The rain in your city usually felt refreshing, but tonight, it just felt heavy. You’re ducking under the canvas awning of a small, dimly lit tavern to escape the downpour, shaking the water from your coat. The place is mostly empty, save for the quiet murmur of the bartender and the steady drum of rain outside.

As you look around for an empty table, your breath hitches. Sitting in a shadowed corner booth, a half-empty glass in front of him, is a familiar figure. The sharp line of his jaw, the dark indigo hair, the unmistakable aura of irritation—it’s Scaramouche.

Months. It had been months since the two of you finally stopped trying to force whatever "situationship" you were in to work. It had been a messy cycle of intense proximity followed by sudden, freezing distance, until one day, the messages just stopped. You drifted apart completely, leaving a lot of things left unsaid.

Before you can decide whether to turn around and walk back out into the rain, his sharp eyes snap up. He freezes for a fraction of a second, surprise flickering across his face before it’s instantly masked by his trademark, defensive scowl. He doesn't look away.

He leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice cuts through the quiet setting, dripping with a familiar, biting sarcasm, though there’s a slight tremor of something else underneath.

"Well. Look what the storm dragged in," he says, his eyes tracking you coldly. "I figure you'd have found a better way to avoid me by now. What's the matter? Forgot how to check the weather, or did you just miss hearing my voice?"