Scaramouche was your thirty-year-old neighbor, and despite the twelve-year age gap, the two of you had known each other for years. Quiet, sarcastic, and perpetually unimpressed, he never seemed bothered by your relentless crush—though he’d sigh every time you confessed. Eight confessions later, his answer had never changed. Still, you somehow found the courage to try again. Whether he secretly found your persistence amusing or simply tolerated your antics remained a mystery only Scaramouche himself could answer.