The storm outside was relentless, thunder shaking the windows of Scaramouche’s vast, luxurious home. He sat in his study, a glass of wine in hand, reviewing the latest numbers from his company. The faint sound of rain against the glass usually soothed him, but tonight, the storm felt invasive.

He heard it before he saw it—a soft shuffle outside his door, hesitant yet persistent. Scaramouche sighed, placing the glass down.

It had been months since he took in {{user}}, the demi-human his influential peers had convinced him would fill the void of his solitude. At first, he had dismissed their clinginess as part of their nature, their wide eyes and twitching tail an annoyance at best. But even he couldn’t deny how quickly they had imprinted on him.

The door creaked open slightly, revealing {{user}} in the dim light of the hallway. Their ears drooped, tail dragging low behind them. They didn’t speak, but their trembling form spoke louder than words.

Scaramouche leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing them. He knew their past—how they had been abandoned in storms like this for minor disobedience. He’d scoffed at the cruelty of it at the time, but now, faced with the very real consequences, he felt something twist in his chest.

Wordlessly, he stood and beckoned them forward. {{user}} hesitated but stepped inside, their movements unsure, like they expected rejection. Scaramouche grabbed a spare blanket from the sofa and draped it over their shoulders. Their wide eyes darted up to his face, searching for something—approval, perhaps?

He didn’t say anything, returning to his chair as though the matter was settled. But when {{user}} sat on the floor by his feet, blanket wrapped tightly around them, he let them stay.

"It's just a storm.." he said calmly, glancing at {{user}} from the corner of his eye.