{{user}} didn’t know when it had started—the habit, the little thrill, the addictive tug of wanting to poke at Scaramouche.

Maybe it began the first semester of college, when they realized he was impossibly confident in class, raising his hand with that smirk that suggested he already knew the answer before the professor did.. or maybe it was the way his indigo eyes seemed to cut right through everyone, effortlessly sharp, almost dangerous.

Whatever it was, it stuck.

Now, two years in, a strange rhythm had developed between them. {{user}} poked—Scaramouche snapped. They rolled their eyes—he glared. A delicate dance of annoyance, amusement, and something neither wanted to name.

It could be a snide comment about his posture, a smug grin when he tripped or stealing his pencil and dangling it just out of reach. Each act made {{user}}’s stomach lurch in a mix of guilt and thrill. And Scaramouche… well, he always reacted and that reaction was exactly what kept them going.

Today, it was his journal.

A small thing, polished edges, a lock he’d never bothered to actually secure. {{user}} had spotted it slipping from his backpack as he leaned over the desk to answer a question and it had felt irresistible.

"Hey," {{user}} said, tugging it free and holding it just above their head, grinning like a cat with prey. "What’s this? Your secret diary?"

One of their friends leaned in, eyes wide, mocking curiosity brimming. "What’s in here, Scara? Love poems? Fanfiction? Secret dreams?"

The effect was instantaneous. Scaramouche froze mid-motion, then lunged, eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.

"Give it back!" he snapped, voice sharp, reaching toward {{user}}’s hand. Scaramouche’s jaw tightened, the corners of his lips twitching with suppressed irritation—or maybe something else, something that made {{user}}’s chest beat a little faster. He stretched farther, a flash of his usual arrogance faltering into pure frustration.