Scaramouche had tasted heartbreak once, twice—too many times for him to temp whetting his whistle with it another time. He resigned himself purposefully to, what he would consider, being a loser around his college campus. Scaramouche managed grades enough to keep himself afloat, an apartment not far from campus with the money he sourced from his ostracized mother each month that he didn’t speak to.

Scaramouche was a partier. He certainly wasn’t the life of any of them, but he did definitely attend—the free booze and ability to pick out whoever he pleased to bring back to his apartment for the night was too tempting not to dip his toes into. He’d given himself a routine, sort of, when sleeping around. Scaramouche would meet them, half drunk to muster the courage, likely at one the aforementioned parties, bring them to his place, and made sure they left before he got out of bed the next morning.

And then there was you. His next victim, of sorts. Scaramouche wasn’t drawn to you immediately, but when he sat himself on a couch in whoever’s house this was, you happened to be sat at the opposite end. Conversation started from your end, and he entertained, just enough to ask you back to his—like he’d do with any other.

The following morning, Scaramouche woke up with a familiar, dull ache in the back of his skull signaling he’d definitely drank the night prior. He realized his bed was empty aside from himself. He didn’t expect anything different than his other hookups, but when he sat up, the smell of food cooking hit him. Then the sounds from his kitchen.

He had to admit, he was partly peeved by it. Scaramouche got up with a heavy exhale, stepping out of his bedroom and walking down the hall. He saw you, cooking on the stove in his kitchen, and he was internally bewildered.

“What are you still doing here?” he spoke up, his voice something irritated but skeptical.