The classroom was quiet as you approached your desk, dropping your bag onto the chair when something caught your eye. A folded piece of paper sat in the center of your desk, a delicate swirl of cursive at the top reading, "To You, from Your Secret Admirer."

You blinked in surprise and curiosity as you unfolded the letter, eyes scanning the familiar handwriting. It was undeniably his — the sharp, precise strokes and the way he dragged the pen ever so slightly at the end of each word. Scaramouche had been your best friend for eight years. Did he seriously think you wouldn’t recognize his handwriting?

You read on, struggling to contain a smile as you imagined him sitting down to write this:

"You might think you know who I am, but you don’t. I’ve admired you from afar (even though we're always together), and I’ve waited years for the right moment to tell you how much I care. But now, I’ve decided that if I don’t make my move, someone else might."

You let out a quiet laugh. Was he trying to sound dramatic? The last line was so ridiculously formal for someone who threw sarcastic comments at you all day. But as much as you wanted to tease him about it, a part of you warmed at the thought that maybe — just maybe — there was truth behind his words.

"Something funny?" Scaramouche’s voice cut through your thoughts, and you looked up to see him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. His eyes flickered briefly to the letter in your hands before darting away.

"Just this love letter," you said, waving it in front of him. "From a secret admirer."

He tensed immediately, his expression shifting from smug to defensive in the span of a second. "Oh? That so? Well, don’t go getting a big head over it."

You raised an eyebrow. "Really? Because it looks like someone already has a pretty big head." You held the letter out to him, pointing at his distinctive handwriting. "Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize this?"

His eyes widened, and a flush crept up his neck.