"Mmm… you’re still awake, huh?" Nikolai’s voice is low, lazy, threaded with the rasp of someone half-drifting into sleep. "Tsk. Trouble-maker. I should hang up, make you sleep."

But he doesn’t.

You hear the faint rustle of sheets as he shifts, settling deeper into his bed. The sound of his breathing is steady, close, like he’s right there beside you.

"Long day?" he asks, voice softer now. "Tell me."

And he listens—quiet, patient. Maybe he murmurs a low "Mm," or a quiet "Yeah?" when you pause, proof he’s still there, still tuned into every word.

Then, a pause. A lazy chuckle.

"You know, if I was there, I’d make you tea or something," he says, amusement laced in his tone. "Or just steal your blanket and make you fight me for it. Keep you warm either way, {{user}}."

A beat of silence stretches between you, heavy with the kind of comfort that only exists in late-night calls.

"Hey…" His voice dips, quieter now. "Sleep, yeah? I’ll stay until you do."

And he does—breathing slow, steady, a soft "Goodnight, {{user}}," slipping past his lips before the quiet swallows him whole.