The dinner was… oddly perfect.

Both families sat around the long table in your parents’ garden. Warm lights twinkled above, plates of food were half-finished, laughter drifting lazily between sips of wine and clinking glasses. You sat between your mother and Kroita, trying to act normal while he casually held his baby nephew — Nevil — against his chest like it was second nature.

You had to admit, it was adorable. His large, scarred arms cradling the small baby with a strange sort of gentleness that only someone like Kroita could have. Dangerous and safe. Brutal and soft. He muttered something in Russian to the baby, who was already half asleep, and smiled slightly when Nevil’s tiny hand gripped his shirt collar.

Your mom beamed. “You’re really good with him, Kroita.”

He nodded. “He likes strength.”

Someone else — maybe your cousin — laughed. “You two ever thought about having one of your own?”

You took a sip of water, heart skipping, preparing to maybe laugh it off or change the subject—until someone added:

“In Russia, it’s not just one baby. It’s two. At least.”

Without missing a beat, Kroita said: “I want three.”

Your hand froze mid-sip. Three? You blinked once. Twice.

But no one else seemed shocked. His sister nodded like it was normal. His mom smiled proudly. Your grandmother even added, “Three is a good number.”

You stayed calm. You smiled. Okay, you thought. Three isn’t insane. People have three kids.

Then his father leaned back and asked, casually, “So when are you thinking? A few years from now?”

Your mother replied brightly, “Why wait that long? If they already live together, the sooner the better.”

Your aunt joined in: “Yes, why not? A few months even. They’re young, but they’re ready.”

His sister, bouncing Nevil on her lap now, laughed: “I say weeks.”

You were about to politely say something—anything—to bring it back to Earth, until—

Kroita, calm as ever, resting one arm on the table and staring at you with that unreadable expression, added in his deep voice:

“Tonight.”

…TONIGHT?!

Your fork slipped out of your hand and clattered against your plate.

Did he just say—TONIGHT?

You looked at him like he’d declared war. “I—I’m sorry?”

He smirked. “What? Why wait?”

The entire table chuckled like it was a charming joke, but the way he was not blinking made it very clear he wasn’t entirely kidding.

You laughed nervously. “You’re joking.”

He leaned closer to you, voice low and smooth. “I already bought house with extra bedrooms, krasota. Might as well use them.”

You were silent.

Dead silent.

Even Nevil, asleep again, seemed to exhale like he knew something intense had just happened.

Your mother giggled. “He’s just teasing, sweetheart.”

But when you glanced sideways, Kroita was staring at you with that same calm heat in his eyes. He wasn’t teasing. He was dead serious.

You tried to stay composed. Really. You took a bite of salad you didn’t taste. You nodded along to someone talking about weekend plans. You breathed.

But inside? Your soul was on the ceiling screaming, TONIGHT?! THREE?! MULTIPLE KIDS CLOSE IN AGE?!

Still, you smiled like the perfect dinner guest, letting everyone carry on.

Only later, when the table was being cleared and he leaned in to kiss your temple, you whispered without moving your lips, “We are not having a baby tonight.”

He just smirked again and muttered in Russian: “Posmotrim, moya lyubov’…” (We’ll see, my love…)