“It was. I didn’t notice it at the time, but now I look back and realize I never actually saw what a relationship was supposed to look like. They’re basically like roommates at this point.”
I shift, turning so I can look at her. “That’s heavy, babe.”
“It is what it is.” She pulls the blanket tighter around her legs, eyes fixed on the screen but not really watching. “You, on the other hand, seem like you’d be the kind of dad who packs snacks for everyone.”
“For sure.”
“And brings the wrong diaper bag to day care.”
“Obviously.” I smile.
“And cries at kindergarten graduation.”
“I’d cry during the application process.”
She studies me before announcing, “You’d be a good dad.”
Damn right I would. “Thanks. I don’t need it to happen tomorrow or anything. Just ... someday. And only if the person I’m doing it with wants it too.”
She looks at me for a long second. “What if that person doesn’t know what they want?”
“Then they don’t know what they want.”
Annabelle is quiet a few more seconds. “How did we get on this topic?”
“I’m capable of depth.”
She rolls her eyes, the front of her robe parting in the most delicious, mouthwatering way. I do my best to keep my eyes on her face and not her tits, but it’s, like, kind of hard.
They’reright there, smug and soft and ruining my ability to form coherent thoughts.
Focus. Eye contact. Respectful, grown-up behavior.
“Depth? You spent the first minute of this conversation naming fake babies ...”
“Hypothetical babies,” I joke. “And I stand by all of them. Especially Maverick Junior.”
She snorts. “Hell no. I’m vetoing Maverick Juniorimmediately.”
Rude. “You’d really rob our imaginary child of such a majestic legacy?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
I clutch my chest. “You wound me.”
She’s thinking about something. I can see the wheels turning in her head. The way her fingers twitch in the popcorn bowl, the way she suddenly won’t meet my gaze. And for a second, I wonder if she’s going to say something—maybe confess to the test I already know about.
But she doesn’t.
And I don’t push.
Instead, I let the silence stretch comfortably as I lean back into the couch. “I could totally see us with a kid who makes their own costumes for Halloween and insists on being a traffic cone or a toaster.”
She chuckles. “You would want to raise a tiny weirdo.”
“Nothing wrong with being a traffic cone.”
Annabelle hums beside me, low and amused, but her eyes are anything but playful. They’re dark. Methodical. And they sucker punch me in the gut, because I know what that look is. Where this is headed.
