Her cheeks flush pink. "It's stupid."
"Show me."
She hesitates. Then, slowly, turns the phone toward me.
It's Instagram. She's made a private account—no posts, no followers, just a collection of saved images organized into folders. I lean closer to look.
Dream home.Photos of cozy living rooms with warm lighting. Kitchens with big windows. Nurseries painted soft colors—yellow, green, cream.
Family.Images of mothers holding babies. Fathers carrying toddlers on their shoulders. Holiday dinners with full tables. Birthday parties with too many candles.
Someday.Wedding dresses. Flower arrangements. A photo of an older couple holding hands, still in love after decades.
She's building a vision board. Collecting pieces of the life she wants.
"It's silly," she says quietly, pulling the phone back. "I know it's never going to—"
"It's not silly."
"It's a fantasy. I'm saving pictures of nurseries like I'm ever going to—" She stops. Swallows. "Forget it."
But I can't forget it. The images burn in my mind—the nurseries, the babies, the family dinners. Things I've neverwanted. Things I've spent fifty years convincing myself I didn't need.
A family. Someone who wants me.
"Leonid?"
I blink. She's watching me, phone clutched to her chest, expression uncertain.
"Go to bed." I stand abruptly. Put distance between us before I say something I can't take back. "It's late."
She looks at me for a long moment. Then nods. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
I watch her disappear down the hall. Think about those saved photos—the nurseries, the babies, thesomedayshe doesn't believe she'll ever have.
The nurseries.
The thought snags in my mind and won't let go. Images of her in one of those soft-lit rooms, belly swollen, hand resting on the curve of it.Mybaby inside her.Mychild growing in her body.
Heat pools low in my stomach. My cock stirs—thickens against my thigh.
What the fuck.
I shift in my chair, trying to will it away. It doesn't work. The images keep coming. Her, naked and round with my child. Her, underneath me, crying out as I fill her. Her, soft and warm in our bed, belly growing bigger each month because I put that there. Because Ibredher.
I'm fully hard now. Aching. My hand moves toward my belt before I catch myself.
She's nineteen. Traumatized. In my care.
And you're sitting here with a hard-on thinking about putting a baby in her.
I force myself up. Cross to the bar. Pour vodka with hands that aren't quite steady and drain it in one swallow. The burn does nothing to cool the heat in my blood.
This is insanity. I'm fifty years old. I've never wanted children. Never wanted a wife. Never wanted anything except solitude and control.
But I can still see it. Her body changing. Growing. Swelling with my child. Her looking up at me with those green eyes while I pump her full of my cum, again and again, until it takes.
