survivors. we adapt.

So when voices spike behind him, Leon already knows where this is going.

A table of twenty-somethings crowd a booth. An argument, from the sound of it—too fast in Thai for him to catch more than tone. Leon stiffens.

So does the bartender.

Their eyes meet in quiet exchange. Not his turf, but Leon’s willing to step in—language barrier or no.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to. The bartender moves first, vaulting the bar in one smooth motion.

Leon sighs. So much for a relaxing vacation.

… Except nothing happens.

The bartender says something sharp.

The table quiets.

Heads dip.

When he returns, Leon gives him a nod.

“Shame.”

The bartender arches a brow. “You wanted a fight?”

“No,” Leon says. “But I was curious how you’d handle it.”

The bartender grins.

“Fast.” He tosses a rag over his shoulder. “What can I get you, blondie?”

Leon snorts. “Whiskey.”

The bartender pours something darker. Stronger. Leon watches the way he moves—loose, easy. Efficient.

Not bartender casual.

“You look like a bourbon guy.”

He slides the glass across the bar with easy precision.

Leon takes a sip.

“You read people for a living?”

The bartender notices the way Leon’s stool is angled toward the door. How he scans the room without moving his head.

He shrugs.

“Something like that.” The bartender smirks. “Name’s Porsche.”

Sounds like trouble.

He takes another sip.

Ada doesn’t look up. “What now?”

“The car—”

“The Porsche,” she corrects. “What did you do, Leon?”

“It’s still in one piece.” A beat. “In Raccoon.”

That was an anniversary gift.

“Lovely.”

“Didn’t lose this, though.” He lifts his hand. Silver catches the light.

She steps in before she can think about it, arms sliding around his waist, pressing into the solid warmth of him. Alive. Whole. How long has it been since he felt like this?

She could make a joke. She doesn’t.

“I love you.”