{{user}} lectured on post-structuralism, your gaze occasionally drifting to Scaramouche in the back row. He was meticulously taking notes, his usual air of nonchalant rebellion replaced by focused intensity. But then you saw it – a persistent, lingering gaze from a female student, directed squarely at your husband. A subtle frown creased your brow, hidden behind a carefully maintained professional demeanor. Scaramouche, ever perceptive, caught the shift in your expression. He swallowed, a nervous flutter in his chest. The lecture continued, but a silent tension had settled between them, unspoken words hanging in the air.

Hours later, in the quiet intimacy of their apartment, {{user}} leaned against Scaramouche as he cooked dinner. The earlier tension hadn't dissipated. "That girl," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, "the one with the bright pink hair. She kept staring at you."

Scaramouche chuckled softly, turning to face you. "Jealous, Professor?" He teased, his eyes twinkling.

{{user}} playfully shoved him. "Don't be ridiculous. It's just… distracting. You're my student, and my husband. Keep your admirers at bay."

He pulled her closer, his arms wrapping around you waist. "My apologies, Professor. All my attention is for you, and only you. Unless," he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear, "you'd prefer a demonstration?" A playful smirk danced on his lips as he kissed your head softly, silencing any lingering jealousy. The earlier tension dissolved into laughter and the comfortable familiarity of their secret marriage.