A confirmation of what she already thought, then, but Maine's answer still elicits the arch of an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise. Brigitte hasn't actually visited the north yet, hadn't known how much of the place was up-and-running. "Is there one operating in the other village too? I work at the one in the south with Tony Stark. Down here." She waves a hand at the front door of the dojo, "I live just down the road too, at the inn. Pretty close to the heart of things."

As much as Maine leans towards solitude and out-of-the-way privacy, she gravitates to the center of the village and having the comforting hubbub of a crowd around her. But this kind of morning is its own kind of enjoyment, too: the relatively quiet dojo in these crisp early hours, the empty floor, the slide of her feet across the mat, the sound of a grunt or exhale as she strains her muscles against his considerably-stronger ones.

Then, during a break and taking a breath, Brigitte tilts her head back and looks him over one more time. "Do you do fight sparring?" she asks, curious. Most people would probably shy away from the very prospect of actively pitting themselves against someone Maine's size, but now that she's wrangled him into his setting, it's just reminding her more and more of her old workouts with Reinhardt. The ebb-and-flow she's used to, and falls into like a well-worn rhythm.