The safehouse still smelled like chlorine and rusted metal—ghosts of the pool facility where Barefoot and Dead Mansion had torn each other apart. Sirens had long faded, but the quiet that replaced them felt heavier, like the air itself was holding its breath.

Scaramouche sat on the edge of a table, legs dangling, bat spinning lazily between his fingers. He looked bored, but you knew better. His eyes followed everything—every flicker of light, every sound in the vents. Trauma had taught him vigilance the way other children learned lullabies.

“You’re bleeding,” he said flatly, gaze dropping to your sleeve.

“It’s not mine,” you replied, though you rolled the fabric anyway. A shallow cut bloomed red against your skin.

He clicked his tongue, irritated—not at the wound, but at the fact that you hadn’t noticed it sooner. He hopped down and grabbed the med kit with practiced ease. His hands were steady as he cleaned the cut, fingers barely brushing your skin, as if afraid to linger too long.

Outside, the city groaned. Nol was still out there—stealing children, stitching broken homes into something twisted and calling it family. You both knew what it meant to be bought. To be kept. To be discarded.

“You know,” Scaramouche muttered, tying the bandage tighter than necessary, “people like him always say they’re saving us.”

You flinched—not from pain, but from recognition.

“They never ask what we want,” you said quietly.

That made him pause.

For a moment, the cruel amusement he wore like armor slipped. His eyes softened, just slightly, like ice cracking under spring sun. “Do you… know what you want?” he asked. Not mocking. Genuinely unsure.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached out—hesitant, clumsy—and took his wrist. His pulse jumped under your fingers.

“I think,” you said, voice trembling despite yourself, “I want to learn. How to stay. How to care for others.”

Scaramouche laughed softly, but it wasn’t sharp this time. It was fragile. “You’re bad at choosing safe things,” he said, leaning closer.

“Maybe,” you whispered. “But I’m choosing you.”

That did it. His breath caught. His forehead rested against yours, tentative, like he was testing gravity. His hand hovered at your waist, unsure where it was allowed to land. You tilted your head, closing the distance—

The door slammed open.

“Wow,” Dmitry Medvedev drawled, arms crossed, unimpressed. “Am I interrupting something emotionally catastrophic?”

Scaramouche recoiled instantly, mask snapping back into place. “Get out,” he snapped.

Dmitry smirked. “Sean wants us. Mission briefing. Try not to fall in love on company time.”

As Dmitry left, Scaramouche glanced back at you—eyes burning, promise unspoken. He didn’t kiss you. But his fingers brushed yours as he passed, a silent vow pressed into skin instead of lips.

Later, you realized that was how it always started. Not with kisses. But with staying.