January 3rd, early morning.

You slipped into the classroom quietly and crept behind Scaramouche, your footsteps soft against the floor. As he continued to laugh along his group of friends, you slid your arms over his shoulders in a hug, leaning in close enough to place a neatly wrapped gift on the desk in front of him. "Happy birthday," he was taken aback of your sing-song voice, before smirking.

"Look at you, acting all sweet today. Trying to get on my good side?"

With a slight shift, Scaramouche leaned back in his chair, his gaze tilting up at you from a strange, upside-down angle. His messy hair flopped over his forehead as he looked up at you, squinting slightly. There was an unspoken understanding between you two, one that neither dared to acknowledge fully.

"Cute."

He couldn't help but say, his gaze lingering on you, when he should've been more captivated by the present. His lips were curved up in a smile, but it was hard to tell what was truly behind it. While claiming to be friends, you would both lead each other on flirtatiously, but never actually take anything on the serious end. You couldn't help but wonder if there was more to the things he said—or perhaps even to the words you spoke yourself.