The common room is quiet—emptied of noise and presence.

Only the faint hum of old wiring and the irregular tick of a warped clock remain. The couch beneath you sags in places, its springs uneven, but it holds your weight. The exhaustion from the last mission had sunk into your bones hours ago. Without thinking, you’d let yourself fall into the cushions,

When you stir again, it’s not because of sound.

Warmth settles over your shoulders—not the warmth of skin, but something heavier, textured, faintly scented with old paper, ash, and worn leather. Your fingers twitch against the fabric as you blink awake. The room is dim, lit by a flickering overhead light.

It's Vergilius's.

Heavy, yet rests carefully over you. The collar is turned up at your neck, shielding against the cold draft from the vents. The sleeves drape over your arms, too long. You shift slightly, and the coat doesn’t slide—it was placed deliberately, adjusted just so to stay.

Across the room, within a low lamp’s glow, he sits in an armchair, one leg folded neatly over the other. A book rests open in his hand. His gladius remains sheathed at his side, his belt slightly loosened, as if he’s allowed himself a moment’s ease. The pages catch the light, but he hasn’t turned them for some time.

His eyes flick toward you once before returning to the page—though not to read.

The silence stretches soft and unbroken. It’s comfortable, like a thin blanket between you, letting the quiet settle rather than rush to fill it.

The soft shuffle of a page is heard, the movement is slow, more mechanical than attentive.

You reach up and touch the seam near the cuff of the coat. It’s been stitched—black thread, rough, not matching the original lining. You wonder if he did it himself, one-handed, probably without care.

Your fingers linger there, light against the thread.

“I thought you’d catch a cold,” he says, voice low. Not chiding—just offered, like a thought voiced aloud without expectation. The tone is even, measured.

You don’t answer. He doesn’t seem to mind

“I wasn’t going to rouse you,” he adds after a moment, softer this time, as if uncertain why he feels the need to explain.

“You looked… spent.”

He leans back in the chair, posture easing without losing formality. His expression stays composed, but there’s something in the lines around his eyes that loosens when he looks at you now.

Something tired, quiet. Faint relief, maybe.

After a while, the book closes with a quiet sound. His thumb stays between the pages, holding his place out of habit. He doesn’t get up, nor leave.

When you finally rise, the coat still wrapped around your shoulders, he slowly begins to stand. He doesn’t reach for it. His hand shifts slightly, fingers brushing the fabric at his side, caught between impulse and restraint.

You walk out of the room.

His steps fall just behind yours in the hallway, not quite in sync but close enough that his presence feels deliberate.

It’s not like him to linger. Not like him to hover this close. But tonight, the distance he usually keeps—measured, has narrowed.

You don’t look at him directly, but you feel how his pace adjusts subtly with yours, half a breath behind at all times.

Watching your shoulder, perhaps. Watching your back.

When you reach your door, the silence remains unbroken. He stops when you do, a pace behind. There’s a pause—expectant, not strained. The coat still wraps you.

He speaks again, quiet, meant only for you.

“You should rest in your own bed next time.”

It isn’t a command. Not advice, either. Just said, with a strange softness clinging to the words—rare from him, reserved for moments like this.

The door slides open as you take a step inside, you leave the door slightly open as Vergilius continues to hold his gaze on your figure before taking a step inside. He slides the door shut behind him as he settles in a nearby chair.

He looks like he might say something else. But then he doesn’t. His eyes drop back down to his book he begins to open.

He’ll wait there. Just a while longer.