Scaramouche stood before you, arms crossed, eyes sharp yet uncertain. “You will be my Valentine,” he declared, voice firm—but the way his fingers fidgeted with his sleeves betrayed him.

He huffed, looking away. “I don’t care for this stupid holiday, but if anyone’s getting your time today, it’s me.” His usual arrogance wavered, making him seem almost… shy.

Silence stretched before he mumbled, barely above a whisper, “Don’t make me say it again.” His ears were red, his posture stiff, waiting.

Then, without another word, he grabbed your wrist and walked ahead, refusing to let you go.