Anna was perfectly healthy again by Thursday.
Unfortunately, Oliver was not.
He stood in the kitchen staring at a tiny pair of shoes someone had left in a luxury gift basket from a client.
White leather.
Ridiculously small.
Completely unnecessary.
He had been silent for three minutes.
Anna entered, took one look, and understood immediately.
"Oh no."
He glanced at her.
"What?"
"You're thinking."
"I always think."
"You're thinking dangerously."
He picked up one shoe between two fingers.
"They're inefficient."
"They're decorative."
"They're baby shoes, Oliver."
He set them down slowly.
"Yes."
She leaned against the counter.
"And?"
He poured coffee.
Nothing good ever began with that level of calm.
"And I have questions."
"Of course you do."
By breakfast, the questions had multiplied.
"How fragile are newborn necks?"
"Very."
"Concerning."
"How often do they wake at night?"
"Often."
"Unacceptable."
"They don't negotiate."
"They will."
She laughed into her toast.
He frowned.
"I'm serious."
"That's what makes it funny."
He looked at her across the table.
"If we ever had children, I'd need preparation."
She nearly choked.
"Smooth transition."
"I'm efficient."
"You're terrifying."
Later, in the car to headquarters, he continued.
"Could we outsource certain tasks?"
"No."
"Selective outsourcing?"
"No."
"Night shift support?"
"Oliver."
He looked mildly offended.
"I'm exploring systems."
"It's a baby, not a merger."
"All complex operations require planning."
She stared at him.
"Have you secretly made a spreadsheet?"
A pause.
Too long.
"You made a spreadsheet."
"It has tabs."
She laughed so hard the driver almost smiled.
That evening, she entered his study carrying tea.
He was at the desk, laptop open.
Spreadsheet visible.
Columns.
Color coding.
Risk assessments.
Projected sleep loss.
She stood in the doorway.
"You are unhinged."
"I'm prepared."
"You don't even know if we want children yet."
He looked up.
"I know I want options."
The sincerity in that answer stole her amusement for a second.
She crossed to him slowly.
"And if I said not now?"
"Then not now."
"And if I said maybe later?"
"Then later."
"And if I said I'm scared?"
He reached for her hand.
"Then we'd be scared correctly. Together."
That man was deeply inconvenient.
She sat on the edge of his desk.
"Tell me something true."
He closed the laptop.
"I think you would be extraordinary."
"As a mother?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you're strong without cruelty. Demanding without selfishness. Soft where it matters."
Her throat tightened.
"You rehearsed that."
"No."
"You definitely rehearsed that."
"I edited it internally."
She smiled.
"And you?"
He leaned back in his chair.
"I'd be excellent."
She laughed.
"There he is."
"I would."
"You'd terrify preschool staff."
"I'd improve standards."
"You'd over-research strollers."
"I already started."
She blinked.
"Oliver."
"What?"
"You started?"
"There are safety ratings."
She slid off the desk and moved into his lap before he could continue.
His hands settled at her waist automatically.
"No spreadsheets tonight," she said.
"Strategic pause?"
"Mandatory shutdown."
He considered.
"Accepted."
She touched his jaw.
"We don't have to decide everything now."
"I know."
"You can want something without controlling the timeline."
He went quiet.
Because that lesson still cost him.
Then he nodded once.
"I know."
She kissed him softly.
"Good."
A pause.
Then she whispered near his mouth:
"For the record… someday doesn't sound terrible."
He went still.
Completely still.
Then:
"Anna."
"Yes?"
"Do not say life-altering things casually."
She smiled.
"Baby steps."
His gaze darkened.
"Dangerous phrase."
She laughed as he carried her away from the desk, spreadsheet forgotten for the first time all day.
Some futures arrived loudly.
Others began with laughter in a locked room.