you had only said it once. softly. casually. the way someone might mention needing to buy milk or wanting to repaint the hallway someday. but it landed like a pin dropping in a courtroom. loud. undeniable. final.

“i’ve been thinking about kids lately,” you’d said.

and just like that—he went still.

not dramatically. not in a way most people would notice. but you knew him. you knew what it meant when edgar’s fingers stopped moving, when his thumb hovered just above the corner of the page instead of flipping it. when his eyes snapped up, quick and sharp, searching yours like they were reading a contract that had suddenly shifted its terms mid-signature.

you weren’t springing it on him. not really. the two of you had talked about it before. it had always been there, this vague idea filed somewhere in the same category as “later” and “someday.” but now someday was today, and the words were real, and his body was processing them like a threat and a promise at the same time.

you could practically hear the gears turning behind his eyes.

because edgar james callahan loved control. he loved timelines and legal briefs and things that could be structured into logic. and babies? babies didn’t give a damn about structure. they cried and puked and screamed at 3 a.m. and then smiled at you like they’d never ruined your life in the first place.

he hadn’t said anything yet. just stared. brows slightly drawn, mouth parted like he was about to speak but hadn’t figured out how to sentence yet.

you waited. gave him a second. then two. on the third, you finally said, “too soon?”

he blinked. slowly. then dragged a hand over his mouth like the act of physically touching his face might help him collect a thought worth sharing.

“no,” he said finally. voice low. unsure. “just… now is now?”

and it wasn’t defensive. it wasn’t dismissive. it was just edgar, trying to wrap his head around something that didn’t come with an evidence binder or six months of prep time.

you nodded. “we have a house. good jobs. we love each other. i just thought… maybe it makes sense.”

he nodded too. slower. but his fingers reached for yours like instinct. like maybe if he held your hand, the ground wouldn’t shift quite so much.

“it does,” he said, more to himself than to you. “it makes terrifying, overwhelming, mathematically reckless sense.”

you smiled. he didn’t. not yet.