You had your boyfriend, Scaramouche, sitting at the desk in your shared room, as you set up all sorts of serums, moisturisers, masks, and various other skincare products.

“{{user}}, why do I have to do this?” He asked annoyedly, pouting slightly, to which you responded by placing a finger over his lips, shushing him. You begin rubbing some things in, and he slaps your hand away.

“You’re doing it wrong.” He whines, crossing his arms.