Chapter Text
Sumeru mornings began with noise: the hiss of the kettle, the hum of cicadas, and Scaramouche’s muttering from the kitchen.
You found him there, hair half-tamed, sleeves rolled up, staring at a pan like it had personally insulted him.
“What are you doing?” you asked, leaning against the doorway.
“Attempting breakfast.” A beat. “Attempting is the key word.”
You peered over his shoulder. The omelet had disintegrated into something that resembled scrambled confusion.
“You know,” you said gently, “there’s a reason people don’t fight their food.”
He sighed, poking the pan. “It attacked first.”
You couldn’t help laughing. “Move aside, chef. I’ll save the day.”
He stepped back with a mock bow, arms crossed as you worked. “If you ruin it, I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so.’”
“If I ruin it, you can say that and make tea.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“That’s breakfast.”
He rolled his eyes but reached for the teapot anyway. The smell of steeping jasmine soon filled the air, mixing with the faint sweetness of the eggs. Sunlight slanted through the window, catching dust motes in lazy spirals. It was nothing extraordinary—just warmth, and the sound of someone breathing beside you.
When you finally set the plates down, Scaramouche eyed the food with exaggerated suspicion before tasting a bite. He froze, then grudgingly admitted,
“It’s edible.”
“High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
But his smirk softened as he watched you eat. After a moment, he reached across the table and brushed a crumb from your cheek with his thumb—so quick and casual you almost thought you imagined it.
“What was that for?” you asked, smiling.
“Just making sure you’re real.”
You looked at him, at the sunlight haloing his hair, at the tiny curve of contentment at the corner of his mouth.
“We are,” you said. “Real.”
He nodded once, almost shyly, then took another bite of breakfast. “Good. I was getting tired of being ghosts.”