They've made this place fit around their family. It has taken on the marks of their lives -- Geralt's tools in one place, Jaskier's plants and projects, Ciri's collected oddities and weapons, the pet beds and perches. A home is a living thing. It gains scars and imperfections like smiles form laughter lines. Scuffs where they walk most frequently, replaced hinges and knobs, hand-hewn furniture.

Ciri hasn't been in one place long enough to make a home like this since she was a girl. Maybe it's mundane, but there's wonder still in the mundanity of it all, sometimes. The world goes on, and it hasn't been quiet. But she still has a home.

And she has been entirely happy to welcome John into it. Her memories of John are a bit distant, confused in that dreamlike state of what they'd experienced, but it doesn't matter. They have time to get to know each other yet, in the real world, despite the initial awkwardness that might have cropped up here and there.

In light of John's presence, Ciri has decided to stick closer to the city for a while, after spending much of her recent weeks away on jobs. It might be why Geralt felt comfortable going out on his own errands today.

Whatever the case, Ciri approaches the kitchen, her socked feet making no noise at all, though that's not something she's thinking about.

"Oh. Good morning, John."