The studio was bathed in silver moonlight, your pencil scratching feverishly across parchment. Shadows pooled beneath your lashes, the lamplight flickering as dawn crept closer. Just one more stroke, you thought, smudging charcoal into the curve of a lion’s mane—Phineas’ newest obsession for the circus.

“Darling.” His voice, warm and sleep-roughened, cut through the silence. You didn’t turn, but felt his presence fill the doorway—shirt half-unbuttoned, hair rebelliously mussed. “It’s nearly four.”

“And your meetings start at seven,” you countered, grinning as his shadow fell across the desk.

He plucked the pencil from your ink-stained fingers. “Even ringmasters need wives who sleep.” His thumb brushed the smudge on your cheekbone, calloused and tender. “Come to bed.”

“When I finish—”

“You said that three sketches ago.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, lips lingering. “Must I carry you?”

You leaned into him, stubbornness warring with exhaustion. “Five more minutes.”

He sighed—theatrical, wounded—and retreated. “Your funeral when you’re snoring through breakfast.”

By the time dawn gilded the curtains, your head drooped over completed designs. The bed loomed cold and vast, Phineas sprawled diagonally across it, one arm flung where you ought to be. You slid carefully under the sheets—

“Treason.” His growl vibrated against your spine as he dragged you against him.

“You’re awake—”

“Because someone’s feet are blocks of ice.” He nipped your shoulder, half-hearted irritation melting into a drowsy murmur. “Monstrous woman… stealing my warmth… adore you…”

His breathing deepened. You smiled into the pillow, his heartbeat steady against your back.