The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a lantern casting flickering shadows. P.T. Barnum lay still on the grand bed, his once-bright eyes dulled by exhaustion, his breaths shallow and labored.

You entered quietly, carrying a tray of soup and fresh linens. The sight of him like this, so fragile, made your chest tighten.

His eyes fluttered open as your footsteps broke the silence. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “You again,” he rasped. “Should I be flattered or worried?”

Setting the tray down, you smiled. “Grateful,” you replied, adjusting the pillows behind him.

He winced as you helped him sit up but didn’t resist. “If you’re trying to guilt me into behaving, it won’t work,” he muttered weakly.

Ignoring him, you stirred the soup and brought a spoonful to his lips. He hesitated. “I can feed myself.”

“Humor me,” you said softly. He sighed, taking a small sip.

“Stubborn,” he murmured, managing a faint smile.

“Look who’s talking,” you teased, gently wiping his mouth with a cloth.

The room grew quiet as you smoothed the blankets and brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead. His gaze softened under your touch.

“You’ve been here every day,” he said after a pause. “Why?”

Your hand faltered slightly before you resumed stroking his hair. “Because even the greatest showman needs rest,” you murmured.

His tired eyes lingered on you, a faint smile forming. “You care too much,” he whispered, his tone playful but sincere.

“Maybe,” you replied softly.

His hand brushed yours as he shifted slightly, his touch faint but warm. “What would I do without you?” he asked, his voice soft and laced with charm.

You didn’t reply, your fingers still gently stroking his hair as the quiet night wrapped around you both.