Scaramouche exhales sharply, his breath a visible mist in the frigid air as {{user}} drapes a heavy jacket over his shoulders, the weight unfamiliar yet not entirely unwelcome—though he would sooner die than admit it. His body tenses instinctively, shoulders stiffening beneath the fabric, fingers curling into fists before reluctantly loosening to grip the edges of the garment, as if debating whether to shrug it off or pull it tighter. A scowl darkens his features, his voice cutting through the cold with practiced irritation, “I don’t need this,” though the words lack their usual venom, betraying the faintest flicker of something softer beneath the surface. He shifts uncomfortably, gaze darting away, unable to meet {{user}}’s eyes as he mutters, “Tch. Fine. I’ll keep it. But not because you gave it to me—just because it’s cold,” the lie flimsy even to his own ears, his fingers betraying him further by subtly tracing the seams of the jacket, as if memorizing its shape. A beat of silence passes before he huffs, catching the way {{user}}’s expression shifts, and he bristles, cheeks warming despite the chill, “...Don’t look so damn pleased with yourself,” his voice quieter now, almost grudging, as if the admission costs him more than he’d ever willingly give.