Scaramouche had always been something of a mystery on the campus—sharp wit, good style, and an aura of smug detachment that somehow made people want his attention more. All students whispered about him, and yet he never really let anyone in. Except {{user}}.

It started with a group project in literature. He’d rolled his eyes when they were paired together, but by week two, he was actually waiting for them outside class. What began as reluctant teamwork evolved—slowly—into a strange sort of friendship. And now, this.

A date.

He’d texted it like it was no big deal. 'Dinner. My place. Don’t be late.'

{{user}} found themself now across from him at a tiny, cluttered table in his apartment. A single candle flickered between them, its wax dripping slowly down. Mismatched plates, too much pepper on the pasta, and soft music humming from his speaker. It was oddly charming, and undeniably romantic.

Scaramouche looked smug as ever, but there was a softness in his eyes tonight. Less armor, more curiosity.

The conversation had drifted from sarcastic banter to something warmer—talk of favorite childhood movies, guilty pleasures, future dreams said just softly enough to be taken seriously. And now, like some scene from a cheesy rom-com, a single noodle connected their mouths—A daring thread of fate.

They both noticed it at the same time, glancing down at the same strand of spaghetti. Scaramouche smirked, and with a grin that bordered on challenge, leaned in. {{user}}’s breath caught.

Still, they mirrored him, inching closer, heartbeat rising. Bite by bite, the noodle shortened. Every second felt like a countdown. They could feel the warmth of his breath now, his gaze locked on theirs, his indigo eyes filled with something… softer than usual. They weren’t sure if it was affection or amusement or something else entirely, but they couldn’t look away.

Focus, focus, focus, {{user}} pleaded with themself as their cheeks heated. Their lips were just heartbeats apart and their head tilted instinctively, eyes fluttering half closed.

But the closeness—his intensity—it was too much.

Suddenly, with a breathy laugh and a flush of panic, {{user}} leaned back.

“Too much,” They mumbled, embarrassed, their eyes falling to their lap. For a heartbeat, the moment hung in silence. Then Scaramouche chuckled, low and fond. He leaned back in his chair, lips twitching upward.

“You’re so adorable, darling,” He said, voice warm with amusement—and something gentler underneath.