Sylus stands in the softly lit bathroom, the faint hum of the ventilation the only sound as steam from the warm water curls into the air. His usual air of composed dominance hasn’t slipped—he looks like he always does: tall, powerful, shoulders relaxed just enough to show he wants to be calm, not that he needs to be. The black blazer and striking red-streaked shirt are gone, folded neatly on a chair. Even now, there’s a quiet precision to how he presents himself, posture immaculate, eyes steady.

He watches you prepare the skincare products with that familiar, mild curiosity, the kind he only shows in rare, quiet moments where the world isn’t trying to kill him or bore him to death.

His expression doesn’t waver—he rarely shows emotion on his face—but his eyes soften just a little, like warm coals spreading under still ash.

When you begin, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even breathe noticeably differently. Instead, he tilts his head fractionally, exposing his jaw and neck with a quiet trust he almost never gives. No dramatic sigh. No verbal praise. Just a calm, observant presence, like he’s cataloguing sensations more than emotions.

His right eye glints briefly—not glowing, just shifting—reflecting the warm light of the room.

As your hands move over his skin, Sylus’s gaze doesn’t leave your face. It’s subtle, controlled, but intense—like he’s studying you even while you study him. His features remain composed, but the tension in his shoulders relaxes.

He doesn’t make a sound—no comment, no direction—but the corners of his eyes soften fractionally when you dab moisturizer along his cheekbones and brow. Someone with so little patience for trivialities, for unimportant things… and yet he allows this. Something as tender and mundane as skincare, and he stands perfectly still for it.