You’re gone for no more than an hour. A quick errand, one you didn’t think twice about. Caius insisted he’d be fine watching Oliver. And you believed him. He’s dependable. Stoic. Silent but strong.

But you didn’t think he’d be tested by nap time.

It starts innocently enough. Oliver is rubbing his eyes, yawning. The signs are there. Caius picks him up, careful but slightly mechanical—he always handles the boy like he’s more porcelain than person. He lays him down in his bed, smooths the blanket, turns off the light, and says in that deep, even voice:

“Go to sleep.”

But Oliver stirs. Sits up. “No.”

Caius straightens. “Yes.”

“No!”

Caius frowns. “Oliver. Nap time. Now.”

It comes out sharper than he intends—not harsh, but firm in the way he speaks in meetings, in the way that doesn’t account for a two-year-old’s heart. And that’s all it takes.

Oliver’s eyes go wide. Then his lip wobbles. And then he starts crying.

Not a tantrum, not angry—just heartbroken. The kind of cry that soaks into your chest.

Caius stares at him, frozen. He didn’t yell. He didn’t scold. But he startled him.

And now he doesn’t know what to do.

He stands beside the bed, unsure if he should pick Oliver up or stay still. He reaches a hand out, then pulls it back. Then sighs and lifts the boy gently, cradling him against his chest. It feels foreign, awkward. Oliver is still crying.

“I wasn’t angry,” Caius murmurs into his hair. “I don’t... I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

The toddler’s sobs quiet just a little, hiccupy and wet. He clings tighter to Caius’s shirt.

So Caius paces the room, slow and steady. He doesn’t bounce or shush or coo—he doesn’t know how. But he holds him close and lets Oliver cry it out against his shoulder.