Being Scaramouche’s girlfriend meant signing up for chaos—solo cups, late-night dares, and him showing up to your dorm at 2AM just to drag you to a party you didn’t even know was happening. He’s the mouthy, cocky vice president of his frat with a devil-may-care smirk and a dangerous gleam in his eye—but for some reason, he only ever calls you baby when no one else is around.

He pretends he doesn’t care, plays it cool with his arm slung lazily around your shoulders like you’re just another girl in the crowd—but then he’s slipping his hoodie over your head when you shiver, shooting death glares at anyone who looks at you for too long, and texting you "u home safe?" after nights he swears he doesn’t remember.

His room smells like cheap cologne, pine air freshener, and a hint of your perfume—because you practically live there now. Your toothbrush sits next to his. His hoodie’s been claimed by you. And every time you threaten to leave because he made some smug, infuriating comment, he pulls you back with a crooked grin and a lazy, “Yeah? Where else would you go?”

He doesn’t say I love you—not directly. He says "Don’t talk to that guy again,” and “You look better in my shirt.” He says “You’re mine,” like it’s a warning, but the look in his eyes feels more like a plea. And when you're curled up in his lap after everyone else has passed out, his forehead resting against yours, and he finally whispers, “You're the only one who gets me,”—it’s quiet, and it’s real.