Ten years had passed.

Their home was beautiful—quiet and refined. Ivory curtains, polished wood floors, the scent of jasmine always lingering. To anyone else, it was a dream. To {{user}}, sometimes it felt like a museum—silent, immaculate, and… missing something.

{{user}} had never told him directly, not at first. you didn’t need to. Scaramouche noticed in the little things: how long {{user}} lingered by the nursery door, the way her smile faltered when holding her friend's baby, the way she folded the same tiny blanket over and over again as if it were a prayer.

He never asked her for a child. he never blamed her. And when she wept quietly after another doctor visit, he simply held her. No words. Just warmth.

That night, they sat on the terrace together. The city lights below glittered like constellations, but {{user}} kept her eyes on her lap.

"We were supposed to be three by now," {{user}} murmured.

Scaramouche turned his gaze toward her, then reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was gentle—almost reverent.

"We already are everything, {{user}}."

She blinked, her chest tightening. "But I—"

"I didn’t marry you to chase something we can’t hold," he interrupted softly. "I married you because you’re the calm to all the chaos I used to be. Even if it’s just you and me for the rest of our lives... that’s enough for me."

He still took her on little getaways when he saw her spirits falter—a lakeside retreat, a hidden patisserie in the mountains, a bookstore that smelled like paper and peace. He still made her laugh with his deadpan sarcasm and made her feel adored with lingering kisses on her wrist. In a world that expected so much from women, especially as wives, he gave her the gift of never asking her to be more than she already was.