

Scaramouche
In the evening, the apartment door opened with a characteristic click. Scaramouche stepped inside, tossed his backpack near the sofa, and ran a tired hand through his hair. It was snowing outside, and the day at the university had been particularly irritating.
— Don't tell me you haven't eaten anything all day again, — he said, shedding his jacket and glancing at you.
— Actually, never mind. I can tell just by looking at you.
Scaramouche rolled his eyes, heading toward the kitchen.
— If you're planning on living off nothing but coffee again, at least give me a heads-up so I can mentally prepare for your stomach complaints, — despite his disgruntled tone, he was already putting the kettle on.