"How was your shift?" he asked, following me into the kitchen and starting to unpack the food with the easy familiarity of someone who'd done this dozens of times.
"Quiet. One kitchen fire, couple of EMS calls. Nothing dramatic." I grabbed plates from the cabinet, grateful for something to do with my hands. "How about you? Busy night?"
"Moderately. Had a guy come in convinced his ingrown toenail was a flesh-eating bacteria. Took three different medical professionals and a PowerPoint presentation to convince him otherwise."
I laughed, and for a moment it felt normal. This was us — sharing stories from our respective wars, finding humor in the chaos of emergency services. This was the easy rhythm we'd fallen into, the comfortable domesticity that had made me think we could build something lasting together.
But then Jimmy started telling me about his patient, and I found myself studying his face, looking for some sign of how he really felt about our conversation. Did he want children? Had he ever thought about it? Was my admission a dealbreaker he was still figuring out how to address?
"Izzy?" His voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. "You okay? You seem distracted."
"Sorry," I said quickly. "Just tired. It's been a long few days."
He nodded, accepting the explanation, but I caught the way his eyes lingered on my face. He was reading me the same way I was reading him, both of us looking for clues about what the other was really thinking.
We ate dinner (breakfast, whatever you wanted to call this post-shift meal), making small talk about work, the weather, a documentary he'd watched about sourdough starters. Normal couple conversation, but underneath it all was this new awareness, this careful distance that neither of us was acknowledging.
Afterwards, we settled on my couch to watch a movie, and I became acutely aware of how we positioned ourselves. Usually, Jimmy would pull me against his side, and I'd curl upwith my head on his shoulder. Tonight, we sat close but not touching, each of us claiming our own space on the couch.
The movie was some action thriller that required no emotional investment, but I found myself barely following the plot. Instead, I was thinking about Amelia Patterson, about the way it had felt to hold her small, trusting weight in my arms. About the realization that had cemented itself in my soul:I wanted that. I wanted bedtime stories and scraped knees and first days of school. I wanted the messy, complicated, beautiful reality of being responsible for someone else's happiness.
But I wanted it with Jimmy. And Jimmy... Jimmy had looked at me like I'd suggested we jump off a bridge together when I'd told him.
"This is a terrible movie," Jimmy said during a particularly ridiculous action sequence.
"Yeah, it really is," I agreed, though I couldn't have summarized the plot if my life depended on it.
"Want to watch something else?"
"Sure."
But instead of reaching for the remote, he turned to face me on the couch. "Izzy, are we okay?"
The question hung between us, loaded with everything we weren't saying. I could deflect, make a joke, pretend I didn't know what he meant. Or I could be brave and address the elephant that had taken up residence in my living room.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "Are we?"
Jimmy's expression grew thoughtful, like he was choosing his words carefully. "I feel like there's something we're not talking about."
The children conversation,I thought.The way you went completely silent when I told you what I wanted. The way you've been treating me like I'm made of glass ever since.
But I couldn't say that. Couldn't push him on something he clearly wasn't ready to discuss. The relationship was still toonew, too fragile. And maybe... maybe I wasn't ready to hear his answer anyway.
"We're fine," I said instead. "Just adjusting to being in a relationship with someone who understands the job. It's different."
It was a safe answer, focusing on our professional compatibility rather than our personal incompatibilities. Jimmy nodded, seeming to accept it, but I caught the relief in his expression. He didn't want to have the difficult conversation any more than I did.
"You're right," he said. "It is different. Good different."
"Yeah. Good different."
We turned back to the terrible movie, and Jimmy's arm came around me in our usual position. I settled against his side, breathing in his familiar scent, trying to convince myself that this was enough. That love was about more than matching visions for the future. That maybe wanting children was just a passing phase brought on by trauma from a difficult call.
But even as I told myself these things, I knew I was lying. The realization I'd had while holding Amelia wasn't going away. If anything, it was growing stronger, more certain with each passing day.
I wanted children. I wanted a family. And I wanted it with Jimmy.
The question was whether Jimmy wanted it too, or if this was where our story ended — not with a dramatic fight or betrayal, but with the quiet incompatibility of two people who loved each other but wanted different futures.
