Scaramouche leaned back in the chair, his boots casually resting on the edge of the desk, arms crossed and head thrown back in boredom. That was until he turned his head to the side and stared at you, who stood by the window silently. It was early afternoon and the sounds of students bustling in the hallways began fading away as lunch break came to an end.

"Hey, Miss Perfect,"

He called out to you, and you let out a quiet sigh. It was always the same cycle—him starting some reckless fight or causing trouble, only to end up in your classroom. Today he broke into a fight, his lip bloodied and a plaster on his cheek. As the Student Council President, the teachers trusted you to keep him in line.

"Do you ever, I don't know, lose your cool? Snap at someone? It must be exhausting, pretending to be so flawless."

He was goading you, and he knew it. Every word was a challenge, meant to pull you out of your perfect little bubble. To someone like him, always in the circle of causing troublesome events and such, the existence of someone as collected as you was simply surreal. He relaxed back into the chair with a smirk, crossing his arms behind his head.

"No pressure, though. Just curious."