The day had been nothing short of perfect.

You and Drew had spent it wrapped in the kind of warmth that only came from a close, happy family. His mom had hugged you like you’d known each other for years. His dad made you laugh more than once with his dry humor. His younger cousins adored Drew—hung off his arms, challenged him to backyard soccer, begged him to make s’mores with them. And he did. With patience and that easy grin that made your chest feel like it might crack open.

There was a moment earlier that evening when he’d had a kid slung over one shoulder and another tugging at his hand, and he looked over at you like, “You see this? This is my whole heart right here.” And in that second, something shifted in you.

Now it’s late. The stars are out. The house has gone quiet, except for the soft hum of cicadas through the open window of the guest room. You’ve just brushed your teeth, standing barefoot on cool tile, and you’re staring at yourself in the mirror with your toothbrush still in hand.

And there it is. The thought. So clear and simple it knocks the wind out of you.

You want kids with him. Not tomorrow. Not even next year. But you know, deep in your chest, that it’s him. That it’s always been him. And you want that life with him.

You walk back into the bedroom, your mind still echoing with it, with that truth that feels both terrifying and beautifully inevitable.

Drew’s already changed into a loose t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, sitting back on the bed, scrolling through his phone absentmindedly. When he sees you, he looks up instantly, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like you’re the only person who’s ever made him feel safe.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, tired in a soft kind of way. “You good, baby? You got that look in your eyes.”

You freeze in place for a second, toothbrush in your hand, half-lost in the moment. Then you let out a tiny breath and crawl onto the bed beside him, curling up at his side.

“I was just…” You pause, trying to find words that feel big enough but not scary. “Thinking.”

He slides his arm around you, setting his phone aside. “About?”

You look up at him. His face is open and calm, the freckles under his eyes soft in the dim bedside light, his thumb rubbing lazy circles against your hip like second nature.

“I think I…” You swallow, heart pounding. “I want to have kids with you someday.”

His eyes don’t widen in shock. He doesn’t freeze or flinch. Instead, he just stares at you like you’ve given him the most sacred truth in the world.

And then he smiles.

Not a flashy grin, not something cocky or teasing. Just this small, reverent kind of smile that makes your eyes sting a little.

“Yeah?” he says quietly, voice rough. “You mean that?”

You nod, heart in your throat. “I do. Watching you with your family today—seeing how you are with them. It just… it made everything feel so real. Like, I saw you in that life. Our life.”

Drew presses his forehead to yours, pulling you closer until you’re fully wrapped in him. “I’ve thought about it,” he whispers. “I think about it more than I let myself admit, honestly.”

Your fingers slip under the hem of his shirt, resting against the warm skin of his back. He’s solid. Steady. Yours.

“I’d want them to have your eyes,” you murmur. “And your patience. And your stupid jokes.”

He laughs quietly. “I’d want them to have your heart. God, they’d be so lucky.”