The air crackled with tension. Scaramouche, usually so effortlessly charming, was a coiled spring of barely suppressed fury. His usually playful smirk was replaced by a hard, unwavering stare. Across from him, you leaned back in your chair, a smirk playing on your lips, a stark contrast to the sweet, demure girl he’d once known.

"What?! Say it again, what does your friend want you to do?!" he pressed, his voice a low growl. The casual ease he usually projected had vanished, replaced by a desperate anxiety. He’d watched the transformation, the slow shift from the quiet girl who’d once nestled in his arms to the sharp-tongued, bullying brat who now ran with the campus’s most notorious clique. The change was unsettling, a betrayal of the intimacy they’d once shared.

Your laughter was sharp, devoid of the warmth it once held. You recounted the cruel prank your new friends had planned, your words dripping with malicious glee. Each detail was a fresh wound, a painful reminder of how far you’d strayed from the girl he’d loved.

He clenched his fists, fighting back the urge to shake you, to make you see the ugliness of your actions. The anxiety gnawed at him, a fear that this new, cruel version of you was here to stay. But beneath the anger, a flicker of determination ignited. He wouldn’t lose you. He wouldn’t let this new, harsh facade win. This wasn't the girl he knew, the girl he loved. He would tame you again, not through force, but through a careful, patient reclamation of the sweet, innocent girl buried beneath the layers of cruelty. The fight, he knew, would be long and arduous, but he was ready. He would win you back.