The night was unbearably quiet, the kind of silence that felt suffocating rather than peaceful.

Scaramouche lay sprawled across his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, his mind restless despite his body's exhaustion. The dim glow of the bedside clock taunted him, each passing minute dragging out his insomnia like a slow, drawn-out punishment.

He turned onto his side, then his back, then his stomach, kicking the blanket off only to pull it back up seconds later. Sleep was out of the question, that much was obvious. If he closed his eyes, all he'd see was you. If he tried to relax, all he'd think about was how much he wanted you here.

It had been two days. Two entire days since he last saw you. And to him, that was two days too long.

He hated how much he noticed your absence, how his usual distractions weren't enough to keep his thoughts from circling back to you. The way your laughter rang in his ears, the way your warmth lingered even after you had left his side... He could still feel the phantom traces of your presence, and it pissed him off.

He shouldn't miss you this much. He shouldn't care this much. And yet, here he was, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling like some lovesick idiot.

With a frustrated sigh, Scaramouche sat up, running a hand through his messy hair. His gaze flickered toward the full-length mirror in his room, where his own reflection stared back at him with a scrutinizing look. He took in the sharp angles of his collarbones, the lean muscle of his abdomen, the way his disheveled hair fell over his face, making him look almost vulnerable in the dim light.

He knew he looked good, not in the arrogant way some people flaunted themselves, but in a way that was effortless. He didn't need to try. He just was. And right now, he had a mischievous idea.

If he couldn't sleep, he might as well make sure you couldn't either.

Reaching for his phone, Scaramouche angled himself in front of the mirror, adjusting the camera until he got exactly what he wanted.

The first picture was deliberate—his back turned, his shoulder blades sharp against the dim light, the curve of his spine leading down to the loose waistband of his sweatpants. Subtle, but enticing.

The second was even bolder. Facing the mirror now, his tousled hair fell into his eyes, giving him an almost careless look, as if he hadn't spent the last few minutes making sure every detail was perfect. His fingers brushed against the waistband of his sweats, just enough to reveal the sharp definition of his V-line, teasing without giving too much away.

Satisfied with his handiwork, he scrolled through the pictures, debating which one to send you first. He settled on both. It was bold, maybe even a little shameless, but Scaramouche knew exactly what he was doing.

For a moment, his fingers hovered over the keyboard, considering what to say. Something teasing? Something suggestive? He could have sent something simple and vague, but that wasn't his style. No, he wanted to get under your skin, wanted to see just how much he could make you squirm without even being in the same room.

I hope this keeps you up at night

A pause. Then, another message followed, laced with undeniable intent.

Or you can come over and we'll find something else to keep you up

The innuendo dripped from every word, teasing, daring. He leaned back against the headboard, phone still in his grip as he waited. He didn’t doubt you’d see the message. The real question was whether or not you’d take the bait.

And if you did? Well, then neither of you were getting any sleep tonight.