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It had started simply. You leaned over to point something out on his computer screen, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself. He allowed you to stay there for a moment, your hand distracting him only slightly. And to his surprise, he felt a slight bout of disappointment when you removed it.
Then Chris had invited you out for drinks with the STARS team. And with a few drinks in his system, Wesker placed his palm on your mid-back under the guise of steadying you. Your skin was warm, even through his gloves, and he allowed himself to linger there. Without warning, a giggling fit sent you crashing into his side. He felt his spine go rigid, but he didn’t push you away. Instead, part of him relished the feeling of your weight against him.
Your first date had followed shortly after. He hadn’t been on a real date in a long time. Perhaps it was college? Maybe even high school? He’d held your hand as he drove you home. And as your other hand came up to wander over his knuckles and up to his forearm, tracing the veins visible beneath his pale skin, something in the recesses of his mind began to relax.
“Is this okay? Chris said you don’t like being touched.” You looked up at him, catching his eyes through the side of his dark glasses.
“I usually hate it,” he admitted. “But this… is nice.”
You hummed in agreement. “Just tell me if it’s too much, okay?”
“Of course. I expect you to do the same.” His tone left no room for argument, so you only nodded, admiring the soft pink that had settled on his cheeks.
You’d offered the man a hug outside of your apartment, and it took all the self control he could muster to let you go. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hugged. The gentle pressure and warmth of your body against his felt so good it almost hurt.
Later in the week, you stopped by Wesker’s office to bring him a coffee. He was skipping his lunch break, and the fatigue was visible even through his sunglasses. His seated position meant his head rested against your stomach as you held him. Your fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck, and he sighed into the fabric of your shirt. It had been a full ten minutes before he let you leave.
From that point on, it became very clear to both of you that – when it came to you– there was no such thing as too much touch for Albert Wesker.
He’d call you into his office on bad days just to give him kisses. He kept his hands firmly on your waist as you did so, pressing your lips first to his before peppering kisses over his cheeks, forehead, the tip of his nose, his temple just above the band of his sunglasses, and anywhere else you could access.
He’d pull you aside in the library, hidden among the shelves, just to hold you. He’d rest his head atop yours, soaking in the scent of your shampoo. You’d shake your head in playful disapproval. Then you wrapped your arms around his neck, leaning into him each time.
Outside of work he was even clingier. Whether it was a hand on your waist claiming you as his, or a full on cuddle session in the dim light of his home, he was always touching you. He’d stop if you asked, but you rarely felt the need. Instead, you let him tangle his fingers in your hair, burying your face in his neck and lacing your legs in with his.
You were exactly what he needed. Patient, loving, gentle. And with each brush of his fingers over your skin, Wesker made a silent promise to himself that he’d do whatever it took to keep you.