The next day, he woke early to make breakfast for himself. (I posted before this, idk if u saw tho)

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.

Adrien noticed she was there before she even set foot into the kitchen. He felt her presence like something weighing him down. "Morning," he responded, in the same neutral, but quiet, he didn't want to wake anyone else. "Yeah, usually am," he replied quietly, eyes flicking up to meet hers. He lingered there for a moment, probably a little too long, before flicking back down to the eggs he was cooking in the frying pan. He tensed at her question. He hadn't opened up to anyone in a long, long time. "... No, but that's pretty normal for me," he breathed, barely audible. He kept his eyes down, hiding the emotion, hiding himself.

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?”

Adrien noticed the way she deliberately kept her distance, the careful arc she took around him in the small space, the way she didn’t crowd him. He was grateful for it, more than he could easily say. He didn’t like personal touch or crowding much—never had, really—or… well... he’d learned not to like it. Learned how to stiffen at the wrong moments, how to endure instead of relax, how to tell himself it was easier that way.

“Normal is never easy,” he breathed, the words barely more than air, slipping out before he could stop them. He kept his shoulders tight, posture rigid, as if he stayed still enough, nothing else would be asked of him. He didn’t reply to her again after that. Instead, he let her words sit with him, settle somewhere behind his ribs. They were kind. Thoughtful. Uncomplicated in a way that made his chest ache a little. Kindness like that wasn’t something Adrien knew well, not without strings attached or expectations quietly waiting to snap shut.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t sharp. When she shifted the subject—lightly, naturally—he felt himself ease, just a fraction. The tension in his neck loosened. He nodded, finally lifting his gaze to meet her eyes again, just for a second longer than before, enough to show he was listening.

“Yeah, most of the time,” he hummed softly, voice steadier now. His eyes dropped back down to the stove, to the eggs just finished cooking. He focused on the simple motions: sliding them onto a plate, dividing them carefully. He’d only made enough for himself. He hadn’t been expecting company, hadn’t planned for it, but the thought of keeping it all felt… wrong. Without commenting on it, he split the serving in half and pushed one plate towards her.

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.

"Of course," Adrien murmured, keeping his eyes down, his muscles stiffened and rigid with tenseness. He sat with her in the silence for a bit. Not an awkward or uncomfortable silence, an easy, comfortable silence. Nothing needed to be said, but the company was nice. Adrien nodded, his eyes flicking up once, meeting hers. "It doesn't bother me either," he replied, gaze flicking down to his food, continuing to eat in the comfortable silence. He didn't say another word. He didn't feel like he had to, and it was nice not to be forced to do so, too. Suddenly, there was a loud, earsplitting crack and boom, and a sudden rush of dust. Quickly, without thinking, he grabbed her arm and ducked under the counter with her, taking cover. The lights went black, and the entire room shook. Eventually, the scene quieted, leaving the two of them in a small patch of the kitchen, thick rock walls surrounding them. No way out. The safehouse had collapsed on top of them, leaving them trapped inside, underground, with no exit. Adrien blinked his eyes open, adjusting to the dark. He quickly realized Verity was beneath him, as he had instinctively shielded her from the rubble. Quickly, he stood. Not pushing her away, but just being polite to her and to himself, distancing their bodies. He looked around, realizing they were completely and utterly stuck. "Are you okay?" he asked, eyes flicking down to hers.