He hesitated, then closed the book carefully, as though what he meant to say deserved more attention than Bunyan’s pilgrims. “I was thinking,” he said slowly, “that if we are to read of families so often, we might eventually…”
That was where he stopped.
Hazel’s breath caught, though she kept her voice steady. “Eventually?”
Their eyes met, both suddenly shy in a way that felt almost youthful.
“Children,” he said at last.
Hazel looked at the fire, gathering courage. “I have always thought,” she admitted, “that if I were to have children, I should like them to be kind first. Clever, perhaps, but kind above all.”
He smiled. “They will be,” he said with quiet certainty. “They will have your steadiness and your patience. They will notice the world the way you do, carefully and thoughtfully.” His gaze softened further. “They will feel safe, because you will teach them that being gentle is not the same as being small.”
Her eyes stung.
“And yours,” she said, finding her voice again, “will have your courage and your intensity. They will feel deeply and fiercely, even when they pretend otherwise.” She smiled faintly. “And they will be stubborn, and proud, and utterly unwilling to abandon what they love.”
He laughed softly. “That sounds dangerously like a scolding.”
“It is a promise,” she replied.
He reached for her hand then, threading his fingers through hers. “Our children,” he said, testing the words as though they were something precious, “will be everything we once feared we could not give.”
Hazel squeezed his hand, warmth blooming through her chest. “And everything we did not know we were allowed to want.”
Greyson smiled at her then, and it was not the careful, considered smile he once wore so often, but something easy and unguarded.
“In that case,” he pointed out importantly, “I believe our children will be entirely insufferable.”
Hazel laughed. “That is not encouraging.”
“On the contrary,” he replied. “They will argue with conviction, question everything, and possess an alarming talent for locating trouble where none previously existed.”
She tilted her head. “That sounds suspiciously like you.”
“And you,” he countered, “will pretend to scold them while secretly supplying biscuits.”
She gasped in mock offense. “I would never undermine your authority.”
“You will,” he said calmly. “Within the first week.”
Her laughter rang out again, brighter now. “Very well. But you shall be the one explaining to them why climbing trees in formal boots is a poor life choice.”
He considered this gravely. “I should fail utterly.”
“I suspected as much.”
They spoke then of nonsense and possibility in equal measure.
“I imagine,” Greyson said, “they will have your coloring, hazel eyes and freckles.”
Hazel smiled. “You say that as though freckles are inevitable.”
“They are,” he replied firmly. “And entirely non-negotiable.”
She laughed. “Very well. But they will have your height. Otherwise, the world would be unfair.”
“That is not a kindness,” he countered. “Have you met my knees?”
