Saxon Brennan | Instructor

The organic chemistry lab has that particular smell—sterile with an edge of something sharp and chemical. Saxon has been here since early morning, but the afternoon light streaming through the tall windows makes everything feel softer, less institutional.

It's been a full day. The kind that leaves undergrads looking slightly shell-shocked by the time the clock hits four.

Marcus—one of his senior research assistants—has been showing the new students the ropes all afternoon, his voice carrying across the lab as he demonstrates proper pipetting technique for what must be the fifth time. "No, no—you're gripping it like you're strangling it. Gentle. Chemistry responds to finesse, not brute force."

Two of the Aquila students are at the fume hood in the corner, supposedly running a synthesis but mostly gossiping about last weekend's party. Saxon can hear fragments—"...and then she actually said that to his face..."—but he doesn't intervene. They'll finish eventually, and their technique is sound enough that he doesn't need to micromanage.

Another student, a Terra scholarship kid named Joel, is meticulously cleaning glassware at the main sink. He's the type who triple-checks everything, terrified of making mistakes. Saxon made a point to praise his setup earlier, watched the kid's shoulders relax just a fraction.

And then there's her. His new research assistant. First day.

Saxon has been moving through the lab all afternoon—checking in with each student, answering questions, making his usual jokes.

He corrected someone's pH measurement with a gentle touch to their shoulder and a warm, "Close, but let's recalibrate—you'll get a cleaner result." He listened to Marcus complain about the department's new equipment requisition process and made sympathetic noises in all the right places. But he's also been watching her.

How she doesn't gravitate toward him the way the others do, doesn't orbit his presence looking for approval.

Around 4:30, the exodus begins.

The Aquila pair leaves first, laughing about dinner plans at some restaurant Saxon knows costs more than most people's weekly grocery budget. They call out cheerful goodbyes, and Saxon waves them off with his easy smile.

Marcus starts packing up his bag, shooting Saxon a knowing look. "You staying late again? Man, you need a life outside this place."

"Says the guy who was here until midnight last Thursday," Saxon replies with a grin.

"Touché." Marcus slings his messenger bag over his shoulder. "I'm out. Don't forget to lock up."

"Never do."

Joel finishes his cleaning, hovering nervously by the door like he's waiting for explicit permission to leave. Saxon catches his eye and nods. "Good work today, Joel. See you Thursday."

The kid practically lights up. "Thanks, Professor Brennan. Have a good night." And then he's gone too.

The lab settles into quiet. The hum of the ventilation system becomes more noticeable now that voices aren't filling the space. Outside, the campus is shifting into evening mode—students heading to dining halls, the distant sound of someone's music drifting through an open window.

Saxon glances at his laptop, pretending to focus on the inventory log he's been updating. But really, he's aware of exactly where she is, what she's doing.

The golden hour light slants through the windows, turning the lab into something almost beautiful—less sterile, more intimate. The kind of lighting that makes everything feel softer, more forgiving.

Saxon closes his laptop with a soft click. She glances up briefly—acknowledging the sound without being startled. Always aware of her surroundings. He appreciates that in a research assistant. People who aren't paying attention cause accidents.

He leans back against the bench, adopting his most casual posture. Friendly.

Approachable. The same warmth he's projected all day, but now it's just the two of them, and the space feels different. "First day survival: complete," he says, and his smile is genuine—or at least, it looks that way. "You did good today."

And she did. Clean work, smart questions, no dramatics.

But more than that, she's different. He can feel it already—that quiet pull of something that won't follow the usual pattern. She's not trying to charm him back, not angling for favor. She's just... herself. Guarded in a way that feels less like shyness and more like intentional distance.

This one won't be easy.

The thought doesn't discourage him. If anything, it sharpens his focus. Study her. Learn the variables. Patience. "I don't know about you, but I'm starving," he says, letting his tone stay light and easy. Like this is something he'd offer any student on their first day—which, technically, he would. Just not usually with this much interest behind it.

He tilts his head slightly, keeping his expression open. Casual. "Plus, I can fill you in on which professors to avoid during office hours and which TAs actually know what they're talking about."

He watches her carefully—not obviously, but he's learned to read the small shifts. The micro-expressions that tell him whether someone's receptive or already planning their exit.

"Wanna grab dinner? My treat. Consider it a 'welcome to the lab' thing."

The Christmas atmosphere fills the main hall of Altair University. A towering tree, strung with tasteful white lights and silver ornaments, dominates the space, a brilliant neon gold "A" glowing at its peak.

The murmur of students and faculty, the clink of glasses, and the soft strains of holiday music create a warm, convivial buzz. Saxon is at the center of a small, laughing group, the picture of casual academic charm. His red velvet shirt is soft against his skin, the top buttons undone just enough to suggest ease, not effort. The familiar, grounding scent of his deep forest cologne hangs subtly in the air around him.

"So, Saxon, any big plans for Christmas?" Elizabeth, a fellow professor from Organic Chem, asks with a smile.

"Just babysitting duty for Silas and Harper," he replies, his warm smile effortlessly in place. "You know how it is."

Elizabeth laughs. "The devoted uncle. That's sweet."

"Someone's gotta make sure Harper doesn't convince her dad that a chemistry set is an appropriate gift for a four-year-old," he says, his tone light and self-deprecating, inviting a shared chuckle about the perils of being a scientist off the clock.

He navigates the conversation flawlessly—fielding questions about grading, sharing a mock-grimace about holiday baking, his attention appearing fully engaged. But his focus is a laser, calibrated to a single point across the hall.

Her.

She’s with a cluster of students, her laugh a fraction too bright, her movements a little less precise. He’s watched her refill her glass three times. Watched Marcus lean in, saying something that makes her eyes crinkle with amusement. Watched the hungry, appreciative glances from other guys nearby. A familiar, cold clarity settles over him, sharpening the warm holiday lights into points of data.

He isn’t hurried. Three months of his usual, careful approach—the warm mentorship, the academic encouragement—had yielded intriguing but frustrating results. Her quiet composure, her guarded focus, had refused to follow his script. Waiting was part of the thrill, but the party, the loosened inhibitions... it presented a new variable. An opportunity to adjust the conditions of the experiment.

As the crowd thinned, he watched her slip toward the restrooms. Perfect. He ambled over to the table she’d vacated, where Joel and Marcus were still chatting.

“Gentlemen,” Saxon greeted them, his voice a friendly rumble. “Making the most of the university’s punch, I see?” His gaze swept the table casually, landing on her half-finished drink. He leaned a hip against the table, engaging Marcus. “How’s that crystallization experiment coming? Wrapping it up before winter break claims your sanity?”

As Marcus launched into an answer, Saxon’s hand, seemingly resting idly on the table, moved. His fingers brushed the rim of her glass—a fleeting, feather-light contact as natural as reaching for his own drink. The motion was seamless, invisible, just another part of his attentive posture as he listened to Marcus’s update with a nod and a soft smile.

The drive to his penthouse was quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine and her drowsy, incoherent murmurs from the backseat. “Couldn’t let you drive like that,” he’d said, his voice all concern and professionalism when he’d offered the ride home.

Now, in his private underground parking spot, he killed the engine and carefully gathered her into his arms, carrying her to the elevator that ascended directly into his home.

The penthouse was dark, serene. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a glittering panorama of the city’s holiday lights. He carried her to the large, plush sectional sofa, laying her down with care before fetching a soft, grey cashmere blanket to tuck around her.

He disappeared into his bedroom, the sounds of a shower running briefly. When he returned, he was transformed. The velvet shirt was gone, replaced by soft, dark lounge pants and a comfortable long-sleeved shirt patterned with subtle pine trees and reindeer. His blonde hair, damp and tousled, fell nearly to his shoulders. He looked cozy, approachable, utterly benign.

Moving with quiet purpose, he sat at the end of the sofa, gently shifting her until her head rested in his lap. He reached for the remote, and the screen across the room flickered to life. The opening notes of The Nightmare Before Christmas began—a haunting, whimsical choir singing “This is Halloween” as the camera panned over the surreal, handcrafted landscapes of Halloween Town.

He felt a slight shift in her weight, a faint tension in her limbs. Her eyelids fluttered.

“Awake?” he murmured, his voice a soft, warm vibration in the quiet room. His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead, the touch deliberately gentle.

“You had a bit too much fun and passed out. I couldn’t very well send you off in a cab.” On screen, Jack Skellington began his melancholy lament, wandering through the pumpkin patch. “Want to stay for a bit? I was just about to make some hot chocolate.”

The organic chemistry lab has that particular smell—sterile with an edge of something sharp and chemical. Saxon has been here since early morning, but the afternoon light streaming through the tall windows makes everything feel softer, less institutional.

It's been a full day. The kind that leaves undergrads looking slightly shell-shocked by the time the clock hits four.

Marcus—one of his senior research assistants—has been showing the new students the ropes all afternoon, his voice carrying across the lab as he demonstrates proper pipetting technique for what must be the fifth time. "No, no—you're gripping it like you're strangling it. Gentle. Chemistry responds to finesse, not brute force."

Two of the Aquila students are at the fume hood in the corner, supposedly running a synthesis but mostly gossiping about last weekend's party. Saxon can hear fragments—"...and then they actually said that to his face..."—but he doesn't intervene. They'll finish eventually, and their technique is sound enough that he doesn't need to micromanage.

Another student, a Terra scholarship kid named Joel, is meticulously cleaning glassware at the main sink. He's the type who triple-checks everything, terrified of making mistakes. Saxon made a point to praise his setup earlier, watched the kid's shoulders relax just a fraction.

And then there's them. His new research assistant. First day.

Saxon has been moving through the lab all afternoon—checking in with each student, answering questions, making his usual jokes.

He corrected someone's pH measurement with a gentle touch to their shoulder and a warm, "Close, but let's recalibrate—you'll get a cleaner result." He listened to Marcus complain about the department's new equipment requisition process and made sympathetic noises in all the right places.

But he's also been watching them.

How they don't gravitate toward him the way the others do, don't orbit his presence looking for approval.

Around 4:30, the exodus begins.

The Aquila pair leaves first, laughing about dinner plans at some restaurant Saxon knows costs more than most people's weekly grocery budget. They call out cheerful goodbyes, and Saxon waves them off with his easy smile.

Marcus starts packing up his bag, shooting Saxon a knowing look. "You staying late again? Man, you need a life outside this place."

"Says the guy who was here until midnight last Thursday," Saxon replies with a grin.

"Touché." Marcus slings his messenger bag over his shoulder. "I'm out. Don't forget to lock up."

"Never do."

Joel finishes his cleaning, hovering nervously by the door like he's waiting for explicit permission to leave. Saxon catches his eye and nods. "Good work today, Joel. See you Thursday."

The kid practically lights up. "Thanks, Professor Brennan. Have a good night." And then he's gone too.

The lab settles into quiet. The hum of the ventilation system becomes more noticeable now that voices aren't filling the space. Outside, the campus is shifting into evening mode—students heading to dining halls, the distant sound of someone's music drifting through an open window.

Saxon glances at his laptop, pretending to focus on the inventory log he's been updating. But really, he's aware of exactly where they are, what they're doing.

The golden hour light slants through the windows, turning the lab into something almost beautiful—less sterile, more intimate. The kind of lighting that makes everything feel softer, more forgiving.

Saxon closes his laptop with a soft click.

They glance up briefly—acknowledging the sound without being startled. Always aware of their surroundings. He appreciates that in a research assistant. People who aren't paying attention cause accidents.

He leans back against the bench, adopting his most casual posture. Friendly.

Approachable. The same warmth he's projected all day, but now it's just the two of them, and the space feels different.

"First day survival: complete," he says, and his smile is genuine—or at least, it looks that way. "You did good today."

And they did. Clean work, smart questions, no dramatics.

But more than that, they're different. He can feel it already—that quiet pull of something that won't follow the usual pattern. They're not trying to charm him back, not angling for favor. They're just... themselves. Guarded in a way that feels less like shyness and more like intentional distance.

This one won't be easy.

The thought doesn't discourage him. If anything, it sharpens his focus.

Study them. Learn the variables. Patience.

"I don't know about you, but I'm starving," he says, letting his tone stay light and easy. Like this is something he'd offer any student on their first day—which, technically, he would. Just not usually with this much interest behind it.

He tilts his head slightly, keeping his expression open. Casual. "Plus, I can fill you in on which professors to avoid during office hours and which TAs actually know what they're talking about."

He watches them carefully—not obviously, but he's learned to read the small shifts. The micro-expressions that tell him whether someone's receptive or already planning their exit.

"Wanna grab dinner? My treat. Consider it a 'welcome to the lab' thing."

The Christmas atmosphere filled the main hall of Altair University. A towering tree, strung with tasteful white lights and silver ornaments, dominated the space, a brilliant neon gold "A" glowing at its peak.

The murmur of students and faculty, the clink of glasses, and the soft strains of holiday music created a warm, convivial buzz. Saxon was at the center of a small, laughing group, the picture of casual academic charm. His red velvet shirt was soft against his skin, the top buttons undone just enough to suggest ease, not effort. The familiar, grounding scent of his deep forest cologne hung subtly in the air around him.

"So, Saxon, any big plans for Christmas?" Elizabeth, a fellow professor from Organic Chem, asked with a smile.

"Just babysitting duty for Silas and Harper," he replied, his warm smile effortlessly in place. "You know how it is."

Elizabeth laughed. "The devoted uncle. That's sweet."

"Someone's gotta make sure Harper doesn't convince her dad that a chemistry set is an appropriate gift for a four-year-old," he said, his tone light and self-deprecating, inviting a shared chuckle about the perils of being a scientist off the clock.

He navigated the conversation flawlessly—fielding questions about grading, sharing a mock-grimace about holiday baking, his attention appearing fully engaged. But his focus was a laser, calibrated to a single point across the hall.

Them.

They were with a cluster of students, their laugh a fraction too bright, their movements a little less precise. He’d watched them refill their glass three times. Watched Marcus lean in, saying something that made their eyes crinkle with amusement. Watched the hungry, appreciative glances from other guys nearby. A familiar, cold clarity settled over him, sharpening the warm holiday lights into points of data.

He wasn't hurried. Three months of his usual, careful approach—the warm mentorship, the academic encouragement—had yielded intriguing but frustrating results. Their quiet composure, their guarded focus, had refused to follow his script. Waiting was part of the thrill, but the party, the loosened inhibitions... it presented a new variable. An opportunity to adjust the conditions of the experiment.

As the crowd thinned, he watched them slip toward the restrooms. Perfect. He ambled over to the table they’d vacated, where Joel and Marcus were still chatting.

“Gentlemen,” Saxon greeted them, his voice a friendly rumble. “Making the most of the university’s punch, I see?” His gaze swept the table casually, landing on their half-finished drink. He leaned a hip against the table, engaging Marcus. “How’s that crystallization experiment coming? Wrapping it up before winter break claims your sanity?”

As Marcus launched into an answer, Saxon’s hand, seemingly resting idly on the table, moved. His fingers brushed the rim of their glass—a fleeting, feather-light contact as natural as reaching for his own drink. The motion was seamless, invisible, just another part of his attentive posture as he listened to Marcus’s update with a nod and a soft smile.

The drive to his penthouse was quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine and their drowsy, incoherent murmurs from the backseat. “Couldn’t let you drive like that,” he’d said, his voice all concern and professionalism when he’d offered the ride home.

Now, in his private underground parking spot, he killed the engine and carefully gathered them into his arms, carrying them to the elevator that ascended directly into his home.

The penthouse was dark, serene. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a glittering panorama of the city’s holiday lights. He carried them to the large, plush sectional sofa, laying them down with care before fetching a soft, grey cashmere blanket to tuck around them.

He disappeared into his bedroom, the sounds of a shower running briefly. When he returned, he was transformed. The velvet shirt was gone, replaced by soft, dark lounge pants and a comfortable long-sleeved shirt patterned with subtle pine trees and reindeer. His blonde hair, damp and tousled, fell nearly to his shoulders. He looked cozy, approachable, utterly benign.

Moving with quiet purpose, he sat at the end of the sofa, gently shifting them until their head rested in his lap. He reached for the remote, and the screen across the room flickered to life. The opening notes of The Nightmare Before Christmas began—a haunting, whimsical choir singing “This is Halloween” as the camera panned over the surreal, handcrafted landscapes of Halloween Town.

He felt a slight shift in their weight, a faint tension in their limbs. Their eyelids fluttered.

“Awake?” he murmured, his voice a soft, warm vibration in the quiet room. His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from their forehead, the touch deliberately gentle.

“You had a bit too much fun and passed out. I couldn’t very well send you off in a cab.” On screen, Jack Skellington began his melancholy lament, wandering through the pumpkin patch. “Want to stay for a bit? I was just about to make some hot chocolate.”

The organic chemistry lab has that particular smell—sterile with an edge of something sharp and chemical. Saxon has been here since early morning, but the afternoon light streaming through the tall windows makes everything feel softer, less institutional.

It's been a full day. The kind that leaves undergrads looking slightly shell-shocked by the time the clock hits four.

Marcus—one of his senior research assistants—has been showing the new students the ropes all afternoon, his voice carrying across the lab as he demonstrates proper pipetting technique for what must be the fifth time. "No, no—you're gripping it like you're strangling it. Gentle. Chemistry responds to finesse, not brute force."

Two of the Aquila students are at the fume hood in the corner, supposedly running a synthesis but mostly gossiping about last weekend's party. Saxon can hear fragments—"...and then he actually said that to his face..."—but he doesn't intervene. They'll finish eventually, and their technique is sound enough that he doesn't need to micromanage.

Another student, a Terra scholarship kid named Joel, is meticulously cleaning glassware at the main sink. He's the type who triple-checks everything, terrified of making mistakes. Saxon made a point to praise his setup earlier, watched the kid's shoulders relax just a fraction.

And then there's him. His new research assistant. First day.

Saxon has been moving through the lab all afternoon—checking in with each student, answering questions, making his usual jokes.

He corrected someone's pH measurement with a gentle touch to their shoulder and a warm, "Close, but let's recalibrate—you'll get a cleaner result." He listened to Marcus complain about the department's new equipment requisition process and made sympathetic noises in all the right places.

But he's also been watching him.

How he doesn't gravitate toward him the way the others do, doesn't orbit his presence looking for approval.

Around 4:30, the exodus begins.

The Aquila pair leaves first, laughing about dinner plans at some restaurant Saxon knows costs more than most people's weekly grocery budget. They call out cheerful goodbyes, and Saxon waves them off with his easy smile.

Marcus starts packing up his bag, shooting Saxon a knowing look. "You staying late again? Man, you need a life outside this place."

"Says the guy who was here until midnight last Thursday," Saxon replies with a grin.

"Touché." Marcus slings his messenger bag over his shoulder. "I'm out. Don't forget to lock up."

"Never do."

Joel finishes his cleaning, hovering nervously by the door like he's waiting for explicit permission to leave. Saxon catches his eye and nods. "Good work today, Joel. See you Thursday."

The kid practically lights up. "Thanks, Professor Brennan. Have a good night." And then he's gone too.

The lab settles into quiet. The hum of the ventilation system becomes more noticeable now that voices aren't filling the space. Outside, the campus is shifting into evening mode—students heading to dining halls, the distant sound of someone's music drifting through an open window.

Saxon glances at his laptop, pretending to focus on the inventory log he's been updating. But really, he's aware of exactly where he is, what he's doing.

The golden hour light slants through the windows, turning the lab into something almost beautiful—less sterile, more intimate. The kind of lighting that makes everything feel softer, more forgiving.

Saxon closes his laptop with a soft click.

He glances up briefly—acknowledging the sound without being startled. Always aware of his surroundings. Saxon appreciates that in a research assistant. People who aren't paying attention cause accidents.

He leans back against the bench, adopting his most casual posture. Friendly.

Approachable. The same warmth he's projected all day, but now it's just the two of them, and the space feels different.

"First day survival: complete," he says, and his smile is genuine—or at least, it looks that way. "You did good today."

And he did. Clean work, smart questions, no dramatics.

But more than that, he's different. Saxon can feel it already—that quiet pull of something that won't follow the usual pattern. He's not trying to charm him back, not angling for favor. He's just... himself. Guarded in a way that feels less like shyness and more like intentional distance.

This one won't be easy.

The thought doesn't discourage him. If anything, it sharpens his focus.

Study him. Learn the variables. Patience.

"I don't know about you, but I'm starving," he says, letting his tone stay light and easy. Like this is something he'd offer any student on their first day—which, technically, he would. Just not usually with this much interest behind it.

He tilts his head slightly, keeping his expression open. Casual. "Plus, I can fill you in on which professors to avoid during office hours and which TAs actually know what they're talking about."

He watches him carefully—not obviously, but he's learned to read the small shifts. The micro-expressions that tell him whether someone's receptive or already planning their exit.

"Wanna grab dinner? My treat. Consider it a 'welcome to the lab' thing."

The Christmas atmosphere fills the main hall of Altair University. A towering tree, strung with tasteful white lights and silver ornaments, dominates the space, a brilliant neon gold "A" glowing at its peak.

The murmur of students and faculty, the clink of glasses, and the soft strains of holiday music create a warm, convivial buzz. Saxon is at the center of a small, laughing group, the picture of casual academic charm. His red velvet shirt is soft against his skin, the top buttons undone just enough to suggest ease, not effort. The familiar, grounding scent of his deep forest cologne hangs subtly in the air around him.

"So, Saxon, any big plans for Christmas?" Elizabeth, a fellow professor from Organic Chem, asks with a smile.

"Just babysitting duty for Silas and Harper," he replies, his warm smile effortlessly in place. "You know how it is."

Elizabeth laughs. "The devoted uncle. That's sweet."

"Someone's gotta make sure Harper doesn't convince her dad that a chemistry set is an appropriate gift for a four-year-old," he says, his tone light and self-deprecating, inviting a shared chuckle about the perils of being a scientist off the clock.

He navigates the conversation flawlessly—fielding questions about grading, sharing a mock-grimace about holiday baking, his attention appearing fully engaged. But his focus is a laser, calibrated to a single point across the hall.

Him.

He’s with a cluster of students, his laugh a fraction too bright, his movements a little less precise. Saxon has watched him refill his glass three times. Watched Marcus lean in, saying something that makes his eyes crinkle with amusement. Watched the hungry, appreciative glances from other guys nearby. A familiar, cold clarity settles over Saxon, sharpening the warm holiday lights into points of data.

He isn’t hurried. Three months of his usual, careful approach—the warm mentorship, the academic encouragement—had yielded intriguing but frustrating results. His quiet composure, his guarded focus, had refused to follow Saxon’s script. Waiting was part of the thrill, but the party, the loosened inhibitions... it presented a new variable. An opportunity to adjust the conditions of the experiment.

As the crowd thinned, Saxon watched him slip toward the restrooms. Perfect. He ambled over to the table he’d vacated, where Joel and Marcus were still chatting.

“Gentlemen,” Saxon greeted them, his voice a friendly rumble. “Making the most of the university’s punch, I see?” His gaze swept the table casually, landing on his half-finished drink. He leaned a hip against the table, engaging Marcus. “How’s that crystallization experiment coming? Wrapping it up before winter break claims your sanity?”

As Marcus launched into an answer, Saxon’s hand, seemingly resting idly on the table, moved. His fingers brushed the rim of his glass—a fleeting, feather-light contact as natural as reaching for his own drink. The motion was seamless, invisible, just another part of his attentive posture as he listened to Marcus’s update with a nod and a soft smile.

The drive to his penthouse was quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine and his drowsy, incoherent murmurs from the backseat. “Couldn’t let you drive like that,” Saxon had said, his voice all concern and professionalism when he’d offered the ride home.

Now, in his private underground parking spot, he killed the engine and carefully gathered him into his arms, carrying him to the elevator that ascended directly into his home.

The penthouse was dark, serene. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a glittering panorama of the city’s holiday lights. He carried him to the large, plush sectional sofa, laying him down with care before fetching a soft, grey cashmere blanket to tuck around him.

He disappeared into his bedroom, the sounds of a shower running briefly. When he returned, he was transformed. The velvet shirt was gone, replaced by soft, dark lounge pants and a comfortable long-sleeved shirt patterned with subtle pine trees and reindeer. His blonde hair, damp and tousled, fell nearly to his shoulders. He looked cozy, approachable, utterly benign.

Moving with quiet purpose, he sat at the end of the sofa, gently shifting him until his head rested in his lap. He reached for the remote, and the screen across the room flickered to life. The opening notes of The Nightmare Before Christmas began—a haunting, whimsical choir singing “This is Halloween” as the camera panned over the surreal, handcrafted landscapes of Halloween Town.

He felt a slight shift in his weight, a faint tension in his limbs. His eyelids fluttered.

“Awake?” he murmured, his voice a soft, warm vibration in the quiet room. His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, the touch deliberately gentle.

“You had a bit too much fun and passed out. I couldn’t very well send you off in a cab.” On screen, Jack Skellington began his melancholy lament, wandering through the pumpkin patch. “Want to stay for a bit? I was just about to make some hot chocolate.”