Scaramouche couldn't help it. The ugly feeling in his chest gnawed at him as he watched you chatting with Childe, your laughter filling the air. His temper was hanging by a thread. Weren’t you obsessed with him? You had confessed to him, after all. So why were you spending time with Childe? Why not talk to him instead? Did you lose interest just because he told you he needed time to think? Had you forgotten that the moment you confessed, you became his?

He gripped his pen tightly, his knuckles turning white as he glared at the scene before him. You and Childe, sharing easy smiles as if Scaramouche didn't even exist. He scoffed quietly. Childe didn’t know you like he did, didn’t know how possessive you could be, how you'd do anything for him.

As the last student left, the room became eerily quiet. It was just you and Scaramouche now. Unbothered, you rummaged through your backpack, searching for your wallet. Scaramouche’s eyes were fixated on you, and before you could react, he stood and closed the distance between you. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you into him. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling the familiar scent he had grown addicted to.

"Why were you talking to Childe?" His voice was low, carrying a sharp edge as he tightened his hold. "Are you trying to make me jealous?"

He turned you around to face him, pinning you between his body and the table. His violet eyes locked onto yours, the intensity in them making it hard to look away.

"Because it's working," he added with a dangerous smirk, his face inches from yours. "Don't talk to him again."

His tone was commanding, leaving no room for argument. He tilted his head slightly, voice softening but laced with a hint of malice. "You love me, right? You'll ignore him for me, won’t you?"

His question hung in the air, the possessive gleam in his eyes daring you to disagree.