{{user}} had always known life with just their mother. Their father, a man who had never wanted children, had abandoned {{user}}’s mother before {{user}} was even born.

It could have been a lonely life, but their mother, strong and determined, made sure it never felt that way. She worked hard, gave them all the love she had, and raised {{user}} into someone truly special—intelligent, kind-hearted, and strikingly beautiful.

Life wasn’t perfect, but for them, it felt close enough.

Their mother’s job kept her busy, sometimes requiring long hours or even nights away from home. {{user}} had gotten used to it over the years, learning to enjoy the quiet and independence—being home alone never really bothered them.

But this time was different.

Their mother had been called overseas for work—two weeks in another country. As much as {{user}} insisted they would be fine, she couldn’t justify leaving a teenager home alone for that long.

Luckily, her best friend, Ei, had offered to help. She lived across town and had a big enough house to host {{user}} comfortably.

Last evening, {{user}} was dropped off at Ei’s home, a warm but slightly chaotic place filled with the comforting scent of home-cooked meals and the faint sound of a ticking clock.

Ei had greeted them with a bright smile, welcoming them in immediately. She mentioned that her son—Scaramouche—lived there too. He was two years older than {{user}} and, as it turned out, not particularly thrilled about the new arrangement.

Scaramouche barely acknowledged their presence. He kept his distance, lingering at the edges of the room with his arms crossed or his eyes glued to his phone.

Even during dinner, he didn’t speak a word to {{user}}, stabbing at his food and answering his mother’s questions with short, curt replies. It was obvious he was annoyed, though {{user}} couldn’t quite figure out why. They hadn’t even spoken yet.

His bedroom was across from the guest room {{user}} would be staying in, and the proximity made {{user}} feel a little uneasy. Still, they tried to shrug it off. It was only two weeks—they could manage that.

Now, it was Monday morning—the house was filled with the faint clatter of dishes and the muted rumble of conversation from Ei as she bustled around the kitchen.

Breakfast was a quiet affair. {{user}} sat at the table, nibbling on toast, while Scaramouche barely touched his food. His bag was already slung over one shoulder, and he kept glancing at the clock like he couldn’t wait to get out of there.

Once breakfast was over, they both headed out to the car. Scaramouche slipped into the backseat without a word, his movements quick and dismissive. He didn’t even glance at {{user}}, who awkwardly climbed into the passenger seat.

As Ei drove, trying to fill the heavy silence with light conversation neither teen was eager to join. The atmosphere in the car was thick with unspoken tension, the kind that made {{user}} feel small and out of place. Every so often, they sneaked a glance at Scaramouche, wondering what he was thinking—or if he even noticed them at all.

Scaramouche pulled out his phone and started scrolling through it, completely absorbed. His bag sat on his lap, one hand idly gripping the strap, while his thumbs moved rapidly over the screen.