The first snow of December fell quietly, coating the streets in a soft white hush. Streetlights blurred in the fog, and every passing car sounded distant — like the world itself was whispering to slow down.

He stood there, hands in his pockets, breath clouding the air like smoke. Scaramouche never liked winter. Too cold. Too quiet. Too full of things that reminded him of you.

He kicked at a patch of snow, pretending it wasn’t your favorite season, pretending he wasn’t waiting. He hated waiting. But when he saw that familiar silhouette bundled up in a white coat, scarf slightly crooked — he forgot how to breathe.

You hadn’t even said a word. Didn’t need to. The way you blinked under the falling snow said everything.

Scaramouche smirked a little, though his heart wasn’t nearly as calm as he looked. He walked up until the space between you two was nothing but a breath away. His fingers brushed the edge of your scarf, fixing it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Did you really think I’d let you freeze out here alone?”

His voice came out softer than he meant it to be — warm enough to melt the snow resting on your hair.