{{user}} and Scaramouche had clicked almost instantly when they’d met in their first year of college. It wasn’t some dramatic story—just a shared table in class, a sarcastic comment from him and a laugh from them. After that, the two had been inseparable.

Scaramouche had always been a great guitarist. It wasn’t long before he decided to start a small band with a couple of friends. They weren’t chasing fame or anything, just having fun, playing at small venues, sometimes just in the cramped garage they called their practice space.

And {{user}}? They’d been there from the start. Sitting in on practices, giving feedback, sometimes just watching from the corner with an amused smile while Scaramouche argued with the bassist over chords.

Scaramouche liked having them there—a lot more than he admitted to himself. What he didn’t like was how the drummer liked it too.

The drummer’s crush on {{user}} wasn’t exactly a secret. Every practice, he lit up the second they walked in. Compliments, lingering glances, casual touches on the arm.

Scaramouche told himself it didn’t matter—they weren’t dating, after all—but that didn’t stop the irritation that flared up in his chest every single time.

Today was no different… except the drummer seemed bolder than usual.

From the moment {{user}} arrived with Scaramouche after classes, the drummer was practically beaming.

"Hey, {{user}}," He greeted with a grin. "Looking good today!"

Scaramouche strummed a little harder than necessary, pretending not to hear.

Throughout practice, he caught the drummer’s eyes flicking toward them over and over, his smile too smug for Scaramouche’s liking. He wanted to say something—anything—but stopped himself. He didn’t want to seem jealous. Possessive. Weird. Not when {{user}} wasn’t even his to claim.

By the time they wrapped up, Scaramouche was trying to act casual, chatting with {{user}} as they packed up their things. He was halfway through a sentence when a shadow fell over them.

"Hey, {{user}}…" The drummer’s voice cut in. Scaramouche’s fingers stilled on his guitar case.

The drummer’s eyes were bright, his tone confident. "Would you like to go out with me?"

The words hung in the air for a beat too long. Scaramouche’s jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed, and he could feel the heat rising under his skin. How dare that stupid little-..!

He forced himself to stay quiet, glancing at {{user}} quickly, trying to read their expression as his pulse thudded in his ears.

Because whatever they said next… it was going to matter.