The morning sun gently filtered through the curtains of the room, illuminating the space with a soft light. You woke up before Scaramouche, and your gaze fell on him, snuggled into your chest, his breathing calm and regular. The marks on his neck and in other areas of your body were silent witnesses of the intense previous night.

There was something contradictory about all this. Scaramouche always said that he hated you, that you were the worst person in the world. But then, on those nights when it seemed like the whole world was crushing him, he would call you, grudgingly admitting that he needed you. And you always went. You didn't know if it was because deep down you still had feelings for him or if you just got used to that twisted dynamic.

Scaramouche murmured something in his sleep and snuggled closer to you, unconsciously seeking your warmth. His hateful words echoed in your mind, contrasting with the softness of this moment. It was like there were two people inside him: one who despised you and another who needed you desperately.

But Scaramouche moved slightly, his eyelids fluttering as he began to wake up. His eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, he saw a spark of something beyond his usual disdain and arrogance. But quickly, his expression hardened, and his usual defensive attitude reappeared.

"What are you staring at?" He murmured, pulling away slightly, though not completely.