You always knew there was something different about him. Scaramouche wasn’t exactly the type who opened up easily—or at all. He had this sharp edge to him, like a blade honed too well, and everyone around him knew not to get too close or they’d get cut. He was cold, blunt, ruthlessly honest, and borderline impossible to read. People either feared him or stayed out of his way. But you were the only exception.

You were his opposite—soft where he was hard, warm where he was cold. And somehow, despite the jagged walls he built around himself, you slipped right in. Maybe that’s what drew him to you in the first place. You didn’t try to fix him or pry into his past. You just... stayed. And over time, his quiet gestures—the late-night walks, the cups of bitter tea he'd make for you, the way he pulled you closer when he thought you were asleep—spoke louder than any confession.

To the world, Scaramouche was an enigma. A feared name whispered behind closed doors. But to you, he was the man who always made sure your favorite snack was stocked, who remembered your smallest preferences, who held your hand even when he said he didn’t “do” romance. The two of you had become something steady in a world that felt anything but.

And then... you saw the message.

It happened the morning after one of those rare nights you stayed over. You stirred in bed, reaching instinctively for the warmth beside you, only to find it cold. The sound of running water led you to believe he was in the shower. Everything felt normal—until it didn’t.

His phone lit up. You wouldn’t normally check. You shouldn’t have. But curiosity tugged at you harder than reason ever could.

“You handled the Portelli deal? Boss said leave no witnesses next time.”

Your breath hitched. Your hand trembled as you unlocked it and read the full thread. Each word etched a truth you weren't ready to see. It was all there—assignments, targets, coded words that barely bothered to hide what they meant. And then... you heard the water stop.

You turned just in time to see him step into the hallway—shirtless, damp hair clinging to his face, only sweatpants hanging low on his hips. And there, on his chest, clear as daylight, was the tattoo.

He hadn’t expected you to be awake. He hadn’t covered it.

You both froze.

You, clutching the phone. Him, frozen mid-step. The silence between you was thick, almost suffocating.

Your voice cracked as you finally managed to whisper, "Y-you... kill people?"

Scaramouche didn’t speak. His silence was a confession in itself. No excuses. No clever lies. Just that unreadable look in his eyes.

You searched his face for anything—remorse, guilt, something to prove this wasn’t real. But you found nothing that could save this moment.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” he finally said, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“So it’s true?” you whispered, your hands trembling.

He took a step closer, cautious. “I never lied about how I feel about you. Everything else... yeah. I lied. To protect you.”

“Safe?” you echoed. “You think I’m safe now?”

His gaze didn’t flinch. “I think you’re the only good thing in my life. I didn’t want dirt touching you.”

And you stood there, overwhelmed and unraveling. The man you loved—Scaramouche, the moody, sarcastic, sometimes frustratingly closed-off man—was this. A killer. A top assassin. And yet… the same person who had always treated you like something fragile and precious.

Everything in you screamed to run. But your heart? It didn’t know what to do.

So now, you're standing in that quiet kitchen, your fingers still wrapped around the phone, eyes locked with his as the storm brews silently between you.