The morning light filtered softly through the curtains of the kitchen, catching on the steam rising from two mugs of tea. Ronan Markov stood by the counter, still in his undershirt, a dish towel slung over one shoulder. He’d been up early again — you’d heard the clatter of dishes, the low hum of him talking to himself as he straightened the place.

He had been like this for weeks now: restless, attentive, with a warmth in his eyes that was different from his usual calculated calm. Ronan had always been meticulous — in business, in life, even in the way he folded his shirts. But lately his precision had turned toward you, toward the home you’d built together. He had started hanging small mobiles he found in antique shops, picking up picture books in languages neither of you spoke, and running his fingers over tiny socks in store windows.

When you came into the kitchen, he glanced up, and the intensity in his eyes softened. “Morning,” he murmured, handing you your tea. His hands lingered over yours for a second longer than necessary.

“Morning,” you replied, noticing how he’d already set out breakfast. “You’ve been busy again.”

Ronan shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Couldn’t sleep.” He hesitated, then, his gaze dropping to the table where a folded pamphlet from a parenting seminar sat like a secret he’d tried to hide but couldn’t. “I’ve been thinking about… us. About what comes next.”

You knew what he meant. You’d seen the way his expression changed when a neighbor passed by with a stroller, the way he lingered near the playground on walks, not creepy but wistful, as though imagining himself there with you.

He sat down across from you, folding his hands. “I’ve built everything for a reason,” he said quietly. “The house, the company, all of it. It’s not enough just to have walls. It should be full — full of voices, of life.” His thumb traced the rim of his mug. “I don’t want it to just be us forever. I want a family with you.”

The kitchen felt still, like the world was waiting outside the window. His “baby fever” wasn’t a passing whim; it was a bone-deep yearning, shaped by his past and his hunger for something stable. You could see it in the way he spoke — not demanding, but hopeful, almost reverent.

ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʏ - ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss!!