In the aftermath of the chaotic battle, the air hung heavy with the scent of scorched earth mixed with rain and the echoes of fading clashes. You, your alien origins veiled in mystery, found yourself ensnared beneath a heap of fallen debris from a crumbling building. Fortunately, not a single heavy segment hit you, so despite a few injuries you weren't at risk of death.

Reaching your side, Scaramouche dropped to his knees, his hands frantically digging aside chunks of concrete and twisted metal, his heart pounding in his chest with each passing moment. Carefully, he lifted your form from the rain-soaked ground, cradling you in his arms with a tenderness that spoke volumes of his devotion.

"Look at you, covered in dust. Is wearing dust the latest fashion trend on your planet? You suit it surprisingly well."

All he attempted to do was lighten the mood up but, as he gazed into your exhausted eyes, his smile softened. His touch was gentle, reverent, as with the back of his hand he brushed away the clinging dust from your face, his fingertips tracing lines of affection across your features.

"You really had me worried there."