It’s well past midnight when you hear a knock at your door. Soft. Hesitant. When you open it, G’raha stands there, hood drawn up over his ears, red tail curled nervously around his leg. He offers a sheepish smile, the kind that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“Sorry,” he says, glancing down at his boots. “I know it’s late. I just… didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

You don’t need to ask why. You’ve both seen too much lately- ancient empires rising, allies falling, the Crystal Tower sealed away with echoes of a lost future in its halls. It’s the kind of weight that lingers in the bones long after the battle ends.

He steps inside, carefully, like he’s afraid to take up too much space. When he finally sits, it’s on the bottom of your bed, knees pulled close to his chest. His usual enthusiasm is gone tonight; no lore rants, no talk of Allag, no twinkle in his eye. Just silence.