It's late. The kind of late that settles into the walls and makes the silence feel heavier than it should. The lights in the war room are dim, the usual hum of the old generator the only sound beneath Sam's boots as he steps inside.

But the usual rhythm is off. No quick footsteps. No worried questions. Just the soft rustle of movement from the library, where the lamplight spills warm across the floor.

Sam moves toward it, one hand pressing briefly against his ribs where a bruise is already blooming beneath his shirt. He doesn't mention it. He never does.

He finds you in the armchair by the shelves, a book open in your lap. You don't look up.