“Here, just because we're project partners.” Scaramouche said, shoving his portion of the work into your hands, his sharp gaze daring you to comment on anything.

“It’s not like I care about you or anything, got it?” he added with his usual arrogance before quickly turning away and leaving, as if the very idea of being in your presence for too long irritated him.

Later that night, your phone buzzed unexpectedly. It was a message from him, brief and strange enough to make you concerned. Without hesitation, you went to find him.

When you finally tracked him down, your suspicions were confirmed. Scaramouche was drunk. His usually sharp, sarcastic demeanor was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a disheveled, unsteady version of him that you had never witnessed before.

As you approached, his eyes flickered in your direction, and suddenly, he staggered toward you. Without warning, he nearly collapsed into your arms, his weight pressing against you as he struggled to stay upright.

“I... missed you...” he slurred softly, his voice barely above a whisper, sounding so different from the usual snarky tone you were used to. His arms loosely wrapped around you, like he wasn’t sure if he should hold on or let go, but too lost in his drunken haze to care.