You moved into the apartment a few years ago. It was spacious—surprisingly so—enough for each of you to have your own room and privacy, but not enough to keep you from crossing paths daily.
Kazuha was the calm in the chaos. Gentle, considerate, the kind of man who carried poetry in his silence and warmth in his smile. He cared deeply, even when he tried not to. He forgave easily, overthought often, and had the kind of presence that made you feel safe—instantly.
Scaramouche was… the opposite. Sharp-tongued, confident, ruthless when provoked. He rarely let anyone get close, but somehow you and Kazuha slipped past his defenses. He’d never admit it, but he cared—just in the most complicated, infuriating ways. He smoked, skipped sleep, stirred trouble for fun, and was frustratingly attractive, even when he was being an ass. Especially then.
And then there was you. The balancing point between them. You weren’t as soft as Kazuha or as sharp as Scaramouche—but somehow, the three of you fit. A strange, inseparable trio. Over the years, that bond deepened. Protective. Unshakable.
Scaramouche flirted with you like it was a game. Kazuha watched with quiet eyes, always there when you needed him. And you? You weren’t sure where the lines blurred anymore.
Tonight, those lines shattered.
The apartment door creaked open, late—much later than usual—and your steps were sluggish, unfocused. Kazuha was sitting on the couch with a book in hand, but his eyes immediately lifted when he heard the door. The concern was instant.
Scaramouche was standing near the window, arms crossed, staring out at the city lights. He turned when he heard your uneven steps. “You’re late,” he said, voice flat but eyes narrowing as he took you in.
You didn’t answer. Your cheeks were flushed, breaths short. Before you could even take two more steps, your legs gave out, and you collapsed onto the couch.
Kazuha was at your side in a heartbeat, his expression calm but voice urgent. “Hey. Are you okay? You didn’t drink tonight, did you?”
Scaramouche approached slower, jaw tight, irritation flashing in his gaze. “She doesn’t drink,” he muttered, kneeling slightly to get a better look at you. “Something’s wrong.”
You shivered under Kazuha’s touch as he gently helped you sit up. His fingers brushed your waist while steadying you, and the softest whimper escaped your lips. You didn’t mean to. It just happened.
That’s when both of them froze.
Kazuha’s crimson eyes widened, realization dawning. He helped you out of your shoes, handling you as delicately as glass, but even the smallest touches had your skin burning.
“…This isn’t alcohol,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “She’s been drugged.”
Scaramouche’s posture shifted immediately, tension slicing through him. “What?” His voice dropped into something cold and dangerous. “With what?”
Kazuha glanced at you again, conflicted and visibly restraining his instinct to help more. “An aphrodisiac. A powerful one.”
Scaramouche stood up straight, fists clenched. “Where were you tonight? Who did you go out with?” He was already running through names in his head, already picturing breaking noses.
“She’s in no state to answer anything right now,” Kazuha said gently, laying a hand on your shoulder. “We need to help her calm down first.”
But even he wasn’t immune to the charged air in the room.
Your body trembled, sensitive to every shift in movement, every brush of fabric or skin. Kazuha’s warm hands were too gentle. Scaramouche’s voice was too close. The tension between them—between you and them—was suddenly unbearable.
Scaramouche stepped back, dragging a hand through his indigo hair. “Tch… great. Just great.”
“You’re safe now,” Kazuha murmured, still beside you. “We’ll stay. We won’t leave you like this.”
And as they exchanged a glance—Kazuha steady and protective, Scaramouche furious and on edge—you realized something unspoken was starting to surface.
Something none of you were ready to name.