It was past midnight, the whole apartment quiet except for the hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Minho should’ve been asleep hours ago, he had work in the morning, but he was wide awake, staring at the ceiling with his chest tight. The words his coworker had said earlier in the day wouldn’t leave him alone—bragging about their kid’s first steps, the way they laughed, how it changed their whole life.

At first Minho just smiled and nodded like usual, but now it was stuck in his head. The thought of it. The thought of having that with you.

He rolled onto his side, watching her sleep. The more he thought about it, the heavier it sat in his chest, until it wasn’t just in his head anymore—it was in his body too, a restless heat under his skin. He bit down on his lip, ran a hand over his face, then finally leaned in closer, shaking her shoulder gently. “Babe... hey, wake up,” he whispered, his voice already uneven.

She shifted, mumbling something half-asleep, but he wouldn’t let it go. He brushed his hand down her arm, almost nervously. “Please... just wake up for me.” When her eyes finally blinked open, he looked almost guilty—but his gaze was sharp, heavy. His breath was unsteady.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admitted, words tumbling out in a low rush. “My coworker keeps talking about their kid, and all day, I just... I kept picturing it. Us. Having that. I can’t shake it.” His hand found hers under the blanket, gripping it harder than he meant to.

He leaned close, his forehead pressing against hers, whispering rough against the dark. “Can we please—tonight, please. Can we just try? I want it so bad.” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, his body tense against hers, the heat obvious even if he didn’t say it outright. His thumb stroked over her knuckles in shaky circles as he added, softer, almost desperate. “I need this with you. I need us to be that.”