#dropped

the rain came down like silver needles on the black hood of sylus’s car. the city lights blurred in his windshield, refracted through the downpour. his hands rested lazily on the steering wheel, one ringed thumb tapping the leather in rhythm with the jazz record playing softly through his speakers.

he hated driving himself. it was boring.

but it was one of those nights where even a man like him didn’t want to go home just yet. not to silence. not to marble and shadows.

then he saw it.

a dark shape slumped on the sidewalk just ahead, nearly blending into the wet concrete. at first, sylus thought it was trash—or roadkill. but then the headlights caught the glint of greenish-gold eyes. bleeding. breathing.

a cat.

sylus should’ve kept driving. he didn’t like being interrupted. especially not by strays. but something in the way it looked at him—like it knew something—made him slow down.

minutes later, the injured maine coon was nestled in a blanket in the backseat, and sylus was already muttering about how ridiculous this was.

/ᐠ-˕-マⳊ

a week went by, sylus didn’t expect to keep the thing. he called a private vet the next morning, had it checked over, stitched, cleaned, and dosed with enough sedatives to knock out a horse. then he set up a small bed by the fireplace. he even left out fancy gourmet cat food from the organic pet boutique down the street.

but the cat didn’t touch it.

instead, it waited until sylus left the room and raided his fridge. half his tiramisu vanished one night. another evening, a delicate rose-shaped tart he’d imported from the old district in france had mysteriously disappeared.

it wasn’t just that. the cat watched him. it would sit near the study and observe him reading reports. it followed him into the piano room. and once—just once—sylus woke up to find it curled up on the far corner of his bed, tail flicking, half-lidded eyes glowing in the dark.

then one morning, the cat was gone.

no broken windows. no doors left open. it had simply vanished.

sylus stood at the foot of the empty fireplace, one hand in his pocket, the other nursing a cup of bitter black coffee. the house felt...silent again.

“figures,” he muttered to the empty room, and finished his coffee without tasting it.

₍^. .^₎⟆

the sound of movement outside his bedroom jolted sylus from sleep.

he never had unannounced visitors. not in this house. security was airtight. his hand reached for the nearest object—a butter knife resting on the tray of leftover midnight snacks. he was aware it was not ideal. but sylus had won worse situations with worse instruments.

he crept toward the door, barefoot but deadly quiet. then he opened it.

and froze.

there, standing at the top of the grand staircase, was a man.

tall. black hair neatly combed. silver-framed glasses. wearing a crisp black butler’s suit like he belonged in a gothic manor, not in the home of a man who didn’t even like guests.

but that wasn’t the strangest part.

perched atop the man’s head were a pair of twitching feline ears—dark furred, just like the cat’s. and behind him, calm and swaying like a metronome, was a long, thick tail.

sylus’s hand went slack. the butter knife clattered to the floor.

the man turned. his face was unreadable—neutral, calm, and frankly a little judgmental.

“good morning, master,” he said, voice deep and disturbingly composed. “i’ve prepared breakfast downstairs. it’s best you eat it while it’s still hot.”

“...what.”

sylus blinked. then scowled, crossing his arms. “no, wait. hold on. who the hell are you and how did you even get in here?”

the man’s ears flicked.

“you don’t recognize me?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “i suppose this form is rather new to you.”

“what form—”

and then, without warning, a small puff of smoke erupted around him.

when it cleared, standing where the man had been, was the same maine coon—groomed, sitting neatly, tail flicking in subtle amusement.

it looked up at sylus with luminous greenish-gold eyes.

the silence stretched.

“…what the fuck,” sylus said, very quietly.

₍^. .^₎Ⳋ

the breakfast table was lavish, though sylus hadn’t touched a thing. crisp white porcelain, an artfully arranged spread—fruits sliced, scrambled eggs the perfect consistency, buttery croissants still steaming.

and a full pot of jasmine tea, its aroma soft and floral.

zayne stood by the table, looking every bit the refined butler. except for the ears—those velvety black tufts atop his head that flicked subtly every time sylus moved.

sylus sat, arms crossed. his red eyes locked onto zayne like crosshairs.

"talk."

zayne nodded once and poured the tea.

“my name is zayne. i’m… well, i suppose the word ‘hybrid’ applies. some would say shapeshifter. i was part of a long-term bioengineering experiment. escaped six days ago.”

his voice was calm, disturbingly so for someone explaining how they were engineered.

“i don’t know who ran the facility. i was taken very young. i was trained to behave, to observe, to survive.” he set the teapot down gently. “i almost died at that curb. you saved me.”

his eyes met sylus's across the table.

“i owe you my life,” zayne continued, “therefore, i will serve you. as repayment. for as long as you require it. since you… don’t really have staff around here to take care of you.”

sylus’s brow twitched.

"i don’t need it. i don’t trust anyone to be here."

zayne tilted his head just slightly, ears flicking. curious. concerned, maybe. sylus didn’t like that look.

“i’ve had staff,” sylus said. “had. some tried to kill me. some tried to steal. some were spies. the only reason you’re alive right now is because you turned into a goddamn cat and didn’t stab me in my sleep.”

he stood, chair sliding back.

“there’s no debt. no owing. i helped because i wanted to. that’s all.”

he turned and started walking away.

"leave."

zayne stood still by the table, hands folded neatly in front of him. his ears drooped just slightly, and his tail stilled. his face remained neutral, but sylus—damn it—noticed the difference.

it was the smallest shift. but it gnawed at him.

ฅᨐฅ

three days later, zayne didn’t leave. technically.

he didn’t press boundaries either. he just… stayed. sometimes on the bench in the garden, watching the wind ripple through the ivy. sometimes curled under the overhang at the back of the mansion, resting like a stray that refused to go but had too much pride to beg.

sylus caught sight of him once on the security monitor.

again at 2 a.m. through the library window.

it was starting to feel like guilt.

and sylus hated feeling guilty.

so he compromised. after almost a week.

“you’re still here.”

zayne looked up from the grass. he was in his humanoid form, kneeling to rewrap his injured hand. he stood quickly, brushing his pants off. “yes, master.”

sylus gave him a long look, then exhaled sharply through his nose.

“fine. you can stay.”

zayne blinked.

“but,” sylus said, lifting a finger like a loaded gun, “ground rules.”

he stepped closer.

“you are not to enter the third floor. that includes the west hallway and especially my study. off limits.”

“yes, master.”

“you do not cook for me. i don’t eat food made by others.”

“yes, master.”

“you can make your own food. you can clean if you want to. but if you get close to any private zones—or if i suspect you’re up to anything—i will throw you out. no talking. no warning.”

zayne didn’t seem offended. he nodded with a gentle, accepting grace. “understood.”

sylus narrowed his eyes. “why are you so calm about this?”

zayne only blinked. “because i was trained to serve. and because you let me live.”

sylus’s eye twitch.

“right... and don’t call me that.” he waved his hand. "master."

“…yes,” zayne corrected softly. “ma- sylus.”

sylus muttered something under his breath—half insult, half frustration—and turned to walk back inside.

as the door clicked open, zayne quietly followed behind.

/ᐠ - ˕ -マ

later that night, sylus found the linen closets perfectly reorganized. the glass in the east wing was cleaned to a polish. the plants—neglected for months—had been watered and rotated to proper sunlight angles. a simple note was left on his bedroom door:

your robe had loose stitching on the sleeve. i repaired it. — zayne

sylus stared at the note, then at the sleeve of the robe he hadn’t even noticed was damaged.

he crushed the note in his hand and sighed.

maybe having one person in the house wouldn’t be that bad.

maybe.

ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎

the estate was, as always, immaculate.

not because sylus cared about dust or decor—he’d long grown indifferent to the echo of empty halls—but because zayne had taken to his “duties.” floors gleamed. curtains were brushed free of lint. even the antique gramophone in the corner, long forgotten, looked like it belonged in a museum.

sylus sat in his usual chair in the living room, one leg crossed over the other, absently wiping his watch with a cloth. the room smelled faintly of polish and lavender—zayne's choice, apparently. the fireplace crackled low behind him.

he wasn’t watching zayne. not really.

just... occasionally glancing in his direction as the hybrid dusted the velvet curtains, long tail swaying with absent rhythm. he'd long given up correcting zayne calling him master.

zayne worked quietly. always quietly. and efficiently. sylus had noticed that when it came to insects or vermin, zayne was instantaneous in his response—like a predator on a hair-trigger. once, sylus had turned his head to a subtle scratching sound, and before he could say a word, zayne had already pinned the rat by the tail with a fireplace poker, calm as ever.

it was amusing. strange. and sometimes entertaining.

sylus turned his wrist slightly. the glass face of his watch caught the light and sent a brief flicker of sunbeam onto the far wall.

he didn’t expect what happened next.

zayne stopped mid-motion. his hand hovered over the curtain. the cloth fluttered in his grip, forgotten.

his ears twitched.

his pupils—normally narrow and controlled—expanded suddenly into full, wide circles, sharp green irises nearly vanishing. his gaze snapped to the spot of light on the wall with a focus sylus had only ever seen in combat.

then—

the light shifted again as sylus adjusted slightly, and zayne’s head moved with it. his ears perked up, tail twitching once, twice, and—

he took a cautious step toward the light.

sylus narrowed his eyes, lips twitching. “...are you seriously about to pounce on a sunbeam?”

zayne blinked, as if waking up from a trance. he looked at sylus. then at the floor. then cleared his throat. his ears quickly flattened back to composure, and he resumed wiping the curtain.

“i was simply...monitoring a potential source of reflection damage on the wall paint,” he said evenly.

sylus raised a brow, unimpressed. “you were about to chase a dot like a housecat.”

“no, master.”

“yes, you were.”

“i was not.”

“you were tracking it with your eyes like a sniper.”

a pause.

“...my instincts may have been momentarily engaged,” zayne admitted, tone as flat as ever. “it won’t happen again.”

sylus leaned back in the chair, folding his arms.

"shame. that was the most expression i’ve seen on your face since you moved in.”

zayne didn’t reply, but sylus didn’t miss the tail that flicked a little faster now.

after a beat, sylus tilted his wrist again, subtly sending another flicker of light dancing across the wall.

zayne’s head snapped toward it.

caught.

sylus smirked. “so much for instincts.”

zayne sighed, setting the duster down on the windowsill. “...permission to chase it properly, master?”

sylus blinked.

he wasn’t sure what was funnier—zayne actually asking permission, or the stone-faced delivery.

he leaned forward, resting his chin in one hand. “granted.”

what followed was absurd. a blur of limbs and grace and precision as zayne leapt lightly to the couch, then twisted mid-air to tag the light across the floor, tail lashing in perfect balance. his sleeves rolled up just slightly, glasses discarded neatly on the side table.

it lasted no more than ten seconds.

but sylus laughed. actually laughed. quietly, under his breath—but genuinely.

then zayne landed, smoothed his vest, adjusted his collar, and walked back to the curtain like nothing happened.

sylus sipped his tea, eyes glinting.

this odd creature was growing on him.

and that—

that was dangerous.

^. .^₎⟆

sylus had a strict routine: breakfast by 7, morning meetings at 9, calls until noon. every hour of his day was accounted for, calculated, and sharp. his estate reflected that precision—quiet, cold, immaculate.

but lately, some of that rigidity had...softened.

just slightly.

he noticed it on warmer days, when the sun filtered through the east-facing windows and the halls were wrapped in a golden hush. he’d do a full sweep of the mansion—habit, mostly—only to realize zayne was nowhere in sight.

sylus only found him when he walked past the library.

zayne, in his hybrid cat form, curled like a comma on the leather armchair by the bookshelves. limbs tucked in, tail wrapped around himself, ears twitching gently with every creak of the mansion. fast asleep. softly breathing. practically melting into the upholstery like he owned it.

sylus would stand in the doorway for a long moment, arms crossed, watching him with something between confusion and reluctant amusement.

“you’ve got the entire estate and you pick my chair?” he muttered one day.

the cat twitched but didn’t stir.

sylus rolled his eyes and walked off. but he didn’t reclaim the chair for the rest of the week. not even once.

but when winter came, zayne would be in a different spot.

the cold hit early that year. snow layered the rooftop like icing, and frost webbed across the windows overnight. the mansion’s heating worked perfectly, but the air still bit in the corners of the hallways.

sylus came downstairs one morning after loading fresh laundry into the dryer the night before. he was expecting silence. maybe the faint hum of the boiler.

instead, he paused just outside the laundry room, hearing a faint rustling.

when he opened the door, he stared.

in the center of the laundry basket, nestled like royalty, was a large maine coon.

zayne, in his feline form, had buried himself deep into the mountain of freshly dried bedsheets and blankets, barely peeking out. only his ears and one wide eye were visible above the warm cotton.

the sight was so absurdly domestic that sylus actually blinked.

zayne blinked back.

they stared at each other.

“you are not sleeping in my sheets,” sylus said flatly.

a soft, lazy chirp came from zayne’s throat, muffled by fluff.

“i just cleaned those.”

another blink. a tail flick.

sylus pinched the bridge of his nose. “you’re lucky i have no guests. or shame.”

he left the room.

he came back with a heated pad ten minutes later.

/ᐠ. .ᐟ\ Ⳋ

sylus didn’t say it aloud. he never would. but it happened slowly, like water wearing down stone.

he started ordering extra blankets.

replaced the reading chair in the library with one that had a deeper cushion.

adjusted the mansion’s thermostat when he noticed zayne tucked his tail tighter at night.

sometimes sylus would glance up from his reports and catch zayne in human form, his tail swaying as he wiped down the windowpane. the reflection of snow behind him. his profile lit softly by morning sun.

or find him curled up in a patch of warmth, dead to the world, his breathing slow and steady, ears twitching as if chasing something in his dreams.

it was ridiculous.

he was a powerful man. someone feared, respected, untouchable.

and yet, somehow he found himself making excuses to pass by the library.

or to start laundry earlier in the week.

he told himself it was routine.

he didn’t call it care.

not yet.

but deep down, in the quiet hours of the mansion, he was beginning to realize—

zayne didn’t just live here now.

he belonged here.

/ᐠ｡‸｡ᐟ\

the afternoon light stretched long shadows across the marble floors of the estate. sylus stepped through the front door with the usual chill of control in his stride, the quiet click of his shoes echoing across the entry hall.

he paused.

no sound. no soft clink of porcelain from the kitchen. no gentle sweeping noises. no footsteps approaching to greet him.

no zayne.

odd.

zayne always knew his schedule. hell, the cat probably memorized it down to the minute. on normal days, he’d be standing a few paces from the door, hands folded behind his back, ears perked, offering a stiff but polite, “welcome home, master.”

today?

nothing.

sylus loosened his tie with a growing knot in his chest and walked briskly to the library.

empty.

he tried the kitchen. the sunroom. (which sylus didn't even know exists until zayne cleaned it up because he takes offense at how dark the house was.) even the laundry room.

still nothing.

he stood at the bottom of the staircase, tension prickling in his jaw. his mansion was large—but it was never hard to find zayne. the hybrid moved like a shadow, but he never truly hid.

something was off.

sylus ascended the stairs two steps at a time.

then, rounding the second-floor corridor—he stopped cold.

there, slumped on the floor just outside the linen closet, was zayne.

his long limbs were tangled awkwardly, his back against the wall, one gloved hand gripping weakly at the hem of his vest. his glasses were slightly askew, cheeks flushed deep pink, and his breath came in shallow, uneven pants. even in his unconscious state, his ears twitched faintly, tail limp and curled near his legs.

“zayne.”

the word came out sharper than intended.

sylus dropped to his knees in front of him and reached out without thinking, pulling zayne upright by the shoulders, slow and steady. the moment his hand touched fabric, heat slammed into his palm.

“shit.”

sylus rarely cursed.

he pressed the back of his hand to zayne’s cheek—burning.

his fingers tightened slightly as he felt the way zayne leaned into the touch unconsciously, a soft, muffled sound leaving his lips.

fever.

no use calling doctors—zayne wouldn’t react well to strangers. hospital? not happening. he’d likely bolt in panic or shift into a cat and disappear into the snow.

he needed warmth. hydration. bed.

and the most secure, private, well-equipped room in the entire house was on the third floor.

sylus hesitated for a second.

then exhaled.

to hell with the rules.

zayne barely stirred as sylus lifted him—he was light, deceptively so—and carried him up the staircase. his body was radiating heat, his breath ragged against sylus’s neck.

the third floor was a fortress of solitude. no one had entered it since sylus built the estate. it was where he worked, rested, lived when the rest of the world became too suffocating.

and now, it was where zayne would recover.

sylus kicked open the door to the master bedroom, carried him to the bed, and laid him down against the silken sheets. he stripped off zayne’s gloves and vest, careful not to jostle him too much. then he grabbed a cool cloth from the bathroom and pressed it to zayne’s forehead.

for a moment, he just stood there.

watching.

zayne, usually so composed and stoic, looked... small. vulnerable. his black ears twitched weakly in his sleep, and his tail curled closer like a child trying to hold himself together.

sylus clenched his jaw. “you idiot,” he muttered. “you kept working yourself stupid again, didn’t you?”

there was no answer—just a soft, hoarse exhale.

sylus turned and left the room. fifteen minutes later, he came back with a tray: water, warm broth, and fever meds crushed into honey for easier swallowing. he sat on the edge of the bed and carefully helped zayne sit up, half-conscious and blinking slowly.

zayne’s voice was little more than a rasp.

“...master…?”

“you passed out in the hallway.” sylus kept his tone neutral, but his grip didn’t leave zayne’s back. “don’t talk. just drink.”

zayne obeyed, sipping slowly. his body trembled under the weight of fever, but he didn’t resist.

when sylus moved to adjust the blankets, zayne’s gloved fingers caught weakly at his sleeve.

“...sorry,” he murmured, barely audible. “didn’t mean to—break protocol.”

sylus paused.

for once, he didn’t have a cold retort. didn’t have a lecture ready.

he looked at the flushed face, the sweat-dampened hair, the ears twitching in half-conscious guilt.

“rest. that’s an order.”

≽^- ˕ -^≼

zayne recovered fast. unnaturally fast.

the fever had burned hot for a day and a half, but by the end of the third day, he was already back on his feet, dressed and polished like the collapse in the hallway had never happened.

“hybrid biology,” he’d explained quietly, as he changed the sheets of sylus’s bed, already resetting the space with practiced ease. “fever burns fast, heals faster.”

sylus hadn’t said much. he’d stood in the doorway watching him, arms crossed, trying to justify the fact that zayne hadn’t been banished back downstairs.

and then never did.

because he didn’t want to.

the third floor was no longer off-limits. there was no talk of boundaries. no new rules, no updated contract—hell, zayne had signed the last one with a paw print, and sylus hadn’t even laughed at it. now the whole damn thing might as well be shredded.

letting zayne into this space—his private floors, his world, his routines—wasn’t just about territory.

it was letting him in.

into the stillness. the silence. the real pieces of sylus’s life no one else had ever seen.

and it should’ve set off every warning bell in his head.

but it didn’t.

it felt right.

it was his mornings that changed first.

sylus used to wake to cold light filtering through blinds, the soft ping of updates from his tablet, and silence. now, he woke to the low clink of ceramic, the faint smell of jasmine or dark roast, and the quiet rustle of someone moving through his space.

and when he opened his eyes, it was zayne’s face he saw.

sometimes human. sometimes feline, curled up near the pillow, blinking at him with those wide, calm green eyes.

sylus would grumble something incoherent and roll over. zayne never commented.

but internally, sylus was—unsettlingly—pleased.

waking up alone was normal. waking up to zayne?

that was contentment.

then, it was the study room.

zayne never spoke unless necessary in the study. he moved in silence, a ghost in tailored black and silver, setting down a cup of coffee or a tray of pastries with an elegance sylus hadn’t realized he liked so much.

sometimes, zayne would sort the bookshelves, tail swaying idly. other times he’d be perched on the second ladder tier, dusting the upper spines, ears perked and alert. sylus would pretend not to watch him.

but on days where business bled into irritation—when reports came in botched, when meetings dragged, or when one of his men made a move without his say-so—sylus would glance up from his desk…

…and there zayne would be. adjusting a frame. rearranging the cups. tasting a pastry as if testing for poison.

one look at those ears twitching ever so slightly or the way zayne flicked dust off the shelves like it offended him personally—and sylus could feel the tension in his spine loosen, bit by bit.

the stress didn’t melt. it evaporated.

this is dangerous, he thought, once more. comfort is dangerous.

but the truth was—he liked it.

he liked it too much.

/ᐠ. .ᐟ\ฅ

sylus sat back in his chair, rubbing his temple, the firelight painting long shadows across the dark wooden shelves. zayne entered silently with a fresh pot of tea, and sylus glanced up, eyes shadowed with fatigue.

“you’re supposed to be off-duty,” sylus said. his tone lacked bite.

“i noticed your tea was cold.”

zayne set the tray down, his motions precise. as he turned to leave, sylus surprised himself by saying, “stay.”

zayne paused. blinked. tilted his head.

“just… stay.”

zayne didn’t speak.

he simply pulled the second chair closer, sat down, and began calmly flipping through the latest books sylus had left scattered on the coffee table.

the room was silent. but not empty.

sylus leaned back and looked at the faint reflection of the two of them in the window.

one cold, sharp man in a pressed suit.

and a hybrid—cat ears twitching, tail curled near the leg of the chair, eyes gently focused on a book he’d probably already read a dozen times.

it was stupid.

it was healing.

and sylus, powerful and feared as he was, finally understood something mundane.

this is why people keep cats, he thought. they don’t do much. but they make it better just by being there.

he didn’t say thank you.

but the next morning, zayne found a new blanket folded on the library chair.

tailored. heated. monogrammed.

with a single stitched letter in the corner.

z.

≽^-˕ -^≼

the door creaked shut behind him with a dull thud that echoed too loud in the stillness of the estate.

sylus exhaled. or maybe groaned. it was hard to tell.

he didn’t even make it two full steps before his polished shoes tangled with each other and he collapsed, graceless, against the cool marble wall. his back hit the surface with a quiet thud, and he slowly slid down, the buttons of his blazer pressing into his ribs.

his vision spun just slightly. his head felt heavy. his body, sluggish.

he’d lost track of how many glasses they poured after the second hour. he’d intended to leave early—he always did—but every time he turned, someone was refilling his drink with forced laughter and an insistence he couldn’t be rude. company loyalty, they said. toast after toast.

for someone who rarely drank, he held his own longer than he should’ve.

but now, it caught up to him.

footsteps padded softly across the foyer, light and quick. sylus knew who it was before the voice even came.

“master?”

zayne’s tone was even, but tinged with concern. “you’re home quite late.”

sylus tilted his head lazily, looking up. his eyes met zayne’s—sharp green, framed by silver-framed glasses and topped with two very twitchy black cat ears.

right. no phone. zayne didn’t own one. all their communication at home relied on scribbled notes on the kitchen counter.

sylus frowned faintly. something about that fact settled wrong in his chest.

“i’ll get you a phone,” he mumbled, the words slurring slightly. “you should have one. in case.”

zayne blinked once. “...you smell like alcohol.”

sylus grinned lopsidedly. “tell your nose to mind its own business.”

zayne scrunched his nose. just slightly. a minuscule expression. but it was there. sylus caught it and chuckled low in his throat.

“i was out drinking with the company,” he admitted, head tipping back against the wall. “they were persistent. didn’t let my glass stay empty. bunch of bastards.”

“you’re drunk.”

“obviously. that’s what happens when people drink.”

zayne sighed—not annoyed, but resigned—and crouched down beside him. “let’s get you upstairs.”

sylus allowed himself to be hauled upright with the kind of reluctant compliance only the intoxicated could pull off. he was taller than zayne, heavier too, but zayne was surprisingly strong. he moved with purpose, hand braced under sylus’s arm as they made their slow, careful way toward the stairs.

each step up the marble staircase felt like it took an eternity. the walls pulsed with shadows. the mansion was quiet enough to hear every breath, every shift of fabric, every soft tap of zayne’s shoes on the floor.

and at this proximity…

sylus noticed.

zayne’s hair was soft at the ends, brushing against his cheek. his posture was strong, but his ears—those cat ears perched on his head—twitched nervously every time sylus so much as exhaled near them.

up this close, they really were expressive. the kind of thing sylus could read if he paid attention long enough.

he smiled to himself.

“such a good kitten you are…” he murmured, voice low, just above a whisper—deep, lazy, husky from both alcohol and sleepiness.

zayne froze.

sylus felt it instantly—the way the hybrid’s body tensed under his grip, how his ears twitched violently and folded flat against his head in a sudden, instinctual movement. his tail, usually calm and slow, flicked with quick, defensive agitation.

zayne cleared his throat, ears still down. “...please watch your step.”

sylus laughed again, quieter this time. “sensitive to sound?”

zayne didn’t respond.

but sylus could feel the way zayne’s heart rate had subtly increased. he wasn’t embarrassed. he was rattled. or flustered. something between the two.

they reached the third floor landing. zayne moved with extra care now, keeping sylus upright with an even firmer grip. not a word passed between them as they entered the master bedroom.

zayne helped him out of his blazer, steady and methodical, unbuttoning the cuffs and sliding it from his arms. he draped it over the chair by the fireplace, straightened it, and only then said:

“i’ll bring water.”

but as he turned, sylus reached out.

fingers caught zayne’s wrist gently.

“you don’t have to act like this is just duty, zayne.”

zayne blinked. his tail twitched.

“...i don’t understand what you mean.”

sylus’s gaze softened, the drunken fog in his eyes briefly parting. “you get flustered. you worry. you stay even when i don’t ask you to. don’t pretend you’re just here to work.”

zayne looked down, unreadable.

then he smiled. barely there. a slight curve of the lips. “...you’re very drunk,” he whispered, "sylus."

sylus released his wrist. “you’re dodging.”

“i’m making sure you don’t choke in your sleep,” zayne said, voice flat again, though his ears remained suspiciously twitchy. “i’ll be back with the water.”

he turned and left.

sylus collapsed onto the bed, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “good kitten,” he whispered again to himself.