You wake in the study, the blanket draped loosely over your shoulders. The fire has long since died, leaving only the faintest glow of embers that refuse to fully surrender to the dark. The air is cool, but you’re not cold — not quite.

Across the room, Vergil stands just out of reach, arms folded tightly across his chest. He tries to wear his usual mask of indifference, but the way his eyes catch the dim light betrays him — they linger on you a moment longer than necessary, as if reluctant to look away.

"You fell asleep here again," he says, voice clipped and precise, but there’s an edge of something softer beneath the surface. "I considered leaving you — but that would have been… impractical."

You notice the smallest shift in his posture — the slightest easing of the tension he always carries. For a moment, the cold barrier falters.

"You dreamt of something unpleasant," he says quietly. "You called my name."

He doesn’t press for more. Instead, he steps closer, just enough that you feel the weight of him nearby, his presence steady and sure.

His voice drops to a whisper, the unspoken meaning hanging heavy in the air.