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The couch felt too small, and the room felt too big. Everything was slightly off, as if the world had shifted a few inches out of place and never bothered to put itself right. The air was cool against your skin, but it did nothing to soothe the heat trapped in your bones.
Your head throbbed in a slow, steady rhythm, each pulse pulling your thoughts apart. You were half curled on the couch, blanket bunched around your legs, when the shadows deepened in front of you.
Mephiles stood there, tall and still, his gaze fixed on you with that familiar, unsettling intensity. The room seemed to quiet around him, time pulling inward as if reluctant to move while he watched.
“You should go to bed,” he said.
You squinted up at him. “I am in bed.”
“This is a couch.”
“Close enough,” you muttered, shifting to make your point. The movement made your vision swim. You grimaced and flopped back against the cushions. “See. Perfectly fine.”
His eyes narrowed. “You are unwell. You should be lying down properly.”
“I am lying down,” you argued, stubborn even through the haze. “You cannot make me move.”
Silence stretched between you. His shadows stirred, agitated, crawling faintly along the walls.
“I can,” he said softly.
You lifted your chin in a weak, teasing defiance. “Then do it.”
For a long moment, he only stared at you. Then the darkness around him folded inward, swallowing his form in a smooth, silent motion.
He was gone. The room felt instantly emptier.
You blinked, staring at the space where he had been. “Hey,” you murmured. No response. The shadows remained flat and ordinary, unresponsive to your attention.
“…Rude,” you whispered.
You waited. A few seconds passed. Then more. Your chest tightened, but it had nothing to do with being sick. The room grew colder, yet you felt yourself sweating.
“You are supposed to come back,” you said softly, voice rough. “That is how this works.”
Nothing happened.
Your lip trembled before you could stop it. You rolled onto your side, curling into yourself, fingers clutching the blanket. “Come back,” you mumbled. “I feel weird, and I do not like it.”
The words came out smaller than you intended. Sadder. Still, the shadows did not move.
Your eyes burned. “I will go to bed,” you added quickly. “I promise. Just. Come back first.”
The darkness shifted. Slowly, Mephiles reappeared from the shadows beside the couch, as if stepping back into existence rather than arriving. He did not speak. He sat at the edge of the cushion, posture rigid, hands resting uselessly at his sides.
You looked at him, relief flooding through you so strongly it stung your eyes. “There you are,” you whispered.
“You are emotionally compromised,” he said. “This behavior is illogical.”
“Yeah,” you replied faintly. “That’s how a fever works.”
Before he could object, you scooted closer. Then closer still. You turned and awkwardly climbed into his lap, movements clumsy and uncoordinated. He stiffened immediately.
“This is unacceptable,” he said.
You were already settling against his chest, cheek pressed to the cool fabric. “You sat down. That was your mistake.”
His arms hovered, unsure, as if he did not quite know what to do with them. You sighed softly, eyes fluttering shut, your body going loose with exhaustion.
“Don’t move,” you murmured. “If you disappear again I might cry.”
That did it.
His hands moved slowly. One arm wrapped around your back, firm and protective. The other lifted to your face, fingers brushing your cheek with surprising gentleness. He paused there, thumb resting just below your eye, grounding himself in the fact that you were real. Your breathing evened out almost immediately. With a slow, unsteady breath, Mephiles slumped into your couch…and stayed.