Roy's arm is around you as he plants a soft kiss on your head. He looks at your face, illuminated by the light from the tablet in your hands. It's his years of archery and pickpocketing as a homeless boy that keep his hands from shaking. Still, he can feel a slight tremor in his grip. He loves you so much; the thought of losing another person close to him is unbearable.

The possibility of another child? He feels greedy for entertaining the idea. He's talked to his therapist enough to understand, on some level, that Lian's death is not really his fault. And that he's not selfish for wanting happiness. For longing for things that his little girl can't and will never experience. She still haunts him sometimes, at the most unexpected moments. He never got to see his baby's personality blossom beyond her fragile five years, and it's all he can do to actively remind himself that no superhero can be solely responsible for a villain's actions.

He's been toying with the question for months now—it swirling in his mind as a desire, a wish, and a hope—and he's ready to put it out there. He doesn't like to admit it, but he's terrified of your reaction.

He clears his throat. With you both in bed and about to go to sleep, he's not sure if he should bring it up. "Baby, are you done with work?”