She doesn't say anything. She sets a plate down in front of me — ropa vieja, plantains, rice and black beans ladled separately — and for a moment her hand rests on the edge of the plate. When I look up, her eyes are on mine. Warm, steady, a woman who decided something a while ago and is only now making it visible.
Then she moves on, taking her seat beside Gabriel.
I pick up my fork. The ropa vieja is extraordinary — deep and slow, the beef giving way easily, the tomatoes and peppers cooked down to something almost sweet. It feels like she cooked this just for me.
Across the table, Gabriel murmurs something to Sera about Gunner being on his third helping. Sera glances that direction with quiet amusement. Gabriel's mouth curves.
Gunner doesn't look up from the food.
"You look different," Adrian says.
He's looking at me, leaning back in his chair with his wine glass, easy and unhurried.
"Different how?"
"You walked in like you were walking in." He tilts his head. "Before, you always had one eye on the door."
"I knew where the exits were. I'm an artist. I observe things."
He smiles. "Logan's different too. You should see him these days. He came to the morning briefing yesterday and made a joke." A pause for effect. "On purpose."
"Was it funny?"
"No.That's how I knew it was real." He raises his glass slightly. "Mi reina, whatever you did to him, keep doing it."
I laugh — surprised out of me, the way the best laughs always are.
Logan's arm finds the back of my chair without comment. He's caught the tail end of it, and when I turn he's watching me with nothing controlled in his expression, the warmth sitting right on the surface.
"You made a joke at a briefing yesterday," I accuse.
"Adrian told you."
"Adrian tells everyone everything."
The corner of his mouth moves. "I'll address that at the next briefing."
"He says you weren't funny," I tell him.
"Adrian has no taste."
"Adrian has impeccable taste," Adrian says, not looking up from his wine.
Logan's arm settles more firmly. His thumb moves once against my shoulder — brief, certain. The table has its own grammar and I'm learning to read it: who interrupts whom, who finishes sentences, the rhythm of people who have eaten together enough times to stop thinking about it. I'm learning it. And still, across the room, Isa remains at the bar, back turned, a wall I haven't found a door in yet.
The Siren has barely touched her food. Same portion Sera set down — growing cool, untouched. Her hands are still in her lap and she's humming under her breath, barely audible, more vibration than music. I excuse myself and carry my wine around the table to where she sits.
She looks up when I sit down beside her.
"You're quiet tonight," I say.
"I'm always quiet."
"It seems different tonight."
A small beat. Her eyes drop to her hands — those long, elegant hands that hold a whole room when they move. "It's been loud in here since the Gilded Lily." She touches her own temple. "I keep hearing it."
"It will get better," I say. "At least that’s what everyone keeps telling me."
