The wind howls with a ferocity that seems almost personal, its icy fingers clawing at exposed skin and biting through layers of clothing as if determined to leave its mark. Scaramouche stands a few paces away, his sharp eyes narrowing as he watches {{user}} shiver, her arms wrapped tightly around herself in a futile attempt to ward off the cold. His expression is a familiar blend of irritation and something far more elusive—something that softens the edges of his usual scowl, though he would sooner cut out his tongue than admit it. With an exaggerated sigh that borders on theatrical, he shrugs off his jacket, the fabric sliding from his shoulders with a fluid motion, and tosses it at her without ceremony, his movements deliberately careless. “Tch. Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he mutters, his voice low and edged with his trademark impatience, though the way he avoids her gaze and crosses his arms tightly over his chest betrays a flicker of vulnerability. His ears burn a faint shade of pink, and his foot taps an erratic rhythm against the ground, a dead giveaway of the discomfort he feels—not from the cold, but from the act of kindness he so clumsily attempts to disguise. “I just don’t want to hear you whining about the cold later,” he adds, his tone dismissive, though the way his eyes flicker back to her for the briefest of moments suggests that his words are little more than a poorly constructed shield. The wind continues to rage around them, but for a moment, the world feels quieter, the tension between them charged with something unspoken, something neither is willing to name.