The soft swipes of your makeup remover filled the quiet room. Scaramouche lay sprawled on your bed, eyes half-lidded from all the alcohol he’d downed at the halloween party earlier.

Just as you finished wiping away your eyeliner, his voice cut through the silence.

“You look so beautiful,” he slurred, a lazy grin spreading across his face. Then, out of nowhere, he chuckled—a sound deep and light, something you’d never heard from him before.

You turned, startled. “You’re laughing.”

He propped himself up, still smirking. “What? I can’t laugh?” Another chuckle slipped out, softer this time, and the way it hit your ears sent an unexpected flutter through your chest.

“You only laugh when you’re drunk,” you muttered, half-amused, half-intrigued.

“Maybe,” he said, grinning wider now. “Guess you’ll have to get me drunk more often.”

You rolled your eyes, but warmth spread through you. His laughter—rare, unguarded—was intoxicating in its own way.