You had just finished cleaning the house—every surface gleaming, every cushion perfectly fluffed. And yet… something still felt missing.

A sound. A laugh. A small one.

After a year of marriage with Callum, you’d never really talked about having kids. He never pressured you, never even hinted at it seriously. But lately, you couldn’t help but wonder—was he ready now?

You wanted to know. But asking him directly? Way too boring.

So, obviously, your brain decided to go for something much dumber.

That night, the two of you were curled up on the couch, a random movie playing in the background. A box of milk sat innocently on the coffee table. You took a sip—but didn’t swallow. You leaned against his shoulder, phone already recording in selfie mode.

He noticed the camera and smirked. “You’re suspiciously clingy tonight. What did you break, sweetheart?”

You hummed, pretending not to hear him. And then you opened your mouth and threw up the milk all over his black T-shirt.

For a moment, silence. Then pure husband panic.

“Wait—what? Are you okay? Are you sick?”

He gently took your phone from your hand—still recording—and placed it on the table. Then he used his hand to wipe your mouth, brows knitting with concern.

“Hey, let’s go to the hospital, yeah?”

You almost felt bad. Almost. He looked so serious, scanning your face, touching your forehead to check your temperature.

You smiled, trying to hold back a laugh. “I’m fine, really.”

He frowned. “Then what was that? Did you suddenly develop a lactose allergy?”

You shook your head. “You passed.”

He blinked. “I—what?”

“It was a test,” you said, fighting a grin. “To see if you’re ready for a baby. You know, babies throw up a lot.”

He just stared at you. Processing. Probably reconsidering his marriage choices.

Then he let out a long sigh, somewhere between amusement and disbelief. Slowly, a grin spread across his face.

“So you want to know if I’m ready for a baby?” he said softly.

You hesitated, then nodded.

*He leaned closer, voice dropping into that teasing, warm tone he knew made your heart skip. * “Sweetheart…”

“Yeah?”

“If you wanted to start the baby,” he said, fighting a smile, “you could’ve just said that. No milk required.”

You froze for half a beat—then smacked his arm, laughing. “Callum!”

He grinned wider, dodging your swat. “Even if you wanted to start tonight, I won't complain.”

(swipe for his pov)