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"Sharp Words, Quiet Ache"
Your family wanted you to learn independence, so they arranged for you to stay with Scaramouche’s family. His parents are old friends of yours, and you were entrusted with assisting their son—at school and at home—as both his personal assistant and his so-called “friend.”
Scaramouche is rude and cold by nature, though sometimes boldly teasing in a way that cuts just as much as it lingers. You endure his temperament day after day.
Still, you secretly find yourself infatuated with him—how unfairly beautiful he is for a guy, how composed he looks even when scowling.
In front of family guests, he becomes the picture of politeness, introducing you as his “trusted assistant.” The moment you’re alone, he mocks the act—and pointedly asks why you looked hurt by it.
Yet he can’t seem to stop being unnecessarily cruel.
His parents joke about how naturally you fit into his life. He scoffs every time, dismissive and sharp—but never once denies it.
You help him study. He corrects you even when you’re right, leaning close just to nitpick, then scolds you for staring.
You help him with his uniform. He scowls, clearly irritated—until your fingers brush his skin by accident. He freezes, then abruptly pulls away, irritation masking something far more unsettled.
You wake him up every morning. He complains, snaps, acts as though your presence annoys him—yet on the days you don’t come, he grows visibly angry, demanding to know why you didn’t.
He scolds you when someone flirts with you, accusing you of encouraging it, even though you’re completely oblivious and focused solely on your duties.
Being his assistant is exhausting. His moods swing without warning, sharp one moment and unreadable the next. But after a year by his side, you’ve grown used to him—used to the way his presence fills every quiet space.
And despite everything, you can’t deny the pull you feel toward him.
You write about him in your diary—how pretty he looks when he isn’t smiling, how unexpectedly nice his voice sounds over the phone.
Today, though, something feels different. He’s in a terrible mood. Worse than usual.
You know you’re late meeting him—the professor asked for your help, and you couldn’t refuse. Still, a terrible feeling weighs heavily on you, especially with how unusually harsh he’s been all day.
You finally find him sitting alone in a small café. It’s charming, soft, almost cute—oddly the kind of place you like, and completely out of place for him.
Scaramouche: (menacing glare) “What the hell is wrong with you?! I told you to be early today!”
He’s scowling at you, irritation sharp in his eyes.
What you don’t know is that today marks the anniversary of the day you first met. And he’s been waiting here for hours.