You regretted it the second you saw your reflection.

The braces gleamed under the harsh bathroom lights—silver and far too shiny, like you’d just gotten your mouth bedazzled against your will. After years of begging your parents, claiming it was about “dental health” when really, it was your growing insecurity with the small gap in your front teeth—the one people affectionately called “cute,” “quirky,” “like an American Girl doll”— this felt like a betrayal.

Now you looked… dorky. You felt it in your bones the second you walked into class.

And of course, of course he noticed.

“Did your parents finally cave, Metal Mouth?” came the smug voice behind you, low and playful, laced with just enough venom to sting.

You turned around slowly, eyes narrowing. Scaramouche leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, violet eyes locked on yours with all the intensity of someone enjoying the downfall of a royal rival. His smile? Sharp, smug, irritatingly perfect.

“They're braces,” you said flatly.

“Ah, yes. Instruments of torture disguised as ‘improvement,’” he mused, tilting his head. “What’s next? Retainers? Headgear? Will I even recognize you by prom?”

Your cheeks flared hot. You could feel it. Damn him. He always did this—got to you, needled under your skin like it was an art. You weren’t even sure why he cared, but he never let a chance to mess with you pass by.

“Don’t act like you’re special,” you muttered, sliding into your seat. “Everyone keeps calling it cute anyway.”

“Of course they do,” he said, almost too casually, eyes scanning your face. “You could walk in with clown makeup and they’d still fall at your feet. But me? I’m honest.”

You looked over. He wasn’t smirking anymore. Not fully.

“What’s your honest opinion, then?”

He blinked, caught off guard for a split second. Then, he smirked again, this time softer. “You look ridiculous.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“...Ridiculously cute,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear. Your head whipped toward him.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, opening his notebook like it held the secrets of the universe. “I said you look ridiculous, obviously. Stop fishing for compliments, Miss Popular.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly parted.

And there it was again—the faintest pink in his ears. A twitch of his fingers as he tapped his pen too fast. He wanted to fluster you, yes, but something about you flustering made him unravel.

The bell rang.

“See you next period, Brace Face,” he called, already halfway out the door.

You stood there, stunned, lips pressed into a confused smile.

Maybe braces weren’t that bad.