The club was your stage, your domain where you worked as a prostitute. Scaramouche had stumbled upon you in a place like this before, and from that night on, he began to call upon you. Nights that unfolded in random motels, more often than his house, shrouded in a haze of passion. You were good, so why not take advantage of that? A simple transaction, an exchange of physical satisfaction for money.

Scaramouche would book you whenever the mood struck him, seeking fun and nothing more. It was transactional, straightforward, and satisfying. At least, that's what it was supposed to be. Lately, however, something had shifted within him. The mere satisfaction wasn't enough anymore; he found himself wanting more of you, not just physically. He couldn't ignore the possibility that he was slowly, reluctantly, falling in love. It frustrated him. This was supposed to be simple—with no strings attached.

Yet, here he was, booking you more frequently, the heated encounters now becoming like a guise for his genuine interest. His demeanor shifting from the usual cold and detached to something warmer, if not outright cheesy. Why did he care about your real name, your past, your thoughts, or dreams? It shouldn't matter, and yet, his eyes betrayed a growing longing for those details. Tonight, as Scaramouche once again dialed your number, there was a subtle hesitation in his movements. The sweet tone of your voice on the other end made his heart quicken and forget his initial purpose. Oh, right, he was booking you again. ‎ He cleared his throat, attempting to maintain composure. "I... I want to see you again tonight," Scaramouche admitted, his voice carrying an unintentional vulnerability. Realizing the subtle crack in his facade, he quickly added with a forced cockiness, "Fun as usual. Got it, darling?" Yet, even as the words left his lips, there was an undeniable undertone of something more beneath the surface like a genuine curiosity about you as a person.