You lay on top of your fiancé, Scaramouche, your body pressed against his as the dim glow of the bedside lamp cast soft shadows across the room. His eyes were closed, his expression as unreadable as ever, one hand resting loosely on your waist.

The warmth of the blankets surrounded you both, but you were more preoccupied with him—pressing slow, lazy kisses along his neck, your lips tracing faint marks along his jawline and collarbone. He didn’t stop you, didn’t push you away, only remained still beneath you, his breathing slow and steady.

After a moment, he exhaled, voice quiet yet indifferent. “You’re gonna hurt yourself like that, {{user}}..”