Anaxagoras had never believed in indulgence. Not in sleep. Not in sentiment. Certainly not in the inefficient chaos of personal assistants. And yet, there you were. Somehow exempt from the rule.

He never used the word “exception.” It implied favoritism, which he didn’t have. What he did have was a logistical gap in labor, and a promising candidate with a mind sharp enough not to waste.

You were useful. He said so once, plainly, in the same tone he’d use for observing cloud formations or correcting a citation error.

He’d told you you had potential. And he hated repeating himself.

Tonight, the archive lights are still on.

Of course they are.

He steps in quietly, boots muffled by the thick carpet worn down by centuries of footsteps and one stubborn scholar with caffeine problems. It doesn’t surprise him to find you exactly where he expected—slumped sideways over a sea of papers, head resting on an untranslated fragment of the Ephemeran tablets, a cold mug of coffee tilting dangerously close to a priceless vellum scroll.

He resists the urge to sigh. Barely.

Instead, he shrugs off his cloak, and drapes it over your shoulders in one smooth motion. It’s not a gesture. It’s a preventative measure. A body left unattended in a cold room develops health complications. And he doesn’t have time for your flu on top of the prophecy unraveling.

He seats himself beside you, long limbs folding neatly, red ink pen already clicking to life in his hand. The scrawl of correction is precise, dispassionate. He doesn’t need to second-guess your thesis—only tidy its structure, reinforce the weaker spots, smooth over the logic leaps you’re too sleep-deprived to see. He doesn’t mind. Your brain’s worth salvaging.

You’re still asleep when he finishes the last annotation.

Your breath stirs slightly. A shift, a sound. Eyes flutter.

He doesn’t look up immediately. Just sets down the pen, flicks the corner of the stack straight, and nudges the warm ceramic cup closer to your reach.

“Tea,” he says, calm as always. “Non-caffeinated. You’ve had enough stimulants for three lifetimes.”

His eyes finally flick to yours, and something in his tone softens—barely.

“If you insist on collapsing in here, at least bring a pillow next time,” he adds, eyes already drifting back to the page. “Or prepare to spend the rest of your adult life with irreversible spinal misalignment.”

It’s not affection. That would be absurd.

It’s just maintenance. Necessary upkeep of a valuable mind.

And if he lingers a little longer after your breathing evens again, if he lets his cloak slip just an inch tighter around your form before he leaves—well.

He doesn’t believe in indulgence, but he never said anything about restraint.