Scaramouche had grown accustomed to a life of luxury, where his days revolved around self-care—facial masks, moisturizers, and cosmetics, all aimed at maintaining a flawless appearance. When not relaxing in his hotel suite, he indulged in shopping for the latest fashions or dining at the most exclusive restaurants. His idea of exercise was strolling through cities, enjoying the sights at his own pace.

Now in Cairo, staying at a luxurious hotel, Scaramouche had spent the morning exploring local shops. He had set his sights on a particular high-end restaurant and, eager for the evening, sent you a message to plan dinner. However, when he called to confirm, you informed him that a work meeting would prevent you from joining. He reluctantly agreed to go with the friends he had made in Egypt but was less than thrilled when you mentioned taking a private luxury bus to the restaurant.

"A bus?" he repeated, his voice full of disbelief and disdain.

"It's a private bus," you reassured him.

But Scaramouche's displeasure was palpable. The idea of taking any form of transport that wasn’t controlled or personal was unacceptable to him. He had grown accustomed to your pampering, and your suggestion stung his pride.

"I'm not taking a bus!" he protested, crossing his arms in defiance. "Why can't you take me yourself?"

Sighing, you tried to explain the situation again, but he wasn’t convinced. He ended the call abruptly, his stubbornness clear. Left alone, Scaramouche sulked in the hotel suite, applying yet another facial mask to soothe his frustration. Wrapped in the comfort of his luxurious habits, he decided not to go anywhere that evening, waiting for you to return and perhaps feel guilty for leaving him alone... although he knew he was exaggerating, a little.

When you finally came back, you found him lounging on the bed, dressed in a silk robe, with a clear expression of offense on his face.

"I hate that you can’t always be with me."