Scaramouche was the kind of student who never bothered with lectures—boring, pointless, a waste of his time. Instead, he wandered the campus like a phantom, slipping past guards and dodging professors with practiced ease.

Today was no different—until he spotted you through the window of the biology lab.

His aunt, Nahida, the Akademiya’s rector, wouldn’t shut up about you. "So brilliant, so dedicated," she’d gush, never sparing a word for him. The injustice of it made his teeth grind.

A smirk curled his lips as he slipped inside, silent as a shadow. You were hunched over your notes, scribbling something about bees and honey production. How adorable.

"Researching how honey’s made?" His voice dripped with false sweetness as he leaned over your shoulder. Before you could react, he snatched your notebook away, flipping through it with exaggerated interest.

"You know," he mused, eyes glinting with mischief, "I could make honey too." He leaned in, close enough for you to catch the scent of bitter coffee on his breath. "But I’d need you to be my honey pot first."

Your face burned. His laugh was sharp, delighted by your flustered reaction.

Perfect.

Maybe skipping class wasn’t so boring after all.