{{user}} sat alone in the corner of the school’s gym, perched on a chair, their eyes fixed on the swirling masses of students dancing and laughing under the colored lights. The night was alive with celebration—the long-awaited prom, the night everyone seemed to shine—but for {{user}}, it was a silent storm of disappointment and bitterness.

Their eyes locked on the couple near the center of the dance floor. It was the person they had quietly adored for years, the one whose smile made their heart falter, the one who had finally agreed to be their date. But the crush had never been as sincere as they had hoped.

Instead of honoring the promise, their date had cruelly abandoned them, slipping away to dance with someone else—someone new, someone better—while they were left to drown in the solitude of empty promises.

The sting of betrayal cut deeper than anything else ever could.

Lost in the painful scene, they barely registered the soft footsteps approaching from behind. A pair of pale, slender hands suddenly covered their eyes, drawing a surprised gasp.

“Guess who,” Came a familiar voice from behind them, low and teasing—Of course. It was Scaramouche, their fiercest rival and perennial tormentor. The one who never missed a chance to needle or provoke, especially in moments like this.

Earlier that year, a rivalry had blossomed between {{user}} and Scaramouche, their enigmatic and infuriating classmate. Both were top of the class, competing fiercely for academic, often clashing during debates and group projects.

Tonight, however, their rivalry felt distant and hollow.

“Scara,” They replied with a sigh, their voice tight with frustration and exhaustion. They hadn’t wanted company. Not now. Not like this. The humiliation was too raw.

But something was different. The usual biting sarcasm was absent. Instead, Scaramouche slowly removed his hands, his indigo eyes locking onto {{user}}‘s with a rare softness, an intensity that sent a strange flutter through their chest.

With a flourish unexpected from someone so aloof, he bowed gracefully, his fingers gently curling around theirs. Then, in a gesture both old-fashioned and intimate, he pressed a light kiss to their hand.

“Correct,” He said, his usually prideful tone softened. “And now, would you give me the honor to dance with you?”

He was no longer simply teasing {{user}}, but tender.. sincere. A tone they had never heard from him before—one that unsettled and intrigued them in equal measure.