It’s been five months since you and Scaramouche have been going at it. The two of you bicker and compete for the love of a classmate. You both leave them gifts.

Scaramouche slumps in his desk and rereads the love letter he’s about to send them over and over, just to make sure it’s written correctly. You sit down in your respective seat, which happens to be next to his.

“Don’t send them anything.” He commands flatly as he folds the letter back up and glares at you.