At first, I didn't say much.

That wasn't unusual.

I sat there with my plate, posture still a little too straight, attention split between the table and the rest of the café like I was waiting for something to go wrong. Old habits. Hard to shake. My fork moved slowly, almost absentmindedly, as I listened more than I spoke.

But the thing was—

There wasn't anything to react to.

No tension.

No sharp edges.

Just... conversation.

Normal conversation.

Sansa was the loudest, obviously. He leaned back in his chair, one arm hooked over it like he owned the place, already halfway through his food and talking at the same time.

"—and then he actually filed the report under 'unusual cat-related disturbance.' I'm not even kidding."

One of the others groaned. "That's because you made it a cat-related disturbance."

"It was a cat-related disturbance! The cat started it."

"You chased it through three buildings."

"It was a suspect."

"It was a cat."

Sansa pointed his fork at them like that settled everything. "Suspicious behavior."

I huffed quietly, not quite a laugh but close enough.

They noticed.

Of course they did.

"See?" Sansa said immediately, gesturing toward me. "He gets it."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to."

"That's not how that works."

The table chuckled lightly, and I found myself taking another bite without really thinking about it. The food was still good—warm, balanced, exactly how I wanted it. That part didn't change.

What changed was everything around it.

Across from me, Tsukauchi ate at a slower pace, more composed than the others, but he was listening just as closely. Every now and then, he'd add something small—correcting a detail, clarifying a story, grounding whatever chaos Sansa was creating.

"You left out the part where you tripped over your own shoelace," he said calmly.

"That was a tactical misstep."

"That was clumsiness."

"It was dark!"

"It was noon."

A quiet laugh went around the table again.

I leaned back slightly, letting the sound settle in.

It filled the space.

Not too loud.

Not overwhelming.

Just... there.

And I realized something strange.

I wasn't waiting for it to stop.

Usually, noise meant something. A signal. A warning. Raised voices, sharp tones, things escalating. But this?

This was different.

It didn't demand anything from me.

It didn't require control.

It just... existed.

One of the other officers—older, with tired eyes and a steady voice—set his fork down for a moment and stretched his shoulders.

"Honestly, I'll take paperwork over night patrol any day."

"Liar," someone else said immediately.

"I'm serious."

"You complain about paperwork constantly."

"Yeah, but at least paperwork doesn't try to stab me."

"That's a low bar."

"It's still a bar."

Sansa snorted. "You say that now, but give it two days and you'll be begging for field work again."

"Only because of you."

"What did I do?"

"Exist loudly."

"That sounds like a personal problem."

I glanced between them, watching the way they moved around each other's words so easily. No hesitation. No second-guessing. They interrupted, corrected, joked, argued—but none of it carried weight. None of it lingered.

It didn't stick.

That was the difference.

When villains talked, every word had an edge. Even jokes felt like they could turn into something else if pushed the wrong way. There was always a line somewhere in the conversation, invisible but real.

Here?

There wasn't.

Or if there was—

It didn't feel like a threat.

I rested my elbow lightly on the table, chin in my hand as I listened.

"...you always eat together like this?" I asked, before I could stop myself.

The table quieted for a second.

Not awkward.

Just surprised.

Sansa looked at me first.

"Not always," he said, a little more relaxed now. "Schedules are a mess. But when we can? Yeah."

One of the others nodded. "Depends on shifts. Sometimes it's just whoever's around."

"Sometimes it's no one," another added with a shrug.

Tsukauchi glanced at me briefly.

"It helps," he said simply.

I tilted my head slightly.

"With what."

A small pause.

"Everything."

That was it.

No long explanation.

No dramatic speech.

Just—

Everything.

I looked down at my plate for a second.

At the food I made.

At the table I was sitting at.

At the people around me who were still talking, still eating, still existing like this was normal.

"...huh."

I didn't have anything else to say to that.

Because I understood it.

More than I wanted to.

Sansa leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table.

"What about you?"

I looked up.

"What about me."

"You always eat alone?"

Straight to the point.

Of course.

"...yeah."

No point lying.

"And you're okay with that?"

I shrugged.

"It's quiet."

"That's not what I asked."

I met his gaze.

"I'm used to it."

A small pause.

Not pity.

Not judgment.

Just... acknowledgment.

"Doesn't mean it's better," one of the others said quietly.

I didn't answer that.

Didn't need to.

Because I didn't know.

Or maybe I did.

I just didn't want to say it out loud.

Sansa leaned back again, stretching.

"Well," he said, like he was making a decision, "you're not eating alone today."

I huffed quietly.

"I noticed."

"And you won't tomorrow either."

I raised an eyebrow.

"You planning my schedule now?"

"Absolutely."

"That's concerning."

"It's helpful."

"It's intrusive."

"It's friendly."

I stared at him.

He grinned.

"...I'll think about it."

"That's basically a yes."

"It's not."

"Close enough."

The conversation shifted again after that, moving into different topics without effort. Someone complained about their supervisor. Someone else brought up a case that had gone sideways. There were small disagreements, quick jokes, moments where voices overlapped and then settled again.

I didn't say much.

But I didn't feel like I had to.

That was new.

Usually, silence meant distance. Me standing behind the counter, separate, watching, detached. Even when people talked, I wasn't part of it. Just... adjacent.

Now?

I was sitting at the same table.

Eating the same food.

Listening to the same stories.