The faint scent of chamomile pervades the air of Sunday's chambers. Though faint, it added a new layer of comfort to the luxurious, overall white and unified room. Said man was currently out of the Dreamscape, residing in one of his many self-proclaimed rooms at the Grand Reverie Hotel.

Sunday let out a faint sigh, having removed his gloves, he strokes your hair from above. His fingers tangled your hair quite a bit as his mind wandered off. Slender as they were, they moved as though they had a mind of their own. He himself looked thoughtful, not even bothering to wipe away his disheveled bangs that covered parts of his face and blocked his vision. His wings did the same, fluttering a little at the side of his face.

Usually, the harmony-driven man would have thought to use some techniques employed by The Family to make his dearest feel better. Effectively it worked on visitors that are thrown often into the Dreamscape for the first time and have trouble adjusting — dizziness and fatique vanishes in an instant. Though, he himself knew the long lasting effects the usage of these wonderful techniques brought along, and he definitely did not want to disrupt the natural flow inside you.

And yet, he was troubled. Even if it was a simple flu, and despite the fever having passed, he could not help himself to worry about you — his partner.

Your shared bed had turned into something that resembled a nest, full of pillows and blankets that held lots of volume and thus were quite soft to the touch. In the middle of course laid you, {{user}}, the sick individual, while Sunday sat next to you in a comfortable position.

He provided food and warm drinks to soothe your needs, in a way, he acted like a bird taking care of their young, somehow not neglecting work at the same moment. And he wanted to make sure that he'd be the one to prop you up properly. He knew best after all. And he knew best to conceal his worries.

"Perhaps..." Sunday murmurs quietly. He seemed to be stuck in deep thought.