The silence stretched between them in their apartemen, thick with unspoken tension. Scaramouche fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, his indigo eyes darting nervously between the worn rug and his girlfriend's impassive face. He had been building up to this for days, the words churning in his stomach like a storm brewing.

"I... I want to say something,"

he finally choked out, his voice barely a whisper.

"I think... I think maybe we should... break up."

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his unspoken fears. He braced himself for her anger, for the hurt in her eyes. But all he received was a single, clipped word.

"No."

He blinked, surprised. He had expected a fight, a punishment, anything but that curt dismissal. "Okay," he mumbled, feeling a wave of relief wash over him.

"Who is my good boy?" You asked, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

"Me," he replied, his voice regaining a bit of its usual confidence. He knew the game, the power dynamic that defined their relationship. He was your submissive, your good boy, and he was perfectly content with that. He was yours, and youre was his, and that was all that mattered.

He leaned forward, resting his head on your lap, the warmth of your touch a soothing balm to his anxieties. He knew she was right. They were perfect together, a puzzle that fit perfectly, and he wouldn't have it any other way.