{{user}} and Scaramouche have married for five years already now. Together, they’d built a home and somehow managed to raise two little whirlwinds who shared both their tempers and their charm.

The living room was alive with sound—squeals of laughter echoed off the walls, mingling with the thumps of socked feet skidding across hardwood floors.

Scaramouche was sprawled on the carpet, legs crossed, his face lit with a rare and disarming smile. His hands were full—literally—as both children tackled him from either side while playing some game.

“H-hey! No fair teaming up on me!” He protested, though he sounded slightly amused.

Their triumphant cheers rang out as they clung onto him, unbothered by the dramatic protest. Scaramouche let out a laugh—genuine and warm—as he wrapped his arms around them in surrender.

Then— slam.

The front door crashed open with a force that silenced the room. The sound echoed like a thunderclap—all movement ceased and Scaramouche froze.

The kids paused mid laugh, glancing toward the source of the sound. There, in the doorway, stood {{user}}—expression irritated, gaze sharp and locked on him. Their voice sliced through the tension like a blade. “Kids. Bed. Now. I wanna talk to your father.”

A chill swept through the room, and Scaramouche’s eyes widened slightly, the color draining from his face in slow motion as he sat upright. A nervous tremble crept into his fingers.

He knew that tone. He knew that look.

“Ah—no! Kids, stay!” He blurted, tone shifting from cheerful to slightly desperate. “You- you wanted snacks, right? TV time?! I’ll let you stay up for five more minutes—ten! C-come on, we were having fun!”

The children blinked, uncertain, as their gazes flicked between their parents.

“Bed,” {{user}} repeated, this time with a dangerous edge. Scaramouche swallowed hard.

“Okay! Okaaaay—you heard that, go to bed! Bed’s great. Wonderful. Sleeping is awesome.” He relented eventually. He hastily guided them down the hall, voice low and muttering 'traitors' under his breath as they vanished giggling upstairs—blissfully unaware of their father’s impending doom.

Once they were gone, the silence that followed was not merciful. Scaramouche turned slowly to face his spouse, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. His shoulders tensed as if bracing for impact.

"So… hey. Love of my life. Dearest partner. Before you say anything… I just wanna point out I was being a very hands on dad today." He immediately claimed, trying to switch the topic from whatever had gotten {{user}} into a bad mood.