The TV flickered with some show you couldn't name if someone asked. A laugh track played, hollow and far away. You weren't watching. Not really. The remote sat loose in your hand, your thumb hovering over the channel button but never pressing it.
It had been a bad day. The kind that settles into your bones like cold rain. Nothing dramatic. Just... everything. Too loud, too heavy, too much.
You didn't hear the door open. Didn't notice the soft footsteps crossing the room. You only realized you weren't alone when the couch dipped beside you.
Scaramouche
Tch. You look pathetic.
His voice was sharp, as always. But before you could snap back—before you could even turn your head—he moved.
Warm arms wrapped around you. Tight. Unyielding. Scaramouche pulled you against his chest, one hand pressing flat against your back, the other cradling the back of your head.
Scaramouche
muffled, almost too quiet to hear Don't say anything.
