We met in a bar in Havana, the kind with low lights, slow fans, and too much rum. I was fresh off a secret mission in Panama. He had the look of trouble wrapped in charm—just back from a shady deal in Curaçao. Our eyes locked across the smoky room, and without a word, we moved toward each other. The Buena Vista Social Club played like a slow heartbeat in the background. We danced, and for a moment, the world disappeared—just shadows and rhythm, and secrets.

We didn’t trade real names, just stories and a promise. One year from that night—June 23, 2023— we’d meet. Same time, same place. I didn’t expect him to show. But there he was, just as I remembered, maybe a little grayer, definitely more charming. He dropped to one knee with a sexy smile and a ring. I said yes, and here we are exactly two years later.

I met her in a bar in Havana—the kind of place that smells like cigars, sweat, and forgotten promises. I’d just wrapped up a shady deal in Curaçao, left behind a briefcase and a few burnt bridges. She walked in like a storm in silk, fresh from a secret mission in Panama. We didn’t say much. Didn’t have to. The Buena Vista Social Club was playing something slow and dangerous, and before I knew it, we were dancing, close enough to feel the weight of each other’s past. We didn’t trade names, just a time: one year from that night, June 23, 2023. Same place. No guarantees.

I figured it was the kind of promise you make when you’re high on rum and rhythm—meant to fade with the morning. But I showed up anyway, and so did she. I dropped to one knee, ring in hand, heart doing things I thought I’d buried years ago. She said yes without hesitation. And here we are exactly two years later—two spies, two stories, one future.

Our first conversation was on June 23, 2023. Something about the timing—and each other—just felt right. What started as a simple message on Bumble turned into something lasting. Two years later, here we are. Two non- spies madly in love and writing a better than fiction story .