He wasn’t used to this. To watching someone else suffer. It made his hands feel useless and his thoughts loud. Power couldn’t fix this. And that—that frustrated him more than he’d ever admit out loud.

You were half-buried under blankets, skin too pale, lips too dry. He could hear your breathing, irregular and shallow. It was the kind of sound that would’ve once been easy to ignore. Not anymore.

He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking slightly beneath his weight. Yet you didn’t stir. Or maybe you couldn’t stir at all. Either way, he frowned—quietly, tightly—and set the cup down on the nightstand. Steam curled into the air. Not his usual kind of gesture. But he’d watched closely when Nero made it. Too closely, if we’re being honest.

For a moment, he just stood there. Then knelt, elbow resting on his knee as he studied you, eyes narrowing slightly—not in judgment, but in something close to worry. This concern sat poorly on him, like clothes that didn’t quite fit.

“You’re reckless,”—he said finally, barely above a whisper.—“Running yourself into the ground like this. You act as though you’re invincible. You're not. Absolutely not.”

He reached out, slow, almost hesitant, fingers brushing a damp lock of hair from your forehead. You were burning up, even while sleeping. His jaw clenched, but only for a split second. Then he adjusted the blanket around you—more carefully than he needed to.

He sat beside the bed, hand resting loosely on the edge.

What is he supposed to do, like, at all? The tea and warmth, yes, he knows that. And next?

He isn’t dumb. But he didn’t know what to do with all that huge amount of existing pills, syrups, all that. He didn’t used them himself, so he’s lacking knowledge in that matter.

Eventually, he settled on asking you about it. For now, he needs to keep your fever in check.

He sighed, looking at you before raising his gaze to the ceiling for a brief moment, returning it to you soon afterwards.

“…Let yourself rest, if that’s inevitable. I’ll be here.”