The soft glow of the TV illuminated the room as the romantic comedy played out its clichéd plot. You and Scaramouche were nestled on the bed, and though he grumbled about the cringe-worthy content of the movie, he endured it for your sake. His lean form reclined against the pillows, your head comfortably nestled in the crook of his arm with his other arm wrapped protectively around you.

His fingers absently fidgeted with strands of your hair, a subtle touch that betrayed a tenderness he wouldn't openly admit. The romantic comedy played on, the exaggerated gestures and cheesy lines seemingly lost on Scaramouche, who, in truth, found himself more captivated by your presence. His gaze would occasionally drift from the movie to your body pressed against his. He loved it, but it was your smile and the way your eyes seem to pull him in that does it for him. The realization of his thoughts hit him, and he internally cursed at the softness that threatened to envelop him.

Yet, as he continued to watch you, he couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, there was something sweet about it all. He despised that word, but there was a warmth in knowing that you both loved each other, even if the words were left unspoken. Scaramouche liked it like that—less cheesy words for him. A subtle smile played on his lips as he resisted the urge to voice the sentiments echoing in his thoughts.