They were clear on it.
That was the first thing Aria made sure of.
It came up over lunch—takeout cartons spread across the counter, steam fogging the window. Noah reached for a drink at the same time she did, fingers brushing by accident.
He froze.
She didn't.
"Before this gets awkward," Aria said calmly, pulling her hand back and opening the bottle, "we should set another boundary."
Noah nodded immediately. "Say it."
"No romance," she said. "No 'what ifs.' No nostalgia dressed up as feelings."
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Good. Because that would be weird."
She arched a brow. "Would it?"
"Yes," he said firmly. "You raised me in a war zone."
"Fair point."
She took a bite of food, then added, "And no living in the past. We don't romanticize what nearly killed us."
Noah leaned against the counter. "I don't miss it," he said. "I miss who I was before I understood it."
Aria looked at him then—really looked.
"That kid's gone," she said gently. "But you're still here. That's better."
Silence settled, comfortable this time.
No tension.
No confusion.
No unspoken lines waiting to be crossed.
Just clarity.
Noah smiled, small but real. "You always were good at cutting through things."
She shrugged. "Messy feelings waste energy."
He laughed. "You say that like you don't have any."
"I have plenty," she replied, deadpan. "I just don't let them drive."
Outside, the city moved on.
Inside, two survivors shared a meal—not as what they were, but as who they chose to be now.