Chapter 1468In 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.
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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.
The one who initiates craves a response, a sign that their efforts are not in vain, that they are
acknowledged and desired.But silence, the lack of response, only magnifies despair, deepening the ache of hope unmet.
novelbinThalassa yearned for Lysander’s response, for him to awaken, to exhibit any sign of conscious will.
And she knew, when Lysander had kissed her in days past, he too must have sought a response. A
response would have at least confirmed he wasn’t alone in his desires.
Her lack of reaction could only have signaled to him that she felt nothing for him, not deep down.
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In those days, she had been too reserved, too panicked to reciprocate his advances, and he must
have felt the same disappointment that now plagued her.
With a bitter taste in her mouth, Thalassa administered the medicine, carefully ensuring that each
spoonful made its way past Lysander’s lips. When the mug was empty, she wiped away the traces
from his mouth, then her own.
Gazing at 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 penance you’ve sought has
been served. When you wake, we’ll settle the score. You owe me a wealth of kisses, and a
multitude of baths…”
Her voice was soft, tinged with a sad smile, her eyes alight with fierce hope for the day Lysander
would open his eyes.
Dr. Funke had promised that Lysander would awaken within two months, and she clung to that
promise with all her heart.
She longed to be the first sight he beheld upon his return to consciousness.
Continuing her soliloquy, Thalassa gently caressed Lysander’s face.His features were sharp, his skin taut, exuding a masculine magnetism. Even after three years of
slumber, his allure remained undiminished. The absence of sunlight had only made his skin paler,
enhancing his handsome features.
A smile crept across Thalassa’s face as she traced his cheek with her thumb—a gesture she would
never dare with Lysander awake, a gesture that filled her with warmth, as if caressing a child’s face.
After a moment’s tenderness, Thalassa wheeled the chair into the bathroom to help Lysander with
his bath.
The room filled with steam, misting her eyes and flushing her cheeks. With a towel in hand, she
gently washed over every curve and contour of his body.
In this intimate space, where the air was warm and thick, Thalassa cared for Lysander with a
devotion that transcended the years of silence between them.
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