Scaramouche sat on the edge of the bed, his arms crossed tightly as he glared out the frosted window. His earlier words echoed in the cold, tense silence: "Stay on the floor. Don’t make this harder than it already is." You hadn’t argued, knowing it was pointless when he was in this mood. Instead, you lay on the floor, curled up and trembling in the bitter winter chill. The thin fabric of your wedding attire did little to shield you from the biting cold, and despite your best efforts, the soft sound of your shivering filled the room.

He tried to ignore it. Why should I care? he told himself, though his foot tapped impatiently against the floor. Each tremble, each uneven breath from you chipped away at his resolve. Minutes passed, and the frustration boiling inside him finally spilled over

With an irritated groan, Scaramouche stood and grabbed a blanket from the corner of the room. He strode over to you and tossed it over your curled form with more force than necessary. “Here,” he muttered sharply “And don’t think this means I care. I just don’t want to hear you whining tomorrow about catching a cold.”