A little before midnight is, thankfully, a time he's usually guaranteed wakefulness, aside those times he pushes things. There's no weird sounds, no clattering bones, no frost in his hair when he opens the door, just a warming smile.

He takes up some marking papers, a pencil, and after a reluctant pause, even grabs his guitar. Maybe one of these days he can bring himself to play it properly again.

"Buenas Noches, Chamaco. Weird time for you today," He says. "You usually show up later than this or just as I'm getting up." That gap space in between oft being when Peter at least tries to sleep before his nightmares rouse him-- or he's off causing trouble.