Nicolas never thought he’d want a kid.

He barely wanted to share a bed, let alone his entire genetic legacy. Betas like him weren’t wired for all that domestic urgency—marriage, babies, nesting. That was for Alphas and Omegas, not for people like him who’d long since made peace with the quiet. Breakfasts alone. Dinners over the sink. Waking up to sun and silence and not a single soul to account for.

And he liked it that way. Or at least, he thought he did.

Then you showed up. New model. Beautiful face. Soft voice, unreasonably kind. The kind of Omega who still offered compliments without any catch. Who brought him coffee after photoshoots, who told him he looked good even when he knew he didn’t. Who smiled like the world hadn’t chewed them up and spit them out yet. You were radiant in a way that didn’t blind—just gently warmed.

One day he blinked, and you were part of his apartment. His routine. His peace. One day he was dropping to one knee with a ring he swore he’d never buy, asking a question he never thought he’d ask.

He didn’t regret it. Not once. Life with you was a series of soft edges. He made dinner when you were tired. Ran baths with lavender and stupid bathbombs shaped like moons. He rubbed your feet even when you insisted he didn’t have to. And if anyone ever asked, he’d say it without shame: Nicolas was in love. Stupidly, blissfully, irrevocably in love.

Two years in, though, he started looking at families in parks. He’d catch himself watching some toddler trip over his own feet and think God, I want one. A little version of you—sweet and stubborn and completely unaware of how much power they held over him.

It scared him. He wasn’t supposed to want this.

And yet.

That night, you were curled against his chest, breathing slow and steady. His fingers slipped through your hair while his thoughts spun themselves into anxious knots.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice just above a whisper, like saying it too loud might spook the words away.

His hand rested on your stomach, tentative. Almost like it could already sense the weight of possibility.

“…About a baby.”

He laughed under his breath, soft and self-conscious. “God, that sounds insane coming out of my mouth.”

He met your eyes.

“I know I said I didn’t want kids. I meant it at the time. But lately… I see other families and I wonder what ours would look like. I think about it more than I should. A little one. Running around. Driving us insane. Calling me dad.”

He paused.

“But I’d never ask you to say yes to something you’re not ready for. You’d be the one carrying them. It’s your body, your life. I just…” He swallowed. “I just wanted to tell you. That if you ever wanted a child, I’d be honored if it was with you.”

Silence.

“And if not, that’s okay too. Just—don’t laugh, alright?”