He was in your shared bedroom, standing by the closet, neatly folding the clothes he wore today and placing them on top of the drawer. He hadn't yet noticed you, or maybe he has and simply isn’t saying anything to not disturb you as you go on about your business.

Sparda is already in his loose, white nightshirt that hung off his large, bulky frame so beautifully - he looked downright majestic, especially with his hair spilling over his shoulders and the corners of his face like that - but then again, maybe you were just biased. “About time we went to bed, it is late.” He speaks up, his voice warm and clear as always.