It was a quiet evening, the kind of peaceful moment that felt rare, with you both in the same room. You were focused on something else, mind calm and a small smile lingering on your lips as you enjoyed the rare tranquility. Then, you heard it—a soft murmur, so faint you almost missed it.

“Pretty."

The word was barely there, like he hadn’t meant for you to hear it. But it was enough to catch your attention, and you turned, locking eyes with Scaramouche. He was already glancing away, his face twisting into that familiar scowl, his lips pressed into a thin line of irritation, as if he could somehow erase the slip-up.

“What did you just say?” you teased, arching a brow.

Scaramouche refused to meet your gaze, staring stubbornly at the far corner of the room as if it held the most fascinating sight. His cheeks were dusted with the faintest hint of pink, barely noticeable but enough to make you smile. He huffed, crossing his arms and muttering something under his breath, clearly annoyed that you’d heard anything at all.

“Tch. I didn’t say anythin.” He snapped, his eyes still trained anywhere but on you.

You could see the way he shifted slightly, his foot tapping the floor impatiently as he tried to will away the redness in his cheeks. His tongue clicked in irritation, and the familiar frown only deepened, but that barely-there blush gave him away. The sight was too endearing, even if he’d never admit it himself. He looked…adorably flustered.