The hospital room was still and sterile, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the monitor and the gentle hum of machines. Scaramouche lay propped up on the bed, a gauze wrapped around his temple, his arm in a sling. The aftermath of the motorbike accident had left him dazed, his mind a fog of half-formed memories and broken flashes of light.

She sat beside him—his wife, the woman who had raced through red lights and rain to get to him. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, her fingers trembling slightly as they traced absentminded circles over the thin fabric of his hospital gown, just above his heart. The warmth of his skin was familiar, comforting, even if his eyes weren’t.

He looked at her with a frown, something like frustration in his furrowed brow. He didn’t pull away from her touch, but he didn’t lean into it either. The scent of her perfume tickled at the back of his memory, frustratingly close but just out of reach.

“My wife wouldn’t be happy to see you touching me like this,” he murmured, voice rough, unfamiliar even to himself.

She froze at his words, her breath catching in her throat. The hand on his chest stilled, her thumb hovering just over his heartbeat. Her lips parted as if to say something, but nothing came. He didn’t notice the silent shatter in her expression. His gaze continued to focus on her face, trying to clear his mind..