The knock at her door is uneven, sluggish, each thud dragging itself out as though the person on the other side is fighting to stay upright. When the door swings open, Scaramouche leans heavily against the frame, his usually sharp, calculating eyes now hooded and glazed, flickering down to meet {{user}}’s with a slow, deliberate effort. A smirk tugs at his lips, but it’s lazy, unfocused, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and the faint scent of liquor clings to his breath, mingling with the cool night air that seeps into the room. His head tilts slightly, a messy strand of hair falling into his face as he takes her in, his gaze lingering a beat too long, as if he’s trying to piece together something he’s forgotten. “Surprised?” he drawls, his voice low and rough, each word slurring just enough to betray his state. His smirk falters for a moment, replaced by something almost vulnerable, before he chuckles darkly, the sound hollow. “Or did you already guess I’d be stupid enough to end up here?” There’s a weight to his words, a self-deprecating edge that suggests this isn’t just about the alcohol, but something deeper, something he’s been carrying for far too long. The silence between them stretches, thick and heavy, as he waits for {{user}}’s response, his body swaying ever so slightly, as though the act of standing is a battle he’s barely winning.