#mephisto

“angel, get off the floor, it’s cold.” he says, shuffling out of bed and staggering over to lucian. he picks him up, and carries him back to bed.

you stir at the commotion, surprised to see a child on your bed at such a late hour. “you okay, sweetie?”

sylus frowns at him. “did you have a nightmare?”

lucian shakes his head. “no, i—i do tores.”

you fight against the weight in your lids, your limbs and your mind and cradle his face gently. “baby, it’s midnight. too early for chores.”

“nuh-uh!” he shakes his head, holding the poor mechanical bird up. so obedient in his little master’s iron death grip, not a single peep of the frustrated squawks you get when you at the very least even look at him.

mephisto opens his beak, and again the symphony of birds chirping escapes his sound-boxed throat. a gentle awakening. an alarm. a cry for help.

“gonna to walk mephie.” lucian then says, shaking the bird. again, it releases a string of bird harmonies. lucian coos at the sound, but you and sylus know better.

though made of metal, bolts and a chip, you’ve come to believe that mephisto has expanded his affinity for emotions (you call it sentience, sylus says its just good tech, you insult him for his lack of whimsy).

and with his growing advancements was child rearing, the basics. downloaded in his bird brain: babysitting for dummies, how not to scare your baby, 100 soothing ambient noises for baby, and more.

“did you wake up so early just for this?” you ask him, gently redirecting his fingers to intertwine with yours. releasing the vice grip around mephisto’s ruffled feathers. the bird chirps gratefully.

“yes, mama.” lucian nods. then glances at sylus. who, for weeks, lucian has caught coming into his and his brother’s room to summon mephisto for his morning walk. “like papa. wanna to help papa.”

an arrow shoots through sylus’s chest at that, and he pulls lucian in a tight embrace to soothe the loving ache. lucian giggles at the motion and hugs sylus back.

sylus catches your eye, just as in awe as he is at the heart your son possesses. and then you shrug, and curl up into your blanket— it’s way past his bedtime, and you have no idea how he got up at this time on his own, but you’ll let it slide just this once. “well, you heard him, my love. time for a walk.”

lucian beams at his father, who grins right back. all traces of sleep gone, he is happy to oblige lucian on his morning chore. because really, he’d do anything for his boy who would do anything for him (and their bird).

Normally, Sylvia needed a little coaxing. A lullaby, a bath, a warm bottle. But tonight she was operating on a whole different level. Mr. Coco, her usual go-to comfort, was cast aside like a discarded offering. The soft lights meant to soothe her were ignored. The gentle story you read—twice—was met with increasing frustration.

You dropped to your knees beside her, trying to catch her eye. "Hey. Sylvie, sweetheart. What's wrong? Can you tell me?"

She let out another high-pitched whine, squirming away as tears welled in her eyes. Her face was flushed, nose running, bottom lip quivering like she'd just suffered a betrayal of mythic proportions.

You didn’t exactly blame her. It was hard on all of you when Sylus had to leave. His business trips were always sudden, and required his immediate attention. You hated it. Sylvia didn’t have the words to say she hated it too—but she didn’t need them.

Still, something about tonight felt different. Her grief wasn't just the usual missing-dad sadness. There was something more, something eating at her in a way you couldn’t quite name. You sat back on your heels, watching her sniffle and hiccup, and tried to put the pieces together.

You just couldn't figure it out.

"Okayyyy, do you want a snack? We can eat num nums before bed today," you say, pulling her gently into your lap so she didn’t hurt herself flailing around. You tucked her legs against you, steadying her weight as she squirmed. Maybe she was hungry? That wouldn’t be surprising. She was a growing girl, after all. And hunger tantrums were not unheard of in this house.

Surely her favorite crackers would do the trick—the little star-shaped ones she’d promptly nicknamed "num nums" because she couldn’t quite say "yummy" yet. You always kept a stash in the dresser just in case bedtime went sideways. Like tonight.

Her reaction was swift and explosive.

"NO! No num num!" she screamed, arching her back and kicking her feet, wrestling against your hold like a wild animal. Her tiny body radiated frustration, her face getting puffy in a matter of seconds. Her fists clenched the fabric of your shirt as she cried harder, tears spilling freely over her cheeks.

You tightened your grip, gently but firmly, and tried to keep her from smacking her head against your collarbone. This wasn’t like her. The sharp edge of her cries had that breathless, panicked quality to them that made your stomach twist.

You could feel your patience fraying at the edges, but the way her face crumpled—it got you every time. Her red eyes, rimmed and raw, were glassy and swollen. Her bottom lip trembled, and she looked so unbearably small in your arms, like nothing in the world made sense to her right now.

"Dada..."

Your heart ached. You adjusted your grip on her and pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. Rocking slightly, you murmured, "You miss daddy? He'll come back, I promise. Mommy misses him too."

Her sobbing slowed for a moment, just long enough for her to hear you. You felt her little chest hiccup against yours, breath catching on the edge of another cry. Then, with a sharp, adamant shake of her head, she rejected the idea outright. Not quite the answer you expected. No? Didn't she just call out for him?

She sucked in a shaky breath, then another, and let out a heart-wrenching cry. Her voice, hoarse from all the yelling, came out thin and desperate.

"Mephie...Mephie..."

You blinked. This was quite unexpected. She normally didn't mention him when he was gone. "Mephie?"

She nodded hard, burying her face into your shirt again. Her words were muffled, but there was no mistaking them this time.

"Mephie go. Mephie no here."

Your eyes drifted automatically to the corner of the room. To the empty perch, dark and silent. Of course. That was it. The last piece clicked into place, almost embarrassingly late.

Mephisto wasn’t here. Usually, by this time of night, he'd be docked, quietly blinking from his perch like some kind of spooky nightlight. But not tonight. Sylus had taken him to do some firewall hacking or surveillance on his enemies—some covert operation involving encrypted networks, surveillance feeds, and backdoor access routes no one without clearance even knew were there. Neither Sylus nor Mephisto would be back anytime soon.

You sighed, your mind scrambling for a solution, something that would make sense to a toddler with a very strong attitude. She needed comfort, and logic wasn’t going to cut it. Still, you gave it a shot.

"Mephie will come back too, baby. He's probably sleeping right now," you said gently, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. "You should go to sleep just like Mephie."

You added a hopeful smile for effect. Surely that would work. She loved copying things—especially Mephisto. She watched that bird like it was a magical creature from her picture books—probably because in her world, he was. Mephisto didn’t just perch and blink; he played tag with her around the kitchen, let her stack blocks on his back like cargo, and cawed in playful tones whenever she clapped. She and Sylus had even turned bedtime into a routine where Mephisto would "kiss" her goodnight with a soft peck to the forehead. If she thought Mephisto was asleep, maybe she’d finally let go of the tantrum and rest.

But no. That idea went down in flames.

"Mephie no sleep!" she shouted, yanking herself back from your chest, her tiny hands pushing at you for space. Her cheeks puffed out, her brow furrowed in outrage. She glared up at you with all the fury a toddler could possibly muster—which was quite a bit.

She wasn’t just upset anymore. She was offended.

"He no sleep! He with Dada! He 'wake!" she insisted, her words spilling out with hot tears. "No bed!"

You closed your eyes for a second, dragging in a breath through your nose. Stubborn, perceptive, and completely unwilling to accept anything less than the truth—yeah, she was definitely Sylus’s kiddo. Even at almost two years old, she had that same unyielding glare, the same refusal to be pacified with half-answers or distractions. It was like staring into a miniature version of him...one that actually cried that is.

God help you, you were going to have to argue bedtime logic with an almost two year old over a robot crow.

“Sylvia” you try again, voice soft but fraying at the edges, “Mephie needs his sleep. Just like you do.”

Sylvia sniffs, still red-eyed, her small body trembling in your lap like she’s barely holding herself together. Her fists grip the fabric of your shirt, the tension in her muscles refusing to ease even as you gently rock her back and forth. You stroke her back slowly, tracing slow circles in a familiar rhythm you’ve used since she was barely able to hold her head up. “Don’t you wanna be like Mephie?” you coax, your voice hopeful, even if your nerves are wearing thin.

For a moment—barely a breath—her face softens. Her brows unfurl slightly, and her bottom lip stops quivering just long enough for the beginning of a smile to tease the corners of her mouth. Her eyes, swollen and glassy, lift to meet yours. There’s a flicker there. Hesitation. Maybe even curiosity.

Hope blooms quietly in your chest.

But then it dies just as fast.

She pulls back from you like you’ve said something offensive. Her brow knits together into an unmistakable scowl. Her back straightens. Her tiny body tenses, fists curling tight again like she's ready for round two.

“Mephie no sleep,” she says with sharp certainty. Her voice is small but fierce. Then louder: “Ever, ever never!”

You blink. “He does sleep,” you say, reaching for calm. “He needs to recharge, just like us.”

Maybe it was too matter-of-fact. Too logical. Because the moment those words leave your mouth, her expression changes.

“No! No! No! No Mephie sleep! I no sleep!” she howls, her voice climbing into something raw and frantic.

And just like that, she explodes again.

Her arms flail, fists pounding against your collarbone and chest in rhythm with the shriek of her sobs. She kicks with surprising strength for someone so small, and her whole body feels like a live wire in your lap. Her tears return with full force, hot and heavy, soaking the front of your shirt. It’s like she’s been personally betrayed by the suggestion.

You grit your teeth, not out of anger but exhaustion. You keep holding her, keep murmuring nonsense under your breath in a vain attempt to soothe her, but nothing helps. She’s inconsolable.

You glance at the time. Way too late. And bedtime, as a concept, feels like a joke now. You've read three stories. Sang lullabies. Offered snacks. Mr. Coco was rejected, the nightlight ignored. And now you're in a full-blown standoff over the sleep schedule of a mechanical crow.

You try everything again. Every trick you know. You pull out books—new ones, old ones, her favorite one with the cat and the moon that she used to fall asleep to like clockwork. You read it with exaggerated voices, soft whispers, calming tones. She stares through it, unmoved, barely tracking the words, wriggling and whimpering in your lap.

You dim the lights lower. You put on the soft music playlist Sylus made last time he was home—wind chimes layered with lo-fi lullabies and a subtle bed of white noise. It plays softly through the room, meant to feel like safety, like quiet. It does nothing.

She kicks the blanket off again, flails when you try to guide her to lay down. She’s flushed, sweaty, over it. You’re running out of options. In desperation, you try being stern. Which you never usually have to do. It feels wrong immediately, like putting on clothes that don’t fit.

"Sylvia. That’s enough. It’s bedtime."

Your voice is firmer than it’s ever been with her—sharper, more clipped. You barely recognize yourself. She freezes, her eyes going wide in shock. There’s a beat of silence where you think maybe it worked. Then she crumples. Her mouth opens in a soundless wail for a second before the crying starts again, loud and broken. She covers her ears with her hands like she can’t stand to hear it, her whole body curling in on itself. You feel the guilt hit like a punch to the chest.

You scoop her up immediately, your arms wrapping tight around her, protective and desperate. "No, no, I’m sorry. Shhh. It’s okay. Mommy didn’t mean it like that," you whisper, pressing your cheek against her damp curls. "It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s not mad".

You feel her hiccup against your collarbone, tiny fingers grabbing at your shirt like she’s trying to anchor herself. And you feel awful. Like you just kicked a puppy. You try to laugh it off, mostly to keep yourself from spiraling.

"This is your father’s fault," you mutter under your breath, pacing slowly across the room now as you hold her. You rock gently, even though she’s still squirming. "He can’t say no to you either. You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger, you know that?"

She doesn’t answer, but the crying softens into sniffling again. Her head rests against your shoulder, heavy and hot. She’s exhausted. Beyond it. You glance toward the screen of your phone on the nightstand. The soft, sterile glow of it is the only thing in the room still full of energy. Unlike you, who feels like you’ve been drained dry.

Nothing is working. None of it. Not stories, not lullabies, not cuddles, not snacks, not your voice, not your arms. She’s glassy-eyed, and she’s teetering right on the edge of overtired—too wound up to sleep, too exhausted to calm down. Her body’s fighting itself, and you can’t reach her anymore.

You’ve hit the end of your rope. There are no more tricks in your arsenal. You bounce her lightly, rhythmically, more for you than her at this point. You kiss her temple. You breathe through your nose like it’ll reset something. You stall, maybe another thirty seconds. Maybe a minute.

But there’s no other way.

You have no choice. You have to bother Sylus.

He answers faster than you expected, his voice warm and easy, like he’s in a good mood. Negotiations must’ve gone well—his tone has that loose, relaxed confidence he only gets when things have gone precisely the way he wanted.

"I was just about to call you, sweetie," Sylus says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. It makes you feel like you're back in the kitchen with him on a normal night, not separated by continents and encrypted comms. "How’s my two favorite girls?"

Sylvia, who had been half-asleep and whimpering against your chest, perks up immediately at the sound of her father's voice. Her head lifts slowly, like it weighs more than she can carry, and her tear-streaked face lights up with recognition. She lets out another ragged sob, but this time it’s laced with something closer to relief.

"Dada… Dada…"

You shift the phone, adjusting your grip so she can hear him more clearly. Her arms wrap tighter around your middle, like hearing him just reminded her how much she missed him. You exhale heavily into the receiver, rubbing your eyes as you try to find words that won’t sound as worn down as you feel.

"Well," you mutter, glancing down at Sylvia’s flushed, blotchy face, "one of us wants to go to bed. And the other one absolutely refuses to."

Sylus chuckles softly, a low, affectionate sound. It’s not mocking—it’s the kind of laugh someone makes when they love you and can picture exactly how bad your night’s been.

"Sylvia," he says, his voice shifting slightly as he speaks to Sylvia now, softening into that high-pitched dad tone he always uses with her. "Why don’t you want to go to sleep? Only bad little girls don’t sleep. Listen to your mommy, sweetie."

Sylvia gasps—not from surprise, but outrage. Her spine straightens in your lap. She pulls back from your shirt and glares at the phone screen with renewed fire in her eyes, as if Sylus had personally insulted her soul. Then comes the dramatic whimper—louder now, pitiful and wounded. Her bottom lip trembles, and her nose scrunches up.

"Nooooo," she groans, drawing out the vowel like she’s being wrongfully accused. Her little hands smack at the air in front of the phone, as if that’ll get her point across better. "Mephie no sleep! Caw! Caw!"

Another chuckle rumbles through the speaker, low and warm, and you can almost see the way his mouth quirks at the corner when he’s trying not to laugh too hard. There’s a teasing softness in it that only shows up when he’s with you—or talking about your daughter.

"I see," Sylus says, voice soft and sweet, casual in the way only someone continents away from a toddler tantrum could be. "You miss Mephisto, sweetie? My poor little girl."

You glance down at Sylvia, still sniffling, her small form curled into your lap like a tired, angry cat. Her cheeks are sticky with dried tears, her lower lip pushed out in stubborn protest. Her expression hasn’t changed much since the meltdown started, but her grip on your shirt tightens just a bit at the sound of her father’s voice.

You shake your head, half-laughing in defeat. "Clearly. She’s decided that if Mephisto doesn’t go to bed, then she’s not going either. Full-blown solidarity."

This time, Sylus lets out a full, hearty laugh. It fills your ear and, for a brief second, fills the room, stretching across the miles between you. You can imagine the way his eyes crinkle, the way he leans back when he laughs like that.

"I think she gets her attitude from you," he says between chuckles, breathless with amusement. "It’s cute."

You groan, more theatrical than serious, slumping back into the pillows behind you. "Don’t laugh. Please. Send help. I’m dying here."

You glance back down at Sylvia, whose eyes are half-lidded now. The fight in her is still there, but it’s quieter—less rage, more stubborn fatigue. Her hands twitch where they rest against your arm.

"Help, huh?" Sylus says, and you can hear the smile still lingering in his voice. But there’s something else there now too—a shift in tone. A flicker of focus. Problem-solving mode.

"Alright, alright," he continues, voice softening again. "I have an idea. I’ll call you back in a bit, kitten."

You raise an eyebrow, even though you know he can’t see it. "You better not be abandoning me."

"I would never. Talk to you soon." he promises, and this time the word lands like a vow. Then the line clicks off before you can ask what exactly he’s planning.

You stare at the phone screen for a second, still glowing in your hand, then glance down at Sylvia. Her breathing has slowed, but her eyes are still open, watching.

Whatever he's planning, you hope it works.

Miles away, in a sleek penthouse suite bathed in quiet luxury and the hum of automated climate control, Sylus moved with deliberate ease. The room was immaculate—dark marble floors, soft ambient lighting, and panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows offering a glittering view of the city’s skyline. But Sylus wasn’t paying attention to any of that. He was too focused on his latest mission: tucking in a mechanical bird for a video call.

He grabbed the black silk eye cover he always kept in his travel bag—an indulgence for mornings when the sun was just a tad too aggressive—and tossed it onto the pristine bed. Then he began rearranging the hotel pillows into something resembling a nest: layered, cushioned, deliberately theatrical.

He turned to Mephisto, who was perched silently on the edge of the minibar. The bird’s luminous eyes followed his every move with sharp precision.

"Come here," Sylus said, voice low but with that clipped command tone that always seemed to work on both machines and people.

Mephisto let out a soft caw in acknowledgment and immediately obeyed, fluttering down with a controlled rustle of metallic wings. His talons clicked neatly against the polished floor as he strode to the bed without hesitation, perching calmly where Sylus had indicated.

Sylus reached out and gently caught the crow-bot mid-step, maneuvering him onto the pillow nest. He carefully arranged his wings and legs so that Mephisto was sitting down—well, as close to 'sitting' as the bird could manage.

"Stay," he instructed.

Mephisto let out a sharp, indignant shriek—"Caw?!"—and bristled, feathers twitching with offense. His wings flapped hard in protest, mechanical joints clicking as he launched himself back into the air with a few furious beats. He hovered there, glaring down at Sylus like he’d been asked to lie in a puddle rather than a pile of designer pillows.

Sylus sighed and ran a hand down his face, then chuckled under his breath. "I know, I know. Though, this isn't the time to be difficult y'know."

Mephisto tilted his head, gears clicking as he processed the statement. "Tell you what," Sylus said, crouching to the bird’s level, his voice dropping into that smooth negotiating tone he usually saved for boardrooms and interrogation rooms. "When we get back, I’ll let you pick a gem from the vault. Any one you want."

That did the trick.

There was a long pause as Mephisto mulled it over—both figuratively and literally, the gears inside his frame visibly rotating, eyes dimming slightly in processing mode. The bird’s head cocked again, then slowly dipped forward in what looked like defeat.

He gave a reluctant flutter, then flew back down to the pillows. With exaggerated slowness, he folded his wings and settled into the bed. A soft mechanical whir echoed from within as he tucked his head under one wing.

"Caw…" he mumbled, resigned.

Sylus smirked.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought."

He stepped forward and gently tucked one of the smaller pillows around Mephisto’s side, pressing it snugly into the crook of his tucked wing as if cushioning a real creature. He then covered the birds body with the blanket. Then, with quiet precision, he picked up the soft silk eye mask and draped it delicately over the bird’s optical sensors. It was absurd—laughable, really—but Sylus didn’t hesitate for a second. He even smoothed the strap gently along the back of Mephisto’s head, adjusting it so it lay straight, not too tight, not too loose. Just right. As if Mephisto could feel it. As if it mattered. But it did—at least to the little girl waiting on the other end of the call.

He stepped back to admire his work. The crow lay still, wings folded, eye mask in place. Perfect. His lips twitched in the faintest smile—not bad for bedtime theater.

Then he picked up his phone, thumb hovering over the video call button for only a moment before he tapped it.

The screen lit up, casting a cool glow over Sylus’s face as it rang—once, twice—before finally connecting. The image on the other end crackled for a second before stabilizing into a grainy but clear view of your face. You looked tired. Worn around the edges. The nursery lights behind you were low and warm, casting soft shadows across the room.

Sylvia was curled tightly in your arms, nestled under your chin like a heat-seeking missile. Her hair was a halo of messy curls, her cheeks still blotchy from crying. She wasn’t making noise anymore, just breathing heavily and watching the screen with half-lidded suspicion.

"Hey," Sylus said gently, voice dipping low like a whisper through the screen. "You still up, little dove?"

Sylvia blinked slowly at him. Her gaze sharpened with recognition. Her lip trembled—but not with sadness this time. Her eyes widened, catching a flicker of hope.

Sylus smiled, shifting the phone slightly as he angled the camera.

"Look who’s in bed, sweetie."

The image on the screen panned to reveal Mephisto—tucked beneath a blanket, head tucked under his wing, eye mask securely in place. The nest of pillows looked absurdly cozy, especially for a mechanical bird.

Sylvia gasped, louder than expected. Her little hand smacked your chest as she leaned forward, fully engaged for the first time in over an hour.

"Mephie…sleep…" she whispered, awe-struck.

You felt her entire body relax just a bit more. Back on the screen, Sylus grinned. It was soft and tired and proud.

"All tucked in. Now it’s your turn, sweetheart."

"Mephie sleep. Me sleep?" she cooed, her voice small and sweet, the sound muffled as she rubbed one tiny fist against her eyes. Her eyelids drooped, weighed down with exhaustion, and she let out a long yawn that pulled her whole body into a sleepy stretch before she sagged again against your chest, warm and boneless.

You couldn’t help the small snort that slipped out, amusement breaking through your fatigue as your eyes flicked back to the screen. There, in all his mechanical glory, was Mephisto—tucked into an absurdly luxurious nest of pillows, his obsidian-plated head covered by an actual silk sleep mask. The sight was pure comedy. The once-proud surveillance crow turned bedtime prop, looking more like a pampered pet than a stealth operative.

Apparently, Mephisto’s sensors were still engaged, because from the other end of the call came a sharp, unmistakably disgruntled "Caw…"—quiet, offended, and just dramatic enough to make you laugh harder. The mechanical equivalent of a long-suffering eye roll.

Sylus, ever unfazed, didn’t miss a beat. "Yes, baby," he said softly, his voice soft, clearly elated that this seemed to be working. "Your turn to sleep now. Daddy will buy you more dolls when he gets back, for listening to mommy."

That did it.

Her tiny body shifted in your arms. Sylvia blinked up at you slowly, as if taking a moment to process what he’d said. Then, with the solemnity only toddlers could muster, she gave one last look at the screen. Her eyes locked onto the image of Mephisto, perfectly still beneath his pillow cocoon and sleep mask.

She let out a quiet sigh of her own. “Mephie sleep…” she whispered again, softer this time. Her hands relaxed, unclenching where they’d been gripping your shirt. A moment passed, then another.

And then she pointed toward the crib.

You didn’t hesitate—not even a second.

You stood carefully, phone in hand, gently shifting her weight so her head stayed resting against your shoulder. Each step toward the crib felt like a cautious victory lap. You lowered her slowly onto the mattress, her favorite blanket already pulled halfway down in preparation. You covered her up, tucking the soft fabric around her small frame, your hand lingering for a moment over her chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath.

Her eyes fluttered open once, catching yours.

"Night-night, Mephie," she murmured drowsily.

"Night-night, baby," you replied softly, brushing your knuckles against her cheek.

And then—finally—she stilled.

Her breathing evened out. Her limbs relaxed. Her fists unclenched. The tiny furrow in her brow, that stubborn little crease that had dominated the entire evening, melted away.

One breath. Then another. Then silence.

You stood there for a long moment, just watching. Making absolutely sure. Then you took a single step back. Then another. You moved like someone in a heist movie trying not to trigger a laser grid. Finally, you reached the doorframe, easing it closed with the gentlest pull of your fingertips.

Outside the room, you slumped back against the wall and let out a sigh. It was long, quiet, and full of relief.

You pull your phone back out just in time to catch the end of the performance—Mephisto, fully over the theatrics, shaking off the silk eye mask with a sharp flick of his head and a disgruntled rustle of feathers. The mask flopped dramatically off the edge of the pillow and landed somewhere near Sylus’s knee.

You laughed, a real one this time—light and exhausted, but genuine. "Aww, you should’ve taken a picture. I could’ve blackmailed him into revealing where he stashed my necklace."

Sylus smirked, shifting the phone to give you a better view of Mephisto, who was now preening indignantly on the edge of the bed, clearly offended by the entire situation. "You assume he hasn’t already stashed it in a random birds nest". Or hidden it in the ventilation shafts again."

You snorted, making your way through the quiet apartment toward the bedroom, your steps slow and soft now that Sylvia was finally asleep. The warm dim light guided you like a familiar memory.

"If that bird has buried one more of my things in a subfloor panel, I swear to god..."

"I’ll have him debriefed," Sylus said with faux seriousness. "Interrogated. Waterboarded. With oil."

You laughed again, shaking your head as you sank onto the edge of the bed. The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward—just heavy. Comfortable. Your eyes met his on the screen, and the corners of your smile softened.

"Thanks," you said quietly. "I really needed you tonight. You always seem to know exactly what to do."

Sylus leaned back slightly in his chair, phone steady in his hand. The glow of the city lit half his face, the other side cast in shadow. But his eyes were warm, locked on yours like they were the only thing in his world right then.

A slow smirk tugged at his mouth. “Compared to a table full of men plotting my death, calming down a toddler was far easier.”

“She really does treat Mephie like he’s her sibling,” you murmured, rubbing a hand across your face. “I don’t know whether to be concerned or just accept it at this point.”

Sylus’s mouth curved into that slow, knowing smile of his. “Well, maybe that’s on us,” he said. His tone was light, but there was a glint in his eyes you recognized instantly. “Maybe we should give her a sibling so she’s not lonely.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t even start.”

He chuckles knowingly, letting out a smooth and dramatic sigh in defeat. Although you both know he’d attempt to convince you later…

"Are you alright?" he asked, softer now. The warmth in his voice was still there, but threaded through it was concern. Then, with a flicker of a smirk, he added, "Handling a toddler-sized version of yourself with your exact attitude can't be easy."

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. This bastard and his jokes. You nodded after a moment, but your smile was a little smaller. "Funny you say that. I was just comparing her to you earlier." Then with a sigh. "Im just…tired. It's hard without you. She feels it too."

His expression didn’t shift much, but you saw his jaw flex, just slightly. You could tell he wished he could be there. Like it physically pained him not to.

"You always have me," he said, voice low and firm. "Doesn’t matter where I am."

Your throat tightened. You nodded again, more sure this time, and let out a breath. "I know. I just miss you."

His voice came back low and sincere, the teasing completely gone. "I miss you too. So much. I'll see you both very soon, don't worry." There was a beat where neither of you spoke, but it wasn’t empty. The quiet between you felt full—shared and heavy, but in a way that made you feel less alone. "Now, it’s your turn to sleep."

You suppose he's right. You can barely keep your eyes open now. "Goodnight, Sy," you said softly, your eyes lingering on his face.

"Goodnight, kitten," he replied, and just before the screen went black, you caught a glimpse of his smile—tired, but real. Just for you.

You set the phone down and sank into the pillows, your whole body unwinding slowly like a tightly coiled spring finally let loose. The weight of the day peeled off your shoulders, layer by layer.