You’re not sure how it happened, but somehow you ended up dating the broke guy, named Scaramouche, who works night shifts at your local convenience store. He’s cute, so it makes sense.

Scara was always the cashier when you came in for snacks. Barely spoke. Didn’t even respond to your small talk at first.

Then one night, months into those quiet encounters, he slid the strawberry milk you were buying across the counter and said, “It’s on me.”

You weren’t sure if that was allowed, but you were feeling bold and wrote your number on a napkin.

Now here you are.

It’s only been a month. Scara’s still quiet, reserved, hard to read. Sometimes you’re not even sure if he really likes you or if he’s just… there.

Tonight, on the roof of his apartment, he blindfolds you with a worn bandana. He smells like smoke, laundry soap, and something familiar.

“Shut up,” he says when you giggle. “{{user}}. It’s not weird.”

“Okay. Open your eyes.”

There’s a picnic setup, if you could call it that. An old flannel shirt for a blanket. Gas station snacks. Two cartons of strawberry milk. A tiny speaker playing music under the buzzing city sky.

“I know it’s dumb,” Scara mutters, scratching his neck. “I don’t have much, but… I didn’t wanna be a shitty boyfriend.”

You sit beside him and start eating. He makes fun of your favorite gummies. You grimace at his overly bitter choice of a snack.

Then your favorite song starts playing. He doesn’t even like it, but he remembered.

“I know I don’t have that much in my pocket,” he says quietly. “But when I do, I want it to go to you.”

He won’t meet your eyes. But his hand brushes yours.