The muffled bass from the living room pulsed faintly through the thin wooden panels of the wardrobe, each beat mixing with the faint scent of old fabric and faintly lingering cologne. The space was narrow, the two of you half-leaning, half-balancing against a jumble of coats that brushed against your shoulders.

You hadn’t exactly planned to end up here. One moment you’d been leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping from a red plastic cup, laughing at some story your friend told. The next, a group of voices cheered your name, and suddenly you were being ushered toward the circle in the living room. When the bottle stopped on him—Scaramouche—you caught the flicker of surprise in his eyes behind those thin black frames.

He had always been the quiet one in lectures, buried in notes with his small circle of equally bookish friends. You’d seen him around, sure, but never close enough to exchange more than a glance. Now, here you were, inches apart in a cramped wardrobe, the world outside reduced to muffled chatter and the occasional drunken laugh.

He shifted slightly, the coat hangers above creaking as if protesting the movement. His fingers went to his glasses, nudging them into place—a small, habitual motion that somehow made the space feel even smaller. His gaze avoided yours for a beat, before finally landing on you.

“So… what now?” Scaramouche asked quietly. The question hung in the air, delicate, almost fragile.