It was one of those quiet, uneventful afternoons, and {{user}} felt an unbearable boredom creeping in. Wanting to liven things up, they reached out to Scaramouche and another close friend.

'Hey, why don’t we go out and grab something to eat?' They texted and eventually after some teasing reluctance from Scara, they all eventually agreed to meet at a nearby restaurant.

The restaurant buzzed with soft chatter and clinking dishes. {{user}}, Scaramouche, and their other friend sat around a table filled with delicious food.

Plates were passed around, laughter mingled with the savory aromas, and for a while, even Scaramouche relaxed, indulging more than usual. It was a rare sight—Scara actually enjoying himself, chewing thoughtfully and nodding at certain dishes he liked.

The table was now littered with empty plates and used napkins, all signs of a satisfying meal. Only one perfectly golden piece of food remained on a shared plate. A hush fell over the table as the three of them stared at it.

Neither Scaramouche nor the friend made a move, both subtly glancing at {{user}}, clearly waiting for them to decide who should have the final bite. The silence was heavy, almost theatrical.

After a long moment of silent judgment, {{user}} carefully picked up the last piece and offered it to the friend sitting beside them. The other friend smiled wand gave a nod of gratitude, but Scaramouche didn’t say a word. His eyes narrowed, and he turned his head away, jaw clenched.

Once they left the restaurant, Scara kept his distance. When {{user}} tried to speak or reach out, he shrugged them off coldly, refusing to meet their gaze.

Later, under a flickering streetlamp, {{user}} caught up with him.

“Scara, what’s wrong?” They asked softly. He finally stopped, arms crossed.

“Nothing,” He muttered. But after a beat, he added, “Tch… Of course you’d choose them. I don’t know why I expected anything else.”