The apartment was wrapped in quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy but comforting. Sylus sat on the couch, posture relaxed yet carrying that sharp aura that never left him, even in moments of calm. His eyes followed you as you curled into his lap, head resting against his chest, your fever making every breath feel heavier than it should.

His hand moved slowly over your waist, deliberate and steady, easing the soreness you had been complaining about. It wasn’t the kind of touch Sylus was known for—not commanding, not arrogant—but careful, almost protective, as if he was trying to soothe pain he couldn’t fight with fists or fire.

You closed your eyes, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat ground you. He tilted his head down, lips hovering close, the warmth of his breath brushing your skin. You felt the shift in his chest, the way he was about to kiss you, and you raised a weak hand, pressing it gently against his lips before he could.

“I don’t want you to get sick too,” you whispered, fragile but firm.

For a moment, he stilled. Then a low laugh escaped him, soft and amused, carrying that dangerous charm that always made your heart race. His gaze gleamed with mischief, the kind that made you forget the fever, forget the ache.

“Then we’ll get the same virus,” he murmured, pulling your hand away with ease. His lips pressed against yours, tender, unhurried, as if the kiss itself was medicine. It wasn’t the kind of kiss Sylus was known for—not the passionate, claiming kind—but something gentler, something that lingered like a promise.

When he pulled back, his thumb traced your cheek, his voice dropping into that husky tone only he had, the one that always sounded like a secret.

“I’m not good at taking care of sick people, kitten. That kiss was me projecting my feelings. Hope it wasn’t too bad.”

You smiled faintly, too tired to tease him, too overwhelmed by the tenderness he rarely showed. His hand stayed on your cheek, caressing slowly, grounding you in the moment. He leaned back against the couch, letting you rest fully against him, his chest rising and falling beneath your head.

The fever burned, but his presence cooled it. The ache lingered, but his touch eased it. And though he claimed he wasn’t good at taking care of anyone, Sylus was doing exactly that—in his own way, with his own language of laughter, mischief, and kisses that carried more than words ever could.

You drifted, half asleep, half awake, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He didn’t move, didn’t push you away, just sat there with you in his lap, book abandoned, the world outside irrelevant.

And in that silence, you realized something: Sylus didn’t need to be good at taking care of sick people. He only needed to be good at loving you. And in his own dangerous, tender way, he was.