Isla followed his attention to the door the moment it clicked, her body language shifting almost imperceptibly. The easy lean she’d adopted vanished, replaced with something cleaner, sharper. When the others filed in, her gaze swept them the same way his had—quick, practiced, clinical.

Agents. No question.

She didn’t move to greet them. Instead, she stayed where she was, arms loosely folded, weight settled into one hip as if she belonged there already. Let them clock her however they wanted—quiet, unassuming, forgettable. That was usually safest.

Her eyes flicked briefly back to Adrien—Ghostline—just long enough to register the same tension she felt. Then she looked away again, giving him distance in front of witnesses.

“Looks like the party’s complete,” Isla murmured under her breath, voice low enough that it was clearly meant only for him. Not friendly. Not cold. Neutral.

She watched the newcomers fan out, cataloging habits: who checked exits first, who scanned the ceiling, who lingered near the shared space instead of claiming a room. Leaders, followers, liabilities. Her jaw tightened a fraction.

“Well,” she said a bit louder now, pitching her voice for the room without volunteering anything else, “guess we’ll find out soon enough whether ‘quiet’ was wishful thinking.”

Her gaze drifted back to Adrien at the end of it—not lingering, not revealing—just enough to acknowledge the shared understanding between two people who had already survived one mess together.

Another basement. Another job.
And apparently, another coincidence neither of them had asked for.

Isla watched him go, noting the familiar retreat he always made—silent, contained, like a wolf slipping into its den. She couldn’t blame him; she did the same sometimes. Not because she disliked people, but because this business made strangers a liability until proven otherwise.

She shifted in her chair, arms crossing loosely, and scanned the room herself. The others busied themselves with luggage, murmured introductions, and subtle glances. Isla let them be, keeping to her corner, keeping her distance. Quiet was safe, and she liked it that way.

Still, her eyes occasionally flicked toward Adrien’s closed door. Ghostline, James Calder, whatever mask he was wearing now—it didn’t matter. She knew him well enough to recognize the tension he carried even when alone, the careful way he claimed space without asking for permission.

A small smirk tugged at her lips. Still predictable, she thought, settling back into her chair, but at least I know who to watch first.

Isla hadn’t been asleep. She lay on her bed fully dressed, boots kicked off but weapon still within reach, listening to the safehouse settle into its nightly hush. The kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful—just controlled. When the faint sound of a door opening carried through the vents, her attention sharpened immediately.

She rose silently, easing her door open just enough to peer into the common area.

Adrien stood in the kitchen under the dim overhead light, shoulders slightly slumped now that no one was watching. He moved with the same efficiency he always did—no wasted motion, no hesitation—as he heated the soup, ate it too hot without complaint, then turned to the sink. Isla leaned against the doorframe, arms folded loosely, watching him scrub not just his own bowl but everyone else’s abandoned dishes too.

Of course he does, she thought. No one asked him to. No one ever did.

After a moment, she stepped out fully, her footsteps deliberately quiet but not hidden. She stopped a few feet away, posture relaxed, gaze steady on him rather than the knife block or exits—an unspoken sign she wasn’t here as a threat.

“You don’t have to clean up after everyone,” Isla said softly, her voice low enough not to carry. No accusation, no teasing. Just an observation.

Her eyes flicked briefly to the empty soup can in the trash, then back to him. “Could’ve woken someone if you wanted company,” she added, tone dry but not unkind. A pause, then, more honest, “Or at least let the mess wait until morning.”

She stayed where she was, giving him space, not stepping into his bubble unless he invited it. But she didn’t leave either.

Isla watched him for a second longer than necessary, catching the way his eyes lifted to hers and then dropped again just as quickly. The words were casual. The tone wasn’t. She recognized the deflection for what it was—something practiced, something old.

She shifted her weight, then reached past him without a word, grabbing a towel from the counter. She leaned against the sink beside him, close enough to be present but not crowding him, and began drying the clean dishes he set aside. No announcement. No asking permission. Just… there.

“Funny thing about being used to something,” Isla said quietly, eyes on the plate in her hands. “Doesn’t mean it’s what you actually prefer. Just what you’ve learned not to fight.”

She set the dish down, took the next one, her movements unhurried. Comfortable in the shared silence. “I’m not great at small talk,” she added after a beat, a faint edge of dry humor slipping in. “But I am good at late-night kitchens and not pretending everything’s fine.”

Her gaze flicked to him briefly, searching but not pressing. “You don’t have to entertain me,” she said. “I just didn’t feel like being alone either.”