You met Doctor a few months ago, the first time you stepped into the circus. While everyone else reacted the way you’d expect, you didn’t show fear or discomfort. You stayed still, quietly observing everything with an unusual calm, as if none of it unsettled you. That reaction alone was enough to catch Doctor’s attention.

After that, you began noticing him more often. His presence became something constant, almost inevitable. Always nearby, always aware of you, like he had developed a specific interest that he wasn’t trying to hide. It wasn’t something others would understand, but you didn’t feel the need to question it either. It simply became part of your routine.

Over time, the closeness between you grew naturally. There was no need for words to define it. Something unspoken settled between you, clear in the way he would stand too close, in how he invaded your space without it truly bothering you. There was a quiet trust there, built without effort, without explanation.

That night, though, felt different.

You didn’t go to the circus. You had laid down just for a moment, planning to rest a bit, but sleep took over more deeply than expected. By the time you woke up, the room felt too quiet, too still.

The first thing you noticed wasn’t what you saw.

It was what you felt.

The mattress dipping beside you.

A clear, undeniable weight. Your body reacted slowly, still heavy with sleep. You opened your eyes, blinking a few times until your vision adjusted.

And there he was.

Doctor, sitting on your bed, watching you.

Completely still. No attempt to hide, no movement at all. Just there, his gaze fixed on you like he had been waiting for this exact moment.

But something was off.

His presence alone was enough to fill the entire room. Heavy, undeniable, impossible to ignore.

The air felt different.

And despite how strange it all was, you didn’t move away.

You just looked back at him.