* * *
Ranshel’s red lashes trembled faintly.
His quivering lids opened, and his dark green eyes focused on the ailing Zavad.
He reached out and gripped the back of Zavad’s neck.
The skin exposed beneath the disheveled pajamas was hot and damp with sweat.
He could clearly feel the rapid pulse of a living artery under his palm.
A living being—right there beneath his hand.
“……”
Ranshel exhaled a long breath, soaked the towel again in cold water, and wiped the boy’s nape where his hand had just been.
He lifted the covers and clothes slightly to wipe down his burning limbs.
As he repeated the motions, Zavad’s agonized moans gradually faded into softer, steadier breaths.
A fever reducer would’ve helped most, but since medicine wasn’t an option, care had to suffice.
It wasn’t affection that made it unbearable to see Zavad suffer.
It was just an ingrained act, as natural to him as the fingerprints on his hand.
The memories of caring for Eunhye were the very reason he could keep living—they couldn’t be easily cast off.
Even if the person was someone else, he would’ve done the same.
And besides, this version of Zavad—small, young—kept tugging at his long-buried nostalgia.
“……nn.”
Zavad, his fever now slightly subsided, began to mumble something faintly.
Without thinking, Ranshel brought his ear close to his lips.
“Mother….”
“……”
“Mother, why… why am I…?”
There was nothing of real value in the broken, stammering words.
And yet Ranshel couldn’t pull away easily.
Only after quite some time did he straighten up, clutching his throbbing head with a stifled sigh.
“Ugh…”
Now even his lowered lashes were wet with tears.
Hesitating, Ranshel finally slipped his hand under the blanket Zavad had pulled up, found his limp hand, and laid his own over it, gently patting.
Every patch of fevered skin his hand touched felt like it was burning.
Even though the boy’s temperature had gone down somewhat, Ranshel’s fingertips still tingled and stung for some reason.
He tightly shut his eyes and pulled his hand away from beneath the blanket.
He wouldn’t pity him.
He wouldn’t give in to foolish sentimentality.
Some time later, Zavad slowly lifted his eyelids.
The pillowcase beneath his eyes was damp with the tears that had trickled down.
Ranshel’s gaze dropped carelessly to the floor.
He had already thought of what to say if Zavad asked why he was here.
He could say he was just watching to make sure he didn’t stop breathing in his sleep.
That it was annoying now, so he’d be leaving. That’d be enough.
But the words that left Zavad’s lips were entirely unexpected.
“Mother… you came to see me…?”
Ranshel lifted his head.
Zavad’s hazy gaze was turned toward him, but there was no recognition in his eyes—Ranshel’s image wasn’t reflected there.
“Please… read to me. I think I’ll sleep better if you do…”
He slowly sat up, trembling from weakness, and pulled a book from beneath his pillow, holding it out to Ranshel.
Caught off guard, unsure if Zavad was completely out of his mind or not, Ranshel hesitantly accepted the book.
“Mother… please let me hear your voice…”
Possessed or not, the kid was clearly delirious.
As Zavad urged him to open the book, Ranshel let out a long breath.
He flipped through the pages, but besides being full of scribbles, there wasn’t much he could understand.
“Mother, Mother…”
There was nothing in the book worth reading aloud, but the fevered boy kept calling him by that unfamiliar name, tugging at his clothes in desperation.
If he’d had any strength, Ranshel might’ve shaken him off—but his grip was feather-light, barely even tickling.
Still holding the book, Ranshel placed a hand on Zavad’s shoulder and opened his mouth.
“…Zavad.”
He didn’t know how a mother would call her son—but he did know the kind of voice a son would want to hear.
So, Ranshel whispered—very softly, very gently.
“Lie down. I’ll help you sleep even without the book.”
He pushed lightly on Zavad’s shoulder, and his body slowly lowered onto the bed.
Whether it was from the force or because he followed the words willingly, Ranshel couldn’t tell.
“Start from your fingertips. Slowly, intentionally, release all the tension in your body. Think of your back sinking into the mattress.”
It was a method he’d used often on long, sleepless nights.
It always worked.
Not that he ever meant to use it for someone else.
“Let the weight of your whole body flow downward. The soft mattress will support it all. There’s nothing you need to bear.”
“……”
“Everything touching your body is here to help you—the air in this room, the sheets you’re lying on—they all exist to wrap you in warmth and let you rest.”
“……”
“Take a deep breath… and exhale slowly. Calmly, gently.”
It’s okay. Everything’s going to be alright…
Ranshel spoke in a small, slow voice as he pulled the fallen blanket up to just beneath Zavad’s neck.
He carefully tucked it in, making sure no part was exposed, then gently rubbed over it with his palm—right over where Zavad’s heart would be beating, very slowly.
As he listened to the steady sound of Zavad’s breathing, Ranshel softly patted the blanket again for a while.
Zavad had just fallen back asleep when Ranshel, trying to return the book, cautiously reached under his pillow—and the moment his hand slipped in, Zavad’s eyes flew open.
The instant his red eyes locked onto Ranshel’s face, Ranshel realized he’d made a big mistake.
“…What the hell do you think you’re doing!”
His voice cracked and rasped from having just woken up, but it was loud with fury.
Ranshel clicked his tongue and immediately jerked backward.
Zavad’s fist narrowly missed his nose.
“Let’s calm down for a moment, shall we?”
Just a moment ago, he’d looked like he was on death’s door—where he’d gotten the strength was a mystery.
Ranshel, unable to return the book to its hiding spot, quietly placed it atop Zavad’s blanket instead.
If he tried to hide it now, it’d only make things worse.
Once Zavad realized what the object in Ranshel’s hand was, his eyes sharpened with a cold edge.
The wariness that had always been there now blazed even more fiercely.
“I get that you’re suspicious, but I didn’t steal it.”
Ranshel frantically waved his hands, but Zavad’s glare only grew icier.
“Are you trying to mess with me? So you’re saying the book just magically ended up in your hands?”
“No, I swear! You really don’t remember? You handed it to me yourself.”
“Oh, and that’s your excuse?”
So his brain really had short-circuited from the fever.
That must be why he was so completely out of it earlier.
‘This is insane.’
Ranshel felt completely wronged.
Being misunderstood was one thing—but he couldn’t let himself be mistaken as a servant trying to steal from his master, even if he was playing the role of a cruel caretaker.
That wasn’t just grounds for dismissal—it was a literal crime.
Even if Zavad had almost zero influence over the household staff, something like this couldn’t be ignored.
If the steward heard, he’d be booted out barefoot, no questions asked.
A servant caught with sticky fingers was a risk to the entire household.
“I’ll explain everything. It’s not some excuse—I’m just asking you to hear me out.”
“Oh, don’t make me laugh. What, you think I don’t know you’re trying to smooth-talk your way out of this?”
Was he really that gullible all his life?
Then again, maybe no one had ever truly been honest with him.
He probably had been deceived constantly.
And truthfully, Ranshel had every intention of lying to him from here on out too—but this one time, he wasn’t.
And that made the whole thing feel even more unfair.
* * *
Lol, the irony