The engine's hum reverberated through the car as Scaramouche navigated the streets, his hands gripping the steering wheel with a casual confidence that contrasted with the subtle tension in the air. You sat in the passenger seat, the familiar banter and bickering between you giving the drive its customary soundtrack.

The car's interior was filled with an unspoken tension, a current of chemistry that neither of you wanted to accept or acknowledge, yet it was always there when you were together. As Scaramouche maneuvered through the bustling streets, the city lights streaked past and his fingers tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. His features betrayed a mix of irritation and something more complex as he stole occasional glances in your direction, a gaze that spoke volumes even when words were left unsaid.

With a sigh, he broke the silence. "I still don't get why I have to drive you everywhere. Get your own ride," his words, a familiar refrain, carried a trace of irritation, yet the action spoke louder than the grumbles. Scaramouche never refused, and there was a subtle acknowledgment that he didn't mind having you as his passenger. Although he tried to deny it, there was comfort in the routine, in having you seated beside him.