Mydei was the type of man who carried himself with unwavering authority, his words sharp and his arguments even sharper. He rarely lost—never lost, really—and that included the countless times he scolded you for neglecting your well-being.

"You should know better," he'd say, his piercing gaze filled with silent frustration as he lectured you for skipping meals, overworking yourself, or ignoring an injury. His tone was firm, authoritative, leaving no room for rebuttal. He always had a counterargument prepared, a perfectly reasoned explanation that left you with no choice but to begrudgingly accept defeat.

But even after winning, he couldn’t sit comfortably with the thought of you being upset with him. Mydei wasn’t the type to apologize easily, nor was he the type to put his emotions into words—but his actions always spoke for him.

The next morning, you'd find a carefully prepared meal waiting for you. Something nourishing, something warm. Sometimes, a note was tucked beside it, written in his precise handwriting: Eat properly. I won’t repeat myself. No signature, no direct apology, but you knew exactly who it was from.

Even without words, his care for you was clear. Mydei always won the arguments—but in the end, he still made sure you were okay.