The walls were too thin.

Not in a literal way. The house was probably reinforced with some kind of space-age technology that could withstand a hurricane and a lawsuit. But emotionally? These walls were practically made of tissue paper.

You could hear everything. Ei's calm voice drifting from her office downstairs. The clink of tea cups. Yae Miko laughing at her own jokes in the living room.

Occasionally, the low shuffle of Scaramouche pacing across the hall. He had a way of walking that somehow sounded both irritated and exhausted at the same time.

You lay on your back in bed, eyes tracing the ceiling. The moonlight filtered through the soft curtains, casting shadows across the room that reminded you of smoke.

Gluestick was curled up near your feet, purring like the tiny traitor he was. Clearly unbothered by the haunting chaos of your mind. Your phone buzzed beside you.

Scaramouche: you breathing over there

i dunnnoooo oxygen's overrated

Scaramouche: yeah okay whatever

You stared at the screen for a second, Then typed.

What's up you good?

There was a pause.

Scaramouche: no but why do you care

I just do I guess idk
Can't not care if I know something's up

Scaramouche: this house makes it hard to pretend everything is fine I guess

You thought to yourself.. what could I say to help. You typed. Erased. Typed again.

want to pretend together?

The message sat unsent for a moment.

You pressed send.

⸻

Five minutes later, there was a soft knock on your door.

You were still in your hoodie and pajama shorts, sitting on your bed cross-legged like some feral little monk.

The door creaked open and Scaramouche stepped in slowly, already barefoot, already holding his phone like he regretted everything.

"You weren't kidding about the walls," he said. "I heard you drop your charger earlier."

"You threw it to me."

"You still missed."

You scooted over wordlessly, He hesitated like the floor might be lava, then sat. Not on the bed. On the floor beside it, back to your nightstand, knees drawn up.

"Do you always pace when you're anxious?" you asked quietly.

He glanced at you, frown softening just a little.

"Only when I don't want to think."

You leaned back against the headboard, legs stretched out, fingers tracing circles over your blanket. You wanted to say something. Anything.

Instead, silence sat between you both like a sleepy cat

"I had a dream last night," you said suddenly.

Scaramouche didn't look over, but you knew he was listening.

"It was back when I was little, in the fire. I could barely see. Smoke everywhere. The only thing I remember clearly was my mom screaming. But she wasn't screaming for me. She was calling for my sister."

Scaramouche's head tilted slightly.

You stared at the ceiling.

"I know it wasn't her fault," you murmured. "But it still hurts. That she was the one they loved. That I was the one they left behind. It hurts even more when it's the only thing I'm able to remember"

You felt something shift. A breath caught. A silence stretched too long. When you looked down, Scaramouche was already staring at you. Not with pity. Something .. else. You didn't know what to call it.

"I remember," he said softly, "when I first saw you again at school. I didn't think it was you. Not really. But something about your voice, your sarcasm, was the same. And I thought... maybe."

You held your breath

"I was scared to ask," he said. "Scared you wouldn't remember. Or worse... that you would."

You blinked slowly, throat tightening.

"So you knew me then... That's why you were such a dick?" you asked, voice breaking slightly.

He let out a breath of a laugh. "Part of it."

You leaned your head against the wall. "I still don't remember," you said. "I'm sorry."

"That's okay I don't expect you to." He said it like he meant it. Like you didn't owe him anything. Not your memories. Not your pain. Not even your forgiveness. It made something in you ache.

"Do you think I'm weak?" you asked, eyes fixed on the shadows dancing across the ceiling. He didn't answer right away.

"No."

Your gaze dropped to meet his.

"You survived her. That doesn't make you weak. That makes you the strongest person in the room."

You gave a small, humorless laugh. "That's a low bar in a house full of emotionally repressed people."

He smirked. "Fair."

You were quiet for a while after that. Long enough that you thought maybe he'd dozed off.

"Can I stay?" he asked.

You were shocked by the sudden question, not expecting him to ever say something like that. And with such softness in his voice too

"Just... here. For a little."

You nodded, shifting to make space.

He didn't climb onto the bed. Just sat beside it, leaning his head against the mattress, eyes closed, arms crossed loosely like even in sleep he wasn't letting his guard down.

You stared at him for a moment. Then you reached down, brushing your fingers lightly over his bandaged hand.

He didn't move.

Didn't flinch.

Just stayed there.

Breathing.

And eventually, so did you.