you and scaramouche are both drama majors and have been at each other's throats vying for the same lead roles since high school. but when you're both cast as each other's love interest in your second year of university you're forced to be civil with...
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You stab the pasta with the fork and ignore the piercing stare Scaramouche is sending you as you chew on it.
"So?" he says, "Is it good?"
"Yeah, better than the shit they serve at the cafeteria," you honestly say, you could tease him as much as you wanted but even you couldn't hide the look on your face from the taste of his cooking.
"I know," he smiles, going back to his plate. It would be cute if it wasn't Scaramouche.
"Did your mom teach you how to cook this good?" you ask, shoveling it into your mouth. You hadn't eaten this well in a while.
Scaramouche doesn't respond as quickly, quietly poking at his plate. You assume he's ignoring your attempt at small talk but he speaks up once again.
"No, I taught myself. My mom's a shitty cook," he answers, giving you a half-lidded look, "I'm better than her."
You nod, not wanting to pry into whatever the hell that was. You both finish the meal in mostly silence, aside from occasionally kicking each other's feet under the table.
Before you knew it your plates were empty.
"Are you still hungry?" he asks, grabbing your plate from you, ignoring how you tug it back.
