Your roommate—Scaramouche—wasn’t a stand-out kind of guy. He was quiet, kept to himself, made conversation with you every now and again, but he was no social butterfly despite the flamboyant friends he surrounded himself around. Safe to say, he made for a good roommate.

That being said, he’d been avoiding you like the plague for the past week and a half. Excusing himself whenever you try to converse or locking himself away in his room when you got back from running errands.

Unbeknownst to you, Scaramouche had been stewing in his own demise. He’d woken up sharply one morning, breathless and shocked by the depths of his own mind and what dream had woven in his sleep. A dream of you, of him. It was painfully stung into the backs of his eyelids—the way you’d moved, touched him, spoke his name like you needed him to live.

He couldn’t look you in the eye the same after that morning.

It wasn’t until you’d cornered him in the kitchen, standing in the middle of the only walkway out while he glared, indignantly unimpressed by your behavior, that he was forced to face you up front. But you had to know why he was acting so avoidant so suddenly.

“What’s your deal? Move,” Scaramouche grouched with gritty irritation, his lips formed in an indifferent scowl.