The silence after the call ended was louder than any scream.
The screen on the phone dimmed in Andrea's hand. Her thumb hovered over it for a moment, like she might call back. Say something else. Ask something she wasn't ready to hear the answer to.
But she didn't.
She just stood there, shoulders square but slumped ever so slightly. A stance that said: I'm fine—but only to those who didn't know what not fine looked like.
Eunwoo watched her.
Still.
Still as stone.
Still as someone trying to read a map without showing how lost they actually were.
Andrea let out a breath through her nose and muttered, "Dad, I'm fine. I just need food and sleep. That's it."
The phone remained silent in her hand.
But on the other end, Dimitry Volkov hadn't missed a beat.
He knew the tone.
He recognized the deflection.
"…Okay," he said finally, voice crackling through the speaker. "I'll talk to you later."
Click.
The line went dead.
Andrea didn't look up. She just locked the screen and placed the phone down on her bedside table like it wasn't still burning through her fingers.
Eunwoo took a half-step forward. Then stopped himself.
He wanted to ask. What was that? He wanted to say it out loud. But the air between them was too thick. And his pride was too heavy.
Instead, he said—cold, clipped—"Dinner's ready. Come downstairs."
Andrea ruffled her damp hair, let out a small sigh, and nodded. "Okay," she muttered, soft, casual—but cold like a shield slipping back into place.
Eunwoo turned to leave, brushing invisible dust from his cuff, but something made him glance back.
Andrea was standing near the mirror now, her back turned slightly, checking the little cuts on her face from the earlier mission.
She caught him staring in the reflection.
Their eyes met in the glass.
"What?" she asked, her tone flat with just a flicker of annoyance. "Anything else, boss?"
Eunwoo's jaw tensed.
He paused, then said, low and distant, "Nothing. Don't be late. I don't like to wait."
Then he left—his steps sharp but not rushed, his back straight like the tension in his shoulders wasn't slowly twisting knots beneath his skin.
In the hallway, Layla had been standing half-leaned against the wall, arms folded and eyebrow raised. She hadn't heard every word—but she didn't need to. The entire vibe had spilled out through the crack in the doorway like tension had a scent.
She watched Eunwoo walk past her without so much as a nod.
Typical.
His jaw was clenched tight. His walk said "business" but his face said something else entirely.
She waited a beat. Then peeked in.
Andrea was still in the same spot, facing the mirror, expression unreadable. A few seconds passed before she noticed Layla standing in the doorway.
Andrea blinked, like she was shaking off a memory.
Layla stepped inside, voice light. "You alright?"
Andrea let out a breath that might've been a laugh, or just leftover tension. "Yeah… yeah," she said quickly, too quickly. "Just... spacing out."
Layla didn't press. Not yet.
Instead, she smiled and said, "Okay, then let's get to dinner. Come on. You look like you haven't eaten since the Cold War."
Andrea half-laughed. "Feels like it."
Layla moved closer, tilting her head as she eyed her friend's mess of hair. "No, ma'am. Not like this. You are not stepping into the living room looking like you fought a bear and made out with a thunderstorm."
Andrea raised a brow. "It was a container full of mercenaries and smoke bombs. Close enough."
"Doesn't matter." Layla grabbed a nearby comb from the vanity and moved in. "Sit."
Andrea didn't argue.
She sat on the edge of the bed as Layla gently ran the comb through her tangled hair, surprisingly gentle for someone who regularly carried a compact pistol in her handbag.
"Hold still," Layla said, tucking a few strands back and pinning them with the silver crescent-moon clip she always kept in her pocket. "There. Now you're dramatic but socially acceptable."
Andrea smirked. "Thanks, Mom."
Layla winked. "I prefer 'Goddess of Grace.' But I'll let it slide."
Andrea looked at her reflection again. Not perfect. But put together.
More or less.
"You ready?" Layla asked.
Andrea didn't respond immediately.
But then, softly—"Yeah."
They walked out of the room together, the hallway suddenly not as cold as before. One with layers of old pain. The other, a quiet shield in heels.
.______..______.📑.______..______..______..______.
Downstairs, the dining room was lit warmly. Gold sconces flickered along the walls, and the long mahogany table was set with precision.
Eunwoo stood near the window, hands tucked behind his back, eyes scanning the shadows beyond the glass. He wasn't watching anything in particular—but that was the point. He just didn't want to look toward the stairs.
The soft sound of footsteps finally turned his head.
Andrea entered with Layla just behind her.
She was in soft joggers, a fitted black tank, and her hair was neatly pinned back. Her face was clean. Her skin still pale, but steady.
She looked better.
Not perfect.
But… herself.
Their eyes met.
He didn't smile.
She didn't either.
But they nodded at the same time.
Like something had shifted—just slightly.
He pulled out a chair for her. Quietly.
She sat without comment.
Layla slid into the seat across from them, already reaching for the tea pitcher. "Okay, let's pretend we're normal people for ten minutes and eat something sweet and full of sugar."
Andrea glanced at the plate in front of her.
Baklava.
Flaky. Golden. Honey-drenched. Crushed pistachios scattered like little emeralds.
Andrea blinked.
Then looked at Eunwoo.
"You remembered?"
Eunwoo sat down beside her, his voice unreadable. "Layla reminded me."
Andrea nodded slowly, picking up a piece.
The first bite melted against her tongue.
Home.
For a second, just a second—she forgot about the mission. The drug. The red hallway. The voice on the phone that called her daughter.
She looked across the table at Layla, who was mid-rant about how bad the tea service was in Istanbul.
She looked beside her at Eunwoo, who hadn't touched his food yet but was watching her without realising it.
And for once—just once—she didn't feel like a weapon pretending to be a woman.
She felt like a girl who might one day stop running.
.______..______..______..______.💕.______..______.
The dining room was a masterpiece of symmetry—long, polished, intimidating.
The kind of table where business deals were signed and family dinners never quite felt like home.
Andrea stepped in, her shoulders squared, her chin held high, but her eyes… they flicked once to the man already seated near the far end.
Eunwoo.
He was dressed down—white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, collar loose—but nothing about his posture said casual. He sat straight, back barely touching the chair, eyes fixed forward.
He didn't move.
Didn't even glance up.
Andrea didn't expect him to.
Which is why her decision was quiet—but deliberate.
She crossed the room slowly and chose a seat opposite him.
The table between them could have held a kingdom.
Five seats separated them, polished and untouched.
Layla watched this unfold as if trapped in a scene she didn't sign up for. She stood awkwardly, holding a napkin, eyes darting between the two of them like a referee at a silent war.
Finally, she sighed—half muttered, half resigned.
"I'll… uh… sit here."
And she dropped herself gently in the chair positioned directly between them.
Perfectly neutral territory.
Eunwoo didn't blink.
Andrea didn't flinch.
Layla did what any person caught in the emotional no man's land would do—she started small talk.
"So, boss, when's Minjoon coming? You said he'd check in after the sweep?"
She knew exactly what she was doing—throwing a rope to the tension, hoping someone would grab it and climb out of the heavy silence.
Eunwoo answered without taking his eyes off Andrea.
"He'll be here in a moment."
His tone wasn't cold.
It was worse.
It was composed.
Like every word was pre-measured and sealed tight to avoid any unnecessary leak.
Layla looked between them again.
Andrea had her arms folded loosely across her chest, her fingers lightly tapping against her sleeve. Her gaze, however, was unmoving—locked on Eunwoo with that same calculated calm.
Not glaring.
Not avoiding.
Just watching.
And he was doing the same.
A stare war with no words.
Just loaded silence.
The kind that always meant something more than either of them was ready to say.
The click of approaching shoes broke the tension.
Minjoon entered from the far hallway, hair still damp from a quick rinse, sleeves rolled, tablet tucked under one arm.
He paused mid-step as he caught the view.
Eunwoo at one end.
Andrea at the other.
Layla in the awkward middle seat between two beautiful, emotionally constipated human weapons.
Minjoon blinked. "Boss…"
Eunwoo didn't look at him.
He just said, "Report."
Minjoon cleared his throat, standing tall.
"Everything's clean. Warehouse team confirmed the transfer. Blue compound locked, tagged. Blacksite staff running chemical breakdowns now."
Eunwoo nodded, still without looking away from Andrea. "Good."
Minjoon looked at Layla, who gave him a silent please say something normal look with her eyebrows.
He chuckled under his breath and added, "Dinner's getting cold. Let's eat before someone breaks a chair again."
Andrea raised one brow.
Eunwoo's lips twitched—but barely.
Layla smiled wide like that joke had saved her soul.
Minjoon, reading the room like a master diplomat, moved to sit beside Eunwoo. "I'll take this seat."
"Thank God," Layla muttered. "Then I'll stay here and keep Andrea company."
The table filled, slowly, comfortably. Staff began placing the dishes with quiet precision—roast meats, rice dishes, herb-grilled vegetables, lentil soup, warm bread with garlic oil, and—
A small silver tray placed in front of Andrea.
She hadn't even noticed the server until the scent hit her nose.
Honey. Pistachio. The faintest hint of orange blossom.
Her head turned immediately, nostrils flaring like a cat catching the scent of home.
Her eyes dropped to the tray.
Baklava.
Perfect slices. Thin, golden, stacked. Glazed. Soft steam rising gently off the warm layers.
Something about it cracked her face.
Just slightly.
A smile.
Soft.
Barely there.
But real.
Layla noticed it instantly and nudged her with a grin. "I told you this would fix your entire soul."
Andrea blinked.
"Where did this—?"
Layla grinned. "Boss ordered it."
Andrea's gaze lifted again.
Across the table.
To Eunwoo.
He didn't say anything. Didn't move.
But the way he was holding his water glass just a little tighter than necessary… said plenty.
She stared a second too long.
He didn't look away.
Minjoon, chewing silently, took a sip of his tea and muttered just low enough for Layla to hear, "Is it just me or do they stare like two generals negotiating surrender terms?"
Layla snorted into her cup. "If that's what surrender looks like, I hope nobody wins."
Andrea picked up a piece of baklava.
She took a bite.
Chewed slowly.
And for just a moment—the world melted away.
The war outside. The drugs. The missions. The secrets. The bruises. The name she'd whispered earlier.
Dad.
For a second, there was just sweet syrup, flaky layers, and something that reminded her that she was more than a weapon.
Across from her, Eunwoo finally spoke again.
Calm. Even.
"You'll feel better if you eat. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
Andrea took another bite.
Then said, "That's because I haven't."
Silence returned—but it was different now.
Not sharp.
Not cutting.
Just full.
The four of them sat there—eating quietly, eyes occasionally meeting, shoulders slowly relaxing.
Andrea leaned back in her chair after finishing the baklava.
And for once… she didn't feel like she had to run.
---