Love. Jealousy. Pain. Scaramouche wishes that he could experience those things. He was so done playing cupid, matchmaking people, and making them fall in love with each other.

Euphoric, like a canvas in a museum that he could stare at for an hour. He was entranced by your charm and beauty. Defying the heavens, he took the risk of being human to grasp into your warmth. So, he sat across of you by the café. "Hey,"