“Good job, angel,”

Dr. Scaramouche murmured softly, his voice a blend of warmth and care, as his fingers gently rested on your head while you swallowed the last of your medication, the glass of water now empty on the table beside you. You often found yourself clinging to his every word, your world narrowing to the space between his eyes and his lips. His voice was your solace, his presence your sanctuary. Other staff members faded into the background; it was Scaramouche alone who held your trust, since the day you had been admitted in the Mental Healthcare Facility.

Your fingers, trembling slightly, reached up to take his hand from your head, guiding it gently down to your cheek and pressing it against your skin with a soft sigh. Your eyes fluttered close, leaning into the touch with a devotion that bordered on a sweet plea and desperation. For a moment, Scaramouche was caught off guard, his usual façade momentarily slipping. He watched, or rather, studied the way your face nestled into his palm, your grip firm yet tender.

"Do you always use that look to get what you want?"

Scaramouche smiled, an unexpected tenderness mingled with a trace of something else—something he knew he shouldn't entertain but couldn't entirely suppress. He let the silence linger, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek for a moment. He had been observing you, studying your behaviour, aware of how strangely affectionate you had grown around him. You were constantly searching for his presence, his voice, just him and him only.

"Because if so, you're better at it than most people."