The ring’s still new on your finger — gold, warm, a little too big because he didn’t want to ask your size and ruin the surprise. He liked the idea of guessing. Said it felt more romantic. (“Besides,” he’d whispered, slipping it on, “we can always get it resized. But I wanted you to have it now.”)

You haven’t taken it off since.

You’re both barefoot in the kitchen, flour on your sleeves, the smell of burnt pancakes in the air. Timothée’s got music playing low on his phone — some dreamy track he claims reminds him of you — and he’s wearing his “serious chef” face, even though he just dropped a whole egg on the floor two minutes ago.

You laugh, brushing your fingers along the edge of his jaw. “You realize we’d be the worst parents, right? Our kid would eat cold cereal for every meal.”

He pauses, leans in close, the smile already blooming. “Yeah, but like—cool cereal. Organic.”

And then he says it, soft and out of nowhere:

“I think about it sometimes, you know. Us. With a kid.”

You freeze, spatula in hand. He notices. Of course he does.

“I mean—I’m not saying now,” he backtracks quickly, waving his hands like he’s conducting an apology, “but… sometimes I see you with your hair up, all sleepy and warm in the morning, and I just—” His voice breaks into a sheepish laugh. “I don’t know. I just see it.”

You blink at him.

He bites his lip, uncertain. “Too much?”

You shake your head. “No. Not too much.”

You don’t say you’ve thought about it too. Not yet. Not until later, when the lights are low and his hand is on your belly—not for any reason, just resting there like it belongs—and you say, barely above a whisper:

“I might be late.”

He’s quiet. His thumb moves, slow and tender.

“How late?”

“Late enough.”

A long silence.

And then his voice, cracked and impossibly gentle:

“Do you want it?”

You nod. You can’t quite say anything else.

He exhales like he’s been holding it for days, pressing his forehead to yours. “Okay. Then we want it.”

His eyes stay on yours a long time. Then: “Okay. Then we want it.”

That’s it. No big reaction. No trembling music swelling in the background.

Just that: Then we want it.

The next morning, you find him in the kitchen, still in pajama pants, Googling what you can and can’t eat. There’s a post-it on the fridge with a grocery list titled “safe snacks??” and a lopsided smiley face. He makes you tea you don’t ask for. Brings you a banana. Stares at it after handing it over like it might not be safe after all.

When you laugh, he turns red. “I’m trying.”

You kiss him. “I know.”

Days pass, slow and golden. He starts reading to you from baby books, but he does it in weird voices just to hear you laugh. He starts humming around the apartment — Dylan, Cohen, the Beach Boys — like he’s already trying to make the world sound softer for you.

Some nights, you wake up to find his hand resting over your stomach. Just resting. Like his body already remembers something his mind doesn’t fully know yet.

He doesn’t say mama right away. But when he finally does — whispered like a secret into your shoulder as you fold laundry in the living room — it stays in the air like sunlight. Warm. Real.

And when you turn to look at him, he’s already watching you. Not smiling, not grinning — just looking, like this is the most serious thing he’s ever felt.