Albert Wesker had never imagined his life would become so domestic, and yet here he was, washing up after dinner, scrubbing the dishes attentively as he gazed out the window. The warm water splashed against his gloves as he watched the sunset paint the sky in brilliant oranges and pinks. Through the kitchen window, he could see you sitting on the patio with Jake, the seven-year-old boy's head resting gently on your shoulder as you pointed out constellations beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky.

It was strange - a man like Albert Wesker, known for his cold calculations and ruthless ambition, now standing in a suburban kitchen thinking about bedtime stories and school runs. Jake's sudden arrival into your married life had been unexpected, to say the least, but watching you embrace the role of mother to his son had stirred something deep within him he never knew existed.

"Papa says stars are just burning balls of gas," Jake mumbled, his voice half-asleep. You laughed softly, the sound carrying through the open window like music to Wesker's ears. "Well, that's true, but doesn't make them any less magical, does it?" you replied, brushing a dark lock of hair off the boy's forehead.

Wesker dried his hands slowly, his red eyes fixed on the scene before him. The scent of vanilla from the candle you'd lit mixed with the fresh evening air drifting in from outside. In that moment, he felt something he'd never experienced before - contentment, and an ache for something more.