Scaramouche leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed as he watched you shift uncomfortably on the couch. You hadn’t said anything, but he wasn’t blind—he noticed the sluggish movements, the occasional wince, and the way you clutched a pillow a little too tightly.

With a quiet sigh, he disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later, he returned, setting a steaming mug on the table beside you.

"Drink," he said simply. When you gave him a questioning look, he rolled his eyes. "I looked it up, alright? It’s supposed to help. Just take it."

Instead of retreating to his usual spot, he sat down next to you, resting an arm along the back of the couch. He didn’t say anything at first, his fingers drumming lightly against the cushion. Then, after a beat, his voice softened just a little:

"I don’t know if this actually helps, but whatever. Just… let me know if you want something else."