It was supposed to be a normal graduation party—loud music, spilled drinks, stupid games and everyone pretending like they weren’t terrified of the future. {{user}} didn’t even want to go—but someone must have dragged them there, and now here they were, dealing with the aftermath. A hangover behind their tired eyes, the faint taste of regret and cheap alcohol still on their tongue.

But nothing compared to that dream—it was too vivid.

{{user}} could still feel it—the way his fingertips grazed their cheek, soft and deliberate. His eyes, usually filled with condescension and smug glares across the classroom, now looked at them like they were fragile. Like he didn’t hate them.

And then, the kiss. {{user}} instantly jolted awake.

Sweat clung to them. The room spun slightly as they sat up on what they realized was not their bed. Definitely not.

{{user}} blinked. There were string lights above. A poster they didn’t recognize. Someone’s sweatshirt hanging off a chair. The place smelled faintly like cologne and cheap body spray.

Their throat was dry and their pulse was louder than their thoughts. That dream was messed up. Why Scaramouche, of all people? He was their enemy..

They swung their legs to the side, ready to get the hell out of this weird room when they suddenly heard a noise.

“Mmmn…” Someone groaned behind them, making their breath hitched.

They froze—there was someone else in the bed, lying beside them. Short indigo hair, pale skin, eyeliner smudged just enough to be unfairly attractive even while sleeping.

“Hey-… hey, wake up..!” They whispered, sounding slightly panicked. Another groan. He turned his face further into the pillow, clearly annoyed. Then came the voice, muffled—yet too familiar. “Go back to sleep, {{user}}…”

They immediately ecoiled—No. No way.

“Scaramouche?!” They whisper-yelled, their voice holding a hint of incredulity.

He didn’t lift his head and instead just gave the faintest, tired noise of confirmation.