The hospital smelled like a mixture of antiseptic and fading hope, but Aldrin walked the halls like he had an appointment with certainty. Outside, Sunday's sun filtered through gray clouds, soft and indecisive, a light drizzle misting the glass walls of the recovery wing.
He carried two things: a small cardboard drink tray with three coffees from a place that didn't water them down, and a thick manila folder tucked under his arm—the kind of file that came sealed with discretion and unease.
Room 204.
Marek's room.
The moment he knocked, the sound of voices inside—sharp and familiar—paused, and then resumed with less subtlety.
"Door's open," Marek called. "Unless it's another nurse with gelatin pretending to be lunch—then turn around now."
Aldrin stepped in with the raised brow of a man debating whether it was worth turning back.
Marek was a mess of gauze and burned bravado, slouched upright in his hospital bed like a king in exile. His left arm was in a sling, bandages wrapping around his torso and shoulder, but none of it seemed to touch the smug expression on his face.
Across from him, Ainsworth—pale but recovering—sat in a visitor's chair, legs crossed and looking, for all intents and purposes, like a professor on sabbatical. Only the IV in his hand betrayed the truth.
"I brought bribes," Aldrin said, lifting the tray. "Dark roast. No sugar."
"Ah, you do love us," Marek crooned.
"I considered decaf," Aldrin said, handing each man a cup. "But I figured you'd be insufferable enough without the caffeine withdrawal."
"Touché," Ainsworth murmured, taking his with a grateful nod.
Marek sipped and groaned. "Real coffee. Not that machine oil they serve in the cafeteria. You really are our dark knight."
"Less brooding," Ainsworth added with a grin.
Aldrin gave them both a flat look. "You're not dead. You're not dying. Try not to act like martyrs."
"Martyrs get flowers," Marek said. "I got third-degree burns and a nurse who thinks sarcasm is a sign of a concussion."
"She's not wrong," Aldrin muttered.
They laughed. It was the kind of laughter that didn't last long—but it didn't need to. It filled the room like warm light for just a breath.
Then Ainsworth leaned forward, a bit of the old strategist gleaming behind tired eyes.
"So, Aldrin. We've been patient."
"Debatable," Aldrin said, setting the folder on the counter.
"But we're owed answers. You've danced around it long enough. What's the plan?"
Aldrin raised a brow. "You want my strategic overview?"
"No," Marek said, eyes glinting. "We want your romantic overview."
Aldrin blinked once.
"Ah," he said. "That."
"Yes, that," Ainsworth echoed, his grin slow and wry. "The rumor of the century. You and the analyst. The clandestine exit. The stolen looks."
"The way she stormed past your secretary the other day like she owned your office," Marek added. "Which, by the way, wasn't even subtle."
"Iris is a capable operative and a dedicated analyst. That's all anyone needs to know," Aldrin said, tone clipped, face unreadable.
"Doesn't deny the stolen looks," Ainsworth said under his breath.
"Or the tension so thick it made the air conditioner break down," Marek followed.
Aldrin gave a look. The kind of look that could silence a war room. It didn't work on these two.
"You do realize you're both alive by my grace and poor judgment," he said dryly.
"Hey," Marek said, raising his good hand. "I'm just here for the updates and the drama. You're the one out here rewriting workplace policy with unspoken glances."
"Tell me," Aldrin said, folding his arms. "Do you make it a point to be this insufferable when wounded?"
"Oh, absolutely," Marek said with a grin. "It's part of the healing process."
"And the next time we're in a shootout, I'll remember to let you handle it solo."
Marek tapped his temple. "You already did. Still here, though. Just a little extra crispy."
Ainsworth chuckled into his cup. "So? Will you at least admit you care?"
Aldrin looked at them both, his jaw tightening. Then—he exhaled, slow. "Of course I care. She's an asset. I protect my people."
"That's not the kind of care we're asking about," Marek said, raising a brow.
"Then ask a different question," Aldrin replied, cool as winter.
A beat passed, then another. Marek held up both hands, winced from the motion, and relented.
"Fine. Fine. No more teasing. For now."
Aldrin walked to the window, letting the gray morning light trace the edges of his face. "You want to know the plan?" he asked finally.
Marek and Ainsworth straightened just slightly.
"Good," Aldrin continued. "Because I need you both back. Fully. We don't just have a revenant to deal with—we have someone pulling his strings. Someone bigger. And that someone almost made me lose two of my best men."
He turned toward them, the weight of command suddenly crackling in the room like static.
"No more guesses. No more whispers. We take control. We draw them out. And when they come... we make sure they never try again."
The room went quiet. Marek let out a low whistle. "Damn. That's hot."
Aldrin sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do me a favor. Next time I visit, pretend to be unconscious."
"No promises," Marek said, grinning.
Ainsworth raised his cup in toast. "To the plan."
Aldrin lifted his own.
"To surviving it," he said. "And keeping idiots like you alive in the process."
They all drank.
Outside, the clouds began to part—just slightly.
Inside, the war was already breathing again. But for a brief, bruised moment... there was peace.
Iris
The phone buzzed once, then again, then didn't stop.
Iris had been halfway through organizing the latest intel drops into a semi-digestible report when her wrist lit up with Isabella's name.
She sighed, glancing around the semi-abandoned operations floor. Quiet. Peaceful, for once. It felt surreal after days of briefings, surveillance reviews, and the chaos following the shell trap. She tapped the call.
"Please tell me you didn't go rogue again," she answered, deadpan.
Isabella's voice came through, bright and biting.
"Oh, I didn't. But someone else sure did. I just heard from Ainsworth. And Marek. And an orderly who is now convinced Aldrin smuggles puppies into the ICU."
Iris blinked. "...Puppies?"
"Figurative. He brought coffee. Same thing."
There was a pause, a grin in Isabella's voice before she pounced.
"So. Rumors."
Iris closed her eyes. "Oh no."
"Oh yes."
She leaned back in her chair, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Please don't."
"They say the analyst has eyes only for the bossman," Isabella cooed. "They say she stormed into his office like a hurricane with classified files and destiny. They say she defies protocol and gravity."
"Who is they exactly?" Iris asked, exasperated.
"You know. The walls. The whispers. The people who watch too many spy dramas on downtime." Isabella paused. "And me. I definitely say it too."
Iris groaned. "He's my superior."
"So's gravity, and you fight that daily."
"Isabella."
"What?" her friend laughed. "You're telling me you didn't notice how he looks at you? The post-mission stares? The whole protective bodyguard-in-a-romance-film energy?"
Iris opened her mouth. Closed it.
There were... things.
There was that way Aldrin stood when someone questioned her data. The stillness before he spoke. The calm ferocity.
There was how he moved in a firefight. That ruthless efficiency. Surgical. Swift.
And there was how, even in the blood and chaos of the warehouse firefight, he'd turned, once, just to check if she was still behind him.
Not with words.
With eyes. Like steel pulled from flame.
Her heart had a stupid habit of misreading things. It beat too fast when he was near. Not because he was Aldrin—the Chairman—but because he was also something else beneath it. A person with dry humor. With quiet nights spent alone at his desk reading dispatches others skimmed. With a temper that burned only when someone he cared about was in danger.
Ruthless.
Protective.
Playful... even in a crisis.
It was maddening.
And confusing.
And not real. Right?
"Nothing's going on," Iris finally said into the receiver. "I mean it."
"Right," Isabella said, not even pretending to believe her. "And the intel you brought him last week was purely professional."
"It was."
"You didn't notice the way he leaned forward when you spoke?"
"I—what? That's ridiculous."
"Didn't watch the way he lowered his voice when he called you 'Agent Asher'?"
"I—no. I mean—he's like that with everyone."
"Mmhm."
Iris stared at the ceiling. "Why are you like this?"
"Because I care about your romantic wellbeing," Isabella replied cheerfully. "And because I enjoy watching ice queens melt."
"I'm not an ice queen."
"Not anymore, you're not."
"I—"
The sound of someone clearing their throat nearby made her look up. A junior analyst stood with an armful of files, blinking at her awkwardly. Iris waved them toward the briefing table with an apologetic look.
Isabella caught it. "Alright. I'll let you get back to saving the world. But hey—I'm proud of you."
Iris frowned. "For what?"
"For surviving," Isabella said simply. "And for caring, even when it's complicated."
The call ended before Iris could respond.
She sat in silence for a few seconds, watching the mist outside the window fade as the sun began to break through. Her reflection stared back at her—rumpled, tired, eyes clouded by more than logistics.
What was she going to do about the rumors?
What was she going to do about him?
She didn't know.
But for now, she'd get back to work. And maybe, just maybe, she'd stop pretending she didn't notice the things he didn't say.