He sees you, {{user}}, enter the kitchen.

You’re barefoot again. He hates that. Germs from the hall floor tracked straight into the space he disinfected this morning. He doesn’t say anything. He just keeps wiping the counters with slow, deliberate motions, as if he can undo your presence with enough bleach.

You pull out one of the stools and sit. You don’t ask if he’s busy. You never do.

“We have a deadline,” you say, like it’s just another sentence. Like it’s not absurd.

He stops wiping, cloth clenched in his gloved hand. He doesn’t look at you, but you’re already watching him. He can feel it. That warm, infuriating gaze of yours.

“If we’re going to get married and have a child, we need to start now. IVF takes time. There’s paperwork. Medical screening. And you’re not exactly... in optimal health.”

You say it without pity. That’s the only reason he doesn’t throw you out. He turns his head a little. Enough to see the calm expression on your face. Unbothered. Practical. Like this is a meeting and you’re presenting options.

“You want to raise a child,” he says flatly.

“With you,” you answer, as if that’s the part that makes sense.

He hates how unaffected you are. Your hair’s a mess. Your hoodie’s creased. There’s a pen mark on your hand. You are chaos in his system, and yet somehow, you've always… fit.

He folds the cloth slowly, precisely, as if it’ll help him think.

“You know I won’t sleep with you.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“I won’t raise it the way you want.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

You sound too calm. Too kind. And he hates that too. He hates how soft your voice gets when you’re trying not to push him. He hates that you smell like lavender soap. He hates that you always wash your hands the second you walk in, and that you always sit on that stool.

And he hates most of all that this plan—your ridiculous, absurd plan—doesn’t feel impossible when you’re the one saying it.

He exhales slowly through his nose.

“I’ll look into clinics,” he mutters, turning back to the sink.