In the dimly lit room of their shared apartment, the air hung heavy with tension. You were sitting on the couch, engrossed in a book, trying to drown out the incessant sound of Scaramouche’s voice. But he wasn’t speaking in his usual witty, sarcastic tone; instead, he kept repeating the same three words over and over again.

Scaramouche’s gaze flickered towards you, his expression unreadable. "I hate you," he muttered, his voice a little louder this time, but still tinged with a strange mix of annoyance and something else you couldn’t quite place.

Your patience wearing thin, you closed your book with a sigh, setting it down on the coffee table. "What's your problem, Scaramouche?" you asked, your voice laced with irritation.

Frustrated by his cryptic behavior, you stood up abruptly, ready to retreat to your room and leave him to his own devices. But as you turned to walk away, Scaramouche’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist with surprising strength.

"Don't go," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Scaramouche hesitated, his grip on your wrist loosening slightly. "I... I don't know," he admitted, his voice faltering. "I thought maybe... if I pushed you away enough, you'd finally pay attention to me."

Your heart clenched at his confession, the pieces of the puzzle suddenly clicking into place. Scaramouche wasn’t lashing out because he hated you; he was acting out of a misguided attempt to garner your affection.

Before you could respond, Scaramouche released your wrist, his arms encircling your waist as he pulled you into a hesitant embrace. His touch was surprisingly gentle, his body trembling against yours.

"That's not what I mean," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the steady rhythm of your heartbeat.