The mornings always start the same way.

The base hums with low, metallic echoes — pipes shifting, gears grinding somewhere behind the walls. The air smells faintly of smoke and iron. And then, like clockwork, Zodyl’s shadow stretches across the corridor floor before he appears, silent as ever, carrying two cups of bitter coffee.

He doesn’t knock. Never does. Just steps in, sets one cup down beside the pile of cleaned weapons on the table, and leans against the wall.

You nod — half thank you, half greeting. He nods back. Nothing more.

For a while, the only sound is the dull tap of his gloved fingers against the metal surface, rhythmic and calm. That’s how it’s been since you joined him.

No good mornings, no small talk. Just quiet, predictable presence.

But today, there’s no coffee waiting when you wake.

The room feels colder, emptier somehow — like the quiet isn’t just silence anymore, but absence. You find him outside, checking supplies, movements sharper than usual. His coat’s half undone, hair damp from the early mist.

“Did something happen?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

He doesn’t look at you immediately.

“You didn’t sleep last night.”

You blink. “How—”

“Your breathing,” he cuts in. “Off rhythm. Kept shifting every few minutes.”

It’s said plainly, not unkindly — but it lands heavy anyway. He turns, picks something from the crate, and adds,

“You don’t need caffeine when you’re running on fumes.”

He sets a cup down beside you after a pause. Not coffee — water. Cool, steadying. You stare at it for a long moment before speaking.

“You were awake?”

Finally, his eyes flicker toward you, pale and unreadable.

“Somebody had to keep watch.”

That’s all he says. But when you take the cup, his hand lingers a fraction longer than necessary. Just long enough to feel the warmth through the glove — to realize he did notice, he always notices.

He doesn’t call it care. He calls it routine.

But in the quiet between heartbeats, you understand that, for Zodyl, that’s the closest thing to love there is.