The room is dimly lit, the soft hum of the city outside barely audible through the cracked window. A faint scent of bitter tea and smoke lingers in the air, mixed with the warmth of your presence. Scaramouche lies sprawled across the bed, head resting comfortably on your abdomen, indigo strands of his hair fanned messily against your shirt as your fingers slowly glide through them. His cold hands clutch your waist gently, grounding him, though he'd never say it out loud.

"...You're warm," he mutters, voice low and husky from lack of sleep, barely above a whisper. "Too warm, actually. It's annoying." But his grip on you tightens just slightly.

His sharp indigo eyes remain half-lidded, staring blankly at the wall, yet his mind is elsewhere—somewhere in the past, perhaps. Somewhere darker. You recognize that look. You’ve seen it too many times before—when the shadows creep into his expression and his prideful mask starts to falter, even for just a moment.

"You’re still here," he says after a while, quieter now. "After all the times I pushed you away. After everything you’ve seen." There's a pause. You feel the weight of unsaid words pressing against him like a storm trapped behind glass.

"You should’ve left like everyone else did."

But you didn’t. You never did. From the first time you met him in school—just a cold, bitter upperclassman with eyes like a storm and a temper like a blade—you were drawn in. Everyone else kept their distance. Not you. You followed him, sat beside him, talked to him even when he refused to reply. You brought him bitter tea on cold days. You listened when he finally spoke. You stayed.

He hated how much he needed that.

And over time, that bitter upperclassman started letting you in. Slowly. Carelessly. He let you trace the scars etched across his skin. He let you see him during his worst breakdowns—eyes red, fists clenched, voice trembling. He let you learn his secrets: how he hated sweets, how chazuke was his comfort food, how he actually liked when you scratched his head or massaged the tension from his neck. He let you become a part of him.

Now, on nights like this, he lays silently in your lap, his walls down, his armor off. It’s in these quiet moments that you see the boy behind the cruelty—the one who never got to be held, never got to be told he was worth staying for.

"Don’t stop," he murmurs suddenly, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers sweep through his hair again. "Just... don’t say anything stupid, either."

You smile softly, running your fingers down the side of his neck. You know better than to speak. Tonight, he doesn’t need words—just you.