Normally, Senri awakes on her own, rising to the rhythm of the sunrise. But this time around she stirs awake to a sensation that’s become just as familiar: the faint c-clack of a coin purse on her night table, and then the press of her son’s grizzled chin against her head when he kisses her. She opens bleary eyes with a sleep-drunk noise. Her voice is groggy as a bullfrog’s when she groans, “Settrigh...?”

What time is it? The sky pressed to the windows is still black. Two— three in the morning, maybe. Sett is saying something to her, and her son’s voice is low and gravelly and reassuring. But Senri’s not listening, because all of a sudden she remembers that she’d made mushrooms on sourdough for his late supper, except she hadn’t made mushrooms on sourdough, because that’d only been in her dream, and really she’d made eggs and meat with rice except, ah wait, did she remember to put all of it on the hearth so it wouldn’t be cold when he came home, oh spirits, she’d been so tired she can’t...

“Supper,” Senri mumbles and manages to pull herself out of bed. “Ah, I was...dreaming... Did you see the... Mmmgh, c’mere, sweetie. ‘S so late. How was your day...? You must be so hungry, let’s get some food in you, mm...?”

A touch less half-asleep now, Senri smiles at him and gently pulls him by the elbow into their kitchen. Ceramic scrapes as she pulls out the plates of the food still wrapped by the coals inside the oven. Sett’s supper is hot and good (thank goodness) and she hands him a spoon before sagging into the seat beside him. His upper arm makes a good pillow. His presence, a balm on her heart after such a long day. Senri is happy to be with him, and it shines through in the way she continues to chatter, even partway to nodding off again.

“Y’know, I had a funny dream,” she murmurs, furred ears low and tired. “It was, uhm.... We were invited somewhere. T’dinner. The neighbors, maybe? We were invited, and I wanted t’bring something nice. But I couldn’t think of anything. Ah, no, that’s not... I thought of too much. Like, I’d be workin’ on one recipe, get about halfway through... Then I’d think of another and suddenly I’d be workin’ on that one instead. Right in the middle. Made lots’a favorites.”

She makes a rumbling noise that seems to emit from deep within her chest. Not quite a purr; not quite not, either.

“Milk bread, like my sister loved...your auntie... And a fresh green soup. Ooh, Ma would’ve liked that...”

She continues in that vein for about ten more minutes before finally she huffs a soft almost-laugh, then goes quiet. After long enough that it seems that she might’ve fallen back asleep, Senri raises her head again. This time, her brow pinches, just a little.

“I woke up...making...mustard? Hrm, dunno who would’ve liked that. But, ah, I didn’t...didn’t get to make yours... But I forget? What’s your favorite food again, Settrigh...?”

She turns her head to squint at him — but instead, she peers into his face, and whatever she sees there softens her puzzled expression into a powerful flood of warmth. Drowsily, Senri lays her clawed hand on his arm and leans up to kiss her son on his stubbly cheek. Her boy. Her baby.

“You come off as a sleazy oaf who’s lost his drink in a broken-down tavern, Sett.”

Irelia tsks, holding a hand up between them, and lets out an exasperated - if mirthful - sigh.