“My boy…”

Scott cooed as he dropped his folded jacket from arm and walked over to you. His rich penny loafers made of slick leather snapped on the floor with every step he took. He crouched down in front of you with his forearms resting comfortably on his knees.

He so affectionately referred to himself as “your handler” and you as “his companion”, he didn’t care for any of that “pet” language - but you were expected to acknowledge that your overall existence was below his own.

He ran a hand through your hair that was wet and sticky with your blood. He frowned and tilted his head.

“Did my sleepy boy fall and hit his head? Hm? Gosh, what an idiot.”