They were happier than either of them had any right to be. They never said I love you, or indulged in excessive displays of affection. She liked the touch of his hand, the measured firmness of his handshake, the comforting weight on her hand as they sat together, the gentle pressure at the curve of her wrist when they danced. He liked the fire in her eyes, the curve of her smile, the way her hair tickled his nose when he held her. They took no shit from anyone. They had no time for delicate words or hurt feelings.
Their happiness was punctuated by terrifying bouts of paranoia, exacerbated by episodes of real spies and assassins invading their home and bed. They broke every promise they ever made, and forgave each other anyway. They fought like professionals and fucked like they were keeping score.
They never regretted a thing.
:)