Open requests? Heck yes please 🔥 what keeps me up at night is mingi..& now yunho (omg those hands) having a baby kink and pounding you all night after agreeing to have one with him only for him to end up shy afterwards 😂 MY GOSH I'm sorry not sorry but I love you! 🩷
HEYYYY!! first… HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! 🥳💛 (a little late, i know, but the festivities have been relentless) now… this ask. oh my gosh. i’ve been thinking about it since you sent it. you know i have a soft spot for soft-husband energy and all the chaotic love surrounding little ones… i hope this hits the exact note you were craving and i hope you love it as much as i loved writing it 🩷
Baby, Please - Mingi x Reader
Baby fever isn’t subtle when it’s Mingi.
Pairing: Husband!Mingi x Fem!Reader Tropes: Married Life, Baby fever / Trying for a baby, Soulmate energy. Genre: Smut. Fluff. Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), Soft-dom!Mingi, Rough sex, Breeding kink / Baby fever, Attempting pregnancy, No condom / Fertility sex, Hair pulling, Marking/Hickeys/Bruising, Forceful but consensual sex, Dirty/Commanding language, Verbal teasing / Possessive dirty talk, Vulnerability / Emotional layering, Soft husband energy, Teasing, Pregnancy focus / Belly worship, Physical restraint, Euphoria / Pleasure-driven ferality. They talk about kids a lot... Word Count: 4.7k
masterlist
Dinner has gone quiet.
Not awkward. Not heavy. Just settled. Plates pushed aside, candle burning low, the table marked with the small evidence of having eaten together. Your glasses sit half-full. The room feels warm in that end-of-day way.
Mingi hasn’t stopped moving.
His fingers worry the edge of the tablecloth, smooth it, crease it again. The napkin gets folded, unfolded, abandoned, reclaimed. He leans forward like he wants to close the distance, then stays right where he is. Close. Careful.
You watch him for a beat before saying, “You’re thinking again.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “That obvious?”
“Yes,” you say gently. “And you’re doing the thing with the napkin.”
He glances down at it like it’s betrayed him and sets it aside. A breath. Another. He straightens, shoulders rolling back like he’s bracing himself.
“I’ve been trying to find the right moment,” he says. “And I keep missing it.”
“You’re here now,” you reply. “Talk to me.”
That does it.
He nods once, jaw tightening, then finally looks at you fully. No jokes. No deflection. Just him.
“I think I want to be a dad,” he says. Simple. Direct. “With you.”
The words land cleanly. No buildup. No apology.
He keeps going, slower than you expect, careful with himself.
“I’m not saying right this second,” he adds. “And I’m not pretending I have it all figured out. I just… I’ve been thinking about what comes next. About us. About whether we’re ready to try.” His thumb taps once against the table. “I didn’t want to assume.”
You tilt your head, studying him. “So this is you checking in.”
“Yes,” he answers immediately. “This is me checking in.”
You smile, slow and knowing. “You know you don’t have to make it sound like a presentation, right?”
That earns him a breathy laugh. “Sorry. I’m bad at this.”
“You’re really not.”
Silence stretches, but it’s easy now. You lean back in your chair, eyes still on him.
“A mini-you running around this house?” you say, thoughtful, then grin. “That sounds… dangerous.”
His brows lift. “Dangerous?”
“Too tall,” you list, ticking it off on your fingers. “Too dramatic. Way too much personality. Absolutely convinced they’re right about everything.”
His mouth falls open for half a second before he laughs, real and unfiltered. “Hey.”
“And the attitude,” you add sweetly. “God help us.”
He shakes his head, still smiling, relief written all over him. “You’re saying this like you haven’t married me.”
“That’s exactly my point,” you reply. “I know what I’d be signing up for.”
You lean forward now, closing the distance he couldn’t.
“But,” you continue, softer, “I’ve thought about it too.”
He stills. Completely.
“You have?” he asks, quieter than before.
You nod. “Of course I have. I wouldn’t be sitting here teasing you if I hadn’t.”
His hand moves without thinking, crossing the table to rest over your wrist. Not gripping. Just there. His thumb brushes over your pulse like he’s grounding himself.
“So… you’re not saying no,” he says carefully.
You smile, calm and sure. “I’m saying yes. I’m saying we can start trying.”
The breath he lets out sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for weeks. Maybe longer. His shoulders drop, tension melting out of him all at once.
“Really?” he asks, still needing it said.
“Really.”
Something bright breaks across his face. Relief first. Then something softer. Almost stunned.
“Okay,” he says, voice quieter now. “Okay. Wow.”
He stands without even realizing it, coming around the table, cupping your face like he needs to check that you’re real. The kiss he gives you is slow, careful, reverent. Like this decision already means something sacred to him.
When he rests his forehead against yours, smiling so wide it aches, he whispers, full and certain,
“I love you.”
You smile back, steady and warm. “I love you too.”
No rush. No pressure.
Just the two of you, choosing what comes next together.
A few days pass.
Not rushed. Not forgotten either.
The idea lives between you now. In glances held a beat too long. In his hand lingering at the small of your back. In the way Mingi seems more aware of space, of you moving through it.
Tonight, he moves with purpose.
The bedroom smells clean when you step inside. Fresh sheets pulled tight, corners tucked with care. Pillows lined up like he’s been negotiating with them. The light is low, warm, deliberate. A couple candles burn on the nightstand, flames steady.
He stands there, hands on his hips, like he’s waiting for a grade.
You take it in and laugh softly, warmth blooming in your chest. “You’ve been busy.”
His ears go pink instantly. “I just— I wanted it to be nice.” Then, suddenly self-conscious, he reaches for a candle. “If it’s too much, I can—”
You catch his wrist before he can blow it out.
“Mingi,” you say gently.
He freezes. Looks at you, wide-eyed, caught.
“This is perfect,” you tell him. “I like that you thought about it. About me.”
His shoulders drop, just a little. Relief. Then something else slides in underneath it.
“You don’t think it’s silly?” he asks.
“No,” you say, honest and soft. “I think it makes me feel safe.”
That’s what does it.
Something in his expression shifts. The careful composure he’s been holding fractures, just enough to let something hotter breathe through. His hand comes up to your waist, firm but reverent, like he’s checking you’re real.
“I just want to do this right,” he murmurs. “I want you comfortable. Wanted. If at any point you—”
“I know,” you interrupt, smiling. “I’ll tell you.”
His thumb presses in slightly, like he’s grounding himself through you. His voice drops. “I’ve been trying not to think about it too much.”
You tilt your head. “And?”
“And I’m failing,” he admits, breath shaky. “A little.”
The admission hangs between you. Charged. Tender.
He leans in, forehead resting against yours, eyes closed like he’s bracing for impact. “I keep thinking about us,” he confesses. “About this meaning something. About you trusting me with it.”
You slip your fingers into his shirt, anchoring him. “I do.”
That’s when his control really starts to slip.
Not reckless. Not careless. Just… urgent.
His hands tighten at your back. His breathing deepens. The kiss he gives you isn’t rushed, but it’s heavy. Less careful. Like he’s done pretending this is casual.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark. Focused. Almost overwhelmed.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, voice low and earnest.
You smile, slow and certain. “It won’t be.”
You’re still standing.
The room feels smaller, like it leaned in when neither of you were paying attention. Mingi doesn’t move right away. He just looks at you. Really looks. Eyes dark and wide, tracing your face like he’s trying to memorize it before something irreversible happens.
His body gives him away. The faint tremble in his hands. His breath coming a little too fast. Anticipation buzzing under his skin, loud enough you can almost feel it.
His hands come first.
Big. Warm. Sure.
The size difference hits you all at once, not intimidating. Comforting. You’d trust him with anything. He knows it. You see it settle in his expression.
For a moment, you just breathe each other in.
Then he cups your face. Both hands, careful but decisive, thumbs warm at your jaw. He tips your chin up exactly where he wants it and kisses you.
There’s nothing hesitant about it.
It’s hungry, immediate, held back only by his need to savor you. Like he’s been starving quietly and finally stopped pretending otherwise. You melt into him, hands sliding to his wrists, holding him there as if the pressure is the only thing keeping you upright.
Your knees wobble. He feels it instantly.
His grip shifts, firmer now, grounding you without breaking the kiss. A promise, wordless and solid.
He starts walking you backward, slow and sure, guiding you without asking. His mouth never really leaves yours. The edge of the bed hits the backs of your legs.
He doesn’t let you sit.
Instead, the kisses soften, turn messy and breath-heavy as his hands roam, learning you again with deliberate care. They’re everywhere. Confident. Rough with want, gentle in intention. Each touch unhurried, thoughtful.
Fabric slips away piece by piece. Not rushed. Not careless. His palms against bare skin make you shiver, not from cold, but from how safe it feels. Chosen. Seen.
You return it, fingers tugging at buttons, smoothing over his chest, just as intent. This isn’t about speed. It’s about devotion. About meeting each other exactly where you are.
Your foreheads rest together for a second. Breaths mingle. His thumbs brush your cheeks, softer now, almost shy again.
“Still okay?” he murmurs.
You smile, breathless, hands fisted in his shirt. “More than.”
Something in him loosens at that. Relief folding into want, into love, until he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
You strip him bare just as carefully as he did you. Like it’s the first time, even after years together.
Hands slow. Familiar, yet reverent. You still pause. Still take him in. The line of his shoulders. The way his body reacts to your gaze alone. How his breath changes when you linger.
He watches you the same way. Touch following sight, palms mapping skin he already knows by heart but treats like something newly precious.
You both know why you’re here.
The certainty hums between you. It doesn’t rush you.
His mouth finds yours again, and this kiss is nothing like the last.
It’s messy. Frantic. Restraint thinning at the edges. You moan into the kiss without meaning to, the sound dragged from you, and he groans right back like it hurts not to. His arms close around you fully this time. No space left. No pretending.
He guides you down, gentle even in his urgency, lowering you onto the bed like it matters how you land. Like you matter. Because you do.
The mattress dips beneath you. He follows immediately, grinding hard against your thigh. You feel how ready he is, thick and hot, and it makes your toes curl.
“Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
His mouth trails down your jaw, your neck, lingering where your pulse jumps. Kisses turn open-mouthed, sucking, tasting, leaving marks. One hand laces tightly with yours, grounding himself. The other cups your breast, heavy and warm, kneading until your back arches.
You pull him closer. Fingers in his hair. Nails biting into his shoulder, sharp enough to leave crescents. He groans at the sting, hips stuttering, rhythm breaking for a second.
He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans into it, a quiet sound slipping out that tells you he feels chosen too.
He’s trying to take it slow. You feel it in his breathing. The pauses he forces.
But your warmth, your scent, the thought of you carrying his child — it snaps something loose.
His kisses drift lower. Chest. Ribs. Down, until his mouth presses softly to your belly. He slows there, hands spreading wide, thumbs tracing reverent arcs, already imagining it rounded, full, heavy with his baby. He kisses you like a promise. Like a prayer. Like something sacred taking shape.
You push up on your elbows to watch him, fingers stroking his hair, gentler now. Your teeth worry your lip because you know exactly what he’s thinking.
You see it in his eyes.
Hope. Want. A future unfolding.
He lifts his head, resting his chin just above your navel, gaze locking with yours. Heat, yes, but also something shy. Something soft. He looks at you like you’re not something to take, but something to be trusted with everything he wants.
“I love you,” he murmurs, like the words have to exist or he’ll burst.
“I love you too,” you breathe back.
That’s all it takes.
His gaze darkens. He shifts lower, hands sliding down to your thighs, spreading them wide. He pauses just long enough to look at how wet you are, how open, how ready for him. His tongue drags slowly over his bottom lip.
Then he dives in.
A long, deliberate lick pulls through you, deep and unhurried, like he’s tasting every intention behind it. Your head drops back, body falling flat against the mattress as a broken sound tears out of you.
“Mingi—”
He groans into you, the sound vibrating straight through you, hands tightening on your thighs, holding you exactly where he wants you as he goes back for more.
He buries himself between your legs like he’s starved. All of him devoted to you. Your moans come in waves, breathless and trembling, but he keeps you steady. Strong hands anchoring your hips, your thighs, like nothing could pull him away.
He could die here and be the happiest man alive.
You try to push him back, panting. You love how well he knows you, how easily he could undo you. But not now.
“Babies aren’t made like this, Min,” you tease, voice unsteady, daring.
He stills for a heartbeat. Then he lifts his head slightly, eyes dark, possessive.
“I’m taking care of you,” he murmurs, low and rough. “Making sure my baby lands just right.” His thumb presses warm and grounding into your thigh. “Building you a proper nest. Safe. Warm. With me.”
The whimper you bite back shakes anyway. Your hips push insistently against him, hands gripping his shoulders.
“I need you inside,” you breathe. “Badly.”
His pupils flare. He looks up at you from between your thighs, a slow, dangerous smirk curling his mouth. He drags one lazy lick through you, leaves two more teasing traces, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, savoring.
His gaze sweeps over you. Hungry. Feral. Not cruel — claiming.
Then he moves.
His body cages yours, chest pressing flush to you, arms framing you in heat and strength. He’s everywhere — solid, warm, overwhelming.
You melt instantly, every sigh and shiver pressed into him, need and love blurring together until your nerves buzz.
His mouth crashes into yours again. Teeth scrape. Tongue pushes. Spit mixes. His hands roam — waist, hips, back — gripping hard enough to leave fire beneath your skin.
“Mine,” he growls against your lips, breath ragged. “All mine. Gonna fill you. Gonna make you mine in every way.”
You moan and grind into him without thinking, letting him feel it — how badly you want him, how completely you trust him with this.
Your nails rake down his back, light but insistent, urging him on. You want him, but tonight you want him in control. You want him to feel what this means. His hands tremble slightly, betraying the hunger beneath his careful restraint, the nerves, the gravity of what you’re about to do together.
Mingi’s eyes flick to yours, searching your face one last time. You meet his gaze and give a small nod. That’s all he needs.
He doesn’t hesitate.
One hand wraps around himself, guiding, steady despite the tremor. The other cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek as he leans in to kiss you again. This one is slower. Deeper. Desperate in a quiet way, like he’s grounding himself through you.
He pushes inside inch by inch. Torturously slow. Every careful movement screams how badly he wants this, how hard he’s fighting not to lose himself. He’s big, he knows it, and he’s determined not to hurt you.
You circle your legs around his waist and tilt your hips, pushing him in until he’s fully seated inside you. The moan you share is raw and unguarded. He bites lightly into your shoulder, barely holding back, while you hide your face against his chest, shivering at the stretch, the fullness, the rightness of him there.
For a few seconds, everything stills. Heavy. Electric.
Then he starts to move.
Slow at first. Careful. Almost reverent. One hand cradles your head, fingers combing through your hair. His mouth leaves messy, wet kisses over your cheek, your jaw, down your neck. His groans rumble deep and unashamed, loud enough to carry through walls.
He’s sweet. Almost unbearably so. But every roll of his hips, every deeper press, every greedy kiss sends stars bursting behind your eyes. Desire and love blur together, awe and need twisting into something bigger, the thrill of building something together, something real, something new.
He tries to stay measured. To keep you safe. To keep himself in check.
But the sight of you ruins him.
Your face, flushed and open, lips parted, eyes heavy with pleasure. The way your body responds to him without fear, without doubt. The realization that he gets to be the one here, with you, like this.
Something slips.
His hips snap faster, harder. Control gives way to need. His arms wrap around your head, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you close. Not trapping. Protecting. His grunts turn rough, desperate, filling the room.
You arch into him, grinding back, helping him sink deeper. Your moans tear out of you, broken and wet, and he buries his face against your chest, breathing you in, trying to keep himself together.
He fails.
“You feel so good,” he groans, voice low and wrecked. “So perfect for me. For this.” His grip tightens. “Gonna make you a mommy. Mine. Gonna make you a baby.”
Your hands clutch him harder, nails digging into his back, teeth grazing his shoulder. Your body answers for you, every tremor and whine pushing him further, telling him exactly what you want.
Please. Don’t stop. Take me.
He stays just above your chest, hiding his desperation, but watching you — watching your pleasure, imagining your belly swollen with his child, seeing your face twist in bliss — is too much. Control shatters.
A sharp gasp, a moan, and he pulls out, hips jerking as the sensation hits him full force. Chest heaving, forehead resting against yours, eyes wide, wild, untamed. He’s lost. Shaking. Utterly undone. And yet… he’s smiling, almost laughing at the intensity of himself.
You whine at the sudden emptiness, legs trembling. “Mingi… what’s wrong?” Your voice is soft, worried, breathless.
He can’t stop the shaky, small smile tugging at his lips between ragged breaths. His chest swells at your concern — when it should be him taking care of you, and here you are, instinctively tending to him.
“I… just…” he pants, voice rough, low. “Need a second. Trying not to—lose it—right here.”
Your pulse jumps at the honesty, the raw vulnerability behind this desperate Mingi. He swallows hard, chest rising and falling with need. He’s always been your strength, your protector, but right now, it’s him trembling under craving… craving you.
He shifts, settling back on his calves, then grips your ankles, hoisting your legs onto his shoulders. One arm keeps them pressed hard, unyielding; the other lines himself back inside you. The slick heat welcomes him instantly, greedy and insistent.
Sliding in again, harder this time, the stretch, the wetness — it’s perfect. He presses you into a sharp, feral mating press, folding you into him, burying himself deep. Not moving yet, he just lets himself feel your pulse, your shivers, your whines. Every tremble of your body is a command he obeys instinctively.
Then he claims your mouth. Teeth scrape lightly, tongue devours, kisses sloppy and demanding. The new angle has you gasping, moaning, pinned helplessly under him.
“You… have no idea how perfect you feel,” he groans, low and raw. “Gotta make sure… every drop lands right. All mine.”
And then he moves. Hips snapping hard, deep, fast — powerful, rough, primal. His grip on your legs is brutal, fingers digging, holding you exactly where he wants you. His hands roam everywhere — your hips, back, sides — large, hot, insistent, leaving marks and heat in their wake.
Every thrust drives him deeper, faster, blind with need, lost to pleasure. Your moans spiral into breathless gasps, words dissolving under his rhythm. Eyes roll back, back arches, body trembling — and Mingi? He’s unstoppable, ravenous.
“Mine,” he growls, teeth grazing your collarbone. “You’re mine… carrying this… our baby… feel it, doll? Feel me buried in you, just where I want it.”
He pounds harder, slamming into you with reckless devotion, possessive and feral. Dirty words spill from him, low, rough, unrestrained: “Gonna make you mine… make you ours… gonna breed you right, baby… all mine.”
You claw at him, nails raking down his back, hips pressing, moaning, panting — urging him to lose himself completely. He answers, big hands everywhere, fingers clutching, pressing, kneading, holding, claiming. His body is on fire, desperate, utterly worshipful of you and the tiny life growing between you.
Mingi finally lets go. Completely.
His restraint snaps. Hips slam hard, deep, relentless, each thrust claiming you like he’s marking you as his. Your body arches into him, fingers clawing into his shoulders just to stay upright, to keep your head from slamming the headboard as pleasure explodes through you. Breath comes ragged, high, trembling — too much, overwhelming — exactly where you want to be.
Seeing him like this… feral, possessive, wild yet reverent… it makes something dizzy and delicious bloom in you. Maybe it won’t work this time, you think, wicked and selfish, maybe you’ll get to do this again. And again.
He pants against your lips, forehead pressed to yours, chest rising and falling hard. Hands everywhere now — firm, hungry, impossibly strong, keeping you exactly where he wants you. Where he needs you.
One of his hands slides down, pauses at your stomach. Just for a second. A soft, reverent caress that doesn’t match the brutal pace of his thrusts. Then his fingers trail lower, pressing against your clit, rubbing circles rough and messy, dragging you to the edge with him.
“God…” he groans, voice raw and fractured. “I want to fill you… see you swollen with my baby.”
Your moan chokes out. Perfectly messy, perfectly right, his fingers pressing deep, long, demanding. Every movement screams ownership, desire, devotion.
“You’re doing so well for me,” he pants, thumb pressing harder, grinding you against him. “Can’t get over… how much I want you.”
His grip on your body tightens, fingers digging into your flesh, pressing deep, leaving marks as he forces your face up. Eyes wide, half-lidded in bliss, you can’t look away — he makes you meet his gaze.
“Look at me,” he growls, hips snapping harder, louder, eyes dark and feral. “I want you to see me while you come… I want you to watch me, feel me, know this is ours.”
Every thrust is primal, every snap of his hips drives you higher. His hands roam and grip, cupping, kneading, pressing into your thighs, hips, waist — everything he can reach, marking you, claiming you. You melt into him, shivering, trembling, completely under his control.
He buries himself fully, presses your face up again with one hand, keeping your eyes on his. “Mine,” he growls, teeth grazing your collarbone, voice low, rough. “You’re mine… our baby… gonna feel me right where I want it.”
Your nails rake down his back, encouraging, begging. He doesn’t slow. Fingers dig in, long and insistent, pressing you into him, keeping you helpless and exposed, completely his.
Every snap, every groan, every possessive murmur — “Look at me… mine… gonna make you mine, right here, right now… gonna fill you…” — drives you closer. You’re gasping, whining, shivering, lost in pleasure, love, awe, and need, your eyes locked on him as he pounds you hard and fast, rough, primal, completely undone by desire.
And then the walls of your body clench around him. You cry out, hips bucking, eyes rolling back. He forces your gaze to meet his, forcing you to watch him while your orgasm rips through you. Fingers digging in, hands tangled in his hair and shoulders, you milk him helplessly, his hips stuttering, spilling inside you with a strangled, feral groan.
His hands tighten, arms locking your legs and torso, trying not to fall right on top of you. Every finger, every palm, every press of his body is ownership, devotion, need.
“Look at you…” he pants, voice small now, awe creeping in between rough breaths. “My perfect girl… mine… mine to fill, mine to love, mine to make a family with.”
Bodies tremble, sweat-damp, heat thick in the room. Your eyes stay on him, chest heaving, hearts pounding, the world reduced to the fire blazing between you, the wild, hungry, and tender man who’s already yours — completely, fiercely, irrevocably.
Your legs tremble under him. Carefully, he slides them down, one by one, grounding you both, still tethered by heat and breath. Then, with meticulous care, he pulls back.
He stays hovering over you for a second, chest rising and falling hard, eyes unfocused like he’s trying to land back in his body. When he finally lets himself drop, it’s cautious. His weight settles against you, solid and warm, an arm braced so he doesn’t crush you. Exhausted. Spent. Still shaking.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The room smells like sweat and candle wax and something new. The sheets are a mess. The air feels thick, charged with everything that was just said out loud.
Then he shifts.
Just like that.
Like the wild Mingi was gone, replaced by the one who loves you deeply. Like he’s remembered himself all at once.
His head tucks into the crook of your neck, breath still uneven. One hand comes up, unsure, resting at your side before retreating, then returning again. His words stumble out halfway formed.
“I—” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to sound like that. I mean, I did, but—” A quiet, embarrassed laugh slips out of him. “I just… I get intense. And I don’t ever want you to think I’m—” He trails off, mortified now, voice dropping. “Too much.”
Your fingers are already in his hair, slow and steady, scratching gently at his scalp. You feel his shoulders sag a fraction at the touch.
“You are a lot,” you say softly, amused. Honest. “And I love that.”
He goes still.
You tilt your head, brushing your cheek against his temple. “You don’t scare me,” you add. “You excite me.”
A shaky exhale leaves him. Relief. Disbelief. Warmth.
His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer, and this time he lets himself melt fully against your body. Blankets are tugged up around you both, clumsy but earnest. His kisses follow, slow now. Your shoulder. Your neck. Your jaw. Each one careful, like he’s trying to apologize without words.
“I just—” he murmurs again, quieter. “When I think about it… about us…” He hesitates, then admits, shy and unguarded. “I see the house full. I see kids running through it, pulling at my pants while I’m trying to cook. I see you laughing at me for taking it too seriously.”
You smile into his hair. “You would.”
“I know.” He chuckles softly, then sobers. “I know it’s not something you rush. I just… there’s so much love in me, and sometimes it feels like it has nowhere to go.”
You feel his smile against you.
“And you,” he continues, softer now. “You’d be so beautiful. You already are, but… all soft and round, carrying our baby?” His thumb pauses, reverent. “I don’t think I’d survive it.”
His hand drifts then. Slow. Almost reverent. It settles over your stomach, palm warm, fingers spreading as if he could shield something there already. He traces small circles, absentminded, protective, like instinct has taken over.
Your hand moves to cover his, fingers slipping between his, thumb brushing over his wedding band. You ground him right back.
“You’d be a good dad,” you say easily. “You already are, in all the ways that matter.”
He lifts his head enough to look at you, eyes glassy, overwhelmed by the certainty in your voice.
“You really think so?”
You nod. “You love with your whole body. You pay attention. You show up. You worry because you care.” A smile curves at your lips. “That’s kind of the whole job.”
His laugh is quiet, breathless. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closing.
“I picture you,” you continue. “On the floor. Letting them climb all over you. Pretending you’re annoyed while absolutely loving it.” A soft laugh slips out of you. “You’d be impossible. Overprepared. Overprotective. Teaching them things way too early.”
That finally gets a real smile out of him. You feel it against your skin.
“And I picture me,” you add, nudging him lightly with your knee, “telling you to relax. That it’s okay if dinner’s late. That they’ll survive if you don’t do everything perfectly.”
He lifts his head just enough to look at you now, eyes searching, a little shy, a little hopeful.
“I’ll be patient,” he whispers, like a promise he’s making to himself. “We’ll start with one.”
“One,” you agree, smiling. “Let’s see how that goes.”
His thumb keeps circling. Warm. Steady. Hopeful.
The candle flickers beside the bed. The room settles. His breathing evens out against your neck, arms holding you close, strong and gentle all at once.
And for now, that’s enough.
Just you. Just him. And a future that feels wanted, not rushed.
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