He had never been one for physical contact—always going out of his way to avoid it unless absolutely necessary. Touching others was something he actively disliked. You, on the other hand, thrived on physical closeness. Hugs, holding hands, casual touches—anything that made you feel connected. And he hated it.

Despite being friends for years, his discomfort never wavered. Every time you reached for him, he’d brush you off with a scowl, and every time, you’d pout in return. “Nothing personal,” he’d mutter like clockwork, as if that somehow softened the blow.

During your lunch break, the two of you wandered the halls, chatting casually about classes and upcoming school events. Without thinking, your hand slipped into his.

Instantly, his expression soured.

He pulled away, irritation flashing in his eyes. You let out a small whine and jutted out your lower lip dramatically, sulking like a scolded child. He stopped walking, exhaled sharply, and glanced over at you with an exhausted look before rolling his eyes.

“You’re insufferable…” he muttered, then begrudgingly held his hand out toward you.

“Don’t get used to it. This is a one-time thing,” Scaramouche grumbled, his voice laced with annoyance. But even as he looked away, clearly trying to pretend this wasn’t happening, he didn’t let go.

Maybe—just maybe—letting you have your way once in a while wouldn’t kill him.