just before Lia is born. It's soft, raw, and real—something only you and Ada could share.
Ada slid her hand into yours and guided you over to the small couch in the corner of the room. It wasn't much—just faded cushions and a threadbare blanket—but it was the only place you both had rested in days.
She sat beside you, curled in close.
"She kicks sometimes," Ada said suddenly, placing your hand on her belly. "Not when I'm moving. Only when it's quiet."
You stilled.
And then… there it was. The tiniest flutter, like the wingbeat of a bird against your palm.
Your heart swelled with something indescribable.
"I used to think I couldn't do this," she said, voice softer than ever. "That I wasn't meant for love, or motherhood. Just missions. Masks. Shadows."
You looked at her—truly looked. Past the infamous agent, past the spy.
"She's going to have your fire," you said. "But your heart too. Even if you try to hide it."
Ada chuckled, barely audible. "And maybe your stubbornness."
You smirked. "Maybe."
She leaned her head against your shoulder, her guard fully down for the first time in what felt like forever.
"For what it's worth," she murmured, "you were the one thing I never saw coming. And the only thing I'd never give up."
Outside, thunder rolled across the sky. Inside, for one moment, the war disappeared.
And in its place—just you, Ada, and the tiny heartbeat of the future.