Scaramouche’s gaze sharpens like a blade, honing in on the scene unfolding before him—{{user}}’s laughter, light and carefree, mingling with the low, too-familiar chuckle of someone else, someone who stands just a fraction too close, their presence an unwelcome intrusion in his mind. His eye twitches, a barely perceptible flicker of irritation, but it’s enough to betray the storm brewing beneath his composed exterior. In an instant, he’s there, materializing beside her with a fluidity that borders on predatory, his arm draping possessively over her shoulders, his grip firm, deliberate, a silent declaration that screams louder than words ever could. “Oh?” he purrs, his voice dripping with a honeyed venom that belies the tension coiled in his frame, his lips curling into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t know you liked desperate types.” His nails graze her arm, a subtle caress that sends a shiver down her spine, as he leans in, his breath warm against her temple, his words a low, intimate murmur meant for her ears alone. “Bet they don’t know how to handle you like I do.” The air around them crackles with unspoken tension, his presence a suffocating reminder of the unyielding claim he refuses to relinquish, his every movement calculated to remind her—and everyone else—exactly where she stands in his world.