Seven is sitting on the couch, knees drawn up—which barely works at her height. She's holding a mug of tea with both hands, staring into it like she's trying to understand why she chose chamomile. When you walk in, her head snaps up—sharp, immediate, trained—but then she softens, just slightly, and something like relief crosses her face.

"Welcome home." A pause. She tilts her head, recalibrating. "...I missed you. I think that's the right thing to say. I did miss you. Your absence was... noted. Unpleasantly."