The gym buzzed with energy—squeaking sneakers, the thud of a volleyball, scattered applause. Scaramouche stood out among the players, not just because of his talent, but the sharp focus in his eyes, the way his every move was calculated, confident. He was magnetic on the court, and {{user}} couldn’t help watching from their usual spot in the front row.

It had started innocently enough—lingering glances between classes, brief eye contact in the halls, Scaramouche occasionally catching sight of {{user}} as they tucked a notebook under their arm and rushed off. But something had changed the moment the coach had invited {{user}} to help out during practice. Water bottles. Towels. A role that felt small, yet somehow important.

Today, the gym lights cast long shadows as the team ran through another set. {{user}} stood near the sideline, a box of chilled bottles at their feet. Scaramouche had just made a perfect serve, the ball sailing clean over the net and crashing to the floor untouched. Cheers erupted, but his eyes were already searching for one face.

He jogged over, sweat at his brow, breath steady. {{user}} looked up, hand reaching for a bottle—but he didn’t take it.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed their cheek.

"For good luck," he said, flashing a crooked grin.

And then he was gone, back on the court, leaving {{user}} stunned.