You sat cross-legged on Scaramouche’s bed, your sketchbook balanced on your lap as you doodled absentmindedly, trying to focus on the group project that had landed you in his dorm. The silence in the room was thick, almost uncomfortable, as Scaramouche sat beside you, flipping through his textbook with a nonchalant expression. His dorm was surprisingly tidy—minimalist with dark tones, a reflection of his sharp, withdrawn personality.

Earlier, you’d stopped by the convenience store to grab some drinks and snacks, unsure of what Scaramouche liked. You didn’t know him well, after all. So, naturally, you picked up a few sweet treats, including a box of pocky sticks, figuring they were safe enough.

“Here,” you had said, offering him a bottle of water and some snacks when you first arrived. He glanced at the sweets with a disinterested look but took the water without a word. The pocky, however, you opened for yourself, nibbling on the end of one as you sketched.

Minutes passed, the quiet only broken by the sound of pens scratching against paper. You occasionally flicked your eyes toward him, trying to gauge his mood, but his face was unreadable as ever—focused, detached, as though you weren't even there.

You sighed softly, your lips still wrapped around the end of the pocky, lost in thought. This project wasn’t difficult, but working in silence with Scaramouche, of all people, made it feel like an eternity. The stick of pocky tilted slightly as you absentmindedly shifted it between your lips. That’s when you felt it—movement beside you.

Before you could fully process it, Scaramouche’s hand reached up, and in one swift, bold motion, he leaned in and broke off the end of your pocky with his mouth, his lips brushing dangerously close to yours. For a brief second, your eyes widened, caught off guard, your heart skipping a beat. The space between you felt electrified, the quiet now carrying a different weight.

You stared at him, stunned. His face was impassive, as if nothing had happened. "Its sweet..."