the bay glittering in the distance, but you only had eyes for him.
He must have heard you padding across the hardwood because he turned, a smile already curving his lips. The coffee maker gurgled behind him, filling the open kitchen with the rich scent of dark roast.
"Morning," he said, even though it was well past noon. "Or afternoon. Whatever."
"Hi," you said softly, your voice still a little hoarse from earlier, from crying out his name, from the way he'd made you scream into the pillow when he'd taken you from behind, his hand fisted in your hair.
He handed you a mug, overly sweet with too much creamer, exactly how you liked it, and pulled you against his side with his free arm. You went willingly, tucking yourself against him, your head resting on his shoulder. His skin was warm, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
You both stood there for a moment; the kitchen was quiet except for the coffee maker and the distant sounds of the city below. Peaceful. Normal. Like you were just a regular couple having a lazy Sunday, not two people whose secret marriage had just broken the internet.
"So," he said casually, taking a sip of his coffee, extra black, no sugar, because he was a psychopath. "How do you want to handle this?"
You thought about it, sipping your coffee and watching the San Francisco fog beginning to roll in through the Golden Gate, creeping across the bay.
"We could release a statement," you mused, your business brain kicking in despite the pleasant ache in your muscles. "Something brief. Confirm the marriage, ask for privacy. My publicist probably has one drafted already, knowing her. She's probably been up all night crafting the perfect response."
"Or?" Leon prompted, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip through the thin fabric of his shirt.
"Or we could do absolutely nothing and let them figure it out themselves." You tilted your head to look up at him, gauging his reaction. "Just... live our lives. Post a photo eventually, maybe. Let it be what it is."
Leon's laugh was low and warm, rumbling through his chest and into yours. "I like option two."
You couldn't help but smile. Of course he did. Leon had never been one for public statements or carefully crafted PR responses. He'd probably never even read the statements the DSO put out about him.
“My wife is so smart. Did I ever tell you that?” He jokes as he kisses the top of your head, his lips lingering against your hair as you laugh. "Besides, we've got more important things to do."
"Like what?" You knew where this was going, could feel it in the way his hand was sliding higher on your thigh, in the way his breathing had changed slightly.
"Like me making good on that “twenty-four hours” in bed promise." His voice dropped lower, taking on that tone that made your stomach clench. "Pretty sure I've only kept you there for about twelve." He said turning his wrist to look at the watch on his wrist theatrically, while he set down his coffee mug on the counter with a soft click, before he lifted you onto the counter in one smooth motion, his hands gripping your waist, and you gasped at the sudden movement, the granite cold against your bare ass. Your own mug joined his on the counter as his hands slid up under the shirt you wore.
"Leon, I just got up." you laughed, your hands coming up to rest on his shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle under your palms. "It's ten in the morning." even as heat pooled between your thighs, your body responding to his proximity with Pavlovian eagerness.
"Actually It's one in the afternoon," he corrected, His mouth found the sensitive spot below your ear, that place he'd discovered years ago that made you melt. "And we're behind schedule." His tongue traced the shell of your ear before his teeth caught your earlobe, tugging gently. "Plus, didn’t’ you hear we're married. We can do whatever we want."
Your phone sat on the counter, still lighting up with notifications. The screen flashed every few seconds, a constant reminder of the chaos happening in the outside world. Twitter. Instagram. Text messages. Emails. The whole world trying to reach you, trying to get a piece of you, wanting statements and comments and reactions.
You ignored it completely.