The classroom smelled faintly of chalk and rain, a soft drizzle tapping against the windows as the day wound to a close. The teacher’s voice had long faded into background noise, drowned out by the hum of anticipation that clung to the seniors. Graduation was only weeks away, yet every minute in these walls still seemed to stretch on endlessly.

Beside you, Scaramouche leaned lazily against his desk, twirling his pen between long fingers, his sharp profile outlined by the gray afternoon light. He didn’t look like he was paying attention—he never did—but you caught it again, that unmistakable weight of his gaze lingering too long.

When your eyes flicked to meet his, he startled ever so slightly. The pen stilled. His lips twitched, almost like he wanted to smirk, but instead he looked away, shifting as if caught doing something embarrassing.

It wasn’t new. For nearly two years now, he had been different with you. Still sarcastic, still sharp-tongued with everyone else, but softer somehow, quieter when it was just the two of you. Every time the topic of dating came up, he’d murmur the same thing: “Take it slow.” You’d laugh it off, not realizing how serious he was, or maybe choosing not to.

The bell rang, jolting the room alive. Students scrambled out, chattering about weekend plans, the future, anything but the present. Scaramouche slung his bag over his shoulder and waited, of course, because he always did. Childhood habit. No matter how much he rolled his eyes at you, he never let you walk home alone.

The air outside was cool, tinged with the smell of wet asphalt. You walked side by side, your steps falling into that familiar rhythm. Comfortable silence stretched between you, until you noticed his fingers tapping restlessly against the strap of his bag. He was fidgeting. That, for Scaramouche, meant something was brewing.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, voice low, almost hesitant. When you turned your head, his expression was unreadable, eyes flickering away like he hadn’t meant to speak at all. But then he cleared his throat and forced the words out. “Anyone in mind?”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You know.” His tone was sharper now, defensive, as if that would disguise the vulnerability beneath it. “Graduation’s coming up. People talk about dating, plans, whatever. I just thought—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. His gaze slipped to the wet pavement, then to you again, softer this time. “So? Anyone in mind?”

It was such a simple question, yet his fingers clenched at his side like your answer would mean everything. You remembered the countless times he’d told you to take it slow, his quiet reassurance whenever you’d been hurt before. And now, here he was, finally stepping into the one thing he’d been holding back all along.

The rain fell harder, and for the first time, you realized: maybe he’d been waiting for you all this time.