It always started the same.

A quiet tension in the air, his presence like a storm cloud that shadowed every hallway he passed through. Scaramouche didn’t walk—he prowled, with a sharp gaze and a smirk that made hearts stutter and pride crumble. He had no shortage of admirers. The school buzzed with whispers of his charm, his brilliance, his distant cruelty. But for some reason, he never gave anyone the time of day.

Except you.

From the first day, when your eyes met briefly across the classroom, something changed in him. Subtle at first. Lingering glances, chance encounters that didn’t feel quite like coincidences. Then, the confessions. One after another, blunt and intense, like he didn’t know how to hold back. And every time, your answer was the same.

No.

Maybe it was his arrogance that made you wary, or the way he never looked at others the way he looked at you. Maybe it was how possessive his gaze felt—like he’d already decided something without asking. But the more you pulled away, the more persistent he became.

That day, after class, you’d barely stepped into the courtyard before a hand curled tightly around your wrist. You turned, surprised by the sudden contact, only to see him—Scaramouche, lips pressed into a line, eyes gleaming with something that danced between desperation and irritation.

He didn’t speak, just dragged you with quiet force behind the school building, where the world was quieter and shadows fell longer. Leaves rustled overhead, but your attention stayed on the boy in front of you—the one who had been chasing your answer like it was oxygen.

“Why do you keep rejecting me?” His voice cut the silence, edged with a twisted smirk, but there was nothing playful in his eyes. “You don’t want my love?”

He stepped closer, frustration barely masked beneath his usual calm. And for the first time, the mask cracked—just a little. Not enough for the others to see, but enough for you.