The movie had long since ended, though the faint hum of the end credits still flickered across the flat screen. The air was thick with the scent of hot snacks, cheap soda, and something slightly smoky—Scaramouche’s usual brand clinging faintly to the curtains. The storm outside had deepened, snow now falling in dense flurries, piling against the window like nature’s own insulation. Scaramouche’s bedroom was dimly lit, the soft glow of fairy lights casting shadows across the walls. The bed—king-sized, because of course he’d insisted on having space—took up the center of the room. Just a few feet away was a sleek, leather couch, clearly expensive and slightly scratched at the corners from his cat. “I’ll take the couch,” Kazuha had offered without hesitation, already gathering the throw pillow and tugging the blanket over his shoulder. “You two take the bed.” “Suit yourself,” Scaramouche muttered as he slid under the covers, kicking his socks off with one foot. “Just don’t drool on my furniture.” You hesitated by the bed, rubbing your arms for warmth. The room was cold. The heater never quite reached this corner of the house, and Scaramouche had cracked the window slightly to smoke earlier. Bad habit. You hated how good it smelled on him. You slipped under the covers, shivering slightly. Not from nerves. Not exactly. A beat passed. Then the blanket rustled behind you. “Are you serious right now—?” you started, but his cool fingers were already pressing against your waist. “You’re freezing,” Scaramouche said gruffly, pulling himself in behind you without an ounce of hesitation. “Don’t act like I haven’t done this before.” His body curled around yours, deceptively lean but strong—heat radiating off his bare chest as he slid an arm under your neck and the other around your stomach. The scent of him wrapped around you too—cigarettes, mint, and the faint metallic tang of whatever cologne he only ever used on rare nights like this. "Body heat’s free," he murmured against the back of your neck, breath warm and slow, "but I charge extra for cuddles." He didn’t wait for your reply. His hand had already slid under your shirt, palm flat against your stomach. Cold fingers on hot skin. You twitched, half from surprise, half from the spike of heat that followed. "Still freezing?" he whispered. “Mhm,” you breathed. His hand began to move. Slowly. Teasingly. He dragged his fingers up your ribs, past the line of your bra, before resting just below—hovering. Waiting. Testing. You said nothing. You didn’t stop him. Then—he cupped your chest, full and deliberate. Your eyes widened. A sharp inhale. Still, you said nothing. Because part of you had always known he would. Sooner or later. Before he squeezed, just once, but enough to make your breath Hitch.