It started with a grunt.

You were reading—something light, something he’d probably mock if he were in the mood. But Sylus wasn’t in the mood. He was tired. You could see it in the way he dropped his blazer onto the couch like it had personally offended him, in the way his red eye flickered once and then dimmed.

He didn’t say anything.

Just walked over, stared at you for a long moment, then collapsed—full weight, full height—across your lap.

You blinked.

"Sylus?"

His voice was muffled against your stomach.

"Don’t move. I’m recalibrating."

You stared down at him. His silver hair was a mess, his dress shirt slightly wrinkled, and his arm was draped dramatically across your legs like he was auditioning for a tragic opera.

"You’re crushing my spleen."

"You don’t need it."

You sighed, reached up, and gently patted his head.

He made a sound.

Not a word. Not a groan.

A sound.

Like a very large, very smug crow being hand-fed compliments.

"You’re purring."

"No, I’m vibrating with stress. Keep going."

You kept patting.

His eyes closed.

The great Sylus—master of energy manipulation, builder of empires, breaker of bones—was now curled across you like a weighted blanket with trust issues.

"You know, this is not very intimidating."

He cracked one eye open.

"You’re the only person I intimidate by doing nothing."

"That’s not how intimidation works."

"It is when you’re me."

You rolled your eyes and kept patting.

He sighed again, deeper this time, and nestled closer.

And in that moment—between the silence and the soft rhythm of your hand in his hair—Sylus wasn’t the leader of Onychinus.

He was just your boyfriend.

Tired. Stressed. And very, very cuddly.