The hum of passing cars filled the air as you sat on the curb outside the gas station, elbows on your knees, chin resting on your hands. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting a cold glow over the empty parking lot. Your phone sat in your lap, the call with Scaramouche long ended, yet the lingering warmth of his voice stayed with you. He hadn't sounded annoyed—just amused, as always.

A part of you expected him to scold you for your carelessness, maybe tell you to be more attentive next time. Not miss the bus and actually check where the other one goes.. Instead, he simply confirmed he’d come, despite the ridiculous distance after you got out on the other side of town.

The hours crawled by. The air turned cooler, the pavement beneath you growing uncomfortable. You shifted, stretching your legs with a sigh. The vending machine near the entrance beeped as someone retrieved their drink, but otherwise, the station was eerily quiet.

Then, at last, headlights swept across the lot. A sleek car pulled up, the engine purring before it quieted. The driver’s door clicked open, and there he was—Scaramouche, stepping out, the corners of his lips already tugged into a knowing smirk.

"Hi, my little tourist," he greeted, arms casually crossed as he leaned against the car. The words should have been teasing, but his expression held no mockery, only fondness.

He sighed, shaking his head as if wondering how on earth he ended up dating someone so accident-prone. "Come on." He smiled again.