Ada never liked telling you where she was. It was just… her. A shadow slipping through your life, appearing and disappearing without warning, leaving only the faintest traces of her presence. And yet, somehow, you always found her. Usually sprawled on your couch after a month of silence, her posture relaxed, a cup of coffee in hand, as if nothing—no missions, no danger, no life-threatening chaos—had ever occurred.

It frustrated you to the edge of madness. Every time she returned, your chest tightened, your thoughts spiraled: Where have you been? Were you okay? Did you even think about me? You hated that you didn’t know, hated that she could make your heart race and twist into knots without even trying. Ada was an itch you could never scratch, a puzzle you were desperate to solve.

You loved her—so fiercely it hurt—but the lengths you went to try to make life stable, to try to make her stay safe, often sent you into spirals. Nights of pacing, mornings of cold coffee, and afternoons lost to worry—all for someone who could vanish with a whisper. You hated that you needed her, that she had the power to disrupt your carefully constructed world with just one step into it.

And yet, there she was again.

You woke up to the faint clink of a cup against the saucer, sunlight slanting through the blinds and illuminating her familiar silhouette. Ada, perched casually on the couch, coffee cradled between her hands, hair slightly messy, expression unreadable. She tilted her head at you, the barest smirk tugging at her lips.

For a moment, your frustration and worry collided, and all you could do was stare. She’s home. She’s here. She’s alive. But that little smirk reminded you that she was still Ada—untouchable, enigmatic, utterly maddening.

You swallowed, heart still racing, as she lifted the cup, took a slow sip, and set her gaze on you. That calm, collected demeanor, that aura of danger and charm—it made your blood boil, made you ache, made you love her more than you’d ever admit.

“Morning,” she said casually, as if returning from a month of absence was no big deal at all.

You wanted to scream, to grab her, to make her answer for every second she had been gone—but instead, all you could do was watch, trapped between relief, rage, and desire, because Ada Wong was always going to be her own kind of storm, and you were helpless in the wake of it.