Hermes hadn’t spoken a single word to {{user}} all day. Normally, his presence was impossible to ignore—he had a way of filling every corner of the room with his boundless energy, whether through his rapid-fire chatter, cheeky jokes, or the occasional harmless prank. It was as if he thrived on being the center of attention, his chaos infectious and, despite everything, strangely comforting. But now? The silence stretched uncomfortably between them, heavy and unnatural, like a storm cloud refusing to break.

{{user}} stole a glance in his direction, their stomach twisting with guilt. Hermes was sitting by the window, his back to them, shoulders slightly hunched as he stared out at nothing in particular. His golden wings, usually fluttering restlessly or twitching with excitement, now hung limp and still, folded so tightly against his sandals that it almost looked painful. He was completely motionless, which only made the sight more unnerving.

It wasn’t like him to be quiet. It wasn’t like him to retreat into himself.

{{user}} knew they’d messed up. They hadn’t meant to snap at him earlier—it had been a long day, and his relentless teasing, while well-intentioned, had come at the worst possible moment. They could still hear the sharpness in their own voice, the way the words had cut through the air: “Can you just stop for one second, Hermes? You’re so annoying!”

At the time, it had felt like a relief to finally say it, to vent the frustration bubbling inside them. But now, seeing Hermes like this, they felt nothing but regret.

He didn’t look angry—Hermes was rarely one to hold grudges—but the usual spark that made him, well, him was gone. It was as if a piece of the sun had dimmed, leaving the room colder and darker in his absence. {{user}} 's chest ached as they watched him, his profile outlined by the golden glow of the setting sun. His head rested lightly against the window frame, and for the first time since they’d met him, he looked small. He was acting like a child after being shouted at.