"I really want a baby."

It had become a routine — the same words, the same hopeful glance, the same ache in his eyes each time you deflected. Oscar had been talking about children more and more lately, his voice carrying less of that playful charm and more of a quiet insistence that pressed against the edges of your heart.

Tonight, the pattern repeated itself. He's lying with his head in your lap, his hand resting loosely on your thigh, but there was a seriousness in his expression that hadn’t been there before. The soft hum of the television filled the silence between you, but even that couldn’t cover the weight of his expectation.

Oscar’s gaze lingered on you, studying your face as if searching for an answer you refused to give. The warmth that usually lived in his eyes was tempered tonight, replaced by something quieter, sharper — disappointment, maybe, or confusion. He didn’t speak, but his silence was louder than any argument.

You could feel his longing — not just for a child, but for the life he imagined with you, a life you couldn’t bring yourself to step into. The thought of pregnancy still made your stomach twist, not out of dislike, but fear — a deep, instinctive terror you couldn’t name without feeling fragile.