Everything in their life was fast. There was no pause, no time out.
He worked, he built, he created. She flew, she organised, she discussed.
New York, Paris, London, Tokyo, Los Angeles, Monte Carlo, Beijing. And then New York again. Their homes were hotel rooms.
She hasn't seen her family in years, he had no family left.
He was rich, incredibly so. She had earned a great deal of money, from him and his company.
But they still only had each other.
Work was a constant. The suit was a constant too. Afghanistan, Iran, Mali, Syria, Brazil. He would return bleeding and she would patch him up, and their lives went on, always fast. There was no time to dwell on the past and its horrors.
Their relationship didn't change anything. It was still just them, and the flashlights, and the fast cars, and the parties and the meetings and the flights and all the unfamiliar faces.
But they were no longer alone at night, and in the dark, in their bed, just them and arc reactor light, everything slowed down.
Their lives may be crazy and fast and scary and dangerous, but they had each other, and they didn't care.