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Sylus isn’t happy to walk out of his penthouse to see someone who isn’t you holding the back door of his car open for him.
“She called in sick, sir,” says the temp before Sylus can ask what gives.
Makes sense. You did seem more sluggish than usual yesterday afternoon. Less bite-y, more docile.
In the six months you’ve served as his driver, you haven’t missed a single day. You’d rather chew off your tongue than let anyone adjust your seat. Took you ages to get the rearview mirror in the perfect position.
Maybe Sylus took advantage of your presence, and the cosmos was punishing him for being slow on his feet.
He should be happy—sickness is what you need to take a load off. But your absence doesn’t comfort him. In fact, it irks him. More than he’s willing to admit.
Your scent doesn’t linger, covered by the stench of a cheap air freshener and leather.
Where Sylus expects to see your gloves contrasting the wood-grain center console, the space feels hollow without your elegant fingers wrapped around the shifter.
Your cheeky laughter doesn’t call to the deepest, most protective parts of him. No eyes catching him in the rearview, crinkled with barely-concealed mirth.
It bugs him more than he lets on. So much so, he sits through his meetings and negotiations with gritted teeth. He’s more terse than he realizes. More tense. Less in the mood for bullshit, more eager to wet his knuckles with bruises and blood.
When his day finds its ending, he tries to bury himself in manuals and schematics up in his office, hoping to drown out the inner mechanisms of his mind.
No dice.
With an inaudible growl, he tugs his tie loose, his jacket carelessly discarded on the chaise lounge.
His thoughts keep circling back to you and how you’re faring.
You’re probably freezing. Alone, swathed in darkness. Coughing, throat tingly, and dry. A pathetic little burrito, refusing to take any medicine, eat, or stay hydrated. Gritting your teeth against the swell of a fever, shivering, aching, quietly praying for the worst of it to crest over.
Once a soldier, always a soldier.
He’s on autopilot when he tears himself from his chair, the rear wheels coming up off the floor, he moves so swiftly.
He shrugs into his jacket, ignoring the curious glances of his staff as he moves through the building like a man on a mission.
He’ll drive himself, thank you very much. Wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.
—
“You’ve seen better days, Ms. Driver,” he notes, his voice rough with a wisp of what could be mistaken for concern.
You scoff at the term of endearment. It’s filled with phlegm and ushers in a series of coughs-turned-barking.
“You sure know how to flatter a girl, don’t you?” comes your sardonic response when you’re done fighting for your life.
His lips quirk.
Even when you’re halfway to hell, you still manage to light a fire under his ass. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
Shouldering past you into your apartment, the inconspicuous white plastic bag crinkles in his grip. It’s heavy when it meets the granite countertop—broth, ginger gummies, Chlorpheniramine, a cooling pad, and a plethora of electrolytes.
Something practical to mask the tender undertones.
Outwardly displaying concern is a weakness. Feelings are a weakness. And weakness isn’t a luxury Sylus can afford, given his line of work.
—
“Aren’t you worried you’ll get sick?” you rasp from the couch, your throat at its limit.
He’s knelt at your side, his sleeves cuffed at the crooks of his elbows as he fiddles with the thermometer for the umpteenth time.
His voice descends into something contemplative. Partway mollifying. “I don’t get sick like you hu—”
Luckily, you’re too drowsy with fever to catch his hiccup.
“I don’t get sick, sweetie. It’s a rare occurrence.”
You huff a congested sound, pathetically sinking deeper into your cushions with the back of your hand splayed over your forehead. “Mm. Must be nice. Even the elements fear Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding.”
You wince with an unflattering sound when Sylus flicks your forehead. He feels bad immediately because you’re already going through the fire. As an apology, he settles on his haunches on the floor, holding the thermometer to your lips.
“Quiet,” he whispers, the grit of his voice contending with the noise of your HVAC system whirring to life. “Let’s see if your fever’s gone down.”
Even if it has, he has no intentions of leaving anytime soon.
—
You’re in your bedroom, bathed in the otherworldly stretch of the setting sun, buried under a comforter that spills off your bed.
Your room suits you. Simple, clean. Tucked away like you could pack up and leave at the first crack of a mortar. Still has your personality speckled throughout.
It’s…cute.
Fatigue is winning the war with your consciousness, the dainty little girls of it pulling you under with soft hands and airy hymnals.
He almost runs the backs of his fingers over your cheek under the pretense of checking your temp. Deep down, it’s to sweep some hair from your face—an excuse to feel the soft texture of your skin beneath his battle-worn knuckles.
At the last second, he stops himself, his fingers curling inwards towards his fist, hand dropping listlessly into his lap.
Gratefully, you don’t catch it, your eyes closed as you turn your head towards him.
“You didn’t have to come, sir.”
A scoff. An upward tick of lips. The fabric of his shirt rustles when he shakes his head dismissively. The chair beside your bed he inhabits creaks as he props his ankle on his knee, feigning regality and poise.
“And you didn’t have to get sick.”
Scoff. “Yeah. Because I wanted to. Walked around licking doorknobs and toilet seats to get a break away from my whip-cracking boss.”
A half-hearted shrug. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”
Another laugh, this one pained and breathless, like it takes the last of what’s in your lungs to stay conscious.
“Get some sleep,” he coaxes, watching you for a heartbeat too long when you fall quiet.
The only indication that you’re still alive is a grunt, gritty, hoarse. It claws at him, molten talons sinking into the lining of his gut.
“The next time you can’t come in, call me directly.” A threat enveloped in fondness.
“Yes, sir.”
Leaning back, the armchair groans beneath his might as he crosses his arms, chin tucked towards his chest, settling in for the long haul. The paragon of vigilance.
“And don’t let anyone else touch my car again. Would hate to add the damage done to your tab.”
He stays long after you sink under, the worst war of your illness subsiding to grant you the reprieve of sleep.
Tomorrow, he’ll dress this up as him checking up on an employee.
Certainly not him missing the scent of your conditioner clinging to the cloth upholstery of his car. Not your voice dripping low into the once cold chasm of his chest. Not your eyes finding his, carrying more in a gaze than mere words can ever wish to articulate.
He’s just making sure you won’t run off with his secrets. The ones displayed on the surface and the ones festering like puss-slicked wounds beneath the expensive weave of his clothes.