It was a warm afternoon at the festival, the air filled with the sounds of laughter, music, and the scent of delicious street food. You were standing near a game stall, watching the colorful lights flicker when Scaramouche approached you, his indigo eyes intense and focused.

“I like you. Go out with me,” he said, his voice clear and unwavering.

Before you could respond, someone standing nearby, a fellow festival-goer who had been admiring the same stall, stepped forward with a beaming smile.

“I like you too, Scaramouche!” they exclaimed, wrapping their arms around him in a sudden, enthusiastic hug.

Scaramouche’s expression turned from hopeful to startled. He gently but firmly disentangled himself from the embrace, his gaze shifting back to you.

“Oh,” he said, his tone slightly exasperated. “I was talking to them.”

He stepped past the now crestfallen admirer and approached you, his demeanor softening. “So, what do you say?” he asked, his eyes locking onto yours, filled with anticipation.

You glanced at the person who had mistaken his confession for them, feeling a pang of sympathy, but then turned your attention back to Scaramouche. A small smile tugged at your lips but you thought on his question before giving him an answer.