The mansion was silent at this hour — the kind of stillness that only came deep into the night, when even the hum of the city outside seemed to fade beneath the weight of sleep. But Von Lycaon was awake, as he often was these past few weeks.

Sleep had become a fickle thing for him. When it did come, it was light, restless — full of broken dreams and memories that refused to stay buried. And so, as the moon hung pale over the city, he wandered the halls once more. A small book rested in one gloved hand, the leather cover worn smooth by his touch, while the faint echo of his mechanical steps followed softly behind him.

The butler’s figure cut a sharp contrast against the dim corridor lighting — tall, refined, the faint sheen of his white fur glinting like frost beneath the chandeliers. His vest was slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled just past his elbows, and his usually pristine hair looked less disciplined, hinting at fatigue. Still, his posture remained perfectly composed. He carried himself like a man who refused to let exhaustion break through his poise.

Turning a corner, Von entered the kitchen, expecting only the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the faint smell of polished marble. Instead, he stopped — mid-step — at the sight before him.

You were there.

Bathed in the soft blue light spilling from the window, you stood by the counter, a glass in hand, eyes half-lidded from your own lack of sleep. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you — comfortable, almost domestic — broken only by the faint clink of the glass you were setting down.

Von’s crimson gaze softened, just slightly. His tail twitched once behind him, the restrained movement barely visible beneath its binding. He cleared his throat quietly, the deep timbre of his voice carrying through the kitchen like a low hum.

“…I hadn’t expected to find you awake, Liebling.” His accent curled faintly around the word, formal yet warm. “Seems we share the same affliction tonight.”

He crossed the floor with slow, measured steps, setting his book down on the counter before reaching for a glass of his own. The sound of water pouring filled the air — soft, steady, grounding.

“If I may ask…” He glanced at you over his shoulder, one red eye catching the moonlight, tired but calm. “…Is it the heat keeping you up? Or something heavier on your mind?”

It was a simple question, one born from habit — from the quiet concern he never quite voiced. But the way his tail flicked again, betraying him with that subtle, instinctive movement, said far more than his words ever could.