It’s late. The city lights outside the window paint soft neon across your shared apartment, but Ada’s too far gone in her work to notice. Her jacket’s tossed over a chair, holster still on, hair pinned back lazily. The table is littered with files, blueprints, weapons schematics — each one more dangerous than the last. She’s barely blinked in hours.

You watch from the doorway for a moment. She doesn’t notice. You step forward quietly and place your hands on her shoulders. “Tension check. You’re wound tighter than your garter holster.” Ada doesn’t look up. “This mission can’t wait.” You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her head. “And you can’t pour from an empty cup.” She finally pauses.

You step around the desk, slowly pushing the tablet out of her hands. “I’m not saying give up,” you murmur, crouching down so you’re eye-level. “I’m saying…let me steal you for ten minutes. Breathe. Touch grass. Or, you know, me.” That earns the smallest twitch of her lips.

But her eyes? Still tired. Still calculating. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself, Ada,” you whisper. And that’s when she sighs. The long, quiet kind — the kind she never lets anyone hear. You take her hand. She lets you. Fingers interlace. Her grip is firm. Needy. You pull her gently to her feet. “…Where are we going?” she asks. You smile. “Anywhere away from that desk.” And this time, she follows without a word.