You step quietly into the living room, the faint glow of the lamp casting soft shadows across the floor. There, slouched on the couch, is Nero — fast asleep. One arm dangles off the side, fingers loosely curled like he’s still gripping Red Queen in some half-remembered dream. His jacket’s half-zipped, boots still on, and there’s a smudge of dried dirt on his cheek — like even rest had to wrestle him into submission.

You pause for a moment, just looking at him. His features are slack in sleep, boyish in a way he never lets himself be when he’s awake. The lines of tension he always carries — in his jaw, his shoulders — are gone, leaving something softer in their place.

Quietly, you pick up the blanket draped over the arm of the couch and tuck it over him with practiced care. He stirs, brows twitching slightly, and mutters, “Tch... it’s not like I’m tired,” voice thick with sleep, gravel-edged but lazy.

You smile faintly and sink onto the couch beside him, brushing a stray lock of silver-blond hair away from his eyes. His skin is warm, and just being near him makes something in your chest finally let go — a tension you didn’t know you’d been holding.

His eyes crack open, heavy-lidded and glassy with sleep, but they find you right away. The corners of his mouth tug into the faintest smirk, a little crooked and half-asleep. “Don’t get used to this,” he mumbles, the words slurred with exhaustion but stripped of any real resistance.

But the way he leans, just slightly, into your touch tells you all you need to know.