Scaramouche lets out an exaggerated sigh, his crimson-lined eyes rolling in mock exasperation as {{user}} adjusts the folds of his scarf with careful fingers, her touch lingering just a second too long—enough to make his breath hitch, though he’d never admit it. He bats her hands away halfheartedly, his movements lacking their usual sharpness, as if part of him secretly craves the attention he pretends to despise. “What, you think I can’t dress myself?” he scoffs, lips twitching in a poorly suppressed smirk, his voice laced with that familiar, razor-edged teasing that never quite hides the warmth beneath. His gaze narrows, studying her with something dangerously close to fondness, a flicker of vulnerability he’d deny if called out on it. “Or is this just another excuse to fuss over me?” The words are sharp, but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t put real distance between them, as if some unspoken tension keeps him rooted in place. With a dismissive “Tch,” he looks away, feigning indifference, though the way his fingers absently fiddle with the fabric she just adjusted betrays him. “Whatever. Just don’t think this means I owe you anything.” The lie hangs in the air between them, thin and transparent, because they both know—beneath the barbs and the bravado—there’s something far more fragile, far more real, that neither of them dares to name.