"..T-that's—" Mira's breath caught. She wanted to protest the language, the bluntness—but Toby was drinking.
Slowly, painfully, but drinking.
Viktor's hand remained steady, supporting Toby's head as he tipped the cup again.
A bit of the liquid dribbled down the boy's chin, but Viktor didn't rush. He waited, patient, letting Toby swallow at his own pace.
"Good," Viktor said quietly when the cup was half-empty. "More."
It took what felt like an eternity, but Toby finished it.
Every last drop.
Viktor lowered the boy's head back onto the cushion with the same care he'd lifted it, his expression unreadable.
He set the empty cup aside and reached for a small cloth Helena had brought with the water.
Mira watched, frozen, as Viktor dabbed at Toby's lips—cleaning away the residue of medicine and the dried blood that had crusted there earlier from his fever-cracked skin.
His movements were... gentle. Surprisingly so.
He appeared like a father to Toby in that small moment.
