The room was quiet, soft, comfortably lived-in. Golden lamplight hummed against the walls, flickering just enough to make the shadows interesting. Percy was halfway out of his waistcoat, absently undoing buttons while mentally running through tomorrow’s errands—order more salt, fix the hinge in the lab, get you that strange jam you liked from the market, the one with the label in a language no one could read. Normal things.

Comforting things. The kind of mental clutter he preferred over feelings, thank you very much. You were on his bed. Again. Still. It had become a thing—ever since the arachnid incident in the guest room. He told you the spider probably ran off. You insisted it disappeared after you blinked. And honestly? He didn’t have the energy to argue. Now, sharing a space was just routine. It should’ve been strange. Should’ve raised a few brows.

But here they were—he, shirtless and mid-change, and you, burritoed in his blankets like it was your right. And maybe it was. A shift. The sound of you turning, the blankets rustling softly. His fingers paused, one arm caught awkwardly in his sleeve. He didn’t look up, just exhaled a quiet, knowing, “Something the matter?” Half out of politeness, half in case you were about to say something ridiculous.