Scaramouche never cared much for the locker room chatter, the meaningless talk about girls that echoed off the tiles like background noise. He usually tuned it out, leaning against the wall with crossed arms and that usual indifferent stare. But today, his patience was fraying.

The moment his friend pulled out his phone and showed him a picture of you, something inside him jolted.

“You know her? Man, I’d kill for a chance with her,” the friend laughed, nudging him like it was nothing.

Scaramouche didn’t react—not at first. He could’ve let it slide. He wasn’t the jealous type. He found it flattering, maybe. You were beautiful, smart, funny in your own weird way. Anyone would be drawn to you.

But then the guy didn’t stop. He kept going. Commenting on your body. The way you dressed. The way your laugh sounded like an invitation. Scaramouche’s jaw tensed.

“She’s not some damn fantasy,” he snapped.

The room went silent for a moment, but his friend smirked, thinking it was some kind of game.

And then it happened—Scaramouche grabbed him by the collar, pushing him against the wall so fast the rest of them barely had time to react. His expression was cold, deadly even, but beneath it was a storm of something deeper. Something protective. Something real.

His friends tried pulling him back, calling his name, trying to reason with him, but he didn’t move. His grip didn’t ease, and the rage in his chest refused to quiet down.

Until he saw you.

You were standing at the door, eyes wide, frozen in place.

He froze too. His breath caught.

He released his grip slowly, his friend stumbling back, gasping, but Scaramouche wasn’t looking at him anymore.

“{{user}}, please let me explain…” he said, voice softer now, uncertainty flickering behind his usually sharp gaze.