Scaramouche never imagined he'd be the one helping you fall in love with someone else. But here he was, watching your face light up as you peppered him with questions about his friend—questions that chipped away at his heart, bit by bit. You wanted to know everything: how his friend thought, what they liked, if they'd ever mentioned you.

He answered everything, even if it twisted something deep inside him. He'd learned to mask the hurt behind his usual disinterest, his responses short, blunt, yet filled with whatever details you wanted. He didn’t even want to think about why he was doing this for you—maybe because your smile, even if it wasn’t for him, was worth it.

It had been a while since he’d started falling for you, so the way he felt now wasn’t new. But somehow, this felt worse than the familiar ache he’d grown accustomed to. Watching you pine over someone who could never understand you the way he did, who’d never notice the things Scaramouche noticed—the subtle way your eyes softened, the tiny shifts in your voice when you spoke about things that mattered to you. Yet here you were, wanting someone who could never see you the way he did.

So he kept helping, kept pretending it didn’t sting every time you asked. Until finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. Watching you talk about his friend with that look in your eyes—it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Without thinking, he muttered, “What do you even see in that guy? He’s so unserious and loud…”

And for a moment, he wondered if you'd hear what he truly meant behind those words, even if he knew you wouldn't.