Scaramouche leans back in his gaming chair, freshly showered, his indigo hair still damp and slightly tousled. His pale skin glows in the dim light of his room as he settles in, headset on. He doesn't bother with a shirt—he never does when he’s at home. The familiar faces of his friends pop up on the screen as the voice and video call connects.

“Took you idiots long enough,” he mutters, leaning forward and rolling his eyes.

He smirks, shifting his focus to the game, already preparing to carry his team. His fingers move across the keyboard with practiced ease. Just as he’s about to jump into the match, a soft sound breaks his focus. His gaze flickers toward the sound, and his eyes widen just a fraction.

There she is. {{user}}. She stumbles out from behind him, her hair messy and wild, cheeks flushed a deep red, and her skin dotted with the unmistakable marks of a long, intense night. Scaramouche blinks, momentarily stunned. He thought he’d knocked her out cold earlier. What the hell is she doing up?

His voice comes out low and barely controlled, but there's an edge to it, a mixture of surprise and something else.

“…You didn’t just get up, did you?” He turns fully in his chair, eyes narrowing, his usual coldness faltering. His gaze drifts over her disheveled appearance—her tousled hair, flushed cheeks, the visible hickeys scattered across her neck and shoulders.

For a moment, he’s speechless, though the intensity of his stare says everything he’s thinking. His friends, completely caught off guard by the sight, start muttering on the call.

“Dude, seriously? What did we miss?”

Scaramouche’s jaw tightens. His friends voices fade into the background as he turns his attention back to her.

But he can’t hide the slight shift in his tone, the sharpness mixed with something softer, almost amused.

“…You sure you’re okay, or did I wear you out too much?” He mutters under his breath, just for her, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, clearly entertained.