“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” My hand slides to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair. “You’re already thinking about what’s best for her. That’s half of it right there.”
And the other half is me, I think but don’t say. I’m already picturing myself as this baby’s dad. Reading before bed, teaching how to ride a bike, showing up to every recital and game and moment that matters. Can’t picture a future where I’m not there for every single second of this child’s life. The thought terrifies me and steadies me all at once.
She lets out a breath of a laugh. “Her. You keep saying her.”
“Just a feeling.”
“What if it’s a boy?”
“Then I buy him a baseball glove and teach him how to throw a punch.”
She snorts. “You’re gonna teach our potential son violence?”
“Self-defense. Totally different.”
She’s smiling now and it makes my heart rate speed up. This. This is what I want. Not just tonight, but every night. Her in my bed, in my life, in my future.
“What if it’s a girl and she wants to learn how to box?” she asks.
“Then I’ll teach her. Equal opportunity sparring in this household.”
“Good to know,” she laughs.
The quiet settles again, warm and domestic, and I know I should be careful. Know I’m getting in too deep. But lying here with her, imagining our daughter—or son—learning to walk, starting school, I can’t picture anyone else in this role. Can’t imagine another man teaching our kid how to ride a bike or show up to their soccer games. The thought of someone else being there for those moments makes me physically ill.
This baby is mine. This future is mine. And somewhere along the way, Natalie became mine too, whether she’s ready to admit it or not.
“How many kids did you picture having?” she asks.
“Two or three. Enough that they’d have each other.”
“That’s a lot of kids.”
“What about you? Now that you’re doingthis—do you think you’d want more?”
“I don’t know. Ask me again after I’ve actually birthed one and survived it.” She pauses. “But…maybe. If the first one doesn’t destroy me.”
I picture it. Another baby. A house full of kids who look like her. Chaos and noise and love everywhere. Me and Nat, years from now, exhausted and happy and together.
“You’re gonna be great at this, Nat.” I tilt her chin up so I can see her face. “And I’m gonna be right there with you. Every step. Every moment. I’m not missing any of it.”
She searches my eyes for a long moment, and I wonder if she can see what I’m not saying. That I’m not just talking about the baby. That I’m talking about her, about us, about a life I’m already building in my head. Then she kisses me.
It starts soft. Sweet. Then her hand slides to the back of my head and her tongue searches for mine. I roll her onto her back, settling between her thighs, her legs falling open like she’s been waiting for this.
The truth is, we’re both pretending this is simpler than it is. We’re circling the same conversation every time we’re together, skirting around it like it’s some sleeping animal we’re scared to wake. We keep spending nights together, eating dinner together, falling into bed like it’s instinct then pretending it’s all just part of our “co-parenting plan.”
Neither of us is brave enough to say what’s actually happening. And I’m terrified that if I’m the one who names it first, she’ll panic and shut the door in my face.
So I keep it to myself. That she’s becoming part of my routine, part of my thoughts, part of my life in a way that doesn’t feel casual at all. I hold all of thatback, because pushing her now feels like the fastest way to lose the little bit of closeness she’s giving me.
She wraps her legs around my waist, guiding me deeper, her hands sliding over my back like she can’t decide if she wants to hold me or anchor herself. Her nails graze my skin, and it sends heat straight down my spine. I move slowly, deliberately, matching her pace, letting her set the rhythm, like this is something we’ve been doing for years instead of stumbling into it by accident.
I brace my forehead against hers, breathing her in as her body lifts to meet mine, every part of her reaching for me like it’s second nature. Like she needs this as much as I do. Like we’re both trying to close a distance we keep pretending isn’t there.
“Jake,” she whispers, and the way she says my name ruins me.
