The apartment was dim when you came home, the smell of rain clinging to your clothes and the faint hum of lo-fi music vibrating through the walls. The lights from the window cut across the room, landing on him — Scaramouche — slouched against the couch with his phone in one hand and a cold expression that looked carved into marble.

He didn’t look up right away. He never did. His indigo hair fell messily across his face, red eyeliner still sharp from earlier, rings glinting as he scrolled without care. The faint silver of his lip piercing caught the light when he finally spoke.

“You’re late,” he said flatly, not glancing up. His voice was soft but carried that familiar edge — the kind that always made your heart jump between annoyance and something deeper.

You kicked off your shoes and sighed. “Yeah, work ran late. You could at least pretend you missed me.”

He scoffed under his breath. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You walked closer, and he finally looked up. Those indigo eyes — cool, unreadable — flicked over your tired form. He didn’t say a word, but you could see the flicker of concern hiding behind that practiced indifference. His thumb twitched like he wanted to reach for you but wouldn’t allow himself to.

“Scara,” you murmured, tilting your head. “You’re really bad at pretending you don’t care.”

His lips twitched, the smallest ghost of a smirk forming. “And you’re really bad at noticing when I’m trying to relax.”

“Relaxing? You’ve been sitting here brooding for three hours, haven’t you?”

He raised a brow, unimpressed, but didn’t deny it. Instead, he dropped his phone to the couch and leaned back. The black nails, the faint scent of his cologne — dark musk and something electric — surrounded you as you came to stand in front of him.

Without another word, he reached out, hooked a ringed finger through your belt loop, and pulled you closer until you were standing between his knees. The movement was lazy, deliberate. His indigo gaze flickered from your lips to your eyes, something dark and unspoken simmering there.

“Maybe I did miss you,” he muttered, voice low, the tip of his tongue grazing the edge of his lip piercing before he leaned forward. The touch of his mouth was slow at first — a contrast to his usual sharpness — but it deepened quickly, the cool metal of his lip ring brushing against your skin. His tongue piercing grazed your lower lip, sending a shiver straight through you.

You barely had time to breathe before he pulled back just enough to whisper, “You taste like rain.”

You blinked at him, dazed, and he smirked — the expression dangerous and intimate all at once.

“Next time,” he murmured, brushing a thumb along your jaw, “don’t make me wait that long.”

His tone was teasing, but his hand lingered — a contradiction like him in every way. Cold words, warm touch. Always pretending not to care, but never letting go.

You rolled your eyes, but the small, satisfied curve of his lips told you he’d already won this round.