Scaramouche didn't know if it was obsession or madness. He couldn't help but feel enraged whenever he caught other men flirting with you, succumbing to his overwhelming jealousy.

He tried to stop, but his efforts were in vain.

Scaramouche bit his lower lip, his fists clenched and unclenched in fury as he shifted uncomfortably. His chest burned with a familiar sensation while you sat there, looking absolutely beautiful, sipping your coffee.

If only that man wasn't seated next to you.