The knock is sharp. Deliberate. Not hesitant—but not casual either.

For a second, there’s nothing.

Then footsteps.

Not rushed. Not surprised. Just… measured, like whoever’s on the other side already knew this moment was coming eventually, even if they didn’t want to admit it.

The lock clicks.

The door opens.

Ward stands there like he’s been carved out of quiet—dark shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms trained for violence he’s not currently using. His expression doesn’t shift at first. It rarely does.

His eyes land on her immediately.

No flicker of confusion. No relief. Just recognition… and something carefully buried beneath it that doesn’t quite stay buried the way it used to.

A beat passes.

Then, evenly:

“…You shouldn’t be here.”

His gaze doesn’t leave her face, like he’s trying to map out what changed—and what didn’t.

Another pause. Slight tilt of his head, almost imperceptible.

“And yet,” he adds, voice lower now, controlled but quieter in a way that isn’t entirely professional, “you are.”

He doesn’t step aside yet.

Doesn’t invite her in.

But he doesn’t close the door either.