The first time you noticed him was in the hallway—your head spinning from the impact of being shoved against the wall, blood trickling from your nose. Everyone else laughed or ignored you, but he didn’t. Scaramouche, the aloof boy from the music club, had crouched down, handkerchief in hand. His touch was cold, his voice curt, but his eyes lingered longer than they should have.

That was enough. Love at first sight.

From then on, you couldn’t stop watching him linger in the music room after class, fingers coaxing soft melodies from the piano. You wanted him to look at you again—needed it. And if fate wasn’t going to hand you another moment, you would create one.

So, you did.

A slammed door against your hand, purple swelling under your skin. “A bully,” you told him, wincing. He believed you.

Drowned hair dripping from the sink, books soaked in the fountain, cuts and bruises blooming like ink stains across your body—your own carefully crafted tragedies. Each time, he was there, frowning, frustrated, gentler than you ever thought possible.

“God, {{user}}… what happened this time?” His voice cracked when he saw you step into the music room one evening, shirt torn, water streaming down your hair and cheeks. He set down his guitar, rushing toward you, panic flashing across his face.

You lowered your gaze, trembling just enough to sell the lie. And oh, the way his hands gripped your shoulders, desperate to protect you, desperate to understand.

Scaramouche didn’t know you were the storm behind it all, the architect of every wound. He only knew he wanted to keep you safe.

And you? You only wanted to keep him looking.