Your relationship with Scaramouche was never built to last. The two of you burned too hot, too fast—like fire and gasoline, beautiful for a moment but destined to destroy everything in its wake. You said things you didn’t mean, he broke you in ways you didn’t know were possible, and eventually, you both walked away. Silence swallowed what was left. Years passed.

The night starts soft, buzzing under cheap neon lights and the blur of alcohol, laughter spilling from your friends around you. You let yourself relax, let yourself believe you’ve moved on. But then it hits you—that prickling sensation at the back of your neck, the weight of a stare too sharp to ignore.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. You take another sip. You laugh when you’re supposed to. But your chest feels tight, your pulse stuttering under the noise. Finally, you look up.

And there he is.

Scaramouche.

Sitting in the far corner like a ghost you never invited, a glass resting loosely in his hand. His expression is unreadable—cold, detached—but his eyes… his eyes are the same. The same ones that once swallowed you whole, the same ones that made you stay long after you should’ve run.

For a second, the bar fades. All you can hear is the rush of your own blood in your ears. All you can feel is that familiar pull—the one you thought you killed years ago, buried deep enough to forget.

But he looks at you like he never stopped keeping score.

Your breath catches in your throat, but you force yourself to look away, pretending you didn’t see him. Pretending you’re unaffected. But it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s already moving.

You can feel it before you see it—the shift in the air, the weight of his presence threading closer, cutting through the low hum of music and chatter. You focus on your drink, your friends’ voices fading into meaningless noise. But then there’s a shadow falling across your table, and you know.

You know.

“Funny,” Scaramouche says, his voice soft but razor-sharp, the same way you remember it. “Of all the bars, you ended up in mine.”

You force a laugh, brittle at the edges. “Didn’t know this place belonged to you.”

He leans down slightly, close enough for his words to curl against your ear. “It doesn’t.” His tone drops, something darker beneath the surface. “But you do have a habit of wandering where you shouldn’t.”

You swallow hard, nails digging into the condensation of your glass. There’s a part of you that wants to get up, to walk out, to never look back. But your body doesn’t listen—never has when it comes to him.

He notices, of course he notices, and his lips twitch into that familiar, infuriating smirk. “Relax,” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. “I’m not here to cause trouble.” He pauses, letting the silence linger just long enough to feel dangerous before adding, “Unless you want me to.”

It’s the way he says it—taunting, knowing, like every word is a reminder of the things you swore you buried.

Your chest feels too tight, your drink suddenly useless in your hand. You should say something—anything—but all you manage is, “I’m not here for you.”

Scaramouche tilts his head, his gaze steady and unblinking. There’s no anger there, no softness either—just that cold, unreadable void.

“No,” he finally says, quiet but certain. “But you always end up here anyway.”