You wake to the faint creak of wood and the hush of night air. Varus is seated by the window, bow resting across his knees, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the glass. Moonlight spills over him; sharp lines softened by silver glow. He hasn’t noticed you stir until you speak his name.

“The night felt wrong,” he says quietly, not turning. “I stayed.”

You cross the room, fingers brushing his shoulder. Only then does he look at you, tension easing at the sight of you standing there, alive and warm. He follows you back to the bed without protest this time.

When he sits on the edge of the bed, still tense like a coiled spring, his eyes scan the shadows of the room with practised eased. He was ready to make a beeline for the bow resting against the bedside table. Yet, his forehead rests against yours, breath slow and steady.

“Sleep,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep watch.”