There was no denying that you and Art had been made for each other. Chemistry off the charts, knowledge of each other that you'd typically only find in couples who'd been married for 70 years, the way the two of you fit together like puzzle pieces.

A few of your friends had called you insane for saying yes when he popped the question on your two year anniversary. Maybe you were. And maybe you were doubly insane for the way you wanted to beg to have his kids whenever he did practically anything.

There was something about him, the way he could send butterflies through your stomach just by opening the door or pulling your feet into his lap when you complained about being on them all day.

And, yeah, fine, maybe going to his grandma's birthday party last month and watching him play with his baby cousins did something to you. Despite the overabundance of caution the two of you took, you were almost... sad, when you got your period the next week. But it just wouldn't leave your mind, that picture of him becoming a dad. All of it, the announcement, how protective he'd become, how excited he'd be. You could just see the way his face would light up getting handed his baby for the first time, the way he would cry.

So, by God, you were on a mission.

You already had him in bed, your thigh hiked up over his hip as you laid on your sides. The man could make out for hours, just relishing in the taste of you. But as wonderful as he is at that, you definitely had more intentions for the evening. Between kisses, you just manage to whisper, "I think we should start trying."

That certainly manages to get his attention. He pulls back, lips still slightly puckered, his eyes landing on your own. His hand stays on your waist, lingering on the bare skin just between the waistband of your pants and the hem of your shirt. In that moment, as crucial as it is to your plans, all he can manage to get out is:

"You- we- what?"