Isla felt the brush of his fingers—brief, accidental, but real—and for a split second her hand stilled around the dish. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t comment on it either. Instead, she took the plate from him as if nothing had happened, because she recognized the instinct behind his reaction all too well.

She set the dish on the rack, then dried her hands slowly, buying time. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, stripped of the lightness she used with most people.

“You’re very good at pretending,” Isla said, not unkindly. Not accusatory. Just observant.

She leaned her hip lightly against the counter, turning her head just enough to look at him properly now. The kitchen light caught her expression—calm, thoughtful, unreadable in the way only someone in the same line of work could manage.

“Most people in this business are,” she continued after a beat. “It’s safer that way. Easier.”

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary, then drifted away again, giving him space even as she stayed. “You don’t owe me honesty,” she added softly. “Or anything else.”

A pause. Then, quieter still, “But you don’t have to perform when it’s just us and a sink full of dishes.”

She picked up the towel, folding it neatly, settling back into the shared quiet—but this time, it wasn’t just comfortable. It was intentional.

Isla didn’t flinch under his gaze. If anything, the corner of her mouth curved faintly—not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment. She’d expected the deflection. Expected the walls. People like them didn’t survive long without them.

“Practice,” she replied evenly, meeting his eyes for just a moment before looking away again. “Same as you.”

She set the towel aside and straightened, giving him a bit more space without fully retreating. Her posture was relaxed, but her guard remained intact—professional, deliberate. If he wasn’t going to open the door, she wasn’t about to force it.

“I’m not asking you to bleed on the floor,” Isla added quietly, a touch of dry humor threading through her words. “Just… noting the talent when I see it.”

She moved past him then, light footsteps, leaving the space between them charged but unbroken—two professionals circling the same truth, neither quite ready to claim it.

Isla lingered in the bedroom doorway for a moment, watching the dim light from under his door. The soft sounds of the apartment—the quiet shuffle of sheets, the faint creak as he adjusted himself—made her pause. She wasn’t supposed to be intruding, but she couldn’t help noticing how meticulous he was, how controlled everything about him seemed, even in solitude.

She finally let herself step fully into the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Settling onto her side of the bed, she hugged her own pillow tight, mirroring the way he clutched his. The quiet rhythm of the room—the soft breathing, the distant hum of the city outside—made it feel almost intimate, even though neither of them spoke.

Isla’s mind wandered, but carefully, deliberately keeping the thoughts at arm’s length. James Calder was still an unknown, still a rival, still someone she couldn’t trust fully. And yet, the faint echo of connection from their last mission made her heart tick a little faster. She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, letting exhaustion press against her, letting sleep edge closer even as curiosity and caution lingered in equal measure.