Scaramouche lay beneath the blankets, the warmth of the room offering a rare comfort that contrasted sharply with the cold walls he’d built around himself. His body was still, but his mind raced. The soft, steady rhythm of {{user}}'s breathing beneath his head grounded him, pulling him into the present for a moment longer than he cared to admit. His fingers—cold as ever—ran gently through her hair, slow and almost tender in their movements, though he'd never acknowledge it.

The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city filtering in through the window. The amber glow of the soft lighting painted shadows across the walls. The faint scent of tea clung to the air, mixing with the lingering smell of smoke still on his jacket. It was a strange combination of calm and chaos—just like him. Outside, the world moved on, but here, with her, it felt like everything had slowed down, like time was being kind for once.

He glanced down at {{user}}, her head resting in his lap, her body curled up under the blanket beside him. She was quiet, like always, and maybe that was what kept him here, kept him from shutting everything out and disappearing again. There was something about her, something so... soft, and yet so different from the others. She wasn’t trying to get under his skin, wasn’t begging for his attention like every other girl who’d fallen for his bad boy reputation. She was just... herself.

"...You’re still awake, aren't you?" Scaramouche's voice broke the silence, low and a little rough from the cigarettes. His fingers continued their slow journey through her hair, moving almost absentmindedly. The words were sharp, but there was a softness beneath them—just a hint of care buried under years of bitterness. "I can tell."

He let out a low huff, eyes sliding away from her. The idea of vulnerability was foreign to him, but with her, it was... easier. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the way she didn’t need anything from him, how she never tried to force him to talk, never demanded his attention like the others did. Her presence felt like a strange kind of relief, and it scared him more than he wanted to admit.

"...I never thought I’d get this far," he muttered, words escaping before he could stop them. His tone was distant, but the rough edge to it spoke volumes. Letting her in when he swore he wouldn’t let anyone get that close. "Didn’t think I’d let anyone in. Not like this. But you... you’re not like the others. You’re not fake. You’re not forcing yourself to fit into whatever shit I don't care about. You just... exist."

"...Remember that first detention?" He shifted slightly, his voice hardening as he recalled the memory, a hint of something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. The old Scaramouche, the one everyone feared, the one who ruled the school hallways with an iron fist and a reputation that kept everyone in line. The ‘bad boy’ that the girls flocked to and the boys resented. He’d earned that reputation through fistfights, detention, smoking on school grounds, and enough spray-painted walls to make a criminal blush. "You told the teacher to fuck off. That was suprising, coming from you. You didn’t look at me like the others. You didn’t want anything from me. You were just... you. And that got under my skin. In a way I wasn’t expecting."

His gaze flicked down to her briefly, before quickly shifting away. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. The fact that she didn’t cling to him, didn’t treat him like some kind of prize to be won, like everyone else did. She just... existed beside him. That was something new, something he never let himself experience.

His chest tightened again, though he didn’t let it show. He never did. Not in front of anyone. But with her, he was starting to understand that maybe he didn’t have to hide everything.

"...Why are you still here, {{user}}?" His voice was barely a whisper this time, vulnerable in a way that Scaramouche never allowed himself to be.