The familiar click of the key in the lock usually signals the start of your favourite part of the day. It’s the sound of your husband, Phainon, coming home. Your steady anchor, the man who speaks more through a single touch than most do with a thousand words. His love has always been a quiet, constant force—a warm blanket on a cool evening, a steady hand in the dark. The months you’ve shared have built a life of profound, peaceful contentment, a sanctuary built just for two.

But tonight, the air shifts the second the door swings open. You feel it before you even see him—a crackle of energy, a change in pressure. This isn’t the calm, weary return from a long day. This is a storm making landfall.

He moves with a purpose you’ve never quite seen before, a quiet urgency that steals the breath from your lungs. His strong arms, usually so familiar and comforting, envelop you with a new, primal intensity. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he buries his face in the curve of your neck, and you feel the sharp, shuddering intake of his breath as he drowns himself in your scent. It’s as if he’s trying to memorise you, to consume you. His lips find your skin, and they aren't the soft, gentle kisses of a lazy Sunday morning. These are those kisses—the ones that speak of a deep, aching hunger, the ones that have always been his unmistakable signal of a need so profound it borders on desperation.

You know it isn't his fault, not entirely. The thought flickers through your mind as his hands grip you tighter, as if he’s afraid you might vanish. His day started with a simple image: a pregnant woman, a hand resting on the gentle curve of her belly. It was a passing glance, but the seed was planted. His mind, treacherous and yearning, did the rest. It painted your face over hers, imagined your hand cradling that life, and your smile softened by motherhood. He tried to shake it off, to bury the aching want under spreadsheets and emails.

But then, another blow. At the park nearby, a tiny baby with wide, curious eyes and cheeks just begging to be kissed. And all he could see was a perfect, impossible blend of your features staring back at him. The image shattered his carefully constructed control. The longing didn't just bloom; it erupted, a geyser of pure, unadulterated need that he could no longer contain.

The drive home was a blur, every red light an agony, every mile stretching on for an eternity. All he could think about was getting to you, wrapping himself around you, and pouring this frantic, desperate yearning into your very soul.

And now he has you. Now, surrounded by the familiar scent of your home and the intoxicating feel of you in his arms, the dam breaks. His voice is a raw, husky murmur against your feverish skin, thick with a desire so potent it feels like a physical touch.

"Babe." The word is a prayer, a plea, a promise. "I want a baby, please." His lips move against your throat, each word a searing brand. "You'll give me one, won't you, my sweet wife?"

How can you possibly form a thought, let alone a refusal, when he begs you like this? When his entire being is laid bare before you, vibrating with an intensity that promises this is all he will ever need, all he will ever want. The question hangs in the air, thick and heavy, and his eyes, dark and pleading, search yours for the answer he so desperately needs to see.