The city lights bled softly through the curtains, painting faint gold streaks over the quiet room. Scaramouche blinked awake, his head heavy, the faint buzz of alcohol still lingering at the edge of his thoughts. The sheets beneath him weren’t his—too soft, too warm. He turned his head, and there you were, peacefully asleep beside him.

His pulse spiked instantly, the haze of the previous night dissolving like morning mist. Flashes returned—your laughter mingling with his under the hum of music, the way your eyes caught the dim glow of the bar lights, the closeness that came so naturally as the night wore on. One drink had led to another, your shoulders brushing, his usual composure slipping further with every shared glance. And then—

Scaramouche swallowed hard, dragging a hand down his face as if to erase the memory before it could settle. What the hell did I do?

He pushed the blanket aside carefully, moving inch by inch, holding his breath. The sound of the sheets rustling felt deafening. Every movement reminded him of how dangerously close he’d been to you—your warmth, your laugh, your touch that still lingered faintly on his skin.

Finally, his foot hit the floor, and he tried to stand—only for his ankle to catch on something discarded from the night before. The sound of his fall broke the stillness like shattered glass.

“Damnit—” he hissed under his breath, freezing.

The quiet shift of fabric behind him made his heart leap into his throat. You stirred, eyelashes fluttering as your gaze slowly met his. For a moment, the world seemed to stop.

He sat there on the floor, hair tousled, panic written all over his face. The morning light framed him in soft amber tones, far from his usual composed self.