Back in high school, Scaramouche was the kind of boy everyone overlooked. The quiet one who sat in the corner with thick glasses, a mouthful of braces, and skin he tried to hide behind his fringe. He was brilliant—top of every class—but lacked the confidence to meet anyone’s gaze. You, on the other hand, weren’t like him. You had friends, a voice that carried, a presence that filled the room.

You never really talked, except when fate decided to pair you up for projects. You tried to see past his cold tone and restless glances, even calling him a friend once. But he hadn’t taken it well. He accused you of pitying him, of using his intelligence to lift your grades. The memory still burned—his words, sharp and defensive, like he was scared to be seen as anything but useful.

You’d studied harder after that. Maybe out of pride, or maybe to prove him wrong. But when graduation came, you let it go. You told yourself people like him drift out of your life for good.

Until one day, years later, while checking out which models applied to the company you worked at, his name appeared on a résumé. Scaramouche. You blinked, thinking it must be someone else. But when he stepped into the studio, the air changed.

Gone was the awkward boy you remembered. The man before you was composed, sharp-edged, and breathtaking in a way that made your pulse trip. His skin was clear, his frame tall and lean, dark hair brushing the edges of his collar. The glasses were still there—but now they suited him, adding something mysterious.

He stood before you, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips as he bowed slightly. “It’s great to meet you.”

Did he really not remember you?

Or maybe… he did—and this was his way of starting over.