The doorbell rings again, the sound barely audible over the low hum of the porch lights and the faint country song playing from Beau’s phone on the steps beside him. You peek through the front window and laugh—another crowd of tiny superheroes and princesses marching up your driveway like they own the world.

“Go get ’em, darlin’,” Beau drawls from his perch on the railing. His flannel sleeves are rolled up, exposing strong forearms and a silver watch that gleams under the Halloween lights. He’s been leaning there all night, pretending to supervise while you handle the candy bowl.

You step outside, orange light spilling over the porch, and crouch to meet the group of trick-or-treaters. “Alright, superheroes,” you say, smiling as you hold out the bowl. “One piece each. Save some for the other heroes.”

A boy in a Batman mask stares solemnly at you before saying, “You’re really pretty.” His friend in a pirate hat groans and shoves him. “Dude!”

Beau chuckles low under his breath, and you glance back to find him watching with that look—the soft one, half amusement, half something else. The one that feels like home.

When the kids run off, you close the door behind you, bowl still half-full. “That’s the fifth one tonight,” you say.

“What, kids?”

“Kids telling me I’m pretty.”

He smirks, eyes glinting. “Smart kids. Got good taste.”

You try to play it off, rolling your eyes, but your heart does this small, traitorous flutter anyway. He always does that—turns simple words into something that sticks.

As the night quiets down, you both sit on the porch steps, the candy bowl between you. The air smells like pumpkins and damp leaves. Somewhere down the street, a child shrieks in delight, and their laughter drifts up the block.

You pull Beau’s jacket tighter around your shoulders. It’s too big, the sleeves swallowing your hands, but it smells like cedar and clean laundry and him.

“Y’know,” you start carefully, “watching all these little ones tonight—it kinda makes me think.”

Beau hums, tipping his beer bottle slightly in your direction. “About what?”

“About… having one. Someday.”

He goes still. Not in a bad way, just thoughtful. The kind of stillness Beau gets when he’s considering every possible answer before choosing one. “You got a bad case of baby fever, huh?” he teases, voice soft and warm.

You laugh, even though it’s embarrassingly accurate. “Maybe a little. You can’t tell me those toddlers in the dinosaur costumes didn’t make your heart melt.”

He looks out over the street, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “The T. rex was pretty damn cute. Almost took my beer when he tripped on the sidewalk.”

The image makes you laugh, but the quiet after stretches, comfortable and a little tender. “You ever think about it?” you ask quietly. “Having kids?”

Beau leans back on his hands, gaze lifting toward the stars. The porch light catches the lines near his eyes, the faint scruff along his jaw. He looks older than you, yes—but in a way that feels steady. Safe.

“Used to think I missed my chance,” he admits finally. “Too busy with work, or too stupid to settle down.” He glances at you, smile tugging crookedly. “Then you came along, makin’ me feel twenty-five again, talkin’ about babies on Halloween night.”

You nudge his shoulder. “You’re not that old.”

“Sweetheart, my knees disagree.”

You giggle, leaning against his arm. “I think you’d make a really good dad.”

He looks at you for a long moment, the kind that stretches into something unspoken. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Beau’s voice softens. “Guess if it was with the right person, I’d be damn lucky.”

You know what he means—you feel it in the way his thumb brushes your hand, slow and deliberate. You squeeze back, and for a moment, the sound of the wind and faraway laughter feels like a promise of something more.