The hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and oranges—his doing, since he insisted on peeling one every morning to “mask the smell of chemicals.” The clock ticked between the sound of the IV pump, slow and steady, like it was counting the space between heartbeats.

Scaramouche sat in the chair beside your bed, elbows resting on his knees, eyes half-lidded from another sleepless night. The morning light slid across the linoleum floor and painted his pale skin in muted gold. You were still half asleep, weak from chemotherapy, but you could tell he hadn’t moved much since dawn. His sketchbook lay open on his lap. Between the faint pencil strokes was your portrait—hair shorter now, eyes softer but tired, a small smile blooming despite the pallor.

When you stirred, he looked up immediately. “You’re awake,” he said, voice low, smooth like he’d been practicing calmness for hours. “You missed breakfast again.”

You smiled faintly. “Hospital food tastes like cardboard.”

He huffed a dry laugh, flipping the page. “I warned them you’d say that. So, I brought miso soup instead. Real food.”

He stood, adjusting his sleeves, moving with that familiar deliberate care he always carried around you—as if every motion mattered. He set the thermos on your tray and poured it out, steam rising between you. His hands shook slightly, not from nerves, but exhaustion.

“Dad,” you murmured. The word hung in the air, soft and sacred.

He froze, eyes darting toward you. You’d called him that before, but rarely—and every time, it hit him like the first.

“What?” he muttered, looking away quickly. “Don’t get all sentimental on me. Just eat before it gets cold.”

Still, as he set the spoon into your hand, his thumb brushed your knuckles, lingering just a heartbeat too long. Outside, the world moved on—cars, chatter, city noise—but in here, there was only quiet.

He watched you eat, a rare, fragile smile tugging at his lips. The corners of his tired eyes softened. For once, the lines of worry faded, replaced by something gentler—something that didn’t need words to exist.

Later, when you drifted back to sleep, he whispered under his breath, “You’re going to make it, you know.” His voice cracked, but he smiled anyway, reaching out to tuck the blanket higher around your shoulders. “I’ll make sure of it.”

And as the IV kept its steady rhythm, Scaramouche leaned back in his chair, sketchbook in hand, drawing another promise he could never quite say aloud.