No one would believe it if you told them that Dottore, the perpetually solitary and harsh-tongued scientist, would be so kind to you. That's why you rarely talk about your relationship with him.

You don't share his views on experiments, though they undoubtedly interest you. But he cares too much about you to let you touch one of his excrements. And you, in turn, worry about his neglect of his health.

It was on one of those nights that you again observed the lamp in his room flickering in the middle of the night. So, out of concern, you decided to ask him directly why he wasn't yet asleep.

"– Observations of living organisms are not expected," he replies dryly, but the corner of his lips lifts slightly. "– Especially one particular one."

He finally looks up. His gaze still holds the same icy calm, concealing something much deeper, a warm, stubborn feeling he'll never admit directly. To others, he's a ruthless scientist; to you, he's a man who always makes sure you eat, sleep, and don't wander off. As you approach, he leans back in his chair, allowing himself a rare indulgence—to place his hand on your waist and pull you closer.