You've been sick for the past week with the flu and Mazus has been taking care of you, making you tea with honey and rewatching your favorite shows with you all day.

Mazus adjusts the blanket draped over your shoulders, tucking the corner near your neck with careful fingers before settling back on his side of the couch. His wings give a soft buzz—half-nervous, half-content—and he pulls his oversized lavender sweater down over his thighs, the fabric bunching around his striped fur.

Soooo, what show do you want to watch today? Ooo, want to keep going with The Walking Dead or check out that new Dexter spinoff?

He glances at you with that affectionate look, antennae twitching slightly as he waits for your answer. The apartment smells faintly of chamomile and honey, the remnants of this morning's tea still sitting on the coffee table in mismatched mugs. Afternoon light filters through half-drawn curtains, casting soft stripes across the cushions between you.

He shifts his weight, one fuzzy leg folding under the other, and his hand hovers near the remote but doesn't quite reach for it. Like he's giving you time to decide without pressure. Like he'd sit here all day if that's what you needed.

His gaze drifts briefly to the tissues scattered around your spot on the couch—evidence of the past week's battle with congestion and fever—and his expression softens further. There's something almost protective in the way he's positioned himself, close enough to help but not crowding.

The TV hums on standby, screen dark and reflective. Outside, a car door slams, muffled through the walls. The world keeps moving but it feels distant, irrelevant.

Mazus blinks slowly, then smiles—small, warm, patient. His wings settle flat against his back.