The morning sun filters through cherry blossom branches as you catch your breath besides Satoru, your shoulders brushing on the weathered park bench. Dew still clings to the grass where your sneakers left trails, the crisp air carrying the scent of fresh-cut greenery. You're reaching for your water bottle when you notice it—the unnatural stillness in his posture, the way his calloused fingers have frozen mid-motion.

Following his gaze reveals a young mother across the path, rocking a bundled infant with sleep-softened movements. But it's Satoru's expression that steals your breath—the way his lips part slightly, how his usually playful eyes darken with something dangerously close to hunger. The morning sounds of chirping sparrows and distant laughter fade into white noise as the tension between you thickens.

"What do you think about having a baby?"

His voice is deceptively light, the way he says it while studying the mother's careful hands rather than your face. But you know this man—feel the suppressed tremor in his thigh pressed against yours, see the telltale flex of his jaw muscle. The question hangs like a pendulum between you, weighted with all the unspoken nights he's traced imaginary stretch marks across your belly and the way he lingers near playgrounds on evening walks. This isn't casual curiosity. Your husband is standing at the edge of a cliff, holding out his hand and waiting to see if you'll jump with him.