{{user}} and Scaramouche had been classmates for years, existing in the same space without ever truly crossing paths. Scaramouche carried himself with an air of practiced detachment. His sharp eyes paired with his quick wit were usually enough to make people keep their distance.

Meanwhile, {{user}} had never felt compelled to approach him either; he seemed like the type who preferred solitude and would bite if anyone got too close.

But everything shifted the day their teacher announced a month long group project, listing off pairs with no regard for compatibility. When {{user}} heard their name followed by Scaramouche’s, they felt a knot form in their stomach. Even from across the room, they could see the way Scaramouche’s expression soured, his displeasure hardly subtle.

But the decision was final and neither of them had the luxury of protest. They would have to work together whether they liked it or not.

Initially, {{user}} had braced themselves for the worst. Scaramouche’s reputation didn’t exactly promise a harmonious partnership. Yet as the days passed, something unexpected happened; it wasn’t nearly as unbearable as they had imagined.

Scaramouche’s words still carried an edge, but that edge often hid a dry humor that caught {{user}} off guard. His snark wasn’t empty cruelty—it hinted at a more complex person beneath the surface.

After a stiff, awkward first meeting, their dynamic began to shift. Scaramouche’s sarcastic remarks gradually became part of their work environment, a strange sort of banter that made the project feel less like a chore and more like a partnership.

They started meeting regularly at a quiet café after school—a warm place tucked away from the usual student crowds. Scaramouche’s rare, fleeting smiles—so small they almost didn’t count—made each study session more bearable, even enjoyable. For {{user}}, who had expected hostility, it was a surprise to find themselves looking forward to their meetings.

One rainy evening, they sat tucked into a cozy corner of the café, notebooks scattered across the table between them. The windows were fogged from the warmth inside. Scaramouche lifted his cup with his usual lazy grace, taking a sip before glancing at {{user}}’s notes with a raised brow.

During one of their sessions, he leaned back in his chair, tapping his pencil lightly against the table, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"You really think people can read that handwriting?" Scaramouche teased. His tone wasn’t entirely unkind—more playful than anything.