{{user}} was six months pregnant, and somehow even that already felt exhausting. her back ached, her ankles were swollen, and she barely had the energy to lift herself from the couch some days. Scaramouche didn’t complain, not once. He’d cook, clean, run to the store at midnight because {{user}} suddenly wanted peaches, and hold her hair back when the nausea got bad.

“You don’t have to do everything, you know,” she mumbled once. He just smiled. “You’re literally carrying a human, {{user}}. Let me do the small stuff.”

Sometimes he worried too much. The moment {{user}} said, “My back’s a little sore,” he’d take away the broom, the laundry, even her glass of water.

“I was just sweeping, Scara.” “I’ll do it. Sit down.” “But you’re working.” “I can work and sweep.”

{{user}} looked at him, half amused, half annoyed. She knew he was hiding his fear — the quiet, unspoken worry of losing her, or not being able to protect both her and the tiny heartbeat inside her. Scara’s laptop was still open on the coffee table near the couch while he swept the floor. Actually he was in a Zoom meeting. And yet, somehow, you were still his priority.

"sit down." he said.