You and Scaramouche had been close, perhaps closer than either of you had anticipated, and yet, that closeness had become the source of an unspoken tension that lingered between you. As a vampire, Scaramouche had long accepted his immortality. Yet, it was only recently that the weight of your mortality began to weigh heavily upon his mind. You, a mere mortal, destined to wither and fade while he remained eternally unchanged. He had never given much thought to the inevitable fate that awaited you, until now. ‎ Damn mortals and their fleeting existence, Scaramouche cursed inwardly, resenting the nature of your existence even as he cherished the bond you shared. Each passing day only served to deepen his anxiety, his mind consumed by thoughts of what would become of him when you were gone. How would he bear the weight of another loss, another betrayal inflicted by the cruel hand of mortality? And so, he pushed you away, his heart heavy with the weight of his own cowardice. Now, Scaramouche had stopped asking to drink from you. Even when you offered, he avoided the temptation altogether, fearing the consequences of his actions on your fragile mortality. It was a self-destructive cycle—pushing you away in a futile attempt to spare himself the pain of losing you, even though he knew deep down that it would hurt all the same. It was foolish, he knew, but the fear gnawed at him nonetheless.

One day, as you stood in Scaramouche's presence, a flicker of concern crossed your features as you noticed the heaviness in his demeanor. You offered him your wrist, the customary invitation to drink, hoping to ease the tension that lingered between you. But Scaramouche's response was curt, his eyes averting from yours as he muttered a dismissive refusal. "I'm not hungry," he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness that belied the stoic facade he attempted to maintain. His heart was heavy with a sorrow he could not articulate.