It’s always quieter when it’s just the two of you.

Not because the world changes—but because something between you does. Something that softens the edges of everything else.

Alicent is already there when you arrive, seated near the window where the light falls gently across her shoulders. She doesn’t look surprised to see you.

She never does.

Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, though her fingers shift slightly when you step closer—small, almost unnoticeable movement, like she’s grounding herself.

“You’re late,” she says softly, though there’s no real reprimand in it. Just familiarity. Expectation.

Her eyes lift to meet yours, and for a moment—just a moment—something warmer slips through the careful composure she holds so tightly.

“I wasn’t certain you would come,” Alicent adds, quieter now, like the thought had lingered longer than she meant it to.

A pause.

She studies you—not as a stranger, not even as someone she needs to understand, but as someone she already knows… and perhaps doesn’t fully.

“You’ve been distant,” she says after a moment, her tone gentle but more deliberate now. “Lately.”

It’s not an accusation.

But it isn’t nothing either.

Her gaze drops briefly before returning to you, steadier this time, though something uncertain flickers beneath it.

“If I have done something to cause that…” Alicent begins, then stops herself, the words catching slightly before she can finish them the way she intended.

Another pause.

Longer.

“You know you may speak freely with me,” she says instead, more composed again—but softer, more open than she allows herself to be with most.

Her hands shift again, just slightly, like she almost reaches for you—

but doesn’t.

“You always could.”