The atmosphere inside Rehnpeir's hits Zavala differently today. Sounds are muted, the lights, harsh. He stops to stare sidelong at a piece of art on the wall. Bold colors streak across canvas, evoking the shape of a helm. How long has that been there, he wonders to himself. A hand on his shoulder startles him, shaking him free of his reverie. Zavala turns to see Sloane. She guides him to her table. He sits opposite her, his gaze fixed on the errant flower petals and strip of celebratory tinsel caught in the crook of her breastplate. "Got held up by the festivities?" she asks. Zavala grunts a noncommittal agreement. "Where's Síocháin?" he interjects. Sloane shrugs. "With Glint, last I saw. Catching up." Her nonchalance makes Zavala shift uneasily. They place their orders, Sloane never glancing at the menu she's already re-memorized; Zavala, taking too long to find his usual, tucked away on the menu's backside. Was it always there? He orders with extra spice. Sloane sips her tea for a moment, watching as Zavala forces his focus elsewhere. "Having any trouble?" she asks after a long while. "With what?" Zavala replies, pretending not to hear the depth of her question. Sloane adjusts her inquiry. "Stasis must be… an adjustment?" He recognizes the shift in her strategy, alters his own to match. "Opinions on Darkness have been changing," he says flatly. "I didn't ask what everyone else thinks. I asked you," Sloane reiterates. "My opinions… may be adjusting as well." She nods. "Change is hard. But if there's anyone I trust to handle that kind of thing, it's you," Sloane says frankly. Steaming bowls of noodles appear. Zavala is grateful for them suddenly, though the strength of his gratitude for such a distraction troubles even him. "How's the Vanguard holding up?" "Strangely," Zavala admits. He pokes at his noodles, watches the steam coil up into the air. "It was hard to believe we'd get this far. And now… we're adapting to this new way of living, I suppose." "It will get better. One day at a time," she reassures. It sounds like a platitude, save for the fact it's Sloane saying it. "It's hard to see it that way sometimes." Zavala says this to his noodles. "Even if things are different… we're doing this together," Sloane says. Her hand comes into his field of view, resting atop his; Zavala finally glances up. "Don't forget that." A look of understanding passes between them as Sloane gives Zavala's hand a reassuring squeeze. The physical contact grounds him. Despite it all, when he considers the future there is still a gentle warmth. Perhaps distant; perhaps small. It will grow.