They didn't make a big deal out of it.
No ceremony.
No speeches.
No promises carved into stone.
They just… existed.
Morning bled into afternoon. Someone fixed the broken light. Someone else argued with a delivery driver over the wrong order. Life filled the spaces where vigilance used to live.
Aria sat on the floor by the low table, back against the couch.
A familiar sound.
Crack.
Another bag of chips opened.
She didn't even look up this time.
Across the room, Scar-Jaw froze mid-sentence. Noah paused at the sink. Two others glanced over automatically.
Then relaxed.
Because that sound no longer meant stand down or all clear.
It just meant she was comfortable.
Aria reached into the bag, pulled out a chip, and bit down.
Crunch.
She leaned back, eyes half-lidded, surveying the room—people talking over each other, someone laughing too loud, someone stealing food and getting smacked for it.
No formations.
No tension.
No waiting for orders.
Just noise. Warmth. Presence.
Scar-Jaw shook his head with a grin. "You know, if anyone from the old days saw this…"
"They'd be confused," Noah finished, smiling.
"Good," Aria said.
She licked salt from her thumb, glanced around once more, and let herself sink fully into the moment.
"…Now that's more like it."
And for the first time—
Nothing came after.