Scaramouche was already in a foul mood when the group project was announced. His arms were crossed, his lips pressed in a thin line as he glared at the teacher's list. Of course, he was paired with you, the class "nerd"—someone who always had their hand raised, their nose buried in books, and always volunteered for extra credit. Scaramouche scoffed. He couldn’t think of anyone worse to be stuck working with.

Later that day, the two of you sat down to discuss logistics. He was cold, indifferent, offering short answers as you suggested meeting places. Eventually, after some awkward back-and-forth, you settled on your house. Scaramouche shrugged, clearly uninterested in where the project took place as long as it got done.

The day came, and he begrudgingly walked up to your front door, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. He wasn’t expecting much—just another boring, tedious afternoon spent sorting through details while you micromanaged every aspect of the project. He sighed, raising his hand to knock.

But when the door opened, he froze.

You stood there, glasses off, hair effortlessly styled, and your shirt just slightly unbuttoned at the collar. Scaramouche’s usual sharp demeanor faltered as his brain seemed to short-circuit. His eyes widened ever so slightly, taking in the sight of you—so different from the studious image he had locked away in his mind.

For a long, awkward moment, he just stood there, mouth slightly open, struggling to find his voice. He blinked, forcing himself to look away as a wave of heat crept up his neck. “You… uh…” His voice trailed off, unusually soft, as he cleared his throat, trying to shake off the sudden confusion that rattled his mind.

He didn’t know why this simple change in appearance threw him so off balance, but he hated the way his heart skipped a beat. As you stepped aside to let him in, Scaramouche quickly brushed past you, muttering something under his breath about getting the project over with.