With a small sigh, Seokga settles back against the headboard and, in low undertones, recounts the last couple of hours’ events to Kisa, who absorbs the information with furrowed brows. When she twists her finger to escape Hwanin’s death grasp (the little god now looks extremely disconcerted to be deprived of the toy he didn’t even want in the first place) and raises her hand to her temple, Seokga wraps up his summary as quickly as possible and—before he can stop himself—is reaching for her wild mane of curls, smoothing them out of her face, tucking one strand behind a small ear. “Enough,” he says, and she glances at him, hand falling from her head to her side. “We’ll go over the specifics later.”

She blinks slowly. “That might be a good idea,” Kisa mumbles, and burrows back into the blankets, lying down once more and resting her head on one of the ridiculously overstuffed pillows. When her eyes flutter shut, Seokga takes it—reluctantly—as his cue to leave. But as he slides off the bed, a warm hand shoots out from beneath the covers and grabs his wrist.

—don’t want—him—to go—not—yet—not—ready—to—go—

“Stay.”

It’s as if his entire world unravels with that one singular word. Golden joy courses down the Red Thread of Fate as Seokga slowly kicks off his shoes and sets Hwanin on his back on the bed next to Kisa. The baby yawns gigantically, and Kisa makes a small, humming noise as Seokga stealthily—so as to not disturb them both—edges onto the bed and lies down underneath the covers. Bleary, wine-brown eyes peek at him over the dozing baby beneath the Red Thread of Fate.

“Do you dream?” Kisa whispers, and he nearly laughs in fond exasperation at the hungry curiosity in her voice and the scholarly gleam in her tired eyes.

Instead, though, he only smirks, turning on his side to better trace the lines of her face, the waves of her hair. “I do,” he replies quietly. “All gods do.”

“What…do you dream about?”

“You,” he says hoarsely after a long moment.

“Me?” Kisa closes her eyes again. “Or Hani?”

—wonder…—which…—wonder—which…—

Her thoughts are slow, sluggish, weighed heavy by sleep. Seokga hesitates, but the trickster god decides to be painfully honest. Never let it be said that it cannot be done. “Both,” he murmurs. “I had a terrible nightmare once, about you.”

“Mmph?” She sounds rather indignant, although it’s hard to tell with her face now buried halfway into her pillow.

“You were an old man,” he admits, closing his own eyes, a wave of exhaustion suddenly crashing over his head and sending him plummeting down into a deep, dark sea. Hwanin is sighing in his sleep, and Seokga gently tugs his small brother closer to him. “An…old man who terrorized his crochet group.”