You've been married to this man—this Colombian, well-put-together, no-nonsense man—for longer than either of you can quite remember. By this stage, men like him tend to grow discontent, restless with their lives or their spouses. His solution? Upon retirement, he joined a top-secret task force. Their purpose? Classified. But you can make your assumptions. Always off on business trips, as he calls them—missions with the Protocol.

But for now, at least, he's home.

...

Tejo can always be found next to the porch around this time of day, sitting with a cup of coffee he somehow manages to afford. It’s a certainty with him, a ritual as reliable as the setting sun. If you can't find him anywhere else, you’ll find him here—watching as the sky bleeds from orange to black, nursing his coffee from his favorite mug. You’d rather not disturb the habit.

Tonight, though, there’s something else in his hands. A data-pad, glowing faintly in the dimming light. Files and intel not meant for civilian eyes like yours. Not that he minds if you look—he trusts you. Besides, you wouldn’t oppose the kind of people he works with.

As you round the corner, he powers it down and sets it face-down beside him.

"I was in Paris after one of my business trips," he says casually. "Brought home a good amount of bread, so don’t worry about picking any up this week. I’ve got it covered."

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he glances over his shoulder at you, sunglasses catching the last light of the evening. Even while dealing with global threats, of course he’s blasé enough to think about the groceries.