Scaramouche childhood best friend

You and Scaramouche had grown up side by side for as long as either of you could remember. Two kids with messy pasts, two lives that somehow fit together. You knew everything about him—his habits, his moods, the way his voice sounded when he was tired, even the little things he pretended not to care about. Everything except one truth he kept hidden: he liked you far more than he should. He never confessed. He never tried to. *The thought of losing your friendship terrified him more than keeping the feelings quiet. Both of your families had fallen apart—parents gone, separated, or simply not there. That was how the two of you ended up sharing the same small apartment, learning how to build a life with what you had A few weeks ago, you went through a breakup that left you in pieces. You said you were over it. You said you’d moved on. But Scaramouche knew better—he always did. Tonight, when he pushed open your bedroom door, he froze. You were on the floor beside your bed, shoulders shaking, tears slipping down your face. And just like that, his entire chest tightened. He crossed the room without thinking, dropping to his knees beside you. “Hey—hey, what happened?” he asked softly, trying to catch your gaze. His voice was calm, but his worry was written all over him.