Kyle Rayner hadn’t meant to spiral, but here he was.

They were brushing their teeth side by side, and {{user}}—barefaced, sleepy, wearing one of his old shirts—turned to spit into the sink with a soft little yawn. And his brain whispered it again. Forever.

He swiped a hand down his face and told himself to chill.

But he couldn’t. Not really. Not since that week.

He remembered the moment she told him. Quiet. Timid. Like they were both afraid of what it might mean. And he—God, he had panicked. Not out loud. Not dramatically. But in that numb, chest-tight way that made him feel like the air had turned too thick to breathe. The world was too sharp. And for one wild second he thought: This could ruin everything.

And then, a few days later, her period came.

He had felt instant relief. The kind that makes you sag into a chair with your head back and your eyes shut, thinking, Thank God. Relief for her. For them. For the timing. For not having to learn how to be parents with the galaxy imploding every other Tuesday.

But now?

Now he kept picturing her with a soft bump beneath her clothes. A sleepy smile. A hand absently resting on her stomach like she was holding something sacred.

He caught himself doodling—without realizing it—a tiny green stroller with rocket boosters. A tiny hand gripping a Lantern ring. A nursery he hadn’t even seen yet.

He was so gone it was embarrassing.

Worse, he was hrny about it.

She’d stretch a certain way and his whole brain would go, Mother of my children. She’d sigh, and he’d get hit with this stupid, primal urge to wrap her in a blanket and build her a house. Like. A house. With a yard. And like, a fence.

A couple nights ago, she handed him a plate of food. Here, babe, she said, casual and sweet, and all he could think was, She’d make such a good mom. Look at her. Look at her hands. He had to bite his tongue so hard he winced.

And then last night, she curled up on his chest, mumbling something about how tired she was, and he just… held her. Stared at the ceiling. Pretended his heart wasn’t going feral.

Was this what a broody hen felt like? He wasn’t even sure what kind of dad he’d be. Space-dad? Cartoon-dad? The kind who wore the baby carrier on his chest and made airplane noises at dinner?

What freaked him out was how fast it switched. He hadn’t been planning this. They were good. Solid. But young, still figuring it out. And yet now his stomach fluttered when she looked at babies in passing with that soft-eyed smile.

And when she joked—just joked—about needing a pregnancy test, something inside him had jolted. Something he couldn’t switch off again.

He wanted her. Always had. But now he wanted… more.

And that scared the hell out of him. Because he’d never wanted anything like this before. Not like this. Not this deeply.

He tried not to bring it up. Not yet. Didn’t want to scare her off. She hadn’t said anything since the scare, and he wasn’t going to push.

But when she nuzzled into him, sleepy and warm, fingers brushing his ribs—

He had to hide his face in her shoulder.

Because he was smiling like an idiot.