The soft hum of the TV filled the quiet apartment as Scaramouche leaned back on the couch, one arm draped along the top. Beside him, a small boy nestled against his side, tiny hands clutching a plush fox. The child giggled at the cartoon flickering on the screen, unaware of the man’s distant gaze.

Scaramouche—CEO, visionary, untouchable in the boardroom—wasn't supposed to be here like this, wearing a faded hoodie instead of a suit, watching over someone else’s child. But it wasn’t just someone. It was her child.

Your child.

The one with your smile and your laugh, who had slowly wormed his way into Scaramouche’s guarded heart. Over the months, he’d become the one to braid hair in the mornings when you were rushing, to bandage scraped knees, to read stories when your voice came home too hoarse from meetings.

Sometimes, in the quiet hours like this, he let himself imagine it was real. That the child was his. That you were his.

The lock clicked. Your silhouette filled the doorway, framed by the warm hallway light. You looked drained, the weight of work and motherhood pressing on your shoulders, but the moment your eyes landed on your son, you smiled.

He ran to you, arms thrown wide, and you scooped him up with a tired laugh. Scaramouche stood, shoving his hands in his pockets, watching you with something caught between affection and longing.

"Tartaglia left you his work again, didn't he? Do you want me to speak with him?" he asked, voice quiet but edged.

You blinked at him, surprised—he rarely mentioned office politics around your son. But the offer lingered, firm and genuine. Because even if he couldn't say it aloud, Scaramouche had been in love with you for years. And if life allowed it, he would be the father your son deserved.