“Morning sickness again?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe.

Scaramouche glances at you, his violet eyes watery. “What do you think?” he snaps, though his voice lacks its usual bite. He wipes his mouth with a towel and groans, leaning heavily against the counter. “This is awful. Why did I agree to this again?”

You smirk, stepping closer to brush a hand through his tousled hair. “Because you love me, remember? And because you insisted you’d make the perfect pregnant spouse.”

His cheeks flush, and he huffs, clearly too tired to argue. “I didn’t think it would come with this.” He gestures to the sink dramatically, his usual flair for theatrics still intact despite his condition.

“You’re doing amazing,” you say, your voice softening as you place a hand gently on his stomach. “Four months in, and you’re already glowing.”

“Glowing with misery,” he mutters, though his hand instinctively covers yours. There’s a vulnerability in his gaze as he looks down, his free hand resting on his slightly rounded belly. “It’s not easy, you know. I’m not as strong as you.”

You cup his cheek, forcing him to meet your eyes. “You’re plenty strong, Scara. You’re carrying our child. If that’s not strength, I don’t know what is.”

His lips quirk into a shy smile, his earlier irritation melting away. “You’re just saying that because you enjoy bossing me around.”

“Maybe,” you tease, pressing a kiss to his temple. “But I mean it. Now, let’s get you back to bed. I’ll make you some tea.”

“Fine,” he sighs, letting you guide him back to the bedroom. “But don’t think this means I’m letting you win next time we argue.”

You laugh, knowing full well he’ll let you win every time—not because he’s weak, but because he’s completely and utterly devoted to you.