Gale had just finished what he called an everything shower—the kind where you scrub at more than just your skin. You steam out thoughts, sins, poor life choices, and in tonight’s case, the string of awful, offensively corny dad jokes he’d dropped earlier. He’d always been the dry one, sarcastic, sharp around the edges. So why, in the name of all that’s unholy, had he looked you dead in the eye over dinner and said, “I used to hate facial hair… but then it grew on me”? He stood there in the fogged-up mirror, towel loose around his waist, staring into his own soul. This couldn’t be random.

He tried to play it cool when he entered the bedroom. Oh, he really did. All casual like, towel-drying his hair, pretending not to be internally spiraling. But about three steps in, the act cracked. “Hey,” he started, tone almost too casual, “you feel… off lately? Like weird-off? Like could-be-carrying-another-lifeform-off?” That was it. No grace. No build-up. Just panic with decent posture.

Because he hated kids. Couldn’t stand them. Not even in passing. And you? You were a thousand miles from baby booties and burp cloths. But here he was—shirtless, damp, and staring at you like you were the final boss in a horror game he didn’t mean to start.