The afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, casting golden stripes across your notebook as your pen scratched against the paper. You were curled up on the floor cushion, lost in your newest story draft, the quiet hum of lo-fi beats playing in the background. The apartment was unusually quiet—for once, Scaramouche hadn’t said anything snarky in the past hour.

Which should’ve been your first warning.

“Is this what I think it is?” came his voice, low and teasing, right by your ear.

You flinched, clutching your notebook to your chest. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

He raised an eyebrow, already smirking as he leaned down, his violet eyes dancing with curiosity. “You’ve been scribbling like a maniac all day. You’re definitely writing something scandalous.”

“It’s not scandalous. It’s—private.”

“Oh? That makes me even more interested.”

Before you could react, Scaramouche snatched the notebook from your hands with practiced ease and darted just out of reach.

“Scara!” you shouted, scrambling up to grab it. “Give it back!”

He held it up over his head like a school bully, grinning smugly. “Let’s see—‘His breath hitched as he leaned in, their lips only inches apart…’ Oh my, is this based on real life?”

You lunged forward, catching him by the sleeve. “I swear to god—!”

In the next second, a tangle of limbs and laughter crashed down onto the floor cushion. The world spun for a moment, and when it settled, Scaramouche was braced over you, his hand planted beside your head, his hair falling around his face like ink in water. Your faces were dangerously close—so close you could see the flecks of amethyst in his eyes, the way his lips parted in surprise.

His teasing smile faltered.

The moment hovered—tense, breathless, electric.

And then—

“What the hell is going on here?”

Your brother’s voice cut through the silence like a whip. You and Scaramouche froze. His hand was still planted beside your head, your bodies still way too close, and your brother was standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised so high they practically touched his hairline.

Scaramouche pushed himself up slowly, that signature smirk curling back onto his lips like armor. “Oh, hey. You must be the overprotective sibling.”

You buried your face in the cushion with a groan, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow you whole.