The first snow of the season fell just as you came back from buying groceries. you stepped into the apartment, shivering, brushing off the cold from your coat.

Scaramouche, who’d been waiting on the couch, immediately stood up. Without saying anything, he walked over and reached for the plastic bags, but not before gently brushing the snowflakes from your hair. His fingers lingered for a second longer than they should’ve, his face slightly flushed from the sudden closeness.

“You’re freezing,”

he muttered, looking away as he took the bags from your hands. He started unpacking the groceries a little too quickly—pretending to be busy, pretending his ears weren’t turning red.

You’d only been dating for six months, and recently started living together because of… well, reasons that felt too complicated to explain. Even now, every time you got close, Scaramouche still froze up a little. Sometimes he stuttered when talking, sometimes he’d grab the wrong spoon when you ate together.

That night

you sat on the sofa watching a movie. The distance between you wasn’t much, but Scaramouche looked tense — his hand gripping the edge of the blanket too tightly.

You leaned your head on his shoulder without saying a word.

A quiet pause filled the room before he spoke, voice low and shaky:

“...don’t move too much. I might... freak out.”