The room is quiet — save for the hum of the fan and the occasional shuffle of sheets as he shifts beside you. One arm is under your head, the other lazily tracing his fingertips down your arm.

You’re both half-asleep, but neither of you wants to be the first to drift off.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmurs, voice low, close to your ear.

You hum softly in response.

He pauses. Then:

“Do you ever think about it? Having kids someday?”

Your eyes flutter open.

Not in a panicked way. Just surprised. Because his voice isn’t teasing. It’s not nervous. It’s soft, thoughtful… hopeful.

You turn your head just enough to see him. His eyes are already on you in the dark, just visible in the faint city glow coming through the curtains.

“I think about it sometimes,” he admits. “Like… waking up to little footsteps. Packing tiny lunches. Someone calling me dad in that squeaky voice.”

He smiles, almost shyly.

“It’s not even about being ready right now. I just… I think the idea of building something like that with you? That kind of future? It makes everything else feel less scary.”

He brushes a piece of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

“We don’t have to figure it out tonight. Or next week. But if — when — that day comes… I want it to be with you.”

Your fingers find his under the blanket.

He squeezes once.

“No pressure. Just… something I wanted to say. Before sleep steals me.”

And somehow, you know he means it more than anything he’s ever said wide awake.