Scaramouche entered the classroom still catching his breath, strands of damp hair clinging to his forehead from practice. The faint scent of cologne and warmth followed him as he stepped inside, the quiet buzz of the empty room fading beneath the sound of his footsteps. His gaze, sharp yet softened by something unspoken, landed immediately on you.

You sat near the window, sketchbook open, the pencil gliding across paper with quiet precision. The gray light of the afternoon filtered through the glass, tracing the curve of your cheek and the delicate lines of focus in your expression. To anyone else, you looked distant—somewhere far away in that world you always seemed to retreat to. But to him, you looked peaceful. Beautifully untouchable.

He didn’t say anything at first, only walked closer, each step slow and careful—as though afraid that one wrong move might shatter the moment. Then, gently, he placed his hands on your shoulders, the warmth of his palms grounding you to the present. His breath brushed against your ear, soft and steady now, carrying with it a faint whisper of his exhaustion and something more tender beneath it.

He leaned forward slightly, gaze following the movement of your pencil. The drawing beneath your fingertips was striking—fluid and full of emotion, dark edges softened by subtle strokes of light. He could see the reflection of your soul in it, the quiet complexity you never let anyone else glimpse.

A small smile curved his lips—not the teasing smirk he usually wore, but something gentler, something real. He didn’t need to say anything; the silence between you was enough. It felt like the whole world had slowed down, leaving only the sound of your pencil and the quiet rhythm of his breath behind you.

"When will you finally draw me, huh?" He asked.