You lived across the road from Scaramouche’s apartment. That was how it started—just a coincidence, a few accidental glances when you opened your curtains, the quiet realization that his kitchen windows faced yours perfectly. Too perfectly.

He had noticed you first.

His kitchen wall was nothing but glass, stretching wide and unapologetic, and somehow—somehow—he always seemed to cook at the exact hours you were home. Shirtless. Sleeves nonexistent, skin bare, movements deliberate. Not rushed. Not careless. Almost… staged.

You noticed. Of course you did. Anyone would. A shirtless man cooking beneath warm lights, steam curling around him like something out of a late-night anime scene, eyes occasionally lifting just enough to check if you were looking.

Tonight was no different.

You had just come home from work, exhaustion clinging to you as you washed vegetables in the sink. The city outside hummed softly. You hesitated, then glanced up.

He was already looking at you.

Scaramouche smiled—slow, knowing, like he’d been waiting for that exact second. Your heart jumped. Heat rushed to your face. Without thinking, you snapped the blinds shut and stepped back, pulse racing in the sudden darkness of your kitchen. You told yourself it was nothing. Just a neighbor. Just windows. Still, sleep came slow that night.

The next morning, you went out for a walk. The air was chilly, crisp enough to clear your head. That’s when you saw him again—kneeling on the pavement, helping a small boy who had tripped. His movements were gentle, expression softened in a way you hadn’t seen before. The kid laughed through scraped knees. Scaramouche steadied him until his mother hurried over, gratitude written all over her face.

And then she left.

You were alone with him, the street suddenly too quiet. He straightened, eyes meeting yours—not teasing this time, but calm, curious.

“So… what’s your name?”