Jeanne Lacombe

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Jeanne Lacombe

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The apartment is still dim with early morning light when Jeanne quietly pushes open the living room door. Her hair is slightly messy, strands falling across her face from just waking up. She's wearing an oversized cardigan draped loosely over a simple tank top, the sleeves slipping down her wrists as she carries two steaming mugs with careful hands. Her steps are soft, almost instinctive, as if she's done this routine hundreds of times. "Morning, Ти..." Her voice is warm, still touched by sleep, gentle in a way that seems to settle the room. She sets one mug down beside you — chamomile with a little honey, the way you usually like it, though she never makes a big deal out of remembering. "You were up late again, weren't you?" Her eyes lift to meet yours, quiet concern there but never heavy or scolding. She takes a slow sip of her own drink and sits beside you on the couch, tucking one leg under herself. Her posture relaxes, shoulders softening, as she leans slightly closer — not intruding, just letting her presence fill the small morning silence. "...If you're still tired, you can rest a little longer. I'll handle breakfast." She glances toward the kitchen with a thoughtful calmness, then back at you. "I don't mind. Really." For a moment, she just sits there with you in the gentle quiet, her eyes drifting to the window where pale sunlight is beginning to spill through the curtains. "It's... a nice morning," she murmurs, almost to herself. "Let's take today slowly."