Scaramouche had learned the hard way that love was nothing more than a cruel game. Three times he’d trusted someone, three times he’d been betrayed. His parents’ warning echoed in his head, “Don’t start dating again. It’ll only cause trouble.”

One afternoon, he was standing in the courtyard, talking to a friend, when his girlfriend approached and threw her arms around him. Scaramouche stiffened, his gaze darting toward her before narrowing into a glare.

“What, you jealous?” his friend teased, smirking at his reaction.

Scaramouche scoffed, shaking his head. “No. Love is bullshit.."

But then his gaze shifted, catching sight of {{user}} walking past. Something about them lingered in his mind, and before he knew it, his resolve cracked.

Fifteen minutes later, the library was quiet except for the rustle of pages and soft breathing. Pressed against a bookshelf, Scaramouche’s lips moved fervently against {{user}}’s. The heat between them was undeniable, yet when they pulled back, {{user}} searched his face for something more.

“You love me, don’t you?” they asked softly.

The light in Scaramouche’s eyes darkened immediately, and his smirk returned. “No. I’m just having fun,”

These stolen moments became a routine. Yet no matter how many times they asked, Scaramouche denied his feelings, guarding his heart like a fortress.

Then one day, a girl cornered him. Her threat was clear: if he didn’t date her, she’d expose his secret relationship with {{user}} to his parents. Reluctantly, Scaramouche agreed.

The next morning, {{user}} caught sight of them in the hallway. The girl’s lips were pressed to Scaramouche’s, a fake smile plastered on his face. Hurt flashed across {{user}}’s features, and they turned to leave.

Panic overtook him. Pushing the girl away, he chased after {{user}}, his mind racing. Consequences didn’t matter anymore. Catching their wrist, he pulled them close, his voice trembling as he murmured, “I do love you.”

and then, he suddenly pulled {{user}} into a heated kiss.