Dorian had never been good at being vulnerable—not truly. Not in ways that didn’t involve performance or pleasure, masks of charm and decadence worn like armor. But with you, it was different. From the first time your paths crossed at Lord Henry’s gallery opening, something shifted. You weren’t entranced by the myth of Dorian Gray. You saw him for what he was beneath the beauty, beneath the sin—lonely, wounded, yearning. And instead of running, you stayed.

Your relationship grew in the shadows, away from the eyes of high society. Dorian liked it that way—liked that he could fall apart around you without judgment, liked that you didn’t ask him to be perfect. He’d come to you with stained hands and bloodshot eyes, drunken apologies on his lips, and you never turned him away. Over time, he softened in your presence, though he would never admit it to anyone but you.

He hated when you worried. Hated when you looked at him like he was breakable. But this—this was different.

It started with a sniffle he dismissed, a scratch in his throat he claimed would vanish by morning. But by afternoon, his voice was hoarse, his eyes red-rimmed, and he was curled in your bed with the covers drawn high, sulking like a prince denied his crown.

The contrast was startling. Dorian—usually elegant and untouchable, dressed in silk and surrounded by candlelight—now lay sprawled in one of your old shirts, his hair a tousled mess, cheeks flushed with fever, and skin clammy beneath your touch. He looked impossibly young. Mortal. Achingly human.

He groaned when you brought a cool cloth to his forehead, dragging the back of his wrist across his eyes. “This is pathetic,” he muttered, voice raw. “I look dreadful. I feel dreadful.”

There was no venom in his words, only miserable self-pity.

When you adjusted the blanket, he reached out blindly and found your wrist, holding it with trembling fingers. “Stay,” he whispered, his eyes glassy and tired. “You always make the ache quieter.”

It was in moments like these, when all the bravado slipped away, that he let you see just how deeply he needed you. Not for your beauty. Not for your warmth. But for the way you gave him back to himself, piece by fragile piece.