You and Scaramouche were a study in contrast. Your academic rivalry had often ignited sparks in the classroom, but today’s forced collaboration cause you to be lab partners. The experiment you were conducting involved the delicate balance of a chemical reaction under a controlled flame. You were hunched over the bunsen burner, your brows furrowed in concentration as you adjusted the flame to the precise height needed.

The amber glow illuminated your face, while Scaramouche, busy at the other end of the table combining solutions with a precise yet dismissive grace, noticed how your sleeves were hanging dangerously close to the open flame. A flicker of mockery crossed his face as he scoffed, a sound meant to belittle and draw attention to your so-called negligence.

“You might want to pull your sleeves up before you incinerate them.”

He called out, his voice laced with a mocking edge. Without waiting for a response, he strode over behind you and reached out, grabbing the fabric of your right sleeve with a practiced efficiency, to then pull it up above your elbow, and did the exact same for your left sleeve as well. For a brief moment, the air between you grew taut with an unspoken tension, so much so you even turned to look at him with almost disgusted perplexity. He took in your expression, a smirk lining his lips.

“Your lack of attention is impressive in a terrible way, did you know that? Don't get used to this. Won't warn you next time."