It was supposed to be simple.
Just a file. A knock. A question about dinner.
Iris had gone over it in her head a dozen times as she walked the hall toward Aldrin's office. The file was gripped securely in her arms—red-tabbed, heat-sealed, critical intel from the shell site. Aldrin had asked her to deliver it personally. No couriers. No screens. Just you, he'd said. And maybe she read a little too much into that.
There was a calm in her step that hadn't been there before. Maybe it was the afterglow of the dinner. Maybe it was the way he'd stood close to her when her parents looked at them like puzzle pieces finally falling into place. Or the way he smiled at her, lately, like she was less of a burden and more of a choice.
But that calm scattered like dry leaves when she heard laughter drifting from his office.
Not his usual rare and gravel-throated chuckle—the kind that was earned through blood and irony—but laughter. Real. Unrestrained.
Her brows knit together as she stepped closer.
The door was cracked open, just enough for voices to slip through.
Then came hers. A woman's. Warm. Light. Confident.
"Aldrin, you still hoard your pens like you're guarding national secrets."
His reply, low and amused: "They write better when they're mine."
Iris's hand tightened on the folder.
She knocked gently and pushed the door open.
Aldrin stood near his desk, sleeves rolled up, the top buttons of his shirt undone. He looked… disarmed. Loosened. Like war wasn't sitting on his shoulders for once.
And sitting on the edge of his desk, legs crossed, was a woman with dark copper skin, a half-shaved undercut lined with silver threads, and eyes the same rare green-gray as storm clouds on a clear day. She wore a fitted jacket, casual but sharp, with rings on three fingers that gleamed like quiet rebellion.
She looked like someone who lived unafraid of judgment—or of Aldrin.
And she was stunning.
Aldrin straightened the moment he saw Iris, as though guilt had crept beneath his ribs.
"Iris," he said, stepping forward. "You're early."
Her voice didn't waver. "You said you wanted this right away."
She held out the file. He took it with a subtle nod.
Before the silence could stretch awkwardly, the woman beside him stood and extended a hand, flashing a smile that was equal parts playful and pointed.
"You must be Iris," she said. "I'm Aria. A close friend of Aldrin's."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Close friend.
They never said just a friend. They never needed to.
Iris shook her hand, tight-lipped. "Nice to meet you."
Aria's smile didn't falter. "You know, it's funny. I wasn't sure if you were real or just office myth. But here you are. And he wasn't exaggerating—you really do walk like you own the ground under you."
"Only the ground I've earned," Iris replied, coolly.
Aldrin shifted slightly, but his eyes were on Aria now, and something in that look—soft, unguarded—unraveled something in Iris.
Her throat tightened. What is this? Who is she?
She turned her gaze back to him. "That was everything you asked for. I'll let you get back to… catching up."
Aldrin opened his mouth to say something, but Aria beat him to it.
"You two make a good-looking couple, you know," she said, still smiling. "I've seen the cathedral photos. You really leaned into the whole 'mysterious power duo' thing."
The silence that followed stretched too long.
Aldrin didn't speak.
Didn't deny.
Didn't correct.
Iris felt the floor shift beneath her feet.
"It's not like that," she said, more to the air than to Aria.
"Oh?" Aria tilted her head, examining her like one might a riddle. "Could've fooled me. But then again, Aldrin's always been good at keeping secrets. Especially the personal ones."
Aldrin's jaw ticked—something unspoken flickering behind his eyes.
Iris stepped back. "I'll see you both around."
She turned and walked out before anything else could be said, before her voice could betray her.
—
Outside, in the hallway
She leaned against the wall just outside the office door, one hand clutching the edge of her jacket, breathing slow, deliberate.
She wasn't angry.
Not yet.
She was… displaced. Disoriented. Like she'd stepped into a story that had already been written, one where she was just a background character who'd mistakenly believed she was the lead.
Close friend.
Her mind gnawed at it.
The familiarity in Aria's tone. The ease of her body language. The way Aldrin hadn't corrected a single assumption.
And yet—he hadn't touched her. He hadn't stood too close. There hadn't been romance. But that didn't mean there hadn't been something.
History, maybe. Depth. Trust.
All things Iris was still trying to earn, inch by guarded inch.
She pulled out her phone, fingers hesitating over the screen.
So… about that next dinner—
She stared at the words.
Then erased them.
Now wasn't the time for mixed signals and awkward confessions. Not when she didn't know who she was to him. Not when someone else might already have that answer.
The hallway was quiet except for the faint hum of the ceiling lights and the occasional soft beep of a printer warming up somewhere around the corner. Iris leaned against the cold concrete wall, one heel of her boot tapping an inconsistent rhythm against the floor.
She still held her phone in her hand, screen dimmed, her fingers now idle and still.
She wasn't sulking—at least, not in the dramatic sense. It wasn't her style.
But she was thinking. Hard. The way you only did when the ground shifted beneath you and you weren't sure if you were supposed to brace for the fall or learn how to fly.
A familiar set of footsteps echoed toward her. Two sets, actually—one with the precise, military-clicked rhythm of Marek, and the other more casual, like Ainsworth made a habit of dancing through security clearances.
"Look at her," Ainsworth said the moment he spotted her, a grin already in place. "Wallflower in steel-toe boots. You okay, or are you about to launch a coup from the hallway?"
Marek tilted her head, more curious than concerned. "We thought we'd find you in Aldrin's office still. You've got that post-briefing, pre-banter face."
Iris managed a dry chuckle, straightening up and slipping her phone into her pocket. "Just dropped off the file he asked for. Didn't want to intrude."
Ainsworth leaned casually against the opposite wall, arms crossed. "Intrude? Now that's not the Iris I know. You usually storm in like a woman with a warrant."
"Maybe today I'm just a woman with timing issues," she muttered, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Marek narrowed her eyes slightly. "You okay?"
Iris nodded a little too quickly. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
But her voice lacked its usual edge, and that was the first crack.
Ainsworth's smile faltered just a hair. "Uh-oh," he said softly, sharing a glance with Marek. "She's doing that thing where her voice gets all quiet and her eyes look like she's about to either cry or set something on fire."
"I don't cry," Iris snapped.
"Right," Marek murmured, "but setting things on fire is on brand."
Iris looked away, trying to compose herself. "It's not a big deal."
"You sure?" Ainsworth asked, more gently now. "Because for someone who just delivered classified material to the world's most unreadable man, you look like you just walked out of a funeral for your pride."
Marek studied her a beat longer before speaking. "Let me guess," she said. "Someone unexpected was in Aldrin's office."
That pulled Iris's gaze back like a magnet. "You knew?"
"We didn't," Ainsworth said. "But now we do."
Iris sighed, realizing she'd given herself away. "She introduced herself as a… close friend."
"Ohh." Ainsworth winced theatrically. "Those two words can mean anything from 'we grew up together' to 'we were once nearly engaged but decided to stay emotionally entangled for life.'"
"She was—" Iris hesitated, "—familiar with him. In a way I haven't seen before."
"You mean not afraid of him?" Marek offered.
"Not impressed by him," Iris corrected. "She teased him. Casually. Like she knew exactly where to aim."
They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of her uncertainty thick in the air.
"Sounds like she got under your skin," Ainsworth said carefully.
"No," Iris said, too quickly. Then, softer, "I just… don't know what their history is. And I don't like guessing."
"Well, to be fair," Ainsworth replied, "we've all been guessing where the two of you stand for weeks. This mystery woman probably walked in and assumed she was walking into a lovers' quarrel."
"I told her it wasn't like that," Iris said. "And Aldrin didn't say otherwise."
That silenced both of them.
Ainsworth blinked. "Wait, wait, hold on. He didn't say anything?"
Marek raised a brow. "That's… uncharacteristic."
"No," Iris muttered bitterly. "That's exactly like him."
A sudden click of a door opening behind them pulled all their heads toward the sound.
And out she walked.
Aria stepped into the hallway like she'd always belonged there, her posture fluid and her expression serene. She was tucking a loose curl behind her ear, face glowing in the gentle office light, jacket collar popped just enough to look effortlessly cool.
She didn't notice the trio at first—not until Ainsworth let out a low whistle.
"Ahhh," he said, stretching the sound out like a revelation. "Now it makes sense."
Marek elbowed him, but she didn't disagree.
Iris stiffened.
Aria paused, then offered them a smile. "Evening," she said with an elegant nod before continuing down the corridor, footsteps echoing like punctuation marks in the quiet that followed.
No explanation. No glance back.
Just like that, she was gone.
Ainsworth turned back to Iris with a crooked, knowing grin. "That's one beautiful question mark wrapped in leather and smugness."
Iris didn't reply. Her jaw was tight. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
Marek tilted her head. "You really don't know who she is, do you?"
"No," Iris said coldly. "And I don't think I want to."
Ainsworth studied her carefully. "Want some advice?"
"Not particularly."
"Too bad," he said. "Don't go to war over a misunderstanding… unless you're prepared for the collateral."
Marek leaned closer. "And don't let silence decide the story for you. If you want answers, ask him."
But Iris wasn't ready—not yet.
She gave them a brief nod and walked away, boots hitting the floor with steady purpose.
Behind her, Marek whispered to Ainsworth, "Think she'll ask?"
He shrugged. "Eventually. When the storm settles, and the truth matters more than the pride."