“Ugh… we’ve talked about this, honey.”

His voice carries from the desk, heavy and tired. He pinches the bridge of his nose, the glow of the computer screen painting his face in pale light. Papers are scattered everywhere, half-finished reports, endless deadlines — the usual mess of his home office.

You stand in the doorway, hands clasped together, feeling small under the weight of his exhaustion. He’s been working late every night for weeks now. You told yourself you’d wait for the right moment to bring it up again, but somehow there never seems to be one.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair. “What do you need a baby for, hm?” His tone isn’t cruel, just weary — the kind of tired that seeps into the edges of every word. “Kids are messy, loud, expensive. And they’d take away our freedom… our time together.”

You swallow, the words settling like stones in your chest. You know he means well — he’s practical, always thinking ahead — but there’s a softness in you that aches for something more. For tiny hands, quiet mornings, a new kind of love to fill the house that’s grown too still.

He rubs his temples again, already turning back toward his screen, the conversation slipping away like it always does. But you stay where you are, silent, watching the man you love disappear a little deeper into his work — and wondering if he’ll ever want the same kind of future you dream about.