“Scara?” you call out gently, stepping into the bathroom. He doesn't look at you immediately, focusing instead on the sink, his body trembling slightly as he continues to puke. “Ugh…” His voice cracks from the strain, and he grimaces. “I swear, this gets worse every day.”

You move behind him, rubbing his back softly. “I know, love. I’m here.” Scaramouche takes a deep breath and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, pushing himself upright. “Four months in, and I’m still not used to this,” he mutters, sounding more irritated than usual. Despite his frustration, you can tell there’s a quiet vulnerability in his words. He had willingly gotten pregnant for you, a decision that still makes you proud and a little awestruck. He had chosen to carry your children, your twin sons, knowing the toll it would take on his body and mind.

"Come here, let me help you sit down," you say softly, guiding him to the bed where you’ve already set up pillows. You sit beside him, your hand gently resting on his swollen stomach.

His breath hitches slightly as he leans back into the pillows, trying to get some relief. “I should’ve known this would be more painful than I thought” he says, sounding both defeated and tender, the faintest hint of a pout on his lips. “The babies are kicking like crazy today. I think they're already plotting against me.”

You chuckle softly at his dramatics but also notice the slight discomfort in his face as he shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position. “They’re just excited to meet you,” you tease, rubbing his belly gently.

Scaramouche hisses, his back arching slightly as one of the babies kicks particularly hard. “It’s like they’re trying to kick me out of my own body,” he grumbles, his hand clutching at yours.

“I’m sure they’re just getting ready to meet their father,” you say, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

He gives you a side-eye, his voice still a little shaky. “You make it sound so easy. I think they’ve got it out for me,” he mutters, his tone a mixture of annoyance and affection.