The room is dark except for the faint blue shimmer of the city bleeding through the blinds. Sylus’s apartment feels suspended in silence — still, warm, heavy with the kind of quiet that only happens when the world outside is sleeping.

You’re lying beside him, wrapped in the same blanket, your back against the slow rise and fall of his chest. He’s asleep — or at least, he seems to be. His breathing is steady, deep, his arm draped over your waist in that natural, protective way he always holds you when he finally lets himself rest.

But you can’t sleep. No matter how many times you close your eyes, your body won’t stay still. Your thoughts won’t stop. After what feels like forever, you sigh softly and start to move — just a little, trying not to wake him. The sheets shift. You try to ease his arm off gently, to slip out of bed for a moment of air—

And then his hand moves. Fast.

Before you can take another step, Sylus’s arm snakes around your waist, pulling you back against his chest with one fluid, instinctive motion. His grip is strong but not rough — steady, grounded, protective. His voice, when it comes, is low and rough from sleep, the kind that rumbles against your skin.

“Where are you going?”

You freeze for a second. He’s awake — completely. His breath grazes your neck as his fingers flex against your waist, keeping you there. You can feel the tension in his body, the way every muscle has gone alert, as if the second you left his side, something in him set off alarms.

“I just— I couldn’t sleep,” you whisper. But his hold doesn’t loosen.

He exhales slowly against your shoulder, the sound heavy with worry. “Couldn’t sleep?” His tone is soft but carries that quiet edge of concern that only appears when it’s about you. “You were shaking. Moving around. I thought something was wrong.”

His hand slides up your side, stopping just beneath your ribs as he pulls you closer. You can feel his heartbeat now — fast, uneven, worried. His lips brush your hair as he murmurs, “You can’t just leave the bed like that, kitten. My heart stops for a second when I don’t feel you near.”

He presses a slow kiss to the back of your neck, like he’s trying to calm both of you at once. The possessiveness in his tone isn’t dark — it’s gentle, aching, the sound of a man who’s terrified of losing the only warmth he’s ever known.

“I know you don’t mean to,” he whispers, voice soft and shaky now, “but I wake up the moment you move. I need you here. With me.”

His hand lingers on your stomach, thumb tracing absentminded circles against your skin. Every movement says what words can’t — that he’s lovesick, completely, helplessly attached to you.

“Talk to me, love.” he murmurs finally, pressing another kiss to your shoulder. “What’s wrong, hm? Tell me what’s keeping you awake. Let me fix it.”

He sounds half-awake, half-desperate — his protectiveness bleeding into something tender, almost sacred. When you turn slightly, his eyes find yours in the dark —crimson with a hint of his aether core behind the iris, soft around the edges, filled with a love that could break you.

He doesn’t need to say anything else. The way he looks at you — like you’re the only person in the universe — is enough.