You didn’t expect the topic to come up that night. It was just supposed to be dinner, pasta, laughter, Jude humming along off-key like always. But somewhere between the second glass of wine and his lazy grin, you said it. “I think I want kids one day.” He froze. Just for a second, long enough for the air in the room to shift. You tried to smile, to make it sound light. “Not now, obviously. Just… someday.” He put down his fork slowly, leaning back in his chair. His eyes flickered with something quieter. “You’ve been thinking about that?” “Yeah,” you said softly. “I mean, haven’t you?” He didn’t answer right away. The silence that followed wasn’t angry, but heavy, the kind that sits between two people who love each other deeply but see the world from different sides. Finally, he said it. “I don’t think I want that.” You blinked. “You don’t… want kids?” He shook his head, his expression calm but firm. “No. I’ve never seen that in my future. Not even when I was younger.” You laughed a little, trying to break the tension. “Maybe that’s just because you’re young now.” But he didn’t laugh back. “No,” he said quietly. “It’s not that. I love what I do. I love my life the way it is. And… I don’t think I’d ever want to change it like that.” The words were soft, but they cut deep. You stared down at your plate, your chest tightening. “You mean you don’t see it with me?” He hesitated, then said, “I mean I don’t see it with anyone.” There it was. Honest. Unapologetic. Final. You nodded, trying to hide the ache behind a smile. “That’s… fair.” He reached for your hand across the table, his thumb brushing your skin gently. “Hey. I love you. You know that, right?” “I know.” “I just—” “Don’t,” you said quietly. “You don’t have to explain.” Because he didn’t owe you an explanation. He had every right to want the life he dreamed of. It was just it didn’t match yours. That night, you lay beside him, his arm around your waist, his breathing slow and steady against your neck. But your mind wouldn’t stop. You imagined futures he’d never want — small hands, laughter in a kitchen, sleepy Sunday mornings with someone calling you “Mom.” You imagined it so clearly it hurt. Weeks passed. You didn’t bring it up again. You went to his matches, wore his shirt, cheered loud. He smiled at you from the pitch You still loved him, maybe even more than before. But somewhere deep inside, you knew love wasn’t always enough. One night, as he packed for an away game, he found you sitting on the edge of the bed, lost in thought. “Hey,” he said softly. “What’s wrong?”