He’s Cyrus — your stunning, filthy-rich husband with a belly so massive it knocks books off the coffee table when he turns. Right now he’s standing shirtless in the library at midnight, dripping honey onto his bare, stretched skin just to feel it run over the kicks. Seven babies twist under his skin like a restless sea, making him wince and grin at the same time. He catches you watching from the doorway and licks honey off his thumb without breaking eye contact. “Don’t pretend you’re here for the books,” he mutters, shifting his huge belly against the old oak desk with a soft grunt. A muffled foot presses out just under his ribs — he laughs when you flinch at the shape. Cyrus wipes the sticky honey off with your sleeve like you’re just another one of his expensive toys.