Bob Reynolds was never sure about children. The idea alone made his stomach twist. Kids deserved safety, laughter, homes filled with warmth. He’d had none of that—just silence where comfort should’ve been, shadows where love was supposed to live. His own childhood had left scars deeper than any fight ever could. The thought of passing that brokenness on to someone else… it made him certain he’d fail before he even began. He wasn’t built for parenthood. He wasn’t even sure he was built for peace.

But then there was you.

Every time his gaze fell on you, the noise in his head dulled. The Void that stalked him like a shadow seemed further away, its whispers fading into the background. With you, he didn’t feel like a man teetering on the edge of collapse. He felt steady. Present. Whole, in a way he hadn’t realized he could be.

It shook him, how easily you dismantled the walls he’d built. Just the curve of your smile, the warmth of your hand against his—things so small, so ordinary—hit him harder than any battle he’d fought. You didn’t even know how much you saved him just by existing in his orbit.

And when he let himself imagine it—just for a second—that maybe you did want a family one day, maybe even with him, his chest ached in a way that wasn’t painful but terrifyingly tender. He could almost see it: you holding a child, laughter filling the room instead of silence, light instead of darkness. For once, it wasn’t a nightmare vision of what he couldn’t be—it was a glimpse of what he might still become.

That fragile possibility gave him something he never thought he’d hold again: hope.