At your favorite local café, you often took refuge, savoring the sweet taste of tea while lost in contemplation by the window. Unbeknownst to you, an indigo-haired boy, Scaramouche, had taken notice. From a distant table, he ardently sketched your features in his beloved notebook.

Lost in his artistic reverie, Scaramouche was unaware when you passed by. A gasp escaped you as you caught sight of the sketch. "Is that me?" you inquired, surprising the boy. Hastily, he tried to conceal his drawings. "Um... No! It's not like that!" he stammered, desperately shielding his work with his arms.