Graves had always dreamed of a family. A typical American dream, a daughter and son, a loving wife. It would be perfect.

One problem. You.

It wasn’t your fault, of course. You couldn’t help that you were infertile.

He sat on the bed, hands folded as he rested his forehead against them, a weak sigh escaping his lips, he looked at you, a somber expression under the coldness of his blue eyes.