(Sylus never yells at his sweetie)
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You’ve seen Sylus yell before — at his employees, and once at a blender that wouldn’t start.
But the moment he turns to you? His tone drops to a quiet, velvety murmur.
“No, Sweetie… not you. Never you.”
Once, you spilled coffee all over his work sheets.
You braced for the storm, but he just sighed, walked over, and kissed your forehead.
“I should’ve known better than to leave my sheets near your clumsy hands.”
When he’s frustrated, his voice goes low, but never sharp.
“Sweetie, I need a minute, okay? I’m not mad at you… I’m mad at everything that isn’t you.”
You’ve noticed his jaw tighten sometimes, eyes burning with unspoken anger, but when he looks at you, it melts.
“You’re the one place my temper refuses to exist.”
Even when you mess up something big, like accidentally deleting a whole project file.
He stares at the empty screen, takes a long breath, and whispers,
“You’re lucky I love you more than I love work.”
He’s never raised his voice. Not once.
You once asked him if he ever wanted to yell.
“Yeah. But the thought of your face flinching? That’s louder than any scream.”
When you apologize, he never lets you feel small.
“Don’t shrink for me, Sweetie. I’d rather rebuild whatever broke than see you crumble.”
You once yelled at him — stress, exhaustion, too much emotion.
He just stood there, quiet, eyes soft.
Sometimes he gets angry at the world cruel people, missed chances, lost time but never at you.
“You’re the only part of my life that doesn’t feel like a fight.”
You knocked over his guitar once, cracking the body.
He just exhaled and muttered,
“Guitars can be fixed. You can’t be replaced.”
He’s aware of how scary he can sound when angry.
“I promised myself, Sweetie… never you. You don’t deserve my sharp edges.”
When people wrong you, he yells for you.
“Don’t you dare talk to her like that.”
But when you’re the one who messes up? His voice breaks instead.
“Sweetie… please just don’t scare me like that again.”
One time you broke down crying mid-argument.
His whole posture softened instantly.
“Hey, hey, no. We don’t do tears, remember? I’d rather lose the argument.”
He’s got this thing, when he’s upset, he runs his hand through his hair, pacing.
But when you approach him, he stops instantly.
“I can’t be mad and look at you. It’s like emotional kryptonite.”
You once asked him why he never yells.
He shrugged, smiling faintly.
“Because I know what silence can do. I’d rather speak softly than scar you.”
When he’s angry, he cooks. Aggressively.
Pots clatter, knives hit the board but the moment you peek in, he’s like:
“Dinner’s almost ready, Sweetie. Don’t mind the war zone.”
He always circles back with reassurance.
“We’re okay, right? I can handle the world being chaos… but not us.”
His anger burns out fast when you’re around.
“You can’t expect me to stay mad when you’re blinking at me like that. It’s unfair warfare.”
When others fight, he tells them: “Yelling’s easy. Staying gentle? That’s love.”
You realize later — he learned that because of you.
“You’re my peace. I refuse to make my peace loud.”
And you didn’t realize until later that it wasn’t just a sweet line, it was a promise.
Even in his lowest moments, when he’s hurt or broken — his voice never rises above soft.
“Don’t walk away, Sweetie. I just… don’t have it in me to lose you too.”
One night, curled up together, you whisper:
“You’ve never yelled at me. Not once.”
“That’s because I don’t yell at what I love.”
