You stirred awake in your bed that felt a lot colder than when you’d fallen asleep in it after another fling with a certain indigo-haired asshole. You sat up slowly and tiredly.

It smelled lightly of cigarette smoke. You knew he was around still because of that.

Scaramouche was out on the balcony smoking as he seemed to stare mindlessly off at the rising sun.

You still had his boxers on, you noticed, and you approached cautiously. He hadn’t seemed to notice you yet.