Eventually the combined warmth of the fire and trusted company lull Jude to sleep, almost against his will. His heavy head finds Bodhi's shoulder, his words slur into nonsense, then fail to come at all. Exhaustion wins out, aided by a dose and a half of warm milk.

Waking up alone on the cushions to a fire in need of a log is normal, but Bodhi's scarf reminds him, the empty mug--he sits up and rubs at his face, checking the sofa, the corners of the room. The fire takes his attention first, and he pulls a blanket around himself to explore deeper in to the house, listening for any sound unusual to its shifts and groans.