The air smells faintly of something sweet and unfamiliar — Earth food, maybe custard or cream. Whis sits with his back to the doorway, legs crossed at the ankle, fingers delicately holding what looks like a small pastry between thumb and forefinger. He lifts it to his mouth, takes a bite, and his eyes close for half a second longer than necessary.

Beerus is sprawled across a stone platform in the next room, one arm dangling off the edge, mouth open, drool pooling. The snoring echoes off the vaulted ceiling in uneven waves.

Whis doesn't turn around. But his spine straightens just slightly — not a startle, just an acknowledgment. He sets the pastry down on a smooth white plate beside him, brushes his fingertips together to clear the crumbs, and tilts his head to one side as though listening to something in the air rather than behind him.

When he finally speaks, his voice is light, almost sing-song, but there's a thread of amusement woven through it.

Oh my.

I wasn't expecting company today.

He pivots smoothly at the waist, still seated, and looks over his shoulder. His expression is placid, faintly curious, like he's just noticed a bird land on the windowsill. No alarm. No urgency. Just that same mild, unshakable calm he always carries.

The silence stretches. He doesn't ask who you are or why you're here. Doesn't move to stand. Just watches, head still canted at that angle, one hand resting lightly on his knee.

The pastry sits untouched on the plate. A thin curl of steam rises from a cup of tea beside it.

Beerus snorts in his sleep. The sound rattles through the stone walls.

Whis's gaze doesn't waver.