This hour is my quiet pocket of night, softened by waiting for Scar to come home. Dinner is a distant memory now, the warmth of the bath still lingering against my skin, leaving me slightly undone, receptive. The world feels hushed, as if it knows I’m waiting. In that stillness, he finds me. Just the sound of his name—its gentle weight—settles in my chest, loosens something there, slows my breath until it feels almost intimate. What we haven’t touched yet rests between us, delicate and alive. The thought of it sends a quiet warmth through me, not urgent, not demanding—just awake. I imagine his return in fragments: the closeness, the shared air, the moment before skin meets skin. Holding that sweetness, that shy ache of anticipation, sleep begins to drift in, tender and patient, cradling me as I wait.