#tears of themis imagine
[3:48 PM] - VYN RICHTER
Vulnerability is something completely foreign to Vyn Richter. Vyn is a man whose entire persona is built off of perfection, and vulnerability is a weakness. Vulnerability makes him think of a naïve child, whose foolish desires gave way to equal punishment. It makes him think of an empty house and an even more empty father. Then he doesn’t think about it anymore.
But when he hears you murmur his name amidst the ringing in his ears as you raise your hand to feel his forehead, it’s all he can think about. For two days Vyn has been sick with a cold, and was unwilling to admit how truly bad it had gotten until he had collapsed while you had been at his home to review a NXX case. The most you have managed to do so far has been getting Vyn into bed, but the next step is figuring out how to actually help.
And if your small gasp was anything to go by, he was guessing his forehead felt as hot as the rest of his body. “Vyn, how long were you planning on working in this condition?” His heart tugs at the concern in your voice, guilty for forcing you to worry, but a louder part of him is relieved to hear the emotion in your voice.
No pounding silence. No closing door raising bile in his throat. Just your hand against his cheek guiding his mind away from his train of thought, so soft and cool he cannot help but lean into the affection so easily given. “Please take a break, I’m going to get some medicine for you to take, but you’re not leaving this bed, understand?”
He nods, despite only focusing on the way your brow furrowed in concern, how you looked upon him not with indifference, but true care. He is no longer a suave psychologist, always in control. His daedalian surface has broken, and yet all you care about is whether he has cold medicine in one of his cabinets.
To care and be cared for is a feeling so alien to Vyn it almost sounds like a myth. Fascinating and beautiful, but fictitious all the same. To experience it himself is a miracle that carefully brushes red across his cheeks with a artist’s gentle hand.
And when he calls out your name to come back into the room, body exhausted, hair messily strewn across his face, dusted with the color of the roses he loves so much, and asks you to stay, he realizes that maybe that barrier wasn’t just holding you back, but trapping him inside as well. Maybe some things were meant to be broken.
