For years, {{user}} and Scaramouche had been at each other's throats. Their rivalry was the stuff of legend—petty arguments, eye rolls, and a constant battle to one-up each other. It had been exhausting, really. But by senior year, the tension settled into something quieter. They weren’t exactly friends, but the biting remarks had lost their edge.

That was when it started.

At first, it was harmless. Their friends would joke, “If only Scaramouche weren’t such a pain, you two would be perfect together!” {{user}} scoffed every time, refusing to entertain the thought. It was ridiculous. They had spent too long hating him to suddenly—what? Like him? No way.

But then the thoughts wouldn’t go away. {{user}} would catch themselves staring at him across the classroom, noticing the way he tapped his pen absentmindedly, the way his violet eyes narrowed in concentration. They imagined what he’d be like if he were softer, if he laughed more. If he looked at {{user}} with something other than exasperation.

And then came the dream.

A wedding. White flowers, golden lights, soft laughter—{{user}} standing at the altar, staring at him. Scaramouche, dressed sharply, smirking as if he knew every little thought running through {{user}}’s head. A ring slid onto {{user}}’s finger, a whispered vow—

They woke up in a panic, heart pounding.

The next day at school, it felt impossible to look at him. Yet their eyes betrayed them, drawn to him as if he held some magnetic force.

"You're staring, {{user}}."

His voice was laced with amusement, lips curling into that familiar smirk.

If only he knew. If only he could hear the wild pounding of {{user}}'s heart—the undeniable truth they refused to admit.