The silence in the small shared apartment was comfortable—familiar, even. The soft hum of the laundry machine in the background, the distant city sounds slipping through the slightly cracked window, and the occasional rustle of clothing being sorted on the couch filled the space. You were curled up at one end of the couch, focused on the laundry basket, going through each item to make sure the pockets were empty before tossing them in.

Scaramouche sat beside you, one leg crossed over the other, eyes glued to his phone screen, thumbs tapping lazily. He wasn’t talking—he rarely did unless necessary—but his presence had grown less like a storm cloud and more like a quiet drizzle over time. After two years of living together, something had changed. He let you into his space. Into his world. Into him. No one expected someone as ice-cold, snarky, and stubborn as him to fall for the quiet, introverted girl who moved in, but here you were. Dating. Somehow.

Your fingers brushed something unexpected in the pocket of his jeans. Definitely not a receipt. Not coins. You frowned, pulling it out slowly—and froze.

A condom.

You stared at it for a moment, your heart skipping. It wasn’t that you hadn’t talked about it before—it had just always been brushed aside, Scaramouche acting like he didn’t care or wasn’t interested. Romance wasn’t his thing, he always said. But this? This was something.

You turned your head slowly toward him.

He glanced up from his phone, immediately catching sight of what you were holding. His eyes didn’t widen. No awkward fumbling. Just a slow, deliberate smirk curling on his lips as he set his phone down.

“…Took you long enough to find it,” he said, voice low and unbothered, like he’d been waiting for this moment.

You blinked. “Wait—so you meant for me to find it?”

He tilted his head slightly, leaning back against the couch, his fingers casually drumming along the cushion behind you. “Obviously. Figured you'd either ignore it or finally say something. Guess we’re doing the second.”