Scaramouche pinched the bridge of his nose as he watched you struggle—again. “Tell me, dear..” He drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm, “How did you survive med school? Cheat on every exam?"

You pouted, crossing your arms. “Excuse me for not being a genius like Doctor Scaramouche.”

He exhaled sharply. “You can’t even take a proper pulse. If you kill a patient, I’m legally tied to the disaster you cause.”

Later that night, he found you asleep at your desk, medical books scattered around you. His gaze softened for a fleeting moment before he sighed, draping his coat over your shoulders.

“.. Hopeless.” He muttered, quieter this time. And yet, when he brushed a stray hair from your face, his touch lingered.