Scaramouche

Every weekend, without fail, Childe brought Scaramouche over.

It had become almost routine. The front door would open, Childe’s loud voice would fill the house, followed shortly by Scaramouche’s sharper one. Somehow, the two of them managed to argue about absolutely everything.

They were best friends. At least, that was what Childe called them.

Anyone listening to their constant bickering would have assumed otherwise.

Lou, however, had long since stopped caring about their arguments.

Her attention always settled on Scaramouche.

He was difficult to ignore. His cocky attitude, his perpetually unimpressed expression, the way he carried himself as though the entire world were mildly inconveniencing him—it should have made him unbearable.

Instead, Lou found herself watching him whenever she could.

And Scaramouche had noticed.

Childe had explicitly forbidden Lou from wandering into the living room whenever he had friends over. Apparently, he didn’t need his little sister bothering them.

So she stayed in her room.

Mostly.

Every so often, the door would open just enough for one curious eye to peek through.

Scaramouche would be sitting on the couch, usually arguing with Childe over something ridiculous. Sometimes he was looking at his phone. Sometimes he was leaning back against the couch with that familiar bored expression.

And sometimes, his eyes would suddenly shift toward the doorway.

Lou would disappear immediately.

Scaramouche never said anything.

He simply smirked.

Then came one particular weekend.

Childe casually mentioned that Scaramouche would be coming over again.

That was all it took.

Lou became restless.

She showered earlier than usual, spent far too long fixing her hair, and carefully chose a pair of pretty pajamas. She even took the time to put on a little makeup.

The whole thing was ridiculous.

She wasn’t getting ready for a date.

She was getting ready to see her brother’s best friend.

At least, that was what she kept telling herself.

When the sound of the front door finally echoed through the house, Lou froze.

Scaramouche had arrived.

She quietly stepped toward her bedroom door and opened it by the smallest possible amount.

There he was.

Scaramouche walked into the living room behind Childe, casually slipping his shoes off before dropping onto the couch.

“You’re late,” Childe complained.

“And yet you survived,” Scaramouche replied dryly.

Lou watched from the narrow crack in her door.

Her eyes followed him almost instinctively.

The way he sat. The way he spoke. The slight roll of his eyes whenever Childe said something stupid.

She couldn’t seem to look away.

Scaramouche eventually leaned back against the couch.

Then his eyes moved.

Straight toward the doorway.

Lou immediately went still.

He could see her.

Not clearly—not with the door barely open—but enough.

Scaramouche’s gaze lingered.

He knew.

He had known for a while.

Every weekend, those same curious eyes would appear from behind the door. Every weekend, Lou would pretend she wasn’t watching him.

And every weekend, Scaramouche noticed.

Usually, he would tease her brother about it.

But today, he didn’t.

Instead, his expression shifted into the faintest, most self-satisfied smirk.

He turned back toward Childe as though nothing had happened.

Yet a few moments later, his eyes drifted toward the doorway again.

Still there.

Still watching.

Scaramouche found himself strangely pleased by it.

He was accustomed to people looking at him. He was accustomed to admiration, irritation, curiosity—whatever reaction he happened to provoke.

But Lou’s attention was different.

She didn’t seem to realize how obvious she was.

And, for once, Scaramouche didn’t mind being watched.

In fact…

He liked knowing her eyes were on him.

Every weekend, without fail, Childe brought Scaramouche over.

Except yesterday, he hadn’t.

Lou had noticed, of course, but eventually assumed Scaramouche simply wasn’t coming this weekend. She had no reason to expect otherwise.

So when night settled over the house, Lou had already changed into something comfortable and completely abandoned the idea of looking presentable.

Her hair was slightly messy. Her face was bare. She was wearing ordinary pajamas—the kind she would never have chosen if she’d known Scaramouche was going to be there.

She certainly hadn’t expected to see him tonight.

Thirsty, Lou quietly slipped out of her bedroom and headed toward the kitchen for a glass of water.

The house was unusually quiet.

Until she rounded the corner.

Someone was already standing near the kitchen.

Scaramouche.

He had apparently just stepped out of Childe’s room, presumably on his own mission for water. His presence alone made Lou stop dead in her tracks.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Lou’s expression immediately changed.

Her eyes widened. Her shoulders stiffened. She instinctively became painfully aware of everything she hadn’t bothered fixing before leaving her room.

Scaramouche noticed every bit of it.

His gaze slowly traveled over her disheveled appearance before returning to her face.

Then came that familiar, unbearably smug little smirk.

“First time seeing you like this. Did your stupid brother not tell you I’m coming over?”

Lou could only stand there, caught completely off guard.

Scaramouche, meanwhile, seemed to find the entire situation far more entertaining than he should have.

He had seen her countless times before—usually appearing at her bedroom door whenever he came over, always seemingly more prepared to be seen than she realized.

Tonight was different.

There was no carefully arranged hair. No attempt to look particularly nice. No quick retreat behind a door the moment their eyes met.

Just Lou, caught completely unaware.

And somehow, that made Scaramouche even more amused.

He leaned casually against the wall, watching her with that same knowing expression.

It was almost as though he’d finally caught her at a disadvantage.

For once, Lou hadn’t been the one secretly watching him from the safety of her doorway.

He was the one watching her.

And Scaramouche clearly had no intention of letting her forget it anytime soon.