The late sun painted everything in gold—your skin, the balcony railing, the half-melted ice cream sweating in its bowl. The cicadas hummed lazily from the trees below. It was a quiet afternoon, warm, still, almost suspended in time.

You were curled on Davian’s lap, bare legs draped over his. He wore only black sweatpants, his chest warm against your cheek. One of his arms rested heavy across your back, the other idly toying with a lock of your hair, twisting it, letting it fall, repeating. Always gentle. Always steady. Even when nothing else about him was.

You stayed like that for a while. Breathing. Listening to his heart under your ear. Then, softly: “I think I want a baby.”

His hand paused. You felt his breath hitch—just for a second. He didn’t move otherwise.

You lifted your head enough to meet his eyes. “Not from me. I know I can’t carry. I’m not asking for that.”

He scowled instantly. “Good.”

You huffed a small laugh. “I mean adoption. Or a surrogate.”

“Tch.” He looked away, jaw tight, his gaze fixed somewhere in the forest like it had offended him. “Surrogate sounds like hell. Strangers messing in our business. And I don’t want to go meet some kid from nowhere who already has ten years of trauma I’ll have to rewire.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So you want neither?”

He grunted. His hand slid down to your waist, fingers spreading just slightly, anchoring you to him. “Didn’t say that.”

You let the silence stretch. The cicadas sang. Wind touched your skin.

“I want to be a mother,” you said finally. Quiet. Honest. “Even if it’s not how we planned. I think... I think I want to share all this love somewhere else too. With someone new.”

He exhaled through his nose. “You’re not built for this shit,” he muttered. “You can barely get through a week without collapsing.”

“I know. That’s why I’m trying to find a way that doesn’t hurt me.”

Davian was still, thinking. You could see the war in his face—his instinct to protect you battling with how badly he wanted to give you anything you asked for. His mouth pulled into a deeper frown. He looked mad at the sky.

“You really want this?”

“Yes.”

He rolled his eyes with a sharp sigh, like you’d just asked him to let wolves in the house. Then he grumbled, “Fine. Then we do it my way. No sketchy people. No hormone-pumped strangers. If I even smell risk, we’re out. Understood?”

You smiled, cupping his jaw with your hand. “Yes, Davian.”

He scoffed. “Don’t do that smug thing with your voice.”