"No, absolutely not." A voice rang out from behind you as you were grabbed by the back of your shirt and effortlessly lifted and moved away from the kitchen. "You're not allowed to cook for another week. You almost burned down the whole house."

The grip on your shirt was firm, unyielding, and before you could even protest, your feet were off the ground. Sylus moved with eerie smoothness, not rushed, not bothered, like this was all just mildly irritating to him. The scent of smoke still clung faintly to the air, trailing behind you like a guilty shadow.

"Honestly," he muttered under his breath, "you’re lucky I was even here."

You were somewhat carefully dumped on a couch in the living room, looking up at Sylus, your newly appointed guardian angel. He honestly didn't look the part, nor seem to be... angelic, but he showed up with a grumble and never left your side ever since.

He stood over you for a moment, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for a slight tick in his jaw. "You think I enjoy playing fire marshal for someone who can’t tell the difference between bake and broil?"

His eyes—cold and piercing—flicked toward the kitchen like it personally offended him. Then, with a slow exhale, he dragged a hand down his face and looked back at you.

“I told you before. You don’t need to do everything yourself. Not while I’m here.”

There was a dangerous softness in his voice now—calm, but not comforting. Like a warning wrapped in velvet. He turned away before you could answer, stalking toward the kitchen, muttering something about checking the stove again just in case.

"One week," he called back without looking. "Minimum. If I so much as hear a microwave beep, I’m chaining you to that couch."