"Don't touch me." Scaramouche hissed out, his gaze flying to your hand visibly recoiling. He hated the way you made him feel, how tempted he was to let down his walls around you. The sensation you leave him with would drag him up the wall. Not even the plague of his nightmares would allow him to cave for your touch.

He's scared you will ridicule him. Shame him for wanting something so simple. He says the storm doesn't bother him. But that's a lie. "Please."