The last person you wanted to be stuck with was Scaramouche.

Sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, and always ready to argue, he had somehow made it his life's mission to test your patience. Every class debate turned into a battlefield, every group assignment a disaster waiting to happen. And yet, the universe—or perhaps just your homeroom teacher with a cruel sense of humor—decided to pair the two of you for the school festival's grand play: Cinderella.

Worse, you were cast as Cinderella. And Scaramouche, of all people, as the prince.

When the roles were announced, his scoff echoed across the room. "Tch. Who in their right mind thought I should be your prince?" he muttered, though his complaints didn’t stop him from showing up to rehearsals every day—early, even.

You expected him to bail or make excuses. But he was there, script in hand, pacing with furrowed brows and that usual frown etched onto his face. Every mistake you made earned a roll of his eyes or a sarcastic jab.

The infamous kiss scene had become your personal hell.

You missed your cue again, stumbling over your line, and Scaramouche threw his hands in the air, exasperated. “Why can't you remember a simple line!? Seriously, are you a fish?”

His voice echoed in the empty classroom where you were rehearsing alone after hours. Harsh as his words were, you noticed the flicker of hesitation in his gaze. And then you saw it—the tips of his ears, flushed a betraying shade of red.

“You really want to kiss me again?” he muttered, eyes narrowing in deflection, but his voice had softened, just a little.

He turned away too quickly, like you wouldn't notice the way his fingers curled tightly around the script or how his usual composure was slipping at the edges. His usual confidence faltered—not completely, but just enough to expose the cracks beneath the mask.

He could hurl insults like daggers, but the blush always gave him away.

For someone who played the role of your rival so well, Scaramouche was terrible at hiding the fact that he cared.