The kettle clicks off with a soft chime, steam curling up in gentle spirals as you pour two mugs of tea. One for him—milk and one sugar. One for you—just a splash of milk, no sweetener. It’s a quiet evening, rain tapping against the window like a patient knock. Simon’s on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm draped over the back as he watches the flicker of the fireplace more than the muted telly.

You hand him his cup, and his fingers brush yours. Warm. Grounding.

“Ta,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes lifting to meet yours with that steady, unreadable look that only softens when it’s just the two of you.

You sit beside him, tucking your knees under a blanket. For a while, you both just sip in silence, the kind of silence that’s companionable, safe. You’re not sure when you started nervously running your thumb along the rim of your mug, but he notices.

“What’s on your mind, love?” he asks. Not prying. Just gently curious.

You glance at him, heart thudding a little too hard in your chest. It’s not fear—not really. Just the weight of what you’re about to say. The hope that’s been building quietly in the corners of your heart.

“I’ve been thinking,” you begin, voice soft, “about… maybe starting a family. Trying for a baby.”

He doesn’t react right away. Just sets his mug down on the table, then turns his whole body toward you. He’s quiet for a moment, but not in a bad way. It’s the kind of quiet he uses when he’s giving something his full attention.

“You serious?” he finally asks, voice rough with emotion you didn’t expect.