The cruise ship cut across the turquoise waters like a gleaming blade, sunlight shimmering on the polished decks, and laughter rising in waves from the open-air pool. Couples lounged with drinks, families danced to live music, and somewhere below, luxury spas promised calm. But Misty Knight stood at the ship's railing, her cybernetic arm glinting gold in the sunlight, her expression unreadable as the ocean stretched infinitely ahead.

You walked up beside her, shirt half unbuttoned, sunglasses crooked, sipping on a fresh fruit drink with two straws—just in case she'd take a sip. “We’re on our honeymoon,” you said, nudging her side. “And you’ve got that ‘I’m about to break into a weapons cache’ look again.”

Misty arched an eyebrow, but a smile cracked through. “Force of habit,” she replied, taking your drink without asking and sipping through the second straw. “Besides, we’ve still got three hours before we reach port. That’s plenty of time to enjoy the sunset before we go bust a smuggling ring in Port-Louis.”

You shook your head fondly. “Only you would plan a honeymoon with international crime-fighting stops.”

She bumped your shoulder. “You married me, sugar. You knew what you signed up for.”

And you did. You married the woman who once punched through an armored truck. Who made you feel safe with one look. Who always kept a backup plan—and a backup for the backup. And still, she made space for slow kisses under moonlight and mornings tangled in hotel sheets, the ocean beyond the window.

Each new city brought new rhythm. In Istanbul, you two foiled an arms deal disguised as a spice market transaction. In Marrakesh, you took down a local gang exploiting mutant children. In Lisbon, you actually got to rest—drinking wine on a rooftop as she rested her head on your shoulder, murmuring stories about her past between sighs of sea breeze.

Sometimes, you caught her watching you like she didn’t quite believe this was real.

“You’re not sleeping,” you whispered one night in your cabin, as her fingers absently traced circles on your chest.

“Too much peace,” she muttered. “I keep waiting for something to break.”

You turned toward her, brushing your lips against her forehead. “If it does, we break it back.”

The next day, in Rio, you fought back-to-back against a metahuman cartel trying to hijack a shipment of alien tech. Misty’s movements were fluid—precise punches, deadly kicks. You weren’t far behind, coordinating with intel and throwing your weight in with gadgets of your own making.

After the dust settled and the goons were unconscious, Misty grabbed your collar and pulled you close, sweat beading at her temple. “This,” she said, breathless. “This is why I married you.”

“I thought it was because I made good pancakes.”

She laughed for real then, head tilted back, sun catching her smile like a blessing.

That night, on the deck of the ship, your hands found each other without trying. The stars above were endless, but her gaze found you every time.

“You think this is crazy?” you asked.

“Our version of paradise,” she answered.

And you believed her.