"Yeah. It was once, though, so— it'll come back. Some things just take time." He's unintentionally echoing his words to her back in the original Hargreeves mansion, without even realising it; those words of reassurance are too far back for him to remember, divided by a year in Dallas and a year here.

Time is oddly, incomprehensibly relative to their lives now. Twenty-four hours ago, this place was home. Now it isn't; now it's dulled by all those other months rearing up in its place, new and fresh and immediate in their memory.

Luther's fingers are interlaced across his stomach, his heavy shoulders pressing into the mattress, and what strikes him is how surprisingly comfortable he is. Feeling like some missing puzzle pieces have finally clicked into place, after missing a crucial part of himself for so long. And so as a result, the adrenaline is finally starting to ebb, leaving him scoured empty, tired, a blank slate and empty wasteland.

"I put up a couple decorations, but the rented room was still kind of a piece of shit. I didn't put much effort into it." After a pause, he clears his throat. "But I, um. Your house. Looked nice."

It's like a piece of practiced politesse to a skilled hostess, but it's also the truth. All warm buttery yellow light and east-facing windows, carefully-chosen furniture, carefully-appointed decorations (and those photographs, all those happy framed pictures of the happy couple, grinning out at the camera; Luther had never had a family photo that wasn't artificially posed for the press or grimly-arranged by the Monocle).

It had felt domestic in a way he'd never experienced in that other world, as much as he'd wanted to.