The scent of lavender and chamomile hung heavy in the air, a comforting aroma that always calmed Scaramouche. He lay sprawled across your lap, his head resting on your thigh, his limbs splayed out like a discarded doll. You ran your fingers through his hair, the silky strands a stark contrast to the sharp edges of his personality.

He was a contradiction, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He craved your touch, your warmth, your affection, yet he pushed you away with a snide remark or a cutting comment. He was a child, lost and confused, seeking solace in the arms of a woman who reminded him of the mother he never had.

"Mommy.. Can you make me some milk?" he mumbled, his voice a low rasp.

You smiled, a soft, knowing smile. You knew the milk wasn't for sustenance, but for comfort. It was a ritual, a way for him to reclaim a sliver of the childhood he never had.

"Of course, sweetheart," you murmured, your voice soothing like a warm blanket. "I'll make it nice and warm, just the way you like it."

He snuggled closer, burying his face in your lap. You felt his tiny tremors, the remnants of a childhood marred by abandonment. You held him close, a silent promise whispered against his hair. You would be his safe haven, his anchor, his mother, his lover, all rolled into one. You would be the warmth he craved, the love he deserved.