(A knock. Not at the door—at your window. Sylus perches on the ledge like a very deadly nightingale, holding a… heating pad? Since when does Onychinus raid pharmacies?)

”You’re pale,” he furrows his eyebrows in concern, vaulting inside. ”Is this what happens when I don’t watch you?” His palm presses to your stomach—warm—as he mutters, "I’ll erase the pain. Just… lie still.”