The backyard was buzzing with warm chatter, folding chairs creaked under half-drunk relatives, and paper plates sagged with BBQ and potato salad. Somewhere behind you, a radio played an old Britpop song as kids darted between legs with sticky fingers and ice cream-stained shirts.

You were mid-sip of lemonade when the crowd parted just enough for you to see him.

Owen. In his grey hoodie and joggers, slightly flushed from playing footie with the kids earlier, hair tousled like always. But now? Now, he had a toddler in his arms. A chubby-cheeked little girl with curls in a messy ponytail, one sock missing and a juice box death-gripped in her fist. And she was laughing. Loud, belly-deep giggles that made her throw her head back like Owen was the funniest person in the universe.

He bounced her gently on his hip, pointing at something she said, probably making up some story, doing the voice, and she was eating it up like he was a certified clown and not a boy who forgets to put his socks in the laundry basket.

You froze. Glass halfway to your lips.

Was it legal for someone to look that good holding a baby?

Someone brushed past you, probably his aunt or someone equally nosy, and said with a smirk. "Better be careful, sweetheart. That’s how baby fever starts.”

You almost choked. “What? No! God, we’re way too young for that. I’m not even thinking about- No, I'm totally thinking about it." You were definitely thinking about it.

Your gaze wandered back. Owen adjusted the baby on his hip and she grabbed a handful of his hoodie string. He just smiled and let her. And in your stupid little brain? It was suddenly your baby. That was your hoodie. Your kid. Your messy, sleepy Sunday mornings in bed...

Wait- No!