The late afternoon sun slipped through Steve’s bedroom window, casting warm, sleepy light across the cluttered space. His room smelled faintly of cologne and the worn-out leather of his baseball glove tossed on the dresser.

You were curled up against him on his bed, your head resting on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. His arm was slung lazily around you, fingers drawing soft patterns on your shoulder as the radio played faintly in the background.

For a while, neither of you said much. Just the kind of peaceful quiet that only comes when you know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Then Steve spoke, voice low, almost hesitant like he wasn’t sure how to say it.

“You know… I always had this dumb little dream,” he began, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. “Thought it was stupid for a long time, didn’t really tell anyone.”

You tilted your head up to look at him. “What kind of dream?”

He smiled, soft and a little embarrassed. “I used to picture it. Me, in one of those old campers. Like the kind that breaks down every couple of states. You’d be there too. Obviously.”

Your heart fluttered, and you smiled without meaning to. “Obviously.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “And there’d be kids. Six of them. My six little nuggets. Driving you absolutely crazy but you’d still love them.”

You laughed, imagining it now. “Six, Steve? You sure about that?”

He grinned wider, the kind of grin that made your chest ache in the best way. “I mean, give or take. Might start with one. But I always figured the house would be loud and messy and full of laughter. Every summer we’d pack up and drive across the country. Stop at weird roadside attractions, eat terrible gas station snacks, argue over music in the car.”