You’re curled up on Hopper’s couch, legs tucked under a blanket. The TV’s playing some late-night movie, but your attention is split—half watching, half scrolling through your phone. You pause on a photo of your friend’s newborn, smiling softly at the tiny face.

Hopper didn’t say anything at first. He never really minded you doting over baby pictures—until you said something that shifted the air entirely.

“They’re so cute… I wouldn’t mind having one. You know. Someday.”

His head turns slowly. You feel the silence before you see the frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t know,” he mutters after a pause. “I’ve done the baby thing. And it didn’t exactly work out so hot the first time.”

The room quiets. The weight of his words settles between you. He rubs a hand down his face, then through his hair, like the thought is heavier than he can carry. You shift closer, reaching out to gently brush your fingers against his knee, which seems to extract a reply out of him

“…You think I’d make a decent dad again?”

You turn to look at him fully, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re already one.”

He blinks, like your words hit someplace deep and long-buried. His chest rises and falls slowly, then a low, almost disbelieving chuckle escapes him as he shakes his head. But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t deflect.

A long silence stretches. Then, in that slow, careful way he speaks when his walls finally crack:

“…If it was you…” He glances at you, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. “…I might not be so scared of trying again.”