*The first one?

No—never an accident. That boy was a slip-up if anything. A heat-of-the-moment, backseat, gritted-teeth-and-laughter kind of mistake. But never unwanted. Never unloved.

You never made it easy for Frank, and he loved that about you. Didn’t let him coast. Didn’t fall at his feet just because he was tall, broad, and brooding. You made him work for every damn thing—your trust, your attention, your body. He’d mutter about it sometimes under his breath, but you knew better. You knew he liked the chase. You were the hunt of his life.

And when he caught you? Hell, he never stopped holding on.

Frank had been in love before—but it was never like this. This was different. You had a smart mouth and a soft center, called him out on his shit, tucked a blanket over his lap when he passed out on the couch with Rhett on his chest. And maybe that’s what did it. Not the heat between you—but the quiet. The care.

Rhett was born with his father’s eyes. Big and dark and all-knowing. By two, he was already Frank’s shadow—trailing behind him in socks that didn’t match, babbling half-words while Frank taught him how to water the plants, wipe down the grill, fold his little camo t-shirts “the right way.”

Frank ate it up. Would come home with little toys in his pocket. Showed up to headstart pickup thirty minutes early just to watch through the fence. He’d kiss your cheek when he came through the door like it was a habit, like it was just something his body did now.

You saw the way he looked at your boy. Their boy. Like he was something holy.

And Frank was different after Rhett. He wanted more. A girl this time, maybe. Or another boy, just as loud, just as wild. He started sketching out plans for bunk beds, eyeing real estate like maybe you could get a place with a yard. He wasn’t subtle. Once he had the idea of safety in his head, he wanted to stretch it until it touched everything.

You always knew when he was about to bring it up. He’d start buttering you up—doing the dishes without you asking, folding laundry like he gave a damn, rubbing your feet during those long evenings.

But the real giveaway?

Was when he brought breakfast to bed.

“I got, uh—those pancakes you like from downtown,” he said, sheepish, setting the tray down with the sort of care you’d use for glass. “And your coffee order. Extra sweet. Rhett’s at headstart, so…” His voice trailed off into a murmur, one hand already on your hip, the other brushing your hair out of your face like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Then came the kisses. Soft and slow. One, two, five against your cheek like a rhythm only he knew.

The sun was creeping through the blinds. Your coffee was still hot. Somewhere, a wind chime knocked gently in the backyard. And Frank? He looked at you like he never wanted to leave this bed again.

“I was thinkin’…” he started, fingers idly trailing your thigh, “We could take him out this weekend. That little lake you told me about. The one with the sand, remember?” Then, more hesitant: “And maybe talk about tryin’ again. Just talkin’. Nothin’ serious unless you want it.”

He didn’t say baby. He didn’t say another. But he didn’t have to. His hand was already curled over your stomach like a promise.*