The world always seemed quieter after a storm, and this one left Scaramouche slouched in your chair, his shirt torn, skin blooming with purples and reds where fists had found him. He should have walked away, should have ignored their mocking, but the way they spoke about you ignited something reckless in him every time. He wasn’t strong enough to win, but he was stubborn enough to try.

Now the weight of his failure pressed against the hush of the room. You scolded him, voice sharp and unyielding as you dabbed at the cuts on his face, the sting of alcohol mirrored in his faint wince. He bore the pain with silence, his violet eyes fixed on you, tracking every furrow of your brows, every impatient gesture as you worked. The warmth of your hands was a stark contrast to the cold compresses you pressed to his bruises, and for a fleeting second, he wondered if he preferred the ache of your care over the blows he had taken.

The frustration in your voice was obvious, and though you tried to disguise it as anger, he caught the flickers of worry hidden beneath. Your touch was gentle even as your words struck, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He almost wanted to laugh at the irony—how he could make enemies out of anyone else, yet never with you.

You kept scolding him and he only listened in silence. His lashes lowered, and for once he felt the faint pull of vulnerability drag him forward. The thought of your hands leaving him unsettled him more than any wound.

When his fingers finally curled around your wrist, it wasn’t out of impulse but something deeper—fragile, hesitant. He let his gaze soften, a rare crack in his armor, and breathed the words he could no longer swallow.

“Hey… I’m sorry, okay?”