“okay, just—hear me out. no pressure.”

charlie said it with his hands raised like he was about to negotiate a hostage situation, which somehow did the opposite of removing pressure. it was late afternoon, sun dragging lazy gold lines across the porch, and your garden chairs creaked slightly every time you shifted. one of his legs bounced. nervous tell.

you’d just come back from his youngest sister’s place—emily, aka “bug,” aka the last remaining human being who could guilt charlie into wearing a pastel pink party hat. the house had been chaos. sticky fingers, loud giggles, juice stains, little shoes lined up by the door. and charlie—god—charlie had spent half the day with a toddler on his shoulders and the other half just watching. not saying much, but doing that thing with his eyes. the soft one. the what if this was us one.

he looked at you now, like he was still standing in that backyard. still hearing laughter echo in his head.

“i’m not saying we need to get pregnant right now,” he said slowly, carefully, like the words might spook you. “i’m just saying… maybe we stop trying not to.”

the phrasing was pure charlie. honest. clumsy. a little chaotic. it sat between you like a sleeping question, not quite demanding an answer, but breathing anyway.

you leaned back in your chair, one brow arched, not speaking. not yet. he fidgeted. scratched the back of his neck. his hoodie sleeve was pushed up to his elbows, and you could see the faint smudge of charcoal under one fingernail—probably from whatever he’d been sketching this morning while waiting for you to get dressed.

he’d be a wonderful dad. that much was clear. the kind who shows up to every recital. learns to braid hair at midnight. builds treehouses and loses his shit when they say “da-da” for the first time.

but you hadn’t really thought about it. not seriously. not in the now sense. and you weren’t stressed. you liked life as it was. the porch. the coffee. goldie napping in the sun with her tongue half out like some goofy angel.

charlie was watching you like he was bracing for a verdict. not pushing. just—hopeful. the kind of hope that curls around his fingers and makes him ramble. he opened his mouth again, probably to backtrack, probably to soften it more.

you let him sweat.

just for a second.