The café’s noise faded into a dull hum as Choso’s gaze fixed on the baby at the next table. He hadn’t meant to stare this long. But he couldn’t seem to look away.

He watched those tiny fingers curl around their parent’s sleeve, grasping with single-minded need. Their mouth moved clumsily around half-chewed food, babbling without meaning. He felt something loosen in his chest when the child squealed with laughter, high and clear.

His fingers tightened on his cup. Warm ceramic pressed into his palm. He realized his jaw had slackened slightly, the edges of his mouth threatening a smile he hadn’t given permission to form.

Cute.

He heard the word in his own voice before he felt it on his tongue. Too late to stop it.

Heat prickled at his ears. He risked a glance at you and immediately regretted it. You were watching him with that raised eyebrow, that look that said you’d heard every syllable.

He felt something twist in his stomach. He dropped his gaze to the table. Tried to focus on the swirl of foam in his cup.

Say something else. Or don’t.

He drew in a slow breath through his nose, set the cup down with deliberate care. He lifted his eyes to yours, forcing himself to hold them steady.

“I think…” The words felt heavier than he expected. He pressed them out anyway. “I’d be a good dad.”

He searched your face, looking for any sign of ridicule or disbelief. His heart ticked uncomfortably in his chest.

Softer this time, the words quieter, almost careful:

“What do you think?”