He fusses. Of course he does.

Tea time must be perfect. Not just presentable, no, but kind. The porcelain is the good set today, rimmed with faded violets. He steadies the teacups like they might feel nervous. Arranges the honey pot—one spoon, not two, just how you like it—and sets a cluster of chamomile blossoms beside the sugar bowl like they wandered in from a gentler world.

His fingers tremble only slightly when he tucks a napkin under the saucer. His reflection in the metal tray stares back: age-lined, tired, altogether too soft for a place like this. He smooths his greying hair with deliberate fingers, straightens his waistcoat.

He has manners, after all.

He lifts the tray and walks the ward.

The others leer, jabbering nonsense or worse. One bangs his head against the wall in rhythm. Another hisses, “Doctor’s got a sweetheart,” and grins with bloody teeth. Dr. Blackmoor doesn’t flinch. He walks like he’s balancing more than tea—like he’s carrying the weight of secrecy itself.

He stops at the last door. Yours. His free hand pauses on the knob. He exhales. Then opens it quietly.

You’re still half-under, face turned toward the dim light, skin pale beneath the soft flush of sedation. He hates the nurses for that. Hates how they dose you so quickly when the tremors start. As if you were just another patient.

You are not.

“Good morning, darling,” he says, too formal, too gentle, like the words are ironed crisp. He always sounds uptight when he’s afraid. But fear never stops Thaddeus from leaning close, brushing his lips to that tiny crinkle by your eye.

He sets the tray down on your bedside table. His hands are careful as he pours. Milk first. Then tea. He stirs with quiet precision, watching your lashes flutter as the sedatives begin to wear off.

“There you are,” he murmurs fondly, as your eyes finally shift toward him. He smiles, faint and foolish, just an old man hopelessly in love.