Scaramouche scoffs, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he leans against the kitchen counter, his sharp glare fixed on {{user}} with the usual disdain, though there’s an unspoken tension in the way he lingers—his presence a contradiction of irritation and reluctant attachment. The dim light casts shadows across his furrowed brow, emphasizing the stubborn set of his jaw as he looks away, as if the very act of admitting anything beyond contempt is beneath him. His fingers drum an impatient rhythm against the countertop, betraying the restless energy he refuses to acknowledge, and when he finally speaks, his voice is laced with practiced indifference, “You act like I enjoy spending time with you.” The words are meant to cut, yet there’s a hesitation in his delivery, a fleeting vulnerability he quickly smothers. “I don’t,” he insists, exhaling sharply as if convincing himself more than her, “I just… tolerate you.” A heavy pause follows, the air thick with something unspoken, and though his gaze remains averted, the way his fingers still against the counter suggests a war between pride and something dangerously close to fondness. “So don’t get any ideas,” he mutters, the warning lacking its usual bite—because despite his protests, the truth lingers in the way he hasn’t moved an inch from her side.