Isla woke to the faint sounds of movement in the safehouse—soft footsteps, the muted clink of cookware, the low hum of something heating. For a moment, she lay still, staring at the ceiling, orienting herself. The mission. The underground rooms. Him.

She pushed herself up quietly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. There was a strange heaviness in her chest she hadn’t gone to bed with, an echo of something unsettled. She hadn’t heard him during the night, hadn’t seen the tears, but instinct—sharp and well-honed—told her something had been off. Adrien carried silence the way other people carried scars.

She dressed quickly and slipped out into the common area.

He was already there, of course. Moving with the same careful precision she’d come to recognize. Breakfast was laid out simply—nothing fancy, nothing wasteful. Efficient. Thoughtful. Very him.

Isla paused in the doorway, watching him for half a second longer than necessary. The faint tiredness in his posture didn’t match the calmness of his movements. He looked… composed, but thinner somehow. Like someone who’d held himself together through sheer habit.

She cleared her throat softly, announcing herself without startling him. “Morning,” she said, her voice low, neutral—but not cold.

She moved closer, leaning lightly against the counter opposite him, eyes flicking over the food and then back to his face. “You’re up early,” she added, not an accusation, just an observation.

There was a beat of silence as she studied him—really studied him—before she spoke again, quieter this time. “You okay?”

It wasn’t probing. It wasn’t demanding. Just an opening—one she didn’t often offer, and rarely expected anyone to take.

Isla didn’t pretend she hadn’t noticed the way his shoulders tightened. She noticed everything — the pause between the sizzle of the eggs, the way his voice thinned when he answered, the careful way he kept his eyes on the pan like it might save him from being seen.

She moved fully into the kitchen then, quiet as a thought, leaning back against the counter instead of crowding him. Deliberate. Nonthreatening. Her gaze stayed on his hands, not his face — a small mercy she knew most people didn’t even realize they needed.

“Mm,” she murmured softly, accepting his answer without arguing it. “Normal doesn’t mean easy.” A beat. Not a probe — an offering. “And it doesn’t mean you have to explain it.”

Her eyes flicked up briefly, gray-green and unreadable, but not cold. Something gentler threaded through her voice when she spoke again, low enough that it felt like it belonged only to the room. “You don’t have to hide it from me. I’m not asking you to open doors you’ve locked for a reason.”

She let the silence stretch — not pressing, not retreating — just present. Then, almost casually, “Eggs smell good. You always cook when you can’t sleep?”

Isla caught the way his voice slipped when he spoke—how the words normal is never easy seemed to escape him rather than be offered. She didn’t comment on it. She knew better than to grab at something fragile the moment it showed itself. Instead, she let it exist between them, unexamined, respected.

She noticed everything else too: the tightness in his shoulders, the way he held himself like stillness was a shield, the careful economy of his movements. It wasn’t fear exactly. It was discipline layered over something older. Something learned.

When he pushed the plate toward her, she paused.

For half a heartbeat, she just looked at it, then at him. The gesture was small, almost nothing—but it landed heavier than it should have. He hadn’t planned for her. Hadn’t expected her. And yet, he’d adjusted anyway.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, taking the plate without brushing his hand, mindful of the space he’d clearly carved for himself. She didn’t sit too close either—pulled out a chair with a comfortable buffer, angling her body slightly away so he wouldn’t feel boxed in.

She took a bite, more to normalize the moment than out of hunger, then glanced up at him again. Not searching. Not interrogating. Just present.

“You didn’t have to,” she added, nodding faintly toward the food. There was no guilt in her tone, just acknowledgment. “But… I appreciate it.”

A beat passed. The hum of the safehouse filled the gap.

Then, lightly—almost casually—she spoke again. “For what it’s worth,” she said, eyes dropping back to her plate, “silence doesn’t bother me. I don’t need conversation to fill space.”

That was the offer. Not closeness. Not trust. Just permission.

She ate quietly after that, matching his pace, letting the morning settle into something that didn’t demand anything from either of them.