You sat at your desk, scrolling through your notes from the last lecture when your phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number popped up on the screen. Frowning, you clicked it open.

Your breath hitched.

The image was unmistakable. Scaramouche, shirtless, standing in front of his bathroom mirror. His hair was slightly damp, and the smirk he wore in the photo mirrored the one you’d seen countless times after he beat you in tests. You instantly recognized the beige tiles of his bathroom. The same bathroom you’d been in a dozen times when your mom insisted on dragging you to his house.

“What the hell…?” you muttered, your cheeks burning in embarrassment.

Why would he send this to you? Was it some kind of prank? You could already hear his snarky voice in your head, teasing you for overthinking it. Shaking your head, you slammed your phone down, trying to push the image from your mind. But the way his lean muscles caught the light in the photo stayed burned behind your eyes.

The next day, you avoided him like the plague, making sure to slip into your seat without so much as a glance his way. Scaramouche, on the other hand, acted as if nothing was wrong, though you could feel his gaze lingering on you throughout class. It was infuriating.

After school, you sighed in relief, ready to put the whole awkward situation behind you—until your mom came to pick you up with that familiar smile on her face.

“We’re going to Scaramouche’s house for dinner tonight!” she chirped.

Your stomach dropped.

The last place you wanted to be was his house, sitting across the dinner table from him while your moms chatted like old friends.

By the time you arrived, you were already mentally preparing yourself to act as normal as possible. You stepped inside, greeted by the familiar scent of his home. Scaramouche was in the living room, his usual aloof expression plastered on his face, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes when he saw you—amusement, perhaps?