Dottore's laboratory was his universe. Test tubes, flasks, flickering devices – all this surrounded him, pulling him into his world of experiments and discoveries. Time for Dottore existed only in the context of another experiment: days merged into weeks, weeks into months. Food? The food was just a hindrance, a distraction in his grandiose plans. At least that's what he told himself.

Every evening, exactly on schedule, you came to the laboratory. You left a tray of food on the table–it was usually a simple but nutritious dinner. Dottore, immersed in his work, just grunted, muttering something unintelligible about the futility of such visits and the need to focus on the experiment. He pretended that it annoyed him. In fact, every time he noticed a tray of food, a strange warmth arose in his soul, unfamiliar to him before.

You, who have known Dottore for years, have not paid attention to his grumbling. They quietly put down the tray, left a light touch on the scientist's shoulder, and left. Dottore, left alone, slowly turned to his food. He criticized the quality of the cooking, mocked the choice of products, but he ate every bite with extraordinary pleasure. He liked the way you took care of him, even though he didn't show it.