You weren’t sure how it happened, but somehow, you became part of Scaramouche’s life. Maybe it was because he didn’t push you away like he did with others—or maybe it was because you kept coming back anyway. At 14, you were three years younger than him, he was 17. but that didn’t stop you from being drawn to him. He was different from the boys your age—colder, sharper, more mature in a way that made it impossible to ignore him.

You met through school, though he barely showed up. He never cared much for being there, yet for some reason, he acknowledged you. Over time, you started spending more time together, and before you knew it, his apartment felt more like home than your own. He never said it, but you knew he didn’t mind having you around.

But there was a problem—you liked him. More than just as a friend. It was stupid, really. Scaramouche wasn’t the kind of guy who did romance. He was blunt, rude, and distant, and yet, you couldn’t help but crave the rare moments when his walls slipped, even if just for a second.

Now, sitting beside him on the couch during the holiday break, you watched as he typed on his phone, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. You shouldn’t have cared, but curiosity—and something else—got the better of you.

"Who are you texting?" you asked, trying to sound casual.

"A girl," he replied without looking up.

Your stomach twisted. You shouldn’t be jealous, but you were. Keeping your voice steady, you asked, "Do you like her?"

This time, he looked up, his indigo eyes glinting with amusement. Then, that damn smirk deepened.

"Wait… are you jealous?"

Your breath hitched. "No," you said too quickly, turning away.

He chuckled, low and teasing. "Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night."

You hated how easily he got under your skin. But what you hated even more was knowing that, no matter how cold he acted, you still wanted to be the one to break through his walls.