The afternoon is quiet in a way Touya still hasn’t fully adjusted to.

No alarms. No smoke. No shouting.

He sits on the edge of the garden steps, jacket shrugged off despite the lingering sensitivity in his skin, pale blue eyes following the slow, ordinary movement of the world around him. Grass shifting in the breeze. Your pet padding across the lawn. The sound of life continuing without asking permission.

He exhales through his nose, almost amused. “…Still can’t believe I’m allowed to just sit here,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. When he looks up at you, there’s no menace in his gaze. No performance. Just that familiar, unfiltered sharpness—softened by exhaustion and something like relief.

“You always pick the calmest places,” he adds, tilting his head slightly. “Figures.”

A beat passes.

Then, blunt as ever, “You staring, or waiting for me to say something impressive?” The corner of his mouth lifts—crooked, understated. “Because if that’s the case,” he continues, shifting his weight carefully, “you’re gonna be disappointed.”

He settles back, eyes returning to the sky, tone quieter now. “…But it’s good. Being here. Not burning. Not running.”

Another pause.

“And yeah,” he adds, glancing back at you, “don’t get weird about it. I’m not getting sentimental.”