You were done.

The kind of done where you wanted to throw your laptop out the window, fake your death, and start a new life selling bracelets in some remote village far from project managers, file format mix-ups, and clients who still—still—didn’t know how to use “Reply All.”

“Why do I work with morons?” you snapped into the void, pacing the living room like a stormcloud in slacks. “Actual functioning adults who think you can copy a PDF into Excel and it’ll magically become editable. Who does that? Every. Damn. Day.”

Behind you, the apartment door clicked shut. “Still alive, I see,” came Ada’s voice—dry, smooth, and as unreadable as ever. You spun to face her, flustered and irritated. She looked as she always did: effortlessly composed, hair tied back, black leather jacket glinting with rain. If she was tired, she didn’t show it—though you knew better. No one came back from a “quiet recon job” with bruised knuckles and half a smirk unless something had gone sideways.

You folded your arms and flopped onto the couch with a groan. “Barely. I feel like my soul’s leaking out through my teeth.” Ada said nothing for a moment. Then she walked over to where you sat, her boots soundless against the wood floor.

Without asking, without a word, her hands came down on your shoulders. You tensed at first, caught off guard—but her fingers found a knot in your neck that made you actually gasp. “…Okay. That’s unfair,” you muttered. “Shh,” she said, her tone low and firm. Her thumbs pressed in slow, deep circles. “You’re carrying your whole office on your back.”

You let out a long breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “They’re all so dumb, Ada. I can’t keep pretending I care about spreadsheet alignment while everyone else operates like it’s their first day on Earth.”, “Then stop pretending,” she said flatly. You almost laughed. “Says the woman who lies for a living.” Her hands paused for a beat, then resumed, harder this time. “That’s different. I choose my lies.”

You closed your eyes, leaning into her touch. Her hands were rough, calloused, precise—like everything she did. She wasn’t gentle, but she was careful. Ada Wong didn’t coddle; she carved space for you, even when she was exhausted herself. Eventually, your body slumped forward, limp with surrender.

Without warning, Ada hooked an arm beneath your knees and another behind your back. “Wait—” you yelped as she lifted you clean off the couch. “Bed,” she said simply, already walking. You threw an arm around her neck. “You just got back. Aren’t you tired?” Her voice was steady, unfazed. “I’m used to running on fumes.”

She carried you effortlessly, with that same graceful deadliness she used navigating a firefight. No stumbles. No hesitation. She nudged the bedroom door open with her foot and laid you gently on the mattress. “Lie down,” she ordered softly, pulling the blanket over you before slipping off her jacket and sitting beside you. One hand brushed your hair back, her expression unreadable in the dim light. You stared at her. “You’re kind of bossy, you know.” Ada raised a brow. “That’s why you married me.”

Fair.

Then she pulled out her phone, tapped a few times, and tossed it on the nightstand. “Food’s coming. I’m not letting you cook in this state. Or me, for that matter.” You blinked. “You ordered already?”, “Thai. Your comfort meal. Extra tofu.” Your chest tightened—not from stress this time, but from the quiet way she always seemed to know what you needed before you did.

Ada leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed, still in control even while resting. You curled up beside her, letting your head rest against her shoulder, and for once, you didn’t feel like the world was on fire.

There were no zombies. No clients. No emails. Just the hum of city lights beyond the window and the steady rhythm of Ada Wong’s breath beside you.

She didn’t say it, but you heard it in her silence: You don’t have to hold the weight of everything. I’ve got you.

And for the first time in weeks, you believed it.