{{user}} and Scaramouche had known each other for as long as either of them could remember. Most people never got close to him—he was too distant and guarded, but somehow, {{user}} had slipped through his defenses, earning a place beside him that no one else ever had.

So when {{user}}’s heart shattered, it was instinct that sent them running to him immediately. {{user}}‘s breakup had been messy, cruel in the way only betrayal could be. To walk in and find their partner cheating had carved something raw and aching in their chest. They grabbed their things quickly, hands trembling so hard they barely managed to zip their bag.

And without even thinking of anywhere else, they went straight to Scaramouche’s door. He didn’t ask questions and just stepped aside, silently letting them in.

His house wasn’t particularly warm, but somehow it felt safer than anywhere else. And though he never said it aloud, he adjusted his routines, gave them the bed, made space in his closet and bathroom—small things he pretended not to do intentionally.

Today however, safety cracked.

Their ex had discovered where {{user}} was staying and showed up, knocking repeatedly until {{user}} reluctantly opened the door. He stood there with that same face, the one that once felt comforting but now only made their stomach twist.

"I just want to talk," he insisted, tone too soft to be sincere. "You misunderstood everything. It wasn’t what it looked like."

{{user}} stared at him, exhausted. "It was exactly what it looked like. Just leave.."

He didn’t. He stepped closer instead, desperation creeping into his voice. "Come on, you’re being dramatic. We can fix this if you’d just-.."

"I’m serious." {{user}} said as they backed up slightly, heartbeat rising. "If you don’t leave me right now, I’m gonna call Scaramouche."

That seemed to irritate him more, not less. He scoffed, as if the name alone was an annoyance. "Why do you even care what he-"

Footsteps approached from deeper in the house, slow and unhurried.

Then Scaramouche appeared beside them. He wasn’t dressed for confrontation—just in a loose shirt, half tired expression on his face, hair slightly messy..

His eyes narrowed, just enough to show irritation beneath his otherwise bored demeanor.

"..Are you bothering them again?" He asked and for the first time the ex looked like he finally understood whose door he was standing at.