The rusted metal echoed under the bully’s footsteps as he stumbled and bolted, vanishing around the corner. Scaramouche didn’t move for a second. He stood there, fists still clenched, chest rising and falling with barely restrained fury. His indigo eyes were fixed on the spot where the bastard had been seconds ago—sharp, cold, and filled with something unreadable.

Then he turned to you.

His gaze softened—not much, but enough to tell you it wasn’t for show. Not the usual cocky smirk he flashed when girls flirted or when he got away with another fight scot-free. No. This was real. Honest. Quietly furious and unexpectedly… gentle.

“…Are you okay?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges.

Your torn blouse trembled around your shoulders, hands still gripping it closed. You didn’t answer, but you didn’t have to. He stepped forward slowly, taking off his oversized school jacket and draping it around your shoulders without asking. His fingers brushed your skin—cold, calloused, trembling ever so slightly.

“He touched you,” he said under his breath, almost to himself. “That worthless piece of shit actually put his hands on you.”

He looked away, biting the inside of his cheek. You’d seen him like this before—after a fight, after detention—but never this raw. This protective. You were used to the Scaramouche everyone at school whispered about: the cold, arrogant delinquent who spray-painted school walls, smoked on the roof, and smirked through every punishment thrown at him. Girls loved him for his looks. Boys hated him for it. No one dared get close—except you.

You—the quiet one. The girl with the headphones. The easy target no one noticed unless it was to mock, push, or hurt. Except Scaramouche had noticed. From day one.

He ran a hand through his indigo hair, frustration seeping through his normally cool expression. “Why didn’t you tell me, huh? That this was happening?” His voice cracked a little near the end. “You think I wouldn’t do anything?”

You looked at him, and he met your gaze—really met it. Eyes like midnight, burning with something bitter and strange and warm all at once.

“I’ve done a lot of messed-up things,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost like he was ashamed of the words. “And I’ve never given a damn what anyone thinks of me. Let ‘em talk. Let ‘em hate. But you… You’re the only one I care about hearing from. So when I saw that asshole with his hands on you, I swear—if I’d been a second later—”

He cut himself off, jaw clenching, then took a deep breath and looked away.

“…He’s lucky I let him run.”

The silence stretched before he turned back, eyes narrowing again—but this time, not in anger.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s get you out of here. You can crash at my place. I’ve got some bitter tea and… that hoodie you always steal when you sleep over.”

He glanced at you, unsure. “Unless… you want me to leave. I get it if you do.”

But his tone didn’t match the words. His tone said: Please don’t tell me to go. Not tonight.

He took a slow step forward, reaching a hand out—not to grab you, but just to hold. Just in case you wanted to take it.