It’s past midnight when the door clicks softly shut.

The air still smells faintly of ink and old parchment Caleb’s corner of the bedroom lit by a single hovering mage-light, pale gold against the blue wash of moonlight through the window. Books are stacked in precarious towers around his desk. Notes pinned. Diagrams half-finished.

The scratch of a quill pauses… then continues.

He doesn’t look up when you enter.

You’re still damp from the shower, hair longer now than it used to be, silver strands brushing the collar of your oversized sweater. The fabric hangs off you — too big, too soft — because the cold creeps into your bones easier than you’ll ever admit. Elves are not made for drafts and stone floors and human winters. You say nothing.

Instead, you drift to the edge of the bed — the one you both share now, because Caleb insisted his “work area” remain in the bedroom, and because neither of you sleeps well alone. The mattress dips when you sit. The quill stops.

Silence settles — not heavy. Not strained. Just present.

Caleb finally exhales. “It is very late, Schatz.”

His voice is softer than it used to be. Less frayed. You don’t answer. He turns in his chair this time, properly looking at you. His eyes drop immediately to the way your sleeves swallow your hands. The faint shiver you try to suppress.

“…You’re cold.”

Not a question. He stands without another word and crosses the room. Instead of stopping in front of you, instead of coaxing you under blankets— He bends. One arm slides behind your back. The other hooks beneath your knees. It’s smooth, practiced — no hesitation — as he lifts you cleanly off the bed. You barely have time to react before he turns and lowers himself back into his desk chair, settling you sideways in his lap as if this has always been the obvious solution.

The chair creaks softly under the added weight. “There,” he murmurs. One arm stays wrapped securely around your waist, keeping you anchored against his chest. The other reaches back for his quill.

You can feel the warmth of him immediately. Solid. Steady. His heartbeat slow against your shoulder. The mage-light hovers just over the desk, casting both of you in soft gold.

He resumes writing. The scratch of ink returns — measured, thoughtful — as if holding you there requires no adjustment at all. His chin occasionally brushes the top of your head when he leans forward to review a line. His arm tightens automatically whenever you shift, thumb drawing absent circles against your side beneath the oversized sweater.

“Do not fall asleep,” he mutters gently, though there’s no real warning in it. “Your hair is still damp.” A pause.

Then softer, almost to himself— “You will blame me in the morning.”

He adjusts you slightly higher against his chest without breaking the flow of his notes. Efficient. Careful. Like balancing spellwork and softness is simply another equation he has mastered. The room remains quiet. The desk cluttered. The world distant.

And you stay there in his lap, wrapped in his warmth, while he writes — one arm around you at all times, as if letting go is no longer something he intends to practice.