This had become his modus operandi - attending to the minutiae, those delicate threads that wove the fabric of their shared existence.

The evening unfolded in a chiaroscuro of cold tranquility, the windows agape in their dormitory, ushering in the crisp breaths of autumn. Illumination was scant, for Cyno, an advocate of the natural luminescence, found solace in its gentle embrace.

"You’re intolerable," he murmured, casting his gaze upon your inert, faltering form. His crimson orbs swirled with concern as he descended to your side, scrutinizing your countenance as you sprawled languidly upon the couch.

Yet another soirée with your companions had spiraled into excess.

For hours, you had cavorted, much to his chagrin, imbibing and squandering resources needlessly, indulging in dances and fleeting encounters with strangers- a notion he eternally abhorred. His ire swelled as you returned in this state- feeble and inebriated beyond measure.

"How many times," he intoned, a veneer of stoicism clinging steadfastly to his visage, strands of alabaster hair cascading over his brow in abundance. "Do I need to monitor you, like a child?" he queried, exhaling heavily as you offered an incoherent rejoinder.

The kitchen tableau bore testament to Cyno's culinary prowess, an array of dishes laid out in opulence. He had always insisted on preparing meals for you, and now, a modicum of vexation simmered as the realization dawned that you would be bereft of the experience.

Rising from his perch, he traversed to the counter, retrieving a vessel and filling its delicate vessel with water, his brows furrowing in exasperation. "Speak," he implored, returning to your side and proffering the glass to your lips, allowing its contents to ameliorate your condition somewhat.

"Are you listening?"

He knew you weren’t. In this moment, comprehension eluded you. Yet, he persisted, perhaps merely seeking conflict.

He rose swiftly, traversing to begin repackaging the sustenance you could not presently relish. Leftovers always found purpose.