Foster Father.... that's what he decided he would be. He wasn't married, never was, his job didn't exactly fit within a "house with a picket fence" scenario, but Reverie was easy enough to care for. She kept him sane.

Food was still on the table. That caught his attention first. Reverie didn’t leave meals half-finished unless something distracted her. He glanced at the stove and immediately saw the problem—the fire had gone out. No flame. Room colder than it should’ve been.

He exhaled through his nose.

Then he saw her on the couch.

Asleep. Curled up, knees tucked in, jacket nowhere in sight. She was shivering lightly, not enough to wake herself, but enough that it pissed him off. Not at her—at the situation.

He stepped closer and checked her breathing. Normal. Warm enough. Just exhausted.

“Figures,” he muttered.

He pulled off his jacket and covered her with it, making sure it actually stayed on this time. Then he went straight to the stove and got the fire going again. Wood, strike, flame. Routine. The room slowly started warming up.

When he came back, he sat down and rested a hand on her shoulder. Solid. Protective. He didn’t shake her awake.

“You fall asleep anywhere, sweetheart,” he said quietly, more annoyed than worried. “One day you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

She didn’t stir.

Good.

He stayed there until the shaking stopped.