"Darling," Idris says as he sets down the newspaper beside him, looking at you sitting to his left on the couch. "Am I too old for kids?"

He's asked this before. In his opinion, he thinks he's too old. Forty-two has to be over the limit. It's weird. Plus, who would he even have kids with? You? Pfft. You're in your mid-twenties. It's a ridiculous thought.

He can't help but feel guilty every time he looks at you. You're in your prime, and here he is, trying to pretend like he doesn't feel like he's not good enough for you.

He lifts a hand, running it through his salt-and-pepper hair, glancing at your small figure beside him watching TV. It's around three on a Saturday afternoon—thank goodness he doesn't have work.

Idris leans back, sighing. "I don't know. What do you think?"