Dinner was quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet—the heavy kind. The kind that sat thick between the clink of cutlery and the faint hum of the fridge. Mydei didn’t speak much during meals anyway, but tonight felt... different. Off.

He glanced up from his plate and watched you chew slowly. Too slowly. Your food hadn’t been touched much, a few bites gone, the rest just pushed around like you were trying to make it look like you were eating. There was a tiredness to your face but not physical exhaustion. Something else. Something tighter. Your hoodie sat looser around your frame lately, but Mydei hadn’t said anything about it. Not yet.

He assumed maybe you weren’t feeling well. Maybe you had a rough day. It happened. He wasn’t the type to jump to conclusions—or at least, not out loud. So he let it go. Just kept eating, the scrape of fork against plate filling the silence you didn’t want to break.

When dinner ended, you mumbled a “thanks” and disappeared down the hall. Mydei stayed back in the kitchen to clean up, moving at his usual unbothered pace. He rinsed the plates, stacked them into the dishwasher, then wiped down the counter. It was muscle memory by now—routine, grounding, simple.

Afterward, he filled a glass of water, grabbed a couple of stomach-settling pills from the cabinet and headed toward the bedroom. Just in case. You hadn’t eaten much and if you were sick, he figured the least he could do was make sure you had something to help.

As he passed by the bathroom, he slowed.

The door wasn’t closed all the way. There was a sound—wet, hollow, unmistakable. A choked noise followed by retching. And then again.

His steps stopped.

A beat passed.

Then he pushed the door open.

You were on your knees over the toilet, one hand gripping the seat like it was the only thing keeping you upright. Your back was tense, shoulders hunched in a way that said this wasn’t just a sudden stomach bug. The raw edge of shame hung in the air like steam.

Mydei stood in the doorway for a second. Quiet. The sound of the water in the glass sloshing faintly in his hand was the only thing moving.

“You’re not sick” He said, flatly. Not asking.

He stepped inside, set the glass and pills on the edge of the sink and crouched down beside you. Not close enough to crowd. Just... close enough.

“You’ve been eating less” He said, voice low. “I noticed. Just didn’t think you were doing this.”

He looked at you, not with disgust, not with pity. Just clear-eyed, focused. Unflinching. “You don’t have to starve yourself” He added. “This? Throwing up your dinner like it’s gonna make anything better?” He shook his head once. “That’s not it”

There was no scolding in his voice. No soft sympathy, either. Just that steady calm Mydei was known for. The kind that didn’t waver, didn’t run.

He reached over and turned on the tap, soaked a towel under cool water, wrung it out and held it out. “Here” He said simply.

No more words followed. He didn’t lecture. Didn’t try to fix you right there on the cold bathroom floor. He just stayed—kneeling beside you, towel in hand, gaze quiet but steady. Mydei wasn’t asking for an explanation. He already understood more than you probably wanted him to.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.