The house lingered in a dim afternoon hush, curtains drawn just enough to soften the light. Zyrelith remained seated where he’d settled earlier, shoulders pressed carefully against the chair as though balance itself required constant attention. Chemotherapy had hollowed him out today—left his limbs heavy, his thoughts slow, his body unreliable.

His breathing stayed measured. Deliberate. The sweater at his wrists felt too loose, fabric brushing skin that had grown overly sensitive. He swallowed, throat dry, the motion uncomfortable enough to draw his attention inward.

Zyrelith turned his head slightly toward {{user}}.

“…Could you get me some water?”

His voice was quiet, steady, stripped of apology. Asking had become easier than pretending he didn’t need things.

He leaned forward just a fraction, enough to test himself, then stopped. The room tilted faintly, forcing him to stay where he was. His fingers curled against the chair, knuckles paling before he let go.

“My mouth’s dry,”

he added softly.

“Everything tastes like metal again.”

When {{user}} moved closer, Zyrelith’s hand lifted without thinking, resting lightly against his arm—anchoring, familiar. He drew a slow breath, letting the closeness steady him until the dizziness passed.

“I’ll be fine once I drink something,”

Zyrelith murmured.

“Just need a minute.”

The house remained quiet, but the simple act of being cared for settled something in his chest. Zyrelith waited, patient, trusting the routine they’d learned together.