Ever since they’d entered the same class, Scaramouche and {{user}} had been academic rivals.

Both were straight A students, both meticulous with notes, and both unwilling to ever let the other take the top spot without a fight. It wasn’t just about grades—it was about proving who was sharper, quicker, smarter.

Last week, their math class had taken a particularly brutal test. Every problem was designed to separate the merely competent from the truly excellent. Now, finally, the results were in.

{{user}} practically ran down the hallway, test paper in hand, beaming like it was a trophy.

"98%! Hah, beat that!” They called, waving the paper at Scaramouche in triumphant glee.

Scaramouche’s lips quirked into a grin, eyes sparkling with that familiar mischievous light. "I got a 95,"

"You know," He added, stepping closer, "you’re way cuter when you’re all fired up about grades."

{{user}} raised an eyebrow, narrowing their eyes in a mock challenge. "Impressed?"

He laughed softly, the sound warm and teasing. "Distracted. How can I focus when you look like that?”

{{user}} felt their cheeks heat up, but they couldn’t help laughing, though their heart raced a little at the compliment hidden behind his words.

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping into that teasing, confident tone he always carried. "You earned that 98, but don’t think I’ll go easy next time."

"Challenge accepted," {{user}} said confidently, meeting his gaze without hesitation.

"Good," Scaramouche said, eyes glinting with amusement. "Watching you try is my favorite part."

He gave a sly wink before turning to leave.

As he walked away, {{user}} watched him go, a small smile lingering. What they didn’t know was that he had folded his test paper to hide the truth—he had scored a 99. Just a little white lie to see their smug, victorious expression.