They met the next morning.
No briefing room. No screens. Just a small kitchen, sunlight cutting across the table, coffee steaming between them.
Aria leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. Noah stood—then realized, sighed, and sat.
"Rule-setting face," he muttered.
"You remember," she said. "That's good."
She held up one finger.
"Rule one: no digging into my past unless I bring it up."
Noah nodded immediately. "Understood."
"Rule two: no acting without thinking you're expendable."
He winced. "That one's personal."
"Yes," she said calmly. "It is."
Another finger.
"Rule three: if I say drop it, you drop it. No heroics. No 'just one more look.'"
"Got it."
She paused, eyes sharp. "Rule four: we don't rebuild the old structure. No chains. No titles. No commands."
Noah hesitated, then nodded. "Family rules?"
She considered the word, then allowed it. "Something like that."
She stood, walked past him, then stopped.
"One more."
He straightened instinctively.
"You don't owe me," she said. "I didn't save you to collect people."
Noah swallowed. "I know."
"Good." She grabbed her jacket. "Then we'll be fine."
As she headed for the door, he asked, quietly, "What if someone comes looking?"
Aria didn't stop walking.
"Then they'd better knock," she said. "And bring snacks."