It started small. Barely noticeable, really.

Choso had always been gentle with those he considered family, as well as children—his hands steady, his voice soft—but lately, you’d catch him watching families in the park a little longer than usual. His eyes would trail after giggling toddlers running after pigeons, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over his wedding band as he walked with you.

You had once caught him scrolling through baby name lists on his phone late at night, the screen's soft glow painting his focused face in the dark. When you teased him about it, he gave a rare, sheepish smile and brushed it off. “Just curious,” he’d say, his thumb nervously tapping the edge of his phone.

Little things kept stacking up like blocks. Eventually, the silence stretched, the hints growing louder.

One evening, after dinner, as you both settled onto the couch, Choso’s head rested against your shoulder, his arms wrapped securely around your waist. His heartbeat was steady, but his breathing betrayed him—uneven, nervous.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper against your skin.

When you hummed, he pulled back to look at you, his reddish eyes soft, almost vulnerable. His fingers gently traced circles on your thigh.

“I want to have a baby with you,” The words tumbled out like he had been holding them for far too long.

His gaze searched yours, worried he’d pushed too far, too fast about such a serious topic.

“But only if you want to,” he added quickly, his grip tightening just slightly. “It's just... when I see you with kids, I can’t help but think... that I’d really like to try.”