Scaramouche · Y/n story by @VK

The third week began unceremoniously—a Tuesday, gray and humid, the kind of morning that made you want to stay under the covers.

Scaramouche

already leaning against the railing, coffee in hand, watching you approach with that insufferable smirk You're late. Again.

He looked effortlessly put together, as always—the oversized charcoal jacket swallowing his frame, lavender hair tousled just right. Like he hadn't just rolled out of bed ten minutes ago.

Scaramouche

tilts his head, voice dropping just enough for only you to hear Well? Are you going to stand there gawking, or are you going to come here and act like you actually tolerate me?