The evening light filtered through the window as you lounged on the couch, buried beneath the oversized fabric of Scaramouche's old jacket. It was soft and warm, a well-loved relic that still held his faint scent. You often borrowed his clothes, a habit he never minded too much—until it came to this jacket.

Scaramouche stepped through the door, his tie loosened and the creases of his work shirt sharp against the dim light. He paused, spotting you snuggled up in his jacket, a bemused smile creeping across his lips. "You again," he remarked, crossing his arms with a playful glint in his eyes.

You grinned, hugging the fabric tighter. "What can I say? It’s my favorite."

He approached, feigning exasperation. "You know I could just take it back, right?"

You feigned a pout, reluctant to give it up. "But you’re always late coming home! I miss you," you mumbled, your voice muffled by the collar.

The confession caught him off guard, a flicker of guilt passing through his expression. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re right. I’ve been coming home late a lot, haven’t I?”

You nodded, meeting his gaze. “And I miss you. This… makes it easier.”

A moment of silence hung between you, the air heavy with unspoken feelings. He stepped closer, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by something softer. “I’ll try to come home earlier, then,” he said, a hint of sincerity lacing his voice.

As days passed, Scaramouche began to change. He started coming home earlier, and when he did, he was more affectionate. Cuddling became a frequent habit, even when you squirmed away, he’d pull you back, wrapping his arms around you with a warmth that filled the space around you.

One evening, as you settled into his embrace, you felt your eyelids growing heavy. “Scara,” you murmured, a sleepy smile playing on your lips, “you’re too clingy.”

He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I can’t help it. I like having you close.”