Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.
The rain beat against the windows in a relentless rhythm, the sky crackling at several intervals. The storm outside was unrelenting, and Anderson was certain beyond any doubt that if he had left Lenora out there any longer, she might not have survived. He tilted his head to check on her. The young white-haired woman stirred faintly, slowly waking from her fevered sleep. She looked haggard, though a bit better than yesterday. He had already removed her mud-stained maid uniform and dressed her in something more comfortable—a soft, thin-fabric oxblood nightgown he had found in one of the rooms upstairs. The gown was oversized, draping around her frail frame, but it was the best option available given the circumstances.
Her condition yesterday, had been dire. She was burning with fever, delirious and weak. She could hardly register her surroundings, so he had to help her bathe. Yes, he had done it—because there was no one else who could, and he couldn't leave her in that state. After the bath came the more awkward dilemma: her underwear. The only ones he found in the wardrobes were too large for her. He couldn't just leave her beneath the nightgown without anything at all.
But after searching everywhere, he sill found nothing fitting. In the end, he just washed the previous one she had been wearing. It was difficult (Given his 'condition') but he managed. Unfortunately, they were still damp, so he was stuck again. Eventually, he gave up.
But before finding the nightgown, he had tried putting one of his shirts on her. But it definitely wasn't because he wanted to.... okay yes, he wanted to. Who was he kidding?
And yes, it was because he knew how it would look on her. Larson, had always found something appealing about seeing women in his shirts. Every version of him across timelines had. He had thought it was cute, that whole oversized shirt look.
And no matter how Anderson thought himself a saint, he couldn't help but admit there was a certain charm to it. But he wasn't Larson. Or at least, he wasn't just Larson anymore. These memories—Larson's, Lumiea's, Anderson's—they kept getting tangled together.
Anyway, his shirt had looked ridiculous on her. It swallowed her whole, more like a blanket than clothing. So he kept searching until he finally found the oxblood gown.
"Don't move," he said sternly, seeing her try to rise. His voice was sharper than he intended, but he couldn't help it. He was angry—furious at how recklessly she had thrown herself into harm's way for him, of all people.
How could she sacrifice herself for someone like him? A drunken fool, a disgrace of a noble. But he had made his choice. He had taken Anderson's body, so he would bear Anderson's sins too. But he wouldn't let them define him. He would become something better—a version of Anderson that the original had never imagined possible. For now, though, he was still, admittedly, a worthless excuse of a man. That would change.
"M-Master?" Lenora's voice was uncertain, her eyes scanning her surroundings. She had just realized she was in his bed, properly dressed. It wouldn't take much to deduce that he was the one who had changed her clothes. After all, except for that elusive maid who occasionally brought him meals, there was no one else here.
Speaking of the mysterious maid—he had caught her last evening. She had tried to flee, but he had managed to call her out just in time. Realizing she had been spotted, she stopped running and accepted her fate.
Suddenly, Lenora tried to sit up.
"Ah!" He tapped her lightly on the forehead. Don't underestimate the size and strength of these hands.
Her usual stoic demeanor crumbled instantly. Now she just looked like an ordinary young woman.
"If you move again, I will... well, I will..." he trailed off.
"Punish me?" she offered, a bit too hopefully.
"Yes, I will... Wait, why do you sound like you want that?" His eyes narrowed. She averted her gaze, saying nothing.
This maid. Even in Anderson's memories, she had always had this strange influence over him. She could manipulate him without even trying. Her deadpan expressions always lured him into verbal traps, making him look like a fool.
"Lenora," he said, his voice low but firm.
"M-Master?" she responded, startled by his tone. This was not the Anderson she knew. He had never spoken to her with this kind of seriousness. In fact, it was usually her scolding him after one of his drunken escapades.
But that had never stopped Anderson. He had been beyond saving—a complete degenerate. He wouldn't even try to salvage Anderson's shattered reputation. That ship had long since sunk.
"Never—and I mean never—sacrifice yourself and your well-being for someone else. Especially not for me." His tone was resolute, his expression hard. "Even if you feel obligated, even if you think it's your duty, I don't deserve that kind of devotion."
"Master?" Her voice quivered, clearly shaken.
"Promise me, Lenora. Promise me you'll never again put your happiness and safety on the line because of someone else's expectations. Promise me that from now on, you'll prioritize yourself—even above me."
She looked at him for a long moment. Then, with a soft but steady voice, she said, "No."
"What?"