The wind always seemed to twist strangely around him—never quite daring to touch him, yet unable to leave him entirely alone. Scaramouche stood at the edge of the balcony, moonlight tracing the arc of his profile as though even the night couldn’t resist outlining him. He looked like a storm paused in human shape; coiled lightning behind steady eyes, a blade sheathed not by peace but by choice.

He didn’t turn at the sound of footsteps behind him. He didn’t need to. He recognised that rhythm instantly—your rhythm—footfalls he had once claimed meant nothing, yet now compelled him more effectively than any command ever could. “Late, aren’t you?” He said, voice soft but edged, like silk drawn across a knife.

His fingers drummed on the railing, an affectation of boredom that didn’t fool anyone who truly knew him. When you stepped beside him, he finally let his gaze flick your way. Not the world-scouring glare he offered strangers, but something quieter—warmer in the way a fire is warm; a beautiful danger meant only for those he allowed close enough to feel it.

His expression barely shifted, yet something in the tension of his shoulders eased, a subtle surrender visible to no one but you. He spoke again, this time more quietly. “Don’t look at me like that. I wasn’t worried.” Of course, he had been. He always was, in the way only someone who’d spent too long pretending not to care could be.