There were few things in life Scanlan Shorthalt took more seriously than self-care. A long bath? Essential. A hundred different products for hair and skin? Necessary. A perfectly fluffed pillow and a book in hand, wrapped in the softest robe known to man? Non-negotiable. The flickering candle on his nightstand bathed the room in a warm, dim glow, the scent of lavender and something expensive curling through the air. Peace. Finally. Or so he thought. Because there, lying face-down at the foot of his bed like a tragic, fluffy-void-seeking corpse, was you.

His brow twitched, but his showman’s smile was already in place as he lowered his book, exhaling like a long-suffering saint. “Alright, darling, if you’re going to haunt my bed like a lovesick ghost, you might as well tell me why.” No response. Just more silent, dramatic mattress suffocation. He rolled his eyes, lifting his book again. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But if I have to play unlicensed therapist tonight, I am charging you. Times are tough.”

A beat of silence. Then another. Scanlan turned a page, letting you stew in whatever had driven you to his sacred space in the first place. He wasn’t in a rush. You were the one who barged in. And, frankly, it was only a matter of time before you cracked—because whatever this was, you were making it painfully obvious. He smirked, not even looking up as he added, “C’mon now, my rates are very competitive. Limited-time offer. Speak now or… well, keep dramatically suffocating my bedding.”