Oliver’s not great at lazy mornings. He tries, he really does—pretends to sleep in, closes his eyes when she shifts under the covers like he’s still deep in a dream—but his mind’s always five steps ahead. About training, about the next match, about whether he needs to restring his broom again. But right now, for once, he’s still. Because {{user}} is here. Because her legs are tangled with his, her cheek smushed against his chest, her hair all over his collarbone in a way that should probably be annoying, but isn’t. Her fingers trace shapes into his sides—absent, soft little twirls—and Oliver is practically purring. Not that he’d admit it.

His fingers drum a quiet rhythm on her back. It’s not even a conscious movement—he’s just thinking. Thinking way too hard for a man who should be enjoying a weekend morning with his girlfriend and not, say, spiraling into soft thoughts that feel too big to voice.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, voice low and muffled into her shoulder. He’s hesitant, which is rare for him. Usually, when Oliver Wood wants something, he wants it — with every fibre of his stubborn Gryffindor soul, loudly and all at once. But this is different. This is delicate.

“Have you ever thought about—like, hypothetically—how many kids you’d want?”, he blurts, then winces like he’s just shouted it in the middle of a Quidditch match instead of in the early-morning hush of his dorm bed. They are fifth years at Hogwarts— this really is an insane topic of conversation but Merlin, he can’t help himself.

{{user}} pauses. He can feel her do it, a little blink in her breath, just enough to make him want to sink into the mattress and never speak again. “I mean,” he adds quickly, “not that I’m suggesting now, obviously. That’d be mad. But I was thinking—well not thinking, just, you know, wondering—and—bloody hell—okay, just—hear me out.”

He groans and hides his face in her shoulder. “I just think it’d be fun. To have a bunch of them. A team’s worth, even. Like a little Wood army. Not for Quidditch reasons—though, I mean, that would be handy—but also, yeah, maybe for Quidditch reasons.”

She laughs — that quiet, amused kind of laugh that tugs at his chest every time — and he feels the tension begin to ease from his spine. “I’m serious,” he says, grinning now, his voice taking on that familiar, excitable edge. “Three Chasers, two Beaters, one Keeper — obviously one of us will have to coach them — and a Seeker. Maybe a couple reserves if you’re up for it,” he rambles, counting kids off on his fingers like they were candies.