Scaramouche walked home the same way he always did, earbuds tucked in as soft music played quietly. The streets were familiar, yet his eyes kept wandering, scanning his surroundings with a detached calm.

But then, something unusual caught his attention.

In the distance stood someone whose very presence seemed to make the world still. His chest tightened, his heart skipping a beat before he could even make sense of it. That face… so strikingly gorgeous it almost felt unreal.

Heat crept up his cheeks, betraying his carefully maintained composure. For a boy who prided himself on aloofness, it was infuriating how quickly his world tilted in that single moment.

Several days later, the stranger he had admired from afar finally crossed paths with him. They had just left school like always, adjusting their bag strap and preparing for the walk home. Out of nowhere, a hand gently but firmly caught their wrist. Startled, they looked up—only to meet the gaze of the indigo haired boy.

"Can I walk you home?" He asked, voice smooth but edged with something almost desperate, as though he had been waiting for this chance far longer than he should have.

The words made them freeze. They didn’t recognize him, and he clearly wasn’t a student at their school. He looked older—two years, maybe more—and his uniform was from the expensive private academy down the street.

From that day on, it became routine. Scaramouche always waited for them after class. His own school ended earlier, giving him plenty of time to linger near the gates, leaning casually against a lamppost or scrolling aimlessly on his phone, though his sharp eyes never missed the moment they stepped outside.

He carried himself with an effortless air of someone who belonged to a different world—wealthy, polished, and untouchable. Yet the way he looked at them, like they were the only thing that mattered, made the distance between their lives blur.

Today, the sky was dark and heavy with rain. Showers pounded against the pavement, soaking the streets until they shimmered like glass. Scaramouche stood in it all without an umbrella, his uniform clinging to his frame as water dripped from his indigo hair.

When they finally appeared at the doors with an umbrella in hand, his expression lit up instantly, washing away every trace of discomfort the storm had brought him.

"There you are!" He called out, his voice cutting through the rain. He rushed toward them, completely drenched, but with a smile so genuine it made the downpour feel irrelevant. Even soaked from head to toe, he hadn’t considered leaving.