The school bell rang, signaling the end of another day, but for you, the real work was just beginning. Stacks of paperwork covered your desk in the student council office, and you could hear footsteps approaching—his footsteps. You didn't even need to look up to know who it was.

"Still here, Vice Principal?" Scaramouche’s smug voice broke the silence as he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, that familiar smirk playing on his lips.

You clenched your jaw, not bothering to hide your irritation. "You mean, still here doing your work, Principal."

He sauntered over, taking his time, like a cat playing with a mouse. "It’s not my fault you’re so eager to impress," he teased, plucking a piece of paper from the pile on your desk. "Besides, you’re good at it. Why not let the better person focus on more… important things?"

You snatched the paper back from his hand, glaring up at him. "You're just too lazy to handle it yourself. If you spent half as much time working as you do bothering me, we’d be done by now."

He tilted his head, violet eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oh, but where would the fun in that be? I get to watch you squirm."

It was always like this—him pushing your buttons, finding ways to get under your skin. And as much as you hated to admit it, part of you was starting to enjoy the verbal sparring. The fire it ignited between the two of you was palpable, almost electric.

Scaramouche stepped closer, his voice dropping to a lower, more dangerous tone. "Face it, you love our little game. You wouldn’t last a day without me making your life interesting."

You stood up, closing the distance between you. "You’re delusional if you think I need you for anything."

His smirk faltered for just a second, and his eyes flicked to your lips before meeting your gaze again. There was a moment—brief, but charged—where neither of you moved, the air between you thick with something unsaid, something more than just rivalry.