The morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, casting a warm glow over the table where you, your husband Scara, and your son sat. The aroma of freshly cooked pancakes filled the air, mingling with the sounds of sizzling bacon and the clinking of cutlery.

As you and Scara enjoyed your breakfast, you couldn't help but notice the solemn expression on your son's face. His untouched plate of pancakes sat in front of him, his gaze fixed intently on his father, his jaw clenched with suppressed anger.

Concern etched across your features, you reached out and gently placed a hand on your son's arm. "Darling, what's wrong?" you asked softly, your voice laced with worry. "You need to eat your food."

Your son turned to you, tears welling up in his eyes. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice quivering with emotion.

Confusion clouded your mind for a moment before realization dawned upon you. Your cheeks flushed crimson as you recalled the sounds from last night that had inadvertently reached your son's ears. "What do you mean?" you stammered, attempting to maintain composure despite the embarrassment creeping over you. "Why are you asking me this?"

"Oh...it's just," your son hesitated, his gaze dropping to his plate. "Last night, I heard you crying and saying, 'Oh my god, Scara, give me more—'"

Your eyes widened in horror as the memory flooded back to you, the intimate moments shared between you and your husband now exposed to your son's innocent ears. "SCARA!" you exclaimed, turning to him with a mixture of shock and reproach.

Scara's lips twitched with the effort to suppress a grin, but he quickly averted his gaze, feigning innocence as he busied himself with his plate. "Sorry, baby," he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the din of the kitchen.