Aldrin leaned back in his chair, the skyline of the city stretching behind him like a silent audience. The sun had dropped lower now, a muted orange glow kissing the glass of his office window. For a man like him, twilight was more than just a time of day—it was a mirror. That thin space between light and darkness.
Aria sat across from him, legs crossed, jacket still on, like she never intended to stay long but always lingered anyway. She was sipping tea from the chipped blue mug she'd claimed years ago, the one she'd brought with her after one of those long silences between them.
"So," she said, voice laced with amusement, "am I supposed to believe you're just assigning interns speeches now?"
Aldrin gave her that quiet, near-smile. "It wasn't assigned."
"Hmm." She tilted her head. "But you listened."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Aria's eyes danced over him, catching every flicker of expression like she was watching a fire trying to decide whether it would warm or burn.
"Is she the one you mentioned?" she asked, not naming Iris—never naming the people Aldrin kept in orbit.
"Maybe," he replied.
"You said she had that stubborn kind of light," Aria continued, tapping her finger against the mug. "The kind that gets into places even shadows thought were safe."
Aldrin huffed. "I might've been poetic."
"Mm," she sipped her tea. "You're always poetic when you're tired… or when something rattles you."
He leaned forward now, forearms on the desk. "Nothing rattles me."
"Liar."
The word was warm, not accusing. A joke between old friends. Or whatever name they gave this tether they shared.
She set her mug down gently, the sound soft as her next words. "I'm not here to pull you from the fire, Aldrin. Not yet. But I need to know you remember the way back."
His gaze met hers—sharp and quiet. "I always remember."
"No," Aria said, "you remember the path. But when you're in deep, you start walking it in reverse."
He went still at that, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
Aria sat back, arms folding, but her tone never lost its softness. "I don't need to know everything. I don't ask about the things I see in your eyes when the room gets quiet. I don't ask what's in the files you lock away or the names you erase before dawn."
A pause.
"But if you ever stop recognizing yourself, Aldrin… I will pull you out."
He chuckled dryly. "You think I'm drowning?"
"No," she said, a smile tugging at her lips. "But you're watching the water like it's calling your name."
His jaw shifted, tongue pressing behind his teeth in thought. "You worry too much."
"I've had practice," she said. "Ever since that night on the bridge."
He sighed through his nose, shaking his head. "Still bringing that up?"
"You never apologized," she grinned.
"I pulled you out of a gunfight."
"You threw me into it, Aldrin."
"It was tactical improvisation."
"It was reckless and you know it."
They both laughed, the kind of laughter that knew the weight of scars and still found warmth in their stories.
Then a silence fell—not awkward, but full of unspoken understanding. The kind of silence only two people with shared ghosts could sit in without needing to fill.
Aria reached into her coat and pulled out a small notebook. She slid it across the table. "Names you asked for. The clean versions, anyway."
He glanced at it, then back at her. "How'd you get this?"
"I know a few ghosts of my own," she said, her voice lower now. "And they owe me favors."
He accepted the book with a nod of thanks, then leaned back again, folding his hands.
Aria tilted her head. "So, about her."
He raised a brow.
"The one you didn't deny. The intern."
He hesitated. Then, "I'm watching."
"You're always watching," Aria murmured. "But are you seeing?"
Before he could answer, she added, more playfully this time, "You know, when someone pretends to be your girlfriend in front of people like Ainsworth, it either ends in an arrest or an engagement."
Aldrin laughed—deep and rare, the sound low and rich as it echoed through the office. "You're incorrigible."
"I'm your anchor," she corrected with a wink.
The knock came then.
Three sharp raps on the door, clean and professional.
Both their gazes turned toward it.
Aldrin's laughter faded, though the warmth lingered in his eyes. He looked at Aria. "You expecting anyone?"
She smirked. "I'm always expected. But not always welcomed."
Aldrin stood, his shadow stretching behind him, tall and still.
He moved to the door, hand resting on the handle.
Then, to Aria—his voice low and steady—he said, "Stay if you want."
She smiled without answering.
He opened the door.
By the time Iris walked back to her cubicle, the hallway felt longer than usual—its usual buzz now muted beneath the whirlwind spinning inside her head. She hadn't looked back after handing the file to Aldrin, hadn't dared to. But she couldn't shake the way the woman—Aria—had emerged right after. The image clung to her, soft and sharp all at once.
Leaning against the edge of her desk, she exhaled slowly and stared at the blank notepad in front of her like it might write her next step for her. Logic told her one thing. But her heartbeat had been writing a very different story lately.
She picked up her phone.
A brief scroll through her contacts. Then her thumb hesitated over one name before tapping it: Isabella V.
It rang twice.
Then a familiar, lilting voice picked up. "If this is about the coffee I stole from your drawer last week, I plead guilty. Worth it."
Iris smiled, grateful for the distraction. "It's not about the coffee."
A pause, then Isabella's tone shifted ever so slightly, sensing the undertone. "Hey. What's up?"
Iris inhaled deeply, then let it all spill in that careful way she always did with Isabella—guarded but honest. "I… don't know what I'm doing."
"Well," Isabella mused, "you're clearly not writing emails. So that's one thing we've narrowed down."
"I'm being serious."
"I know," Isabella said, gently now. "You've got that voice. Like you're standing at the edge of something."
There was a long pause.
Then Iris said it: "It's Aldrin."
"Ah."
"Not like that—well. Actually, maybe it is. I don't know."
"Yes, you do," Isabella replied softly. "But you're afraid of the answer."
"I thought I was imagining it. But today—when I saw him with someone else… I just… Something twisted inside me. And I don't even know what they are, or if it's any of my business. And yet…"
"…it feels like your heart's been keeping tabs behind your back," Isabella finished.
Iris swallowed, a lump rising in her throat. "Yes."
"Okay. Then let's stop pretending this is just about confusion."
Iris blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, you've developed feelings. And it's scaring you because you weren't ready to. Not like this. Not with someone like him."
"I don't even know if he sees me that way."
"You don't need to know yet," Isabella said calmly. "You just need to be honest with yourself. And let the rest unfold."
Iris let the silence fill the line for a moment. Then: "So… what now?"
Isabella didn't hesitate. "There's a gala this weekend. Tech meets Art—one of those dazzling, half-pretentious things with too much champagne and too many photographers. But it's beautiful. A place where people wear masks and drop them at the same time. Come with me."
Iris blinked. "A gala?"
"Think of it as a change in scenery," Isabella continued, already persuasive. "A soft launch into boldness. You'll dress up, we'll drink something expensive, and you'll breathe. And maybe you'll see him differently. Or maybe you'll see yourself differently."
Iris hesitated. "I don't want to make a fool of myself."
"You're not foolish for feeling something," Isabella said. "You're only foolish if you hide from it."
Another pause. Then Iris asked, quietly, "Will you be honest with me?"
"Brutally," Isabella promised. "But gently."
Iris smiled faintly. "Okay. I'll come."
"Atta girl. Now—start thinking in silk and sapphires."
"Is there a theme?"
"Yes. Gilded whispers. Whatever that means."
Iris laughed softly, some of the heaviness loosening in her chest. "Sounds dramatic."
"Perfect for us," Isabella replied. "Let's find out what your heart is trying to say when it thinks no one's watching."