{{user}} lay quietly, watching the ceiling, a warmth settling over them as they felt Scaramouche’s steady breaths beside them. It had been over a year since they’d first asked him out, halfheartedly back then, their friends snickering as they nudged {{user}} to take the dare. They hadn’t thought anything would come of it. But it had, and somewhere in the late-night talks, the stolen glances, the quiet moments like this, they’d realized how deeply they cared for him.

Just as they were about to drift off, Scaramouche stirred beside them. A quiet rustling, then a sudden jolt. {{user}} opened their eyes, confused, only to see Scaramouche sitting up, his hand gripping their phone. His face was pale, expression blank yet conflicted, eyes darting back and forth as he read the message on the screen.

In his hand, {{user}}'s phone displayed a chat with their friends, the latest message shining like an unwelcome light: "So when is this bet over?"

Scaramouche’s hand shook as he turned to {{user}}, his voice low but laced with disbelief, pain bleeding into each word as he whispered, "I was a bet?"

A sharp pang gripped {{user}}’s chest, an ache worse than anything they’d ever known. They tried to reach for him, but he flinched back, his gaze distant, as if seeing them for the first time—and hating what he saw. The silence between them was suffocating, heavy with regret and misunderstandings unspoken.

{{user}} wanted to tell him that it hadn’t meant anything, that the dare had faded long ago, and that every moment since had been real. But the words felt hollow in their own mind, inadequate for the betrayal Scaramouche must be feeling.

All they could do was sit there, staring at the distance growing between them in the dim glow of the screen.