It started with something small.

A moment on the couch after a long day in the lab. Calvin had fallen asleep halfway through the third re-run of Nova, his head resting against your shoulder, your fingers absentmindedly combing through his hair.

And then, without warning, he mumbled: “We’d make good parents.”

You froze.

He didn’t say it to spark a conversation. It slipped out like a truth he thought he didn’t have to guard. Like something that had lived quietly inside him for a long time.

He shifted beside you, and you slowly pulled your hand back.

You didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, you found him making coffee, humming softly, the scent of burnt toast clinging to the air. You watched him from the doorway, trying to remember if this had always been in him — this quiet longing for something more domestic, more permanent.

When he noticed you, his face lit up the way it always did.