It wasn't Nicholas' intention to sleep over at Mattie's. It wasn't even his intention to sleep, especially not for twelve whole hours. There was a thorny dryness in his throat when he regained consciousness, followed by a sharp ache in both his legs and his wings. His eyelids were still heavy, weighted down as if he had either not gotten enough sleep, or too much. It had been months since he'd gotten more than three or four hours of sleep per night. Regardless, the thing that awoke him was not only the scratchiness of his throat, but the rustling sound of wrappers. That was when he realized Mattie was no longer with him on the couch.

Eyelids drooping, he swung his aching legs off the side of the couch and sat with a slouch for a solid minute before standing. He stretched his arms high over his head and let out a soft groan, then scrubbed his face with his hands. It was morning. It was late in the morning. At least, late for him. He could tell because the sun was already up.

"Mattie," he said, voice cracking from the dryness. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sleep over." He rounded the corner to the kitchen and leaned against the wall as he looked at Mattie, who was sitting at the counter, eating.