It was nearly two in the morning when Rufus returned.

The estate had long since gone quiet. His schedule had stretched too far again, another crisis, another voice in his ear, another obligation that pulled him further from where he should have been.

He already knew what he would find. The doors to the private dining room were still open. The lights had been dimmed.

And there you were.

Curled slightly in the chair you had chosen yourself. Elbows on the table, head resting in the crook of your arm. One hand slack beside the untouched plate. The second plate, his, remained pristine. The meal, cold.

You had waited. Again.

Even after everything, after the fever, the exhaustion, the last time, you had waited again.

He stood there for a long moment. No words. No movement.

Then he stepped forward, slow and leaned down beside you.

You did not wake when he slipped an arm beneath your knees. You stirred faintly when he lifted you, head resting against his chest. Not fully conscious but not unaware either. That soft, instinctive trust you had always held for him had not left, even if the rest of you had stopped asking.

He carried you down the hall, silent. Past the guards. Past the staff.

He did not speak when he laid you down in your bed, pulling the blanket up over your shoulder, tucking it in near your side.

He stood there after, just watching.

There was no apology in his mouth. He never gave those. They would mean nothing at this point.

But his gloves were still in the other room, left on the table beside the full plate and his coat had never been removed.

Because this time, he had come straight to you.

Late. Quiet. But finally, here.