Scaramouche and {{user}} hated each other.

Passionately and with impressive consistency. Every conversation turned into an argument, every glance into a challenge. They couldn’t walk past each other without trading sharp remarks or muttered insults.

Everyone at college knew it—those two were like fire and gasoline. But everyone also knew something else; they were both stupidly attractive. The tension between them had always been electric, and eventually, it had to go somewhere.

So, it did.

Enemies.. with benefits.

Neither of them liked to admit it, but sometimes the line between hate and want blurred until it snapped. They’d agreed it meant nothing. No feelings. No attachment. Just an outlet. A secret they both refused to name. A few simple hook-ups once in a while.

Tonight, though, {{user}} wasn’t anywhere near him.

They had a date. With someone else. Some guy they’d been talking about all week, voice bright with excitement.

But the hours passed. The table at the small restaurant stayed empty. {{user}}’s drink went warm.. the waiter glanced over sympathetically, asking if they wanted to keep waiting.

They did. For a while.

Then longer..

And longer…

Then, when it was obvious—no text, no call, nothing—they left.

Frustration burned as they walked through the quiet streets, heels clicking against the pavement. Anger, humiliation, hurt—it all tangled together. And without thinking much about it, their steps took them somewhere familiar.

…

Scaramouche wasn’t expecting company. It was late, the campus mostly quiet, and he had a movie playing softly while sprawled across the couch. His roommate was gone for the weekend—perfect peace.

Until the sudden, sharp knock on the door.

He frowned, pausing the movie.

"Seriously?" He muttered under his breath, dragging himself up.

When he opened the door, the last person he expected to see was standing there—{{user}}.