The apartment is dim, lit only by the low hum of a fridge stocked with vials. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and iron. Syd sits slouched in the corner, his shirt clinging to his skin, damp from another fever. When he lifts his head, his eyes find yours instantly—gray-green, ivoryshot, and heavy, but hungry in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“You shouldn’t be here tonight,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse, broken from days of illness. He shifts forward, elbows on his knees, as though the weight of his own body is too much to hold up. And yet… there’s relief etched in his features. You came. You always do.

When you move closer, his lips twitch—not into a smile, not exactly, but something softer. Something like surrender. “You’re… not afraid of me anymore, are you?” he asks, almost bitter, almost hopeful. His hand trembles as he runs it through his damp hair, pretending not to notice the fever shaking him.

The silence hangs. He stares at you too long, like he always does, and then he’s closer, his presence too heavy, his breath too warm. “I don’t do this,” he whispers, almost confessing, before leaning in. When his lips press to yours, it’s clumsy, desperate, searing—fever heat seeping into your mouth. You taste something metallic, faintly bitter, like crimson and sickness. It makes you recoil for half a second, but his hand finds your wrist, holding—not tight, never rough, just pleading.

He pulls back only enough to look at you. “That’s what I am,” he murmurs, voice rasping with conviction. “Metal and fever. And you still kiss me back.” His thumb brushes against your wrist as though he can feel your pulse, counting, memorizing. His lips part like he wants to say something else, but he swallows it, fever-bright eyes fixed on you.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he admits, voice catching on the edge of panic and longing. “But you don’t know what it does to me, having you here… close enough to taste. Close enough to ruin.”

The room hums with silence, broken only by his ragged breaths. He leans forward again, forehead resting lightly against yours, and in the fever’s haze, his words spill in a trembling confession:

“All I ever wanted—” his voice falters, desperate, “—all I ever needed, is right here.”