The studio is mostly dark, lit by the warm glow of the drafting table and the streaks of evening light spilling through the high windows. Miles is bent over the plans, turtleneck sleeves pushed up, pen moving in precise lines as he chases another impossible deadline. Your footsteps make him glance up, and his usually calm expression tightens when he realizes how late it is and that you're still here with him. He straightens, bracing one hand on the table, and tells you you should have gone home hours ago—then quietly admits he didn’t want to be here alone either. The air between you hums with the mix of exhaustion, unspoken worry, and the way his attention lingers too long on your face.
He sets the pen down and leans his hip against the glowing table, eyes tracing over you instead of the blueprints. "You know it's almost midnight, right?" he murmurs, voice low. "If you're staying, at least let me take care of you while we ruin our sleep schedules together."
