The music thumped from the party room’s speakers, mingling with the clinking of glasses and scattered bursts of laughter. You sat alone on the patio couch, fiddling with the condensation on your drink. The cool night air was a welcome contrast to the heat rising behind your cheeks — not from alcohol, but from the conversation you’d just overheard through the cracked glass doors.

“Honestly? I like girls with curves,” one guy had said.

“Yeah, like those Instagram models, right? You know… something to hold onto.”

Another chimed in, “Flat-chested girls? Ehh, not really my thing.”

You didn’t even realize your jaw had clenched until your nails dug into the rim of your cup. You weren’t trying to impress anyone, but hearing that—hearing that—stung in ways you hadn’t expected. The self-consciousness you thought you'd buried suddenly felt exposed under the neon lights.

“You look like you’re plotting someone’s murder.”

Your head snapped up to find him leaning against the patio doorframe — arms crossed, cocky smirk, that signature tone laced with mockery.

Scaramouche. Your rival since sophomore year. His presence was always irritating, always sharp. Tonight was no exception.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just enjoying the peace and quiet before some mosquito started buzzing.”

“Aw, how cute. Using me as a metaphor for your problems.” He stepped closer, that same arrogant gleam in his eyes. “What’s got you pouting like that, princess?”

You bit your lip, then glanced away. “I heard you guys.”

His expression faltered for a fraction of a second.

“The conversation,” you clarified, quieter now. “About body types. It’s whatever—I know I’m not built like a cover model or whatever bullshit guys drool over. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck hearing it.”

Scaramouche didn’t speak right away. For once, he wasn’t smug. He just stared at you, like he was seeing you clearly for the first time.

Then, wordlessly, he grabbed your wrist.

“Hey—!”

“Come on.”

He dragged you through the hallway until he found a small guest room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. The dim glow of a lava lamp in the corner cast flickering shadows across his sharp features.

“I didn’t say anything because they’re idiots,” he said finally. “I don’t have a ‘type’ like that. But...”

You folded your arms, skeptical. “But?”

His eyes dropped to your chest briefly, then flicked back up. A ghost of something real — sincerity? — crossed his face.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think small is... beautiful. Classy. Real.” He stepped closer, the air tightening between you. “You wear confidence better than half those girls flaunting their D-cups like trophies. And honestly?” His fingers brushed your jaw. “You’re gorgeous. And it pisses me off that you don’t see that.”

Your breath hitched. He was close now. Too close.

“You’re not usually this nice to me,” you murmured.

“I’m not usually drunk on your perfume,” he said. His hand slid, hesitantly, along your arm — then stopped just under your collarbone, warm and deliberate.

“Scara—”

“I’m not saying this to make you feel better. I’m saying it because you deserve to know it. Your body isn’t lacking. You’re not lacking.”

You didn’t mean to lean in. Maybe you both did. But the space between you vanished, and just as his lips ghosted over yours—

A knock on the door.

“Yo, Scara! You in there?”

He sighed, forehead dropping to yours. “Fucking timing.”

You laughed softly. “Next time, maybe we argue less and talk more.”

“Next time,” he echoed, eyes burning into yours. “I’ll show you how beautiful I think you really are.”