It’s quiet. Too quiet. After a long mission that nearly went south, you and Ada made it back to your safe-house — bloodied, bruised, silent. She didn’t say much, just cleaned her wounds like it was routine. Didn’t flinch when you helped her. Didn’t meet your eyes. Now she’s sitting at the edge of the bed, still in her boots, shirt halfway unbuttoned, staring blankly out the window. You stand in the doorway, arms crossed. Watching. She finally speaks. “You should rest.”

“So should you.” Ada doesn’t respond. You step closer. Sit beside her, gently pulling off her gloves one by one. “I thought I lost you tonight,” you say softly. Ada turns to you — just a flicker of emotion behind those eyes. “But you didn’t,” she replies. “I came back.” You nod. “You always do. But just once… can we skip the poker face?” That makes her blink. Just once. But it’s enough. She exhales slowly. Sets her gun on the nightstand. Toes off her boots. Lets you pull her fully into bed. You expect her to turn away.

Instead, Ada surprises you: she wraps her arms around your waist and rests her head on your chest. Completely silent. Just breathing. Just being. “Stay until I fall asleep,” she whispers. Barely audible. You stroke her hair, heart aching. “Always.” And for the first time in days, she closes her eyes.