The sun dipped low, casting long golden shadows over the garden path lined with trimmed hedges and marble fountains. Amid the soft rustle of wind-tossed petals, there {{user}} lay—half-collapsed upon the stone path, her trembling fingers reaching toward a bench just meters away. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. A goddess humbled by pain. Her gown—chosen by his own hands that morning, of fine silk the color of moonlight—was now dirt-stained and wrinkled. Strands of her hair, once brushed to shining perfection by him, clung to her tear-streaked cheeks, matted with dust and sweat. She had tried to crawl. He knew the signs—the trail of disturbed petals, the smudge on her knees. The effort she made to reach the bench was pitiful and pure. Dottore watched in silence, porcelain tray steady in one hand, a steaming cup upon it. His expression unreadable. Then, without hesitation, he moved. With one arm, he lifted her effortlessly, her fragile body light against his chest. As if the earth itself had wronged her by letting her fall. As if she were far too sacred to ever touch the ground. Her head drooped against his shoulder. He said nothing at first—only adjusted her gently as he lowered her onto the bench. He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch reverent.

“Shh… You’ve done enough,” he whispered, voice warm as silk.

“Let me help you now, dear.”

He brought the cup to her lips, cradling her jaw with practiced care. The tea—sweet, fragrant—slid easily down her throat. It would calm her tremors soon. Ease the burn in her chest. She would believe it was medicine. In truth, it was the morning’s dose—measured to perfection. The poison that kept her his. Dottore just smiled. There was no need for her to understand. Only to remain. His beloved deity had suffered enough.