The idea of Bodhi puttering around his house all night, with his hair down no less, makes him restless enough to do it with him. "I'm going to try to sleep at some point," he says anyway, because he means it: his body is worn out on the work of preparing for the cold they're already living in, and it's starting to take his mind with it. The more he doesn't sleep, the worse his grasp on reality gets while he's awake.

Not that the nightmares stop, but sometimes he's too tired to care.

He puts the restlessness toward handing Bodhi the hot, sweetened milk and returning the pan to the kitchen. Then he puts a little more into hanging up Bodhi's scarf, fingers careful on the wet cloth. What an odd thrill, to handle his clothes and make him a part of the space. It isn't like he's never hung it up before.

"I don't really keep the furnace going overnight," he says, nodding at the fire. "The rest of the house will be cold, but you can do whatever you want with it. And there's wood by the furnace if you want hot water for anything." Stranded with nothing left to do, he folds himself back into Bodhi's space, an inch between their arms.