Lunch settles in without anyone really deciding it has started.
Plates pass from hand to hand, bread is torn, water poured, small gestures finding their place naturally. No one leads, no one directs, and yet everything holds together. The kind of fragile harmony that only exists when people have already been broken enough to stop forcing control.
Mia sits between Aglaë and Marianne.
At least, that's what it looks like.
She laughs easily, at the right moments. Her timing is perfect, her tone relaxed, her presence warm in a way that feels effortless. There's no trace of the earlier tension, no hesitation, no visible fracture.
If anything, she seems more fluid than before.
Aglaë leans slightly toward her, still carrying the echo of the song.
"I still remember that night," she says, smiling, a little unsure of herself but unable to hold it back. "I thought it was over. And then you just…"
She gestures vaguely, searching.
Mia finishes the sentence without missing a beat.
"Walked in like nothing could touch me."
Aglaë's face lights up.
"Yes. Exactly."
Mia smiles back, soft, perfectly calibrated.
"That's the trick," she says. "You don't let them see the moment before."
She takes a bite, calm, composed, entirely at ease in her body.
Across the table, Octave watches without looking like he's watching.
Aglaë lets out a small laugh. "I don't think I could ever do that."
Mia tilts her head slightly, studying her with what looks like genuine attention.
"You already do."
The answer comes smoothly, without emphasis, but it lands.
Aglaë blinks. "What?"
Mia shrugs, as if it's obvious.
"You stayed. That's harder."
There's something accurate in the way she says it. Something that fits just enough to be accepted without question.
Aglaë looks down at her plate, a faint color rising in her cheeks, then smiles again, quieter this time.
Ishtar eats in silence, but her gaze flickers once toward Mia, brief and unreadable. Ludwig doesn't react at all. Marianne listens more than she speaks, her attention moving between them without interrupting the flow.
Mia continues effortlessly.
Stories unfold with just the right level of detail, nothing excessive, nothing missing. She leans slightly toward Aglaë as she speaks, adjusting her tone, her rhythm, her presence without ever making it visible.
"Backstage is never what people think," she says. "It's quieter. Tighter. Everyone pretending they're in control."
A faint smile.
"Most of the time, they're not."
Aglaë laughs again. "You didn't look like that."
"That's the job."
Simple. True. Clean.
Everything about her fits. Every response lands. Every silence is placed exactly where it should be.
Too clean.
Too precise.
Octave's gaze lingers a fraction longer this time. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to register that something doesn't quite align. Not wrong. Just… too perfect.
Mia leans back slightly, one arm resting on the table, completely at ease. More at ease than she has been since arriving.
Inside, there is no hesitation.
No internal negotiation.
No adjustment.
Mircalla doesn't need to try.
She is built for this.
Aglaë says something softer now, more personal, and Mia listens with full attention, her expression open, engaged, exactly what is needed.
But beneath it, something is still.
Not cold.
Not empty.
Just… controlled.
Like a performance that no longer requires effort to maintain.
The meal winds down without a clear end. Plates empty, movements slow, conversations dissolve into smaller fragments. One person stands, then another.
Mia rises with them, naturally.
She takes her plate, moves to the sink, rinses it with steady, efficient gestures. No hesitation. No distraction. Everything is smooth.
Water runs over porcelain. Hands move. Routine completes itself.
She dries her hands, slower this time, almost thoughtful.
Then she turns back toward the room.
"I'm going to get some air."
The tone is light, casual, unremarkable. The kind of sentence that passes through a room without leaving a mark.
Aglaë looks up. "Okay."
Mia smiles.
Perfectly.
Then she leaves.
No hurry. No noise. No trace of anything unresolved.
Behind her, the kitchen continues. Dishes, voices, small movements filling the space again.
Nothing is broken.
Nothing is wrong.
And that's exactly what should worry someone.