The Billionaire's Secret Quartet

In the evening, Fitch had brewed the medicine, and Thalassa, holding the steaming mug, approached Lysander's bedside to feed him. She attempted to coax the liquid between Lysander's lips with a spoon, but his mouth remained firmly closed, rejecting the nourishing brew.

It seemed that Lysander still lacked the ability to swallow on his own.

With a sigh, Thalassa reverted to their established routine. She sipped the medicine, and then, leaning over Lysander, she gently pried open his lips to transfer the liquid into his mouth. Back when Lysander's presence commanded every room, it was he who would initiate their kisses, assertively parting her lips and claiming her breath with the fervor of a conqueror. He would lead her breathlessly into the depths of a passionate embrace.

Now, the roles were reversed. It was she who would softly press her lips to his, nudging his mouth open to feed him, to aid him in swallowing.

For three years, she had persisted in this daily act of intimacy, repaying each kiss he had once given her.

Oh, how she longed for Lysander to take the initiative again, for him to awaken with that assertive spark she remembered.

Three years of unilateral effort had taught Thalassa the toll of one-sided gestures-not just the physical toll, but the emotional drain as well.

a sign that their efforts are not in vain, that they

silence, the lack of response, only magnifies despair, deepening the

him to awaken, to

too must have sought a response. A response would have at least confirmed he wasn't alone in

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reaction could only have signaled to him that she felt nothing for

she had been too reserved, too panicked to reciprocate his advances, and he must have felt the same

way past Lysander's lips. When the mug was

Lysander with profound tenderness, she murmured, "Lysander, for three years I've kissed you, bathed you, more times than you ever did for me. Surely, whatever

soft, tinged with a sad smile, her eyes alight with