No one suggested leaving.
That, more than anything, told Aria the fight had ended for real.
Someone dragged over a folding table. Another pulled out a portable stove that absolutely violated at least three building regulations. Scar-Jaw produced a bag of groceries like he'd been waiting his whole life for permission.
Aria stared at it. "You brought food."
He shrugged. "You always said never meet anyone without supplies."
"That was for ambushes."
"Same principle."
She didn't argue.
Within minutes, the space smelled like oil and heat instead of sweat and fear. Knuckles that had been bleeding ten minutes ago were now holding bowls. Bruises were ignored in favor of portion size.
Aria took the first bite.
Hot. Salty. Acceptable.
She nodded once.
Conversation resumed like a thaw.
"So," someone said carefully, "are we… dead?"
Aria swallowed. "If you were, you wouldn't be asking."
Fair.
Noah sat across from her, hands wrapped around his bowl like it might vanish. He watched her eat with the same focus he once reserved for briefing screens.
"You still eat first," he said.
She glanced at him. "I still earned it."
He smiled. A real one this time.
Laughter bubbled up somewhere down the table—quiet at first, then louder. Stories slipped out. Half-finished missions. Jokes that made no sense outside a very specific shared hell.
Aria listened more than she spoke.
That was new.
At one point, someone reached for the last piece of meat.
Aria's chopsticks paused mid-air.
The hand froze.
She looked at him. "I was thinking about that."
He slid it toward her immediately. "Sorry. Reflex."
She took it, satisfied.
The room relaxed again.
This wasn't reconciliation.
It wasn't forgiveness.
It was simpler.
A meal after bloodshed.
Proof that no one was hunting anyone tonight.
Aria leaned back, full for once—not just of food, but of something steadier.
Outside, the world kept spinning.
Inside, they ate.