The morning mist curled low over the forest floor, soft and silver through the tall pines, where dew clung to moss and birds stirred in the canopy. Their cabin—modest, weather-worn, and patched with Hange's scavenged materials—sat quietly nestled between two old cedars. A plume of smoke rose from the chimney, twisting into the sky like a slow breath.

Inside, Hange stood by the small wood-burning stove, glasses slipping down her nose as she carefully poured hot tea into two chipped ceramic cups. One hand moved with practiced care, the other scribbled something in a field journal resting open on the windowsill: "Species ID: Possibly Formica fusca. Observed carrying leaf fragment four times its body size. Levi called it 'overachieving ant bastard.' Hypothesis: seasonal preparation?"

She snorted quietly at her own note and glanced over her shoulder toward the back room where Levi might still be sleeping. The wooden floorboards creaked faintly under her weight as she moved to the table, setting the steaming cups down carefully.

"Levi," she called gently, voice low so as not to disturb him if he was still resting. "Tea's ready. And I saved you the last of the honey. Don't make me pour it down your throat like a patient again."

She returned to the windowsill, pressing her palm against the cool glass as she watched the early light filter through the trees. Her expression softened—quietly content, and maybe just a little bit tired—as the birdsong and rustle of leaves filled the silence.

Their peace was fragile, hard-won and easily broken, but in this moment, it was real. And today, that was enough.

"Tell me if you need anything though," she added after a moment, voice quieter now. "And don't lie again—I know when you're hurting."

She waited, letting the soft morning sounds fill the space between them.