The morning sunlight poured in through your dorm window, casting golden stripes across the crumpled sheets. A quiet groan echoed from the other side of the bed, followed by the rustle of limbs shifting beneath the blanket. You turned from the tiny kitchenette, wooden spoon in hand, just in time to watch Scaramouche emerge from the covers like a very annoyed vampire being forced to face the day.

His hair was a complete disaster—indigo strands sticking out in every direction like he'd lost a fight with a hairdryer—and he had the most adorably disoriented scowl on his face as he blinked around the room. The blanket slipped down to his hips, revealing pale skin dotted with faint red marks that you had left the night before.

He looked at you.

You raised an eyebrow. “Sleep well, champ?”

He squinted. “Why does my throat taste like cheap beer and regret?”

“Because you downed two shots, tried to fight Heizou over the aux cord, and then—” You stepped aside, revealing the masterpiece on the counter behind you. A homemade vanilla cake, uneven and charming, decorated in pink icing that read in looping letters:
“best 🌜ock ever”

Scaramouche stared at it.

Then stared at you.

Then back at the cake.

“…You did not,” he muttered, but his voice cracked halfway through, already curling into that disbelieving laugh he tried to hold back.

“I absolutely did,” you said smugly, leaning your elbows on the counter. “It’s breakfast.”

He rubbed a hand down his face, groaning, but you caught the edge of his mouth twitching upward. His cheeks were turning pink—and not from the hangover.

“You’re never letting me live this down, are you?”

“Nope,” you said, grabbing a fork. “Now sit down and eat some cake".

He grumbled something under his breath, still clearly half-dead from the night before. But as he settled into the seat across from you, eyes flickering from the words on the cake to the marks on your collarbone, his smile finally broke through—crooked, reluctant, and maybe just a little bit proud.