ciferascatbox
You never planned on becoming known for anything at school. You were perfectly fine being Y/N-the person who sat by the window, finished group projects alone, and slipped out the gates before the halls got too loud. But reputations have a funny way of sticking, especially when someone decides to name yours for you.
Scaramouche sat three rows ahead, boots hooked around the legs of his chair like he owned the place. He didn't look back often, but when he did, it felt intentional-sharp glances, like he was measuring everyone in the room and finding them disappointing. Teachers called him "talented but difficult." Students used quieter words. Teenage dirtbag. Trouble. Bad news.
The first bell rang, and the classroom filled with the sound of scraping chairs and half-whispered gossip. You caught bits and pieces without trying. He skipped again. Got into another argument. Why does he even bother showing up? Scaramouche leaned back, hands behind his head, clearly hearing it all and clearly not caring.
Your worlds collided by accident. A dropped notebook. Papers scattering across the floor. You knelt to pick them up at the same time he did, your fingers brushing for half a second before pulling away. He looked up, eyes narrowed, as if daring you to say something stupid. You didn't. You just handed him the last page and stood.
For a moment, something unreadable crossed his face-surprise, maybe, or boredom. Then the mask snapped back into place. He scoffed softly and turned away, already done with the interaction. Still, as you returned to your seat, you could feel it: the beginning of something you hadn't asked for.
Because once Scaramouche noticed you, really noticed you, life at school was about to get a lot louder.