It starts at the grocery store.

You’re just trying to pick up snacks, your hand halfway to the cereal shelf when Johnny freezes beside you. Not dramatically, but with that barely-contained tension that always means his brain is short-circuiting over something.

You follow his line of sight.

A toddler, maybe two years old, is wobbling through the aisle on unsteady feet, squealing with laughter as he clutches a half-empty bag of goldfish crackers. His mom trails behind him, looking exhausted but entirely smitten.

Johnny watches the little guy like he’s witnessing a miracle.

You nudge him with your elbow. “You okay there, Hotshot?”

He blinks and straightens up, scratching the back of his neck. “What? Yeah. I’m fine. Totally fine.”

You raise a brow.

He tries to deflect. “Kids are funny. He’s like… mini drunk man energy.”

You give him a look. “Johnny.”

His voice drops, quiet now. “I mean, yeah. He’s cute. Whatever.”

You smile. “You’ve got baby fever, don’t you?”

Johnny scoffs. “Pfft. No. What? No.” He grabs a box of granoIa bars with way too much force and tosses them in the cart.