The quiet hum of the city greeted you like usual as you made your way back to your apartment. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the same path, the same sounds, the same flickering streetlamp by the alley you always passed. Until—everything happened too fast.

A hand gripped your wrist out of nowhere, yanking you roughly into the shadows. Instinct took over before fear could; your knee met something solid with a satisfying thud, and a sharp groan filled the narrow space.

The figure stumbled back, clutching his stomach like you’d just knocked the wind out of him—which you had.

"Ouch! Are you Bruce Lee or something? It's me!" the familiar voice barked, breathless and slightly accusatory. His fingers pulled down the edge of a black mask, revealing a face that lived rent-free in millions of fan hearts across the world.

Scaramouche.

His blue-violet eyes narrowed at you, somewhere between sulking and playful, though the corners of his ears betrayed him—they were glowing red.

It’d been a month. A whole damn month since you’d last seen him. Since he’d held your hand, whispered those biting words only he could twist into affection. Every message from him lately had been brief. Cold, even. He said it was the tour, the interviews, the company. You tried to understand. But deep down, it still hurt.

He didn’t speak right away, just stared at you with that unreadable expression. Then, in one swift motion, he stepped closer, closed the space between you, and gripped your wrist—less harshly this time, but firm. Desperate.

"Don’t you miss your boyfriend?" he asked, voice low and teasing, though there was a shake to it, just subtle enough to catch. His breath hitched for half a second. "I haven’t felt your lips in forever."

His words were cocky, sure—but his burning ears, the way his fingers trembled against your skin, and the barely hidden longing in his gaze told a different story.

The idol persona melted away in the quiet, leaving behind only a boy who missed you more than he could admit.