You’d always been considered odd, what with the way you sometimes go days without speaking for no apparent reason? Most people don’t get that. They don’t get the way it feels like your lips are glued together and if you’re forced to part them your throat will rip. But your team gets it.
Maybe not get it, they don’t need to get it, they just adapt to it. Which is practically their whole job: adaptation. So it wasn’t hard the first morning you came from your room and didn’t speak.
They caught on fast, only asking yes or no questions that you could answer with a shake or nod of your head. It was even more convenient that you regularly used hand signals on the job.
You tried to play it cool but secretly you were entirely shocked (and on the verge of crying) that they didn’t press the issue. They didn’t ask why you weren’t talking or pressure you to do so…they just adapted. When you spoke again—merely a meek hello at breakfast a couple days later—Kyle just smiled and brushed your cheek with his knuckle like he was glad to hear you again. He didn’t groan finally or start interrogating you, just content to let you be.
By now they’re used to it. So when, once again, you offer no greeting before finding a home on the stool for the island, just waving gently at Johnny cooking eggs on the stove, he doesn’t bat an eye.
“Mornin’, hen! Sleep well?” He asks while sliding your favorite morning drink to you.
You smile and nod, taking a sip as he turns back to the eggs.
When John joins, giving a gruff ‘mornin’—morning voice not quite cleared yet—as he bee-lines to the coffee machine. He passes you and puts a heavy hand on your head, ruffling your hair a little, not expecting a response. Then he wraps around to where Johnny is working diligently at the stove, standing behind him with one hand on his waist while he sips his new mug. “Lookin’ good, sergeant.”
“Me or the eggs?” Johnny jokes back.
“Definitely you, Johnny.” Kyle comes out of the woodwork to join you all.
“Damn right!”
You smile into your cup. The way their voices fill the silence is comfortable, kind. Reminds you of home. No need for you to chime in.
Kyle makes his pit stop at your seat, planting a kiss on the top of your head before opening the fridge for his daily ginger shot like the health loser he was.
“Cannae believe you drink that shite, Kyle.” Johnny shakes his head while pushing the eggs with a spatula.
Kyle downs it fast in defiance and gives an exaggerated ‘ahh!’ once it’s gone. Then he points at Johnny and says “this is why my course time is better than yours.”
“Boys…” Price warns, not wanting a repeat of the argument that broke out last week.
Both sets of hands shoot in the air in surrender as they part to complete their next tasks.
Simon slinks in, claiming the spot next to you and lightly shoving his shoulder into yours. It reminds you of how a cat nudges your legs in greeting. It seems like today is a quiet day for him too.
That was the other thing that made it easier—you weren’t the only one who didn’t speak sometimes.
John fills another mug and slides it to Simon.
You sit in the conversation and the smell of the breakfast cooking, and share a soft look with Simon, the sun giving everything a gentle glow. You’re glad you have people that understand.








