The venue was buzzing with energy as the crowd swayed to the music, the air thick with excitement. You stood near the front, your gaze locked on Scaramouche as his fingers danced effortlessly over the strings of his guitar. His eyes were closed, lost in the sound, his presence commanding the stage as always. You smiled, proud of him, cheering along with everyone else.

Suddenly, a random guy, clearly tipsy, stumbled toward you. “Hey, what’s someone like you doing here all alone?” His voice slurred, and he leaned too close, making you uncomfortable.

You shifted away, trying to brush him off, but he persisted, his tone becoming more insistent. Your focus drifted back to Scaramouche, hoping he wouldn’t notice, but when you glanced up at him again, his eyes were fixed on you, sharp and narrowed. The moment stretched, tension buzzing between the two of you.

In a split second, Scaramouche’s hands flew across the guitar strings, playing a loud, piercing riff that cut through the air. The crowd fell silent, turning to look at him. Even the drunk guy beside you paused, blinking in confusion. Scaramouche’s eyes blazed with a protective intensity, his gaze locked on you.

You knew that look well—he wasn’t just angry, he was jealous and worried. His music spoke for him, sending a message to the guy without a single word exchanged. With one last hard strum, he ended the song and stepped back from the mic. Without missing a beat, one of his bandmates took over, continuing the set while Scaramouche motioned for you to meet him backstage.

You slipped away from the crowd, heart racing as you reached the side door. Scaramouche was waiting there, his expression still serious, but softer now, laced with concern. Before you could say anything, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close.

“I didn’t like how that guy was getting near you,” he muttered, his voice low, though you could hear the slight tremble in it. “He was drunk… could’ve done something stupid.”