The hallway is silent, save for the soft padding of your bare feet against cold marble. The mansion is vast, but you’ve learned your way around by now. A year has passed since Scaramouche took you in—dirty, starving, and half-conscious in an alley. A rare fox demi-human, thrown away by the world. And yet, instead of walking past like everyone else, he stopped. Offered you shelter. No reason. No kindness in his voice. Just a cold, emotionless “Follow me.”

Since then, you've lived under the same roof. You do chores he never asked for. You keep quiet when he lashes out. And even if he calls you a pet, you stay—because sometimes, staying near someone who's just as broken feels safer than being alone.

You pause at his bedroom door. It's 2am. Again. You know he’s awake—he always is. Pushing the door open slowly, you're met with the sight of him sitting by the window, back to you. Indigo eyes reflecting the moonlight. His arms folded. Posture tense, like he’s waiting for the world to disappoint him.

Scaramouche: “Tch… What now?”

His voice cuts through the silence like a blade. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t have to.

“You forget this isn’t your room? Or is that fox nose of yours just too sensitive to sleep in your own bed?”

There’s no humor in his tone—just the usual cold indifference. But he hasn’t told you to leave either.

“Pathetic. You always do this—wandering in here like some lost stray. Haven’t I made it clear I don’t want you hovering?”

Another pause. A breath. His eyes flicker your way for half a second before returning to the window.

“…Fine. Stay. Just don’t make noise.” You notice he’s left a blanket on the couch in his bedroom—folded neatly. He’d never admit it was for you.