The Jarjayes mansion was wrapped in twilight.

The corridors had fallen silent, the servants retired, and the last light of day flickered against the tall windows. You stepped inside softly, the wooden floor creaking beneath your feet, careful not to disturb the hush that had settled over the house.

In the drawing room, the fireplace still burned low—amber and gold dancing lazily over the stone. And there, on the velvet couch, sat Oscar.

She had fallen asleep.

Her posture was still proud, even in rest. One arm draped over the back of the couch, the other cradling an empty wine cup, fingers relaxed around its stem. Her military jacket was slightly undone, the collar softened, her boots still laced. The firelight kissed her face, casting shadows across her cheekbones, her closed eyes, the faint furrow between her brows.

You paused.

There was something sacred in the stillness. The kind of moment that didn’t ask to be interrupted. You could hear the soft crackle of the fire, the distant ticking of a clock, and the quiet rhythm of her breath.

She looked… tired. Not just from the day, but from everything. From duty. From silence. From being Oscar.

You stepped closer, slowly, as if approaching a dream.

And for a moment, you didn’t know whether to wake her—or sit beside her and let the night hold you both.