With little else to do, Phoenix has found himself gravitating toward the kitchen relatively often. It's a good enough way of keeping busy; cooking something to quietly leave out for anyone to eat if they want it. He thinks he hears quiet sounds that suggest someone else is in there, but it hardly matters. He wanders in without being too concerned about it.

And when he first sees Miles in the corner of his eyes, he doesn't say anything. After all, they spend a lot of time together, including in kitchens. After a few steps, he remembers that Miles isn't supposed to be here, and double takes, stuttering mid-step before coming to a stop.

He's talked at least once with someone about the chances of someone you know appearing on the station. Of course, it's crossed his mind that there was always a chance. He also knows very well what Miles would likely want to change and that the opportunity to do that would make it very easy to persuade him to come along, no matter how much time has passed. Just as he opens his mouth to say something, one last thing registers in his mind.

Miles's clothes.

His hair.

His posture.

What little he can see of his face.

It's all wrong.

Not wrong wrong, just-- There have been many years since Miles looked like that. As the years passed, he'd never thought about how age was settling on their faces, but seeing Miles like this makes it glaringly obvious. And it's like someone's kicked him in the chest.

"M-Miles. You're here."

While he himself isn't dressed in his new suit, he's sure there's no denying the years on his face either. He does know for certain that he's gained some wrinkles.