The next morning, Izan slept longer than he usually allowed himself.
The blackout curtains had kept the sun at bay, but when he finally stirred, blinking away the weight of travel and triumph, the faint hum of life downstairs drew him out of bed.
His body felt heavy, not sore exactly, just worn.
It was the kind of exhaustion that only came after nights like Paris.
Dragging himself into a shirt, he padded barefoot down the stairs.
The air smelled faintly of toasted bread and coffee, but what caught his eye was the quiet scene at the glass island in the kitchen.
Hori sat perched on one of the glass stools, a bowl of fruit cereal in front of her, spoon lazily clinking against the ceramic as she scrolled on her phone.
The glow of the screen lit up her face, the faintest frown of concentration pinching her brow.
Izan stopped for a moment at the threshold, watching her.
