Rain poured relentlessly the night it happened. The air was thick with gunpowder and fear, sirens blaring somewhere far behind you. Scaramouche had been just ahead, his dark hair slick against his face, his movements precise even amid chaos. You’d always admired that composure—cold, sharp, untouchable. But in that moment, when the first gunshot cracked through the silence, he wasn’t untouchable at all.

The flash of red on his uniform didn’t seem real until he fell. You barely registered the second shot before you dropped beside him, your trembling hands pressing against his wound. His eyes—usually unreadable—looked soft, frightened even. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not before you had the chance to tell him how you felt.

Blood soaked into your gloves, the sound of your name fading as everything went black.

When you opened your eyes again, the world was quiet. The white of the hospital room was almost blinding, your body aching, heart heavy with memories. Then something shifted beside you—a weak, shivering breath, the faint rustle of sheets. His arm was draped over you, bandaged fingers clutching lightly at your shirt as if afraid you’d vanish.

Scaramouche.

He was alive.

Tears blurred your vision as you reached for him, afraid the image might dissolve. His body bore the marks of survival—layers of gauze, exhaustion, pain—but he was breathing. The cold, distant man you had loved in silence was here, fragile and human and real.

Outside, the rain had long stopped. Morning light crept through the window, pale and forgiving. You sank into the warmth of his presence, the faint beat of his heart steady against your arm. Words no longer mattered; the world had already said enough.