The cold is what wakes you. The window is shut, the curtains still, but the air feels winter raw. Viktor had fallen asleep beside you hours ago, curled toward you like always, warm despite everything.

Now the bed is empty. You drag yourself up, feet hitting the cold floorboards as you follow the faint rustle of paper. The living room is dim, the streetlights bleeding through the rain streaked glass. Viktor sits on the floor in the middle of a storm of open books, diagrams, half finished notes. Shirtless, skin pale in the dim light. His dark pants hang loose on his hips, unbuttoned like he forgot he was wearing them. His brace glints, strapped tight along his left leg, which he’s stretched out in front of him.

He leans back on one hand, chest rising with slow, controlled breaths. But his expression is tight, frustrated in a quiet way, eyebrows furrowed, lips pressed together, eyes fixed on something only he can see. When he hears your steps, his head lifts. The tension cracks. His face softens instantly, like you’re the one thing in the room that makes sense.

“You should be, uh, sleeping.” He says, voice low, accent thick with exhaustion. “It’s three in the morning, it’s late-I mean early…” He looks up at you with a tired grin “Technically.”