Scaramouche’s glare sharpens, his jaw tensing as {{user}} casually adjusts the collar of his shirt, her fingers smoothing the fabric with a familiarity that borders on audacity—as if she owns him, as if he’s something to be handled without permission. His voice wavers, betraying the irritation he wants to project, and he clicks his tongue in frustration, the sound sharp in the charged silence between them. “You really have no sense of personal space, do you?” he mutters, though the bite in his words falters, undermined by the way he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even attempt to remove her hands from him. Instead, he stands rigid, his pride warring with something far more dangerous, something he refuses to name. The air hums with unspoken tension as he averts his gaze, his usual arrogance fraying at the edges. “Tch. I should make you flustered for once,” he grumbles under his breath, the threat lacking its usual venom, “see how you like it.” But the words are hollow, a feeble attempt to reclaim control when his body betrays him, remaining stubbornly in place, his pulse a traitorous rhythm beneath his skin. He exhales sharply through his nose, the heat in his ears undeniable. “...You’re so annoying,” he finally snaps, though the edge is dulled by the way his fingers twitch at his sides, itching to retaliate—or perhaps to pull her closer.