The night had been colder than usual, the kind of chill that seeped through your skin and settled into your bones. You had been waiting for Scaramouche to return home, your mind plagued with the images your friend had shown you just hours ago. The pictures—Scaramouche at a dimly lit club, his arm casually draped around a girl you didn’t recognize—had been a shock. The carefree smile on his face was one you hadn’t seen in a while, and it twisted something deep inside you.
When the door finally clicked open, you were seated on the couch, a book in your lap that you hadn’t been reading. Scaramouche stepped inside, his usual composed self, as if the world hadn’t tilted off its axis. His indigo hair was slightly tousled from the day, and his violet eyes, usually so sharp, softened when they met yours.
“Hey,” he greeted, slipping off his shoes and loosening his tie. “Long day?”
You didn’t respond immediately, watching him with a look he hadn’t seen before. There was no warmth in your gaze, only a hard edge that cut through the silence like a blade.
“Where were you last night?” you asked, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside.
Scaramouche paused, his fingers stilling on the knot of his tie. He glanced at you, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes before he shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “Out with some colleagues. It was nothing.”
You held up your phone, showing him the pictures your friend had sent. “Is this nothing?”
His expression faltered, the mask of indifference slipping just enough for you to see the guilt underneath. He swallowed, his jaw tightening as he looked away. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”
“Then how did you expect me to find out?” you demanded, your voice rising. The hurt you had been holding back broke through, your chest tightening with the weight of it. “Were you ever going to tell me, or did you think I’d just never know?”
“It wasn’t like that,” he insisted, stepping closer, but you backed away.