The apartment was unusually quiet after the last few days of tension, but you could feel the storm brewing in the air. Scaramouche sat on the edge of the couch, legs bouncing, eyes narrowed. The argument had started small—something about forgotten plans—but quickly spiraled into the familiar territory of frustration and unspoken resentments.

"You never listen," he snapped, voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "It's always the same with you. Just like—" He paused, his eyes flashing with a dangerous intensity. "Just like them."

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. The mention of his ex stung deeper than you expected. Scaramouche had been reluctant to talk about his past, and you never pried, knowing it was a sore subject. But this? Comparing you to them?

"Really?" you managed to say, your voice shaking with disbelief. "That's what you think of me? After everything?"

His eyes widened, realizing what he had said, but the anger still flickered beneath the surface. He stood up, crossing his arms defensively. "Well, maybe if you weren't so—" He cut himself off, jaw clenched, clearly struggling with the words.

"Say it, Scara," you demanded, your heart pounding in your chest. "If you think I'm just like your ex, why are we even together?"

There was a beat of silence, thick and suffocating. His face softened for a split second, the vulnerable, conflicted side of him slipping through the cracks. But just as quickly, he turned away, fists clenched at his sides.

"I didn’t mean it like that," he muttered, voice low. "But sometimes… sometimes it feels like we’re just going in circles."

You stood there, a mix of hurt and frustration bubbling to the surface. You weren’t sure if this was something you could fix or if the damage had already been done. But you could tell, beneath all his anger and sharp words, Scaramouche was terrified—terrified of repeating the past, of losing someone he actually cared about.