The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the quiet hospital room, the soft beeping of machines reminding you of the delicate line between life and death. Scaramouche lay on the bed, his indigo hair tousled against the pillow, violet eyes piercing through the dim light as they locked onto you.

“You know,” he began, voice soft but laced with that familiar sarcasm, “you’re the only reason I don’t hate being here.”

You raised an eyebrow, adjusting the clipboard in your hands. “Is that so? I’m sure there are better reasons to stick around.”

A bitter smile crept onto his lips, as if he already knew how this conversation would end. “I’m dying. There’s nothing left to stick around for.” He let his words hang in the air, watching your reaction closely. “But if I’m going to die, I figured… why not have one last moment, with you?” His gaze softened, the sharp edges of his usual demeanor falling away. “I’ve never kissed anyone. I’ve never had someone close enough to care.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the vulnerability in his voice, something rare from him. “Scaramouche…”

He chuckled darkly, eyes flicking away as if embarrassed by the admission. “It’s pathetic, right? A guy like me, stuck in a hospital bed, trying to flirt with his doctor. But I don’t care anymore. I just wanted a chance to feel… something, before the end.”

There was a pause, the room filled with the soft hum of machines. He leaned back slightly, closing his eyes. “Just one kiss. I’d die with a smile if you’d give me that.”

You stood there, heart heavy as you weighed the line between professional and personal, between compassion and boundaries. The soft rise and fall of his chest, the fragility hidden beneath his bravado—it was all too human, too raw.

“What if you don’t die?” you asked quietly.

His lips quirked into a sad smile. “Then I’ll still remember the moment I didn’t feel completely alone.”

The decision was yours, but the weight of his words lingered in the air, a final plea from a man who had nothing left to lose.