"Okay, if you're sure," he said with a shrug, walking over to arrange the pillows down the middle. "I don't snore," he mumbled, finishing arranging the pillows. He put the thick, nice blanket on her side, and he took the lighter one. He might be a little chilly, but it would be okay. He climbed into bed on his side, and when she was ready for bed, he flicked the light off. "Night," he yawned. Adrien took one of his pillows and wrapped his arms around it, hugging it and burying his nose into the fabric. Adrien hadn't been with a woman since high school. It had been over a decade since he shared a bed with a woman. So hugging a pillow every night gave him the illusion of someone being there for him.

Adrien glanced over his shoulder. "Just a habit, nothing personal," he lied. His little pillow-person he cuddled every night, was his only comfort. He shook his head again, "I don't talk in my sleep either," he mumbled, which was true. "Good night, Verity,"

Isla let out a soft breath at his answer, the unconvincing edge of his lie warming her more than irritating her. It was oddly humanizing—this man who moved like steel and strategy clinging to a pillow the way lonely people did. She didn’t tease him again, though; something about the way he said just a habit told her to leave it be.

“Alright… James,” she murmured, settling under the heavier blanket he’d left for her. The bed dipped slightly where he lay, the row of pillows between them feeling more like a suggestion than an actual barrier.

In the darkness, she stared up at the ceiling for a moment before turning onto her side, facing away from him but aware—acutely—of his presence behind her.

“Good night,” she whispered back, soft enough that it could be mistaken for a drifting thought rather than words.

And despite everything—danger, false names, uncertainty—sleep came easier than she expected.

Adrien lay awake for a long while, clinging to his pillow tightly, his loneliness almost overwhelming. His heart ached as his mind wandered over his thoughts. He had no friends. He'd rather forget his family than remember them. And a relationship was out of the picture entirely. Relationships had been out of the picture for a long time... Eventually, though, he fell into a light sleep.

The next morning, he woke early, just as he always did, getting up. He made coffee first, setting out a mug for her with a few creamers and sugar packets next to it so she could make it the way she liked. He took his black.

Isla woke to the quiet clink of a mug being set down, the faint bitterness of brewing coffee drifting through the room. For a moment she stayed still, eyes half-open, watching James—Adrien, though she didn’t know that—move with practiced, silent efficiency.

He looked like someone who’d been awake for hours, not minutes. Someone who didn’t get the luxury of deep sleep.

She pushed herself up slowly, the heavier blanket sliding from her shoulder. “You’re up early,” she murmured, voice still soft with sleep.

Then she noticed the second mug, the little row of creamers and sugar packets arranged neatly beside it. The care in such a small gesture.

Her chest warmed—unexpected, inconvenient.

“Thanks,” she said, rising and padding over to the counter. She fixed her coffee lightly sweetened, the way she preferred, and took a small sip. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

But she appreciated that he had. More than she intended to let on.

Isla glanced at him over the rim of her mug. He looked tired—more than tired, really. The kind of worn that didn’t come from one bad night, but from years.

“You sleep alright?” she asked quietly. Not prying—just… noticing.

Adrien glanced over at her with a little nod, "Yeah, always am," he mumbled lightly, walking away from the counter and sitting in one of the only chairs in the small room. "Its okay, I was going to make some anyways." he hummed, sipping on his coffee. "Yeah, slept fine. Just like normal," he sighed, almost sadly. "What about you, were you comfortable? Warm enough?"

Isla watched him retreat to the chair, the soft thunk of the mug against the table sounding far heavier than it should have. His answers were too quick, too practiced—the kind built from habit, not honesty.

“Mm,” she murmured, letting him keep his half-truths. She wasn’t ready to press him.

She leaned against the counter, hands wrapped around her warm mug. “I was fine,” she replied, a faint, almost reluctant smile tugging at her mouth. “Warmer than I expected, actually. So… thanks.”

Her gaze flicked to the pillow he’d clung to last night, still faintly indented. Something in her tightened at the memory of it—how he’d hugged it like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

“But you don’t have to take the lighter blanket next time,” she added, tone mild but pointed. “I won’t freeze to death.”

A beat passed. She studied him over her coffee, head tilting slightly.

“You look tired,” she said softly—not accusing, not prying. Just observing. “Normal or not… it doesn’t look good on you.”

Adrien nodded, "Thats good," he hummed lightly, sipping on his coffee. "Its okay, I'm a warm sleeper anyways," he lied. But he was happy she had been warm enough. He nodded with a yawn, "Well, I've been like this for over a decade, so nothings changing now," he sighed. "So, when do you want to start rehearsing?"