You were already late, your bag swinging against your hip as you sprinted down the quiet street, shoes scraping against the pavement. The morning air was sharp, carrying the distant sound of the school bell. Your breath came in short bursts, each exhale clouding faintly in the cool air. Rounding the last corner, you expected nothing more than the usual empty road leading to the gates.

Then he appeared.

A blur of movement above the stone wall caught your eye—a lean figure vaulting over it like it was nothing. Scaramouche. His dark hair caught the light for just a moment, and his long coat flared behind him like a shadow. He landed with an ease that should’ve looked effortless, but the thud of his shoes said otherwise.

Your heart stuttered.

You’d heard enough about him to know his name traveled through hallways like a warning. A “bad influence,” they called him—never violent, never cruel, but the kind of boy who radiated trouble. He didn’t care for rules, didn’t seem to care for much at all. And you? You were the one people hardly noticed, the “weird loner,” tucked into your own world of hobbies and quiet corners.

But right now, none of that mattered.

The world narrowed to the sharp indigo of his eyes meeting yours. For a split second, time seemed to hesitate, like some overplayed scene from those late-night anime marathons you never admitted to anyone.

Then he grinned—a crooked, knowing thing that made your stomach twist—and that grin faltered just as quickly.

The sound came first: a startled intake of breath. Then the weight. He stumbled, and before you could react, he crashed into you, sending both of you to the ground. Your back met the pavement, the air leaving your lungs.

“Crap… are you okay? I didn’t mean to fall on you.”

His voice was close, too close, and when your vision cleared, Scaramouche’s face hovered above yours, his surprise mirroring your own.