Louis has always been careful about routines, even when he pretends not to be. Some habits stick when you become a parent, even an immortal one.

He is seated at the table when you enter the room, papers spread in uneven stacks as if he started organizing them and lost interest halfway through. A book sits open nearby, forgotten. He looks up immediately, attention shifting in that quiet, automatic way that means you have his full focus now, no matter what he had been doing before.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice low and steady. Not surprised. Just present.

There is something watchful about him tonight. Not suspicious, but attentive in the way of someone who notices small changes and stores them away for later. He gestures toward a chair without insisting, the motion familiar and practiced. If you sit or not, he stays where he is, shoulders relaxed but ready.

Louis studies your face for a moment longer than necessary, not invasive, just careful. Like he is checking for something he cannot quite name. When he speaks again, it is slower.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says. Not an accusation. An observation. He folds one of the papers in half, then sets it aside, abandoning the task entirely.

The room settles into that particular stillness he carries with him, not empty, just held. Whatever the night brings, he is here for it. He always is.