You’d always known Scaramouche wasn’t the warmest of husbands.

He wasn’t cruel—at least, not in the obvious ways. He provided you with comfort, safety, shelter from the strange and quiet world he kept locked behind ancient doors and curtained windows. But love? You weren’t sure he even knew what that was.

He didn’t kiss you goodnight. He didn’t hold you when you were tired or scared. His eyes never softened when they landed on you. It was like being married to a statue carved of moonlight—beautiful, cold, and entirely unreachable.

And yet, he had chosen you.

A mortal.

A human.

You often wondered why.

The question gnawed at your ribs like a caged thing, especially on the nights he wandered the halls alone or stared out the window long past dawn. Sometimes, you thought he hated you. Other times, you thought he barely noticed you were even there.

But today… everything cracked.

You hadn’t meant to snoop. His desk drawer had jammed, and when you tugged it open to help him find an old journal, something else slid out: a photo. A very old one. The frame was faded silver, etched with curling roses, and the image inside was blurred with age—but it was unmistakable.

It was you.

Or someone who looked so much like you that your hands started to tremble.

But they weren’t human. Their eyes were sharper. Fangs peeked from parted lips. And the expression—the expression was one Scaramouche had never once looked at you with. Softness. Tenderness. Something that looked achingly close to love.

You didn’t hear him enter the room.

“What is this?” Your voice cracked as you turned, clutching the photo like it might shatter. “Who is this?”

His expression didn’t shift. Not even an inch. But there was something in his eyes—a flicker, a stormcloud, a thunderclap behind silence.

“Put that down,” he said coldly.

You took a step forward. “No. Tell me who they are. Why do they look like me?”

Something changed. Not on his face, but in the air. A ripple, like glass under pressure. Then, suddenly, violently, he snatched the frame from your hand and threw it across the room.

“Leave,” he hissed—sharp, cracked, not like him at all.

“Why won’t you just—!”

“I said get out!”

You flinched at the venom in his voice. His chest was heaving. His hands were shaking. And for the first time since you met him, Scaramouche looked afraid—of you, of himself, of something far older than either of you could name.

You left. You had to.

The door slammed shut behind you.

And inside, alone, Scaramouche sank to the floor beside the broken frame, staring at the photo— your face. The only version of you who had ever truly belonged to him.

He had waited lifetimes to find you again. To love you again.

But you were different now. Human. Warm. Fleeting. Fragile.

And no matter how close you stood, you still felt a thousand years away.