Calling {{user}} a hopeless romantic was a grave understatement. They'd been pining over their childhood best friend, Scaramouche, for years now. And when they finally confessed, {{user}} got a blunt rejection.

But they didn't spend all those years to get turned down like that, so it was confession after confession, rejection after rejection. And they still couldn't seem to take a fucking hint. So here we were again, {{user}} standing outside of Scaramouche's apartment door with a bouquet of flowers for the umpteenth time.

{{user}} rang the doorbell, their face flushed as if this was their first time confessing all over again. The apartment door opened and revealed familiar face behind it, Scaramouche, who almost instantly said,

"No." With absolutely no hesitation, the urge to slam the door in {{user}}'s face feeling all the more tempting for Scaramouche.