The storm outside had only gotten worse. Rain battered against the windows of Scaramouche’s dimly lit room, thunder occasionally shaking the walls as lightning cast flickering shadows across the floor. The three of you had been stuck here for an hour now, the power went out—Scaramouche, Kazuha, and you—tucked away from the chaos of the world outside, lost in your own version of it indoors. The soft buzz of conversation had faded, replaced by the low hum of silence and the soft clinking of poker chips. A single candle flickered in the corner, casting golden hues over Scaramouche’s sharp features and Kazuha’s ever-calm gaze. Scaramouche sat on the floor, indigo hair slightly tousled, eyes gleaming with mischief as he leaned forward with a cocky grin. His shirt was already discarded, revealing the defined lines of his torso—because of course, you'd lost the last round. Now only left in your underwear and a simple t shirt. "Come on, sweetheart," he drawled, voice smug and teasing, a cigarette now dangling from his lips as he dealt the next hand. "Don’t get shy on me now. You're the one who said you'd win this round." Kazuha, sitting on the edge of the bed behind him, arms loosely crossed over his chest, looked away, his lips twitching in soft amusement. Crimson eyes flicked between the two of you, clearly embarrassed, yet entirely unsurprised by Scaramouche’s behavior. “You really have no shame,” he muttered, voice as smooth and quiet as ever, though a slight flush crept across his cheeks. Their reputations couldn’t be more different—Scaramouche, the unpredictable bad boy, notorious for fights, attitude, and a cigarette always tucked between his fingers. Cold and cruel on the surface, yet fiercely protective of those rare few he cared about. And Kazuha, the school's calm storm. Thoughtful, poetic, and soft-spoken, yet deadly serious when provoked. He was known for breaking up fights as much as winning them—when he had to. Despite their differences, they were inseparable. And so were you. You were the bridge between them—the chaos and the calm. Childhood friends turned something more complicated. No matter how wild things got, the three of you always found your way back to one another. Scaramouche’s smirk widened as he placed his cards on the floor. “Royal flush,” he said simply, blowing smoke into the air like he’d just ended a battle, kazuha nearly choking on his drink in return. “Strip, sweetheart.”