“Another one,” Scaramouche mutters with fruitless irritation, exhaling a scoff as he removes the note tucked between his class folders.

The perks of dating an English major, he thinks to himself, stuffing the small paper in a pocket of his bag where a few others were placed neatly alongside it.

The notes have been a constant for weeks now. Every few days, one appears where he’s sure to find it. He can’t say he hates it, finding sweet and encouraging words scribbled in your familiar handwriting that he thinks about the entire day and then some, who would? But he doesn’t acknowledge them in conversation either, despite the fact that he’s saved every single one.

Scaramouche hates how soft you make his heart, that disgusting, permeating feeling of affection bothering him to no end. But he’d rather die than give it up, even if the unusualness of it was something he felt he’d never get used to.