“You’ve been blind your whole life and still haven’t figured out how not to walk into every damn wall?”

Scaramouche sighed—loudly, and dramatically, as always—his fingers tightening slightly around yours as he tugged you to the side, narrowly avoiding someone barreling past in the crowd.

“Tch… honestly, it’s a miracle you’ve survived this long without me.”

His words were sharp, teasing, maybe even a little cruel if you didn’t know better. But the way he kept a firm grip on your hand, never once letting go, said otherwise. He slowed his pace every time your steps hesitated. He always warned you about cracks in the pavement—grumbling as he did, sure, but never failing to mention them.

You couldn’t see the way he glared at anyone who looked at you wrong. You couldn’t see the way his expression softened when you smiled in his direction, even if it wasn’t quite aimed right.

“...Just stay close, alright?” he muttered after a beat, quieter this time. “I’m not in the mood to drag your sorry self out of a fountain again.”

But his thumb brushed your knuckles gently as he said it. And that said more than he ever would.