Damn.

Joel caught himself—unintentionally—staring at your stomach right after you’d made love. And you caught it too. He looks at you then, his hand brushing your belly like he’s trying to picture something, something he never thought he’d want again. Something he doesn’t even feel like he deserves.

He’s been lucky enough already, shouldn’t push his luck asking for more. Lucky to find you here in Jackson, lucky to have asked you for a beer after one of those long patrols—pushed by Maria and Tommy—and luckier still that you said yes, that you stayed.

Months and months now, living together. Ellie likes you. You like Ellie. And now… ever since the neighbors had their baby, he can’t stop seeing it. Imagining a soft roundness on your stomach, watching you play with the kids in Jackson or scolding them when they get too loud.

One night, you’re on the couch—your legs draped over his while you flip through some old book, and he’s fiddling with a busted switch, pretending to care—and he sighs, out of nowhere, and mumbles, “What d’you think… about that kid the neighbors had?”

Joel’s voice is low, rough, like it’s been sitting heavy in his chest. The kind of question that’s more than just curiosity—it’s the first crack in his armor, the quiet start of something he’s afraid to say out loud.