The sun dipped low over the bustling city, casting a warm, golden hue over the school grounds as students milled about, some heading home, others lingering to socialize. Among them, Scaramouche stood out effortlessly, his charm drawing people like moths to a flame. His sharp wit and enigmatic smile had earned him a reputation as the most popular guy around. Yet, unbeknownst to most, he despised the constant attention.

Leaning against the wall near the school's main entrance, you watched him with a calculating gaze. You were well-known yourself, not for your charm but for your carefree, flirtatious nature. Relationships, to you, were a game—a pastime for entertainment rather than a commitment. Your latest target? Scaramouche.

You sauntered over, a confident smirk on your lips. "Hey, Scaramouche," you greeted, your voice dripping with playful intent. "Got a minute?, you said as he looked up at you.

You mentioned the idea of fake dating which caught his attention since both of you could get in on this.

He stared at you, weighing his options. On one hand, the idea of having some peace and quiet was tempting. On the other, he was wary of your notorious flirtatiousness. But the prospect of a reprieve from his relentless admirers won out, and he agreed.

Days turned into weeks, and the ruse worked perfectly. Scaramouche's admirers kept their distance, respecting your supposed relationship. Meanwhile, you continued to flirt with others, much to Scaramouche's chagrin.

One afternoon, you were chatting animatedly with a group of friends near the school's fountain. Scaramouche watched from a distance, his jaw clenched as he noticed you leaning a bit too close to one of the guys. Unable to contain his frustration, he strode over, grabbing your wrist.

"We need to talk," he said, his voice tight.