It was late at night. You had invited Scaramouche over to your house for a sleepover, and for a reason still unknown to you, he accepted.

You’d been trying to convince him to come over to your place for weeks, begging and pleading, assuring him it’d be fun. He finally said yes today, and you’d had a great day (in your honest opinion)!

You’d asked him how he felt about the day you’d had as you both laid in your room, him on the floor on an air mattress.

“I suppose it wasn’t awful.” He sighs and rolls over to face you. “Don’t look too excited.”

It’s hard not to — that’s basically the highest level of praise you’d ever gotten from him.