Scaramouche is in your house again.

You know this because the hallway smells faintly like his cologne—something sharp and clean—and because you hear his voice drifting from the living room, low and teasing as he talks to your older brother. He’s over so often that no one questions it anymore. He just… exists here. On your couch. In your kitchen. Leaning against doorframes like he owns the place.

You bump into him on accident when you step out of your room, phone in hand.

“Watch it,” he says automatically.

“You watch it,” you snap back, shoulders brushing as you pass. He scoffs, eyes flicking down to your screen before you can lock it.

Later that night, alone in your room, you film it.

It’s stupid. A trend you’ve seen all over your feed. You lip-sync along casually, rolling your eyes, pretending it’s nothing serious. They say shooters shoot, you mouth silently—then, on impulse, you glance at the camera and mouth his name.

Scaramouche.

You post it without thinking too hard. It’s meant to be funny. Petty. A jab. You fall asleep with your phone charging beside you.

By morning, it’s blown up.

Thousands of likes. Comments screaming. People tagging friends, asking WHO IS HE? Your stomach twists. You delete nothing. You pretend you don’t care.

You find out he’s seen it when he comes over again that afternoon.

You’re heading down the hallway when a hand plants itself on the wall beside your head, stopping you short. You look up—and there he is, standing far too close, phone held loosely in his other hand.

“So,” Scaramouche says, voice smooth, amused. “Care to explain?”

Your heart stutters. “Explain what?”

He tilts the phone toward you. Your video stares back, frozen on the exact frame where you mouth his name. His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smirk.

“Shooters shoot,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for you to smell him. “What’s up with you?”

Your face burns. “You’re full of yourself.”

“And yet,” he replies softly, eyes never leaving yours, “you chose my name.”

Footsteps echo from the living room. He straightens instantly, stepping back as if nothing happened, but the look he gives you lingers—teasing, curious, unmistakably pleased.

As he walks away, you realize something terrifying.

He didn’t look annoyed.

He looked interested.