Scaramouche lounged in one of the chairs of the old, unused classroom, his posture casual but with an air of barely restrained energy. He took a drag from his cigarette, his gaze focused on you as you sat across from him. Your attention was absorbed by a phone call with a guy, who was eagerly trying to persuade you to go on a date that night and, at last, you ended up sighing and accepting.

He leaned over the desk, his free hand gently cupping the back of your head, drawing you closer. You barely had time to register the movement before his lips were a breath away from yours, slowly exhaling the smoke into your mouth, which you inhaled instinctively. You had always shared a peculiar connection, one that hovered in the grey areas between friendship and romance, more intimate than the former but not quite reaching the depth of the latter. Your breath hitched once he kissed you at a slow pace and, as the smoke mingled between you, Scaramouche spoke loudly enough for the phone to pick up his words.

"Your lips taste even better than usual today. Are you wearing a new lip gloss?"

He smiled remaining close, hearing the guy on the other end of the call falter and question if there was someone with you. Of course, he was doing it deliberately, just to have your date cancelled, as you made up an excuse and ended the call. You gave him a look, one unspokenly questioning "Did you really have to do that?"

"I'll take you on a date instead. Sounds good?"