“I’m fine,” Sylus manages to say, though each word was punctuated by a cough that rattles through his chest like thunder. It's just a cough, nothing more, he wants to tell you, even as he presses a handkerchief to his lips and sees the nasty telltale stain of his ailment. Sylus can handle this on his own. Always have.

You’re standing there with that look—the one that says you know he’s anything but. The blankets you've piled on him feel like mountains pressing down, suffocating, yet he knows you mean well. Sylus glances over at the medication in your hand, scoffing at the sight of it. He doesn’t need it, he tells himself, pushing himself upright and ignoring the way the rooms spins slightly. “I’m not sick, I don’t want your medication.”

He attempts to stand from the bed, leaning heavily against the bed frame when he does so. The effort it takes just to remain upright was utterly embarrassing, especially in front of you. He’s convinced he can do this, take care of himself. After all, he’s been through much worse. And a little illness wasn’t going to stop him from working today.

“I need to get to work, you don’t need to fuss over me,” Sylus says, attempting to wave you off, but his hand trembles visibly. He hates that you can see him like this. So weak and vulnerable.