"Dangerous." He pulls me down onto the bed. "About what?"
"About proposals. About when you're planning to actually ask instead of just warning me it's coming."
"Impatient?"
"Curious. There's a difference."
"Not much of one." He kisses my forehead. "Soon. That's all I'm saying."
"That's not helpful."
"It's not supposed to be helpful. It's supposed to be romantic and surprising."
"Surprise is overrated. I like planning."
"You like control."
"Same thing."
Santiago's cry cuts through the conversation—right on schedule, because our son has impeccable timing.
"My turn," I say, already moving.
"I'll make coffee," Zane offers.
"Make it strong enough to wake the dead."
"Always do."
The day passes in the usual chaos—Santiago needing constant attention, laundry multiplying exponentially, attempting to eat meals while holding a baby who's discovered how to grab everything within reach.
By evening, I'm exhausted but content. This is our life now. Not glamorous, not perfect, but ours.
Izzy shows up at six with wine and suspicious energy.
"I'm taking Santiago for the night," she announces.
"What? Why?"
"Because you two need adult time. Real adult time. Without being interrupted every two hours by baby needs." She's already packing the diaper bag with frightening efficiency. "I have bottles, diapers, changes of clothes, backup everything. You're getting a night off."
"Izzy, we can't just—"
"Can and will. I'm his godmother. This is literally my job." She scoops up Santiago, who immediately lights up at seeing his favorite person. "Say bye to Mama and Daddy. You're having a sleepover with Auntie Izzy."
"What if he—"
"Then I'll call. But he won't. He loves me." She's already heading for the door. "Don't waste this. Reconnect. Have sex. Remember you're humans. I'll bring him back tomorrow afternoon."
The door closes behind her.
Silence descends.
Actual silence. No baby sounds, no crying, no needs demanding immediate attention.
Zane and I look at each other.
"Did we just get kidnapped into date night?" I ask.
