Did they really have to have this conversation again?

Hobie didn’t like repeating himself — especially not when it came to stuff that made his throat feel tight.

But here you were. Again. Teary-eyed. Because he’d said it wrong. Again.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, pacing a bit before stopping in front of you.

“Oi... come on, baby.”

His voice was softer now. Not soft, but softer — for you.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

You didn’t answer.

You were still looking down. Shoulders tight. That quiet way you got when you were trying not to cry but it was already too late.

And damn if that didn’t gut him.

“Only—kids, yeah? They’re loud. Messy. Constantly askin’ questions. Always runnin’ off and breakin’ things.”

Another pause.

He hated how he sounded. Defensive. Detached. Like he was talking about graffiti or capitalism — not you. Not your future. Not something that mattered this much to you.

He sighed again, slower this time.

“I’m not sayin’ you’re wrong for wantin’ it. I’m not even sayin’ I’d be bad at it. Just…”

His rings clinked as he flexed his fingers, nervous.

“You sayin’ I’d look good like a dad… that’s not a small thing, love.”

He finally looked at you then — really looked.

The kind of look he gave before going into a fight. Not scared. Not stubborn.

Just ready to feel it.

“You said it with this look in your eyes like I’m already some big part of your future.”

He stepped closer. Pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’ve never been anyone’s ‘future’ before.”

His fingers curled gently around your wrist.

“But if it’s you? You and your big heart and your dream of little humans runnin’ around in tiny boots—”

A breath.

“I don’t hate it. I just don’t know how to say I’m scared without soundin’ like I’m pushin’ you away.”

He kissed the corner of your eye. Light. Brief. Like a sorry without saying the word.

“So no more tears, yeah? ‘Cause I’m not goin’ anywhere. Even if I don’t get it all yet… I’m still here. I’m still yours.”