Scaramouche was the kind of student teachers relied on—quiet, efficient, painfully intelligent. He always sat near the window, shoulders angled away from the rest of the room, sharp eyes half-hidden behind thin-framed glasses he only wore for reading. Most people didn’t talk to him, and he seemed perfectly fine with that.

But somehow, you—bright, easygoing, the center of hallway chatter—had started noticing him.

You noticed how he tapped his pen twice before turning a page. How his grip on his pencil tightened when someone chewed too loudly. How he never laughed, but sometimes, just barely, smirked.

So when your math grades slipped and your teacher paired you with him for tutoring, you weren’t even upset.

The first time you sat across from him in the library, he froze for a beat—like he hadn’t expected you to actually show up. He shifted his chair an inch back, cleared his throat, and flipped open your textbook with care that was almost hesitant.

“Um… so… math?” he said, eyes darting anywhere but your face.

His voice was soft, words clipped like he was worried about saying too much. He tapped equations with his pen, shoulders hunched slightly, stealing the quickest glances to check if you understood. And when you solved something right, his lips twitched into the faintest smile before he quickly looked back down, ears tinged pink.

It became your favorite part of the day.

You even thought about getting one or two questions wrong on purpose—just to see him push up his glasses and try, in his awkward, careful way, to explain again.

One afternoon, you slipped into the library late. He was already there, fidgeting with his pen, glancing toward the door every few seconds.

“You’re late again,” he murmured, voice quieter than the turning pages around you.

But this time, he didn’t look away right away.