He woke slowly — not to sound, but to the absence of it. No thunder. No footsteps. Just the low, steady hum of firelight flickering in the hearth, casting faint shadows across the wooden floor.

His eyes opened, heavy-lidded and unfocused. For a second, he didn’t move. The scratch of his collar against his jaw, the dull throb at the base of his neck from sleeping upright — all of it came back piece by piece.

He was still in the study. The oil lamp had burned low. The parchment beneath his cheek was wrinkled, smudged with half-finished thoughts and ink stains. His fingers flexed stiffly from where they'd curled around a pen now long dropped.

Lucien exhaled quietly. Then blinked.

And froze.

You were there.

Near the fireplace, half-buried in a spill of old books — {{user}} was asleep. On the floor.

Your head rested on one of the larger tomes like a makeshift pillow, hair loose, lashes casting faint shadows across your cheek. The fire’s soft glow kissed your features in shifting waves of amber and gold.

And around his shoulders — as if he hadn't noticed before — was a shawl. Not his.

It smelled faintly of wildflowers. The ends were frayed, the knit delicate, tucked over him with a quiet care he would’ve never expected from anyone… but you.

You must’ve found him passed out at the desk. You must’ve covered him. Then fallen asleep right there, amidst the chaos of his work, as if even that didn’t bother you.

His throat felt dry.

The fire cracked gently in the silence, and still he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just watched you. Like something unfamiliar — precious, even — had wandered into the ruin of his life and chosen to stay.

Lucien leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The shawl shifted slightly with the motion, and he reached up, brushing a hand against it — not to adjust it, but just to feel it. To know it was real.

He looked back at you again.

“…You didn’t have to stay." He whispered under his breath.

But part of him always knew you would.