It happened later.
Not in a room.
Not with everyone watching.
That mattered.
---
Aria was on the balcony, leaning against the railing, city air cooling the day off her skin. Below, traffic flowed like a living thing—predictable, indifferent.
Footsteps approached. Careful ones.
She didn't turn.
"You're going to wear a hole in the concrete if you keep hovering," she said.
Scar-Jaw stopped short. "…You always hear that?"
"Yes."
A pause.
He leaned on the railing a few feet away, matching her posture without realizing it.
"We talked," he said.
"I figured."
Another pause—longer this time.
"We're staying," he said. "All of us."
She nodded once. No smile. No comment.
"But," he added, choosing his words like he was defusing something, "we ran into a problem."
She glanced at him sideways. "You usually do."
"We don't know what to call you."
Ah.
That.
"I already told you," Aria said. "You don't call me anything special."
"I know," he said quickly. "And we're not trying to rebuild anything. We swear."
He rubbed his jaw, uncomfortable. "It's just… when something happens, people still look to you. When decisions need to be made, they wait."
She looked back out at the city.
"That's their choice," she said.
"Exactly," he replied. "And they chose a long time ago."
Silence stretched.
Then Scar-Jaw sighed. "We tried using your name. Feels wrong. Like calling fire 'warm.'"
That almost made her smile.
Almost.
"So," he continued carefully, "we're not asking permission."
She turned fully now.
"We just want to know if you're going to stop us."
Their eyes met.
For a long moment, she saw the past there—mud, blood, impossible odds.
Then she saw the present—people choosing to stay without chains.
"…You're really bad at letting things die," she said.
He smiled faintly. "Learned from you."
She exhaled, slow.
"If you use it," she said, "you don't use it to hide behind me."
His posture straightened immediately. "Never."
"And you don't use it to excuse stupidity."
"Yes, Big—" He stopped himself, winced.
Aria raised an eyebrow.
"…Big Sis," he finished, quieter.
She looked away before he could see the reaction.
Didn't correct him.
Didn't object.
Behind her, Scar-Jaw let out a breath he'd been holding for years.
The title returned.
Not as rank.
Not as command.
But as something earned—
and finally, freely given.