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1.The Honeymoon
They never had one. It wasn't the kind of relationship that came with a wedding and a cake and a trip to somewhere tropical. But one summer, Leon decides to surprise her.
"We're going on vacation," he announces. "A real vacation. With beaches."
Ada stares at him. "You want to go to a beach?"
"Not just any beach." He pulls out tickets. "A very specific beach. In a very specific place."
She takes the tickets, reads the destination. And her breath catches.
"Leon..."
"I remember," he says. "You told me once. When you were seventeen, you saw a photo of this place. And you thought maybe one day…"
She doesn't speak. She just looks at him, this man who listened, who remembered, and who kept the tiny details she'd let slip without even realizing.
"You're ridiculous," she says.
"Ridiculously romantic?"
"I was going to say ridiculous, but sure."
The beach lives up to all her expectations—smooth sand, turquoise water, a sky that fades from gold to pink to violet as the sun sets. They walk along the shore, hand in hand, and she feels like a different person. A younger person. A person who hasn't run, or fought, or lost.
He stops and turns to her. "Worth the wait?"
She steps closer. "Absolutely not," she says, and his face falls for half a second before she kisses him. "It was worth more than that."
2.The Coffee Machine
Leon buys a fancy coffee machine. Only because Ada keeps complaining about his instant coffee, and apparently, after twenty years of espionage, she draws the line at cheap caffeine.
"It's not cheap," he defends. "It's economical."
"It's dust, Leon. You're drinking dust."
So he buys the machine. It has more settings than a fighter jet. He spends an hour reading the manual. She just watches him with amusement.
"This is very complicated," he mutters.
"You're a trained agent."
"Trained agents don't make coffee. They drink what's available."
"Available is not acceptable."
He finally figures it out. Makes her a latte with foam art—a heart, because he's ridiculous.
She looks at it. And looks at him.
"You drew a heart."
"It's a latte. Latte art is normal."
"You drew a heart on my coffee."
He shrugs, trying to look casual. "It's what the machine does."
She picks up the cup, takes a sip, and doesn't say anything. But she finishes the whole thing, and later that week, she buys a bag of expensive beans and leaves it on the counter without a word.
3.The Middle of the Night
She can't sleep, and she's restless, and she's bored. So she decides to wake him up.
"Leon," she whispers.
"No."
"I didn't even ask anything."
"You said my name at 2 AM. That's a declaration of war."
She slides her hand down his chest, slow and deliberate.
"Is this war?" she asks.
He groans, rolling onto his side to face her. "What do you want?"
"You."
He opens one eye. "Now?"
"Now."
He can see the desire in her eyes, the smile playing on her lips—and despite his grumbling, he's already pulling her closer.
"Fine," he says. "But you owe me."
"For what?"
"For waking me up."
She kisses him deeply. "I'll pay you back."
"You always say that." He hums against her lips.
"And I always do."
4.The Pet
They adopt a stray cat. Ada finds it in the garden one day, scrawny and dirty, and she brings it inside despite all his protestations.
"We don't need a cat," he says.
"You don't need a cat. I need a cat."
"We live together. It's a joint household. Joint decisions."
"Your decision is irrelevant."
She's already setting up a box with a blanket. The cat watches them both with suspicious amber eyes.
"It's judging me," he says.
"It's judging both of us."
"Great. A judgy cat. Exactly what we needed."
The cat turns out to be affectionate, playful, and extremely demanding. It sleeps on his chest every night and kneads his stomach like bread dough.
"Look at you," Ada says, watching him try to eat dinner with a cat on his lap. "Tamed by a stray."
"I'm not tamed. I'm... accommodating."
"You're getting soft."
"I'm not soft." He looks at the cat, then at her. "Okay. Maybe a little."
5.The Name
They need a name for the cat. Ada suggests something practical, like "Cat."
Leon suggests something ridiculous, like "Mr. Whiskers."
"You're not naming him that."
"Then you come up with something."
She looks at the cat. He looks at her.
"Kennedy," she says.
"What?"
"The cat. He's Kennedy Jr."
Leon laughs. "You named the cat after me?"
"Temporarily. Until we think of something better."
And they never think of something better. Kennedy Jr. stays. He sleeps at the foot of the bed and follows Leon around the garden. He pretends to be annoyed. He's not.
6.The Blanket
It's cold. She refuses to turn on the heat because it's "not cold enough yet." He wraps a blanket around both of them on the couch.
"Better?" he asks.
"Warmer," she admits.
"We could just turn on the heat."
"Not cold enough."
"Ada—"
She snuggles closer, tucking herself against his chest. "This is fine. This is perfectly fine."
He stares at the ceiling, wondering why he even argues anymore. He's not cold. She's not cold. They're both warm.
"Fine," he says. "We'll freeze to death together."
"That's romantic," she murmurs.
7.The Cold
He gets sick. A proper cold that leaves him miserable and whining.
"I'm dying," he says from the couch.
"You have a sniffle."
"It's terminal."
She brings him soup and tissues. He stares at the soup.
"What is this?"
"Chicken soup. It's good for you."
"It's watery."
"Chicken soup is supposed to be watery."
"Can you add more chicken?"
"You have a cold, not a culinary preference."
"I have a right to preferences."
So she adds more chicken. She also adds extra noodles. He eats the whole bowl and asks for seconds.
"You're faking," she says.
"I'm genuinely ill."
"You ate an entire pot of soup."
"I'm healing."
She sits beside him, letting him lean on her. He falls asleep in minutes, and she doesn't move. Just strokes his hair and watches him rest.
8.The Road Trip
They take a road trip. No destination. Just driving, with windows down, music playing. She picks the music. He doesn't complain because he's learned his lesson.
"This song is terrible," he says.
"You said you wouldn't complain."
"I'm not complaining. I'm observing."
"You're complaining."
"I'm observing that this song is terrible."
She turns it up. He grins.
They stop at a diner with a broken sign. The food is mediocre. The coffee is terrible. But she's never been happier.
"Take me somewhere else," she says.
"Where?"
"Wherever the road goes."
He drives for another two hours. The road goes nowhere. That's exactly the point.
9.The Garden
She wakes before him again. The light filters through the window, pale and golden. She slips out of bed, careful not to disturb him, and pads barefoot to the kitchen. She puts on coffee and leans against the counter, watching the garden through the window.
The roses are blooming. She never thought she'd be a woman who grows roses, but here they are—red and defiant, climbing the trellis he built.
She remembers the day he put it up, sweating in the summer heat, and stubbornly refusing to admit he had no idea what he was doing.
"Just hold the board," he'd said.
"You're holding it crooked."
"It's not crooked."
"Leon, it's objectively crooked."
He'd turned to her, all mock offense, and she'd laughed. He'd dropped the hammer and kissed her instead, and the trellis stayed crooked for another three days.
Now she runs her fingers along the petals, feeling its softness. The garden is proof. Proof that she can stay. Proof that things can grow.
She hears footsteps behind her.
"Morning," he says, his voice rough with sleep. He wraps his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.
"Morning."
"You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep."
"Bad dream?"
She shakes her head. "Good dream."
He hums a low sound of contentment. They stand there, watching the garden wake up.
"Your roses are doing well," he says.
"Our roses," she corrects.
He presses a kiss to her cheek. "Our roses, then."