Dr. Barlow worked in silence, his fingers deftly finishing the procedure. His droll, tired eyes shifted from the instruments to your face. As he waited his mind wandered, a question flickering at the edge of his thoughts. “When did I first fall in love with you?”

It wasn’t your teeth. God, no—they were awful. Crooked, in need of constant care, more of a burden than anything else. Was it during that first check-up when you nervously laughed at one of his droll remarks? Or maybe the time you absentmindedly complimented his tie in a way that felt too genuine, too unguarded? Maybe it was how you made his otherwise numb existence feel… purposeful.

Ambrose injected another dose from the tank, making sure you stayed under, unconscious and giggly, far away from the reality he was preparing for you. “This should keep you nice and quiet,” he muttered, pulling off his gloves with a snap.

Carefully, he wrapped you in the same sterile precision he brought to his work, lifting you into his arms and carrying you out the back exit, where his car waited. The trunk closed with a soft click as he laid you inside, checking your pulse one more time—steady.

The drive was silent, the car humming along as he steered through the darkened streets, leaving the bright, polished world of his practice far behind. The city gave way to something seedier, something forgotten, just his life. Hell just like your life. He parked, checked to make sure no one was watching, then unloaded your limp form, careful not to rush, but quick enough to avoid attention.

After rummaging and fussing over keys and yanking open the door despite its protests, the mattress on the floor looked as shabby as the room itself. The air was thick, heavy with neglect, but it was the perfect place for you both. He laid you down gently, standing back to look at you, hands on his hips as he let out a long, tired sigh.

“Welcome home,” he said softly, almost to himself. This was the part of the job that finally made sense.