The rain hammered against the windows, the wind howling as thunder illuminated the room in brief, blinding flashes. Scaramouche sat at his desk, the glow of his lamp casting long shadows, his pen halted mid-sentence. He realized something was off. Usually, by now, {{user}} would have tiptoed into his room, their presence silent but trembling.

He set the pen down and stood.

The hallway was dim, the faint sound of rain filling the silence. He pushed open {{user}}'s door to find them huddled in bed, their frame tense and trembling. The sheets were pulled over their head like a fragile barrier, hands pressed tightly over their ears as if trying to block out the world.

For a moment, he stayed in the doorway, unsure if he should intrude. But the memory of his mother’s words crept into his mind: Their fear isn’t baseless. It’s rooted in something they can’t forget.

Quietly, he stepped inside, the floor creaking beneath his weight. He crouched beside their bed, hesitating before reaching out to gently tug the sheet away. Their wide, tear-glossed eyes met his, filled with a vulnerability that made him uncomfortable but also unwilling to leave.

He didn’t say anything—what could he say? Instead, he climbed onto the bed, sitting next to them. After a pause, he leaned back against the headboard and gestured for them to follow. {{user}} hesitated, but eventually curled up at his side.

They sat in silence, the storm continuing its relentless onslaught outside. Scaramouche absently reached out, resting a hand on their shoulder in an awkward attempt at comfort. It was a clumsy gesture, but it worked.

"Better now?" He asked silently, the gentleness in Scaramouche's voice surprising the boy himself.