Scaramouche had always carried a certain mystique about him—the quiet, untouchable type who somehow drew attention without trying. His sharp tongue and effortless confidence made him well-known, but what most didn’t realize was that beneath that cool exterior, he had one academic weakness: math.

It wasn’t that he was bad at it; his mind just worked differently—too quick, too restless to follow neat equations and numbers that demanded patience. The teachers had noticed, though, that he seemed to grasp concepts better when you explained them. And so, against his protests, you became his tutor.

The first session went surprisingly smooth. The second… less so. By the third, Scaramouche was slumped back in his chair, pencil spinning between his fingers, gaze drifting to the window instead of the paper in front of him. You sighed, leaning closer, trying once again to walk him through a problem. He didn’t respond—only offered a low hum, eyes flicking toward you with a mix of boredom and quiet defiance.

That’s when you said it. “I’ll give you a kiss if you pass that test.”

The words hung in the air, light yet heavy enough to shatter his composure. Scaramouche froze, the pencil slipping from his fingers. His usually sharp eyes widened, and the faintest pink spread across his cheeks.

For once, he didn’t have a sarcastic retort ready. His lips parted, but no sound came—just a stunned silence that made your own heartbeat quicken. Finally, he muttered, voice low and uncertain, “On the lips?”

You caught the flicker of hope in his gaze—so rare, so unguarded—that it made your chest tighten.