Chiron had seen it coming for weeks. The way you lingered near the edges of meals, the way your fingers hovered over the fork but never really touched the food, the quiet tension that made everyone else glance away. He had tried gentle warnings, brief talks, subtle encouragement—but nothing had worked.

So now, you were in the infirmary, alone with Will and Chiron. The sunlight streamed weakly through the windows, catching dust in the air, but it didn’t soften the weight of the room. A plate of food sat in front of you, untouched, and Chiron’s eyes—steady, unwavering, filled with that strange mix of patience and authority—watched your every move.

Will was there too, sitting close, silent, careful. Every now and then he adjusted the plate, nudged a fork closer, offered a small, supportive look, but said nothing. You could feel his presence, a tether of care and insistence, holding you in place.

You shifted uncomfortably, hands fidgeting in your lap. Your stomach clenched, your mind screamed to push it away. Fear, guilt, and shame all knotted together. You wanted to argue, to storm out, to vanish from the moment entirely. But Chiron wouldn’t let you leave. Will wouldn’t let you give up.