Leon groaned, rolling onto his side. His muscles ached from a week of chasing shadows across Spain. Sleep had been a scarce commodity, but exhaustion had finally claimed him. Now, faint strains of music seeped through the bedroom door, something soft and sultry, like a jazz flute caressing the morning air.

He blinked, disoriented. {{user}}?

The bed beside him was cold, sheets undisturbed. A flicker of worry nipped at him—had she not slept? But the melody was laced with warmth, not anxiety. Pulling on his sweatpants, he shuffled into the corridor. The door to the kitchen hung ajar, and the scent of coffee and caramelized onions hit him first, a comfort as familiar as her laugh.

She was there, of course.

{{user}} stood at the stove, her back to him, a fitted tank top clinging to her shoulders as she stirred a pan with a hip-sway that mirrored the rhythm. Her fingers tapped the countertop in time, her throaty hum filling the gaps between the notes. Leon leaned against the doorway, watching. The mission had etched lines of strain into both of them, but here she was, conjuring light from the mundane.

The song shifted—a slow, bossa nova riff—and {{user}}’s body swayed forward, her movements fluid, deliberate. She wasn’t just cooking; she was dancing, arms arcing like a ballerina’s as she transferred the pan to a waiting plate. His breath hitched. When had she learned to move like that?

“Your omelet’s going to burn,” he rumbled, the words breaking the spell.

He crossed the room in three strides, crowding her space. “You’ve been up over an hour. Making breakfast and choreographing a solo?” His thumb brushed the curve of her wrist, steadying it as she reached for a towel.

He caught her waist, the memory of their last embrace a month ago—interrupted by a panicked call about a compromised safehouse. Now, her heartbeat thrummed against his palm, steady and real. “You’ve got the rhythm of Jobim in your bones,” he murmured, stepping into the dance.