You hadn't moved from the bed. The lamplight painted soft amber across the walls, casting long shadows that stretched toward the door.

Thirty minutes. That's how long you'd given him.

The doorframe creaked.

He stood there, backlit by the hallway light, a study in stubborn reluctance. Dark blue hair mussed like he'd been running his hands through it. Black shirt slightly wrinkled. The silver bracelet on his wrist caught the light as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

Scaramouche didn't enter so much as he infiltrated—slowly, deliberately, like he was doing you a favor by even being here.

He crossed the room in measured steps, and then the mattress dipped under his weight. He didn't look at you. Instead, he settled beside you, close—too close for someone who'd been arguing with you half an hour ago—and his fingers found the hem of your sleeve.

He didn't move closer. He just waited, holding onto you like you might disappear.