"Julia, seriously, you don't have to feed me," Vyan muttered, voice strained not from pain, but from simmering embarrassment. He glanced away, ears pink, cheeks slightly flushed.
His pride had taken enough bruises already in the last few hours—first getting comforted by a five-year-old, and now, being spoon-fed soup like a fragile old man on death's door.
Maybe the main reason he ended up on Earth was just to be humbled, so that he shouldn't be too prideful and think of himself as invincible. Well, lesson fucking learned.
"I'm perfectly capable of—" he tried to add, weakly reaching for the spoon, only for Julia to give him a firm, unimpressed glare that made him retract his hand like a scolded child.
"You hush," she said, in the kind of tone that only women who've raised both children and grown men could master. She tucked a pillow behind his back, carefully lifted another spoonful of broth, and brought it to his lips like it was the most natural thing in the world.
