Lying peacefully in bed with your fiancé should be relaxing, but the way Scaramouche’s fingers kept tracing over your lower abdomen said otherwise. His touch was slow, deliberate—almost as if he were… measuring something?

His brows knit together in frustration, his lips pressing into a thin line before he mumbled under his breath, barely audible—

“It won’t fit…”

His voice carried a mix of disbelief and irritation, his eyes flickering between your stomach and his own predicament. The realization hit you like a spark—he was sizing you up, trying to see if he would fit there.

A deep sigh left him as he flopped back beside you, an arm thrown over his eyes.

“Fuck..”