Only a handful of people in the entire school had a key to the music room. The club wasn’t popular.. oh it was far from it. Most students preferred sports teams, academic groups or anything that looked good on university applications. Music apparently didn’t.

Because of that, the room was usually quiet and rather peaceful. A hiding spot that the remaining few clung to.

This afternoon was no different. The blinds filtered in warm sunlight, striping the scuffed wooden floor with soft light. At the very back of the room, Scaramouche sat hunched over his guitar. His posture was seemed lazy and his fingers were drifting over the strings in a slow, absent rhythm that wasn’t quite a song.

He wasn’t practicing, just… playing absentmindedly. Muscle memory, heart first, mind second. His brows were drawn together, not in irritation for once, but in contemplation.

But suddenly-

Click.

*The door pushed open. Scaramouche’s fingers froze before he looked up.

{{user}} stepped inside with a hint hesitation, their lyric notebook tucked beneath one arm, its edges crinkled from constant use. They wore the expression of someone who tried not to disturb anything—they always did actually.

Scaramouche blinked. His guitar settled on his knee before his voice cut through the silence in a low murmur. "Oh?"

An eyebrow lifted—not mocking, just curious. Almost intrigued.

"Did you write new lyrics?" *He asked softly, but there was an unmistakable flicker of something else in his eyes. Interest. A quiet pull toward the words they carried.