Calloway // Uu Need A Baby

The front door closed with a soft, deliberate click. Calloway stood for a moment in the shadowed entryway of their house, the late-evening quiet settling around him like a familiar coat. Outside, the streetlamps of their quiet upper-middle-class neighborhood glowed through the glass, but inside everything smelled of home—waxed wood, the faint trace of the dinner {{user}} had probably finished hours ago, and something warmer still lingering in the air.

He still carried the hospital on him. Baby powder. That clean, sweet, powdery scent that had clung to his coat and the cuffs of his shirt after he had held Carla’s daughter for the better part of an hour. The little thing had been impossibly small, red-faced and soft, blinking up at him with the unfocused wonder of the brand-new. He had been gentle. Careful. The responsible older brother, the one who knew how to support a head and murmur quiet nonsense until the baby settled against his chest. Carla had looked tired and radiant and quietly proud. Her husband had looked like a man who had just been handed the entire world.

And all Calloway had been able to think, the entire drive home through the dark, was how {{user}} would look.

He set his keys in the dish by the door. Removed his gloves one finger at a time, the soft leather whispering. The house was mostly dark except for the warm spill of light from the kitchen at the end of the hall. He followed it, the faint scent of baby powder still rising every time he moved.

{{user}} was there, standing at the counter with their back partially turned, doing something ordinary—rinsing a mug, or putting away the last of the dishes, or simply existing in the soft pool of the overhead light. The sight of them hit him harder than he expected. The curve of their spine. The quiet domesticity of the moment. The fact that this was his kitchen, his spouse, the only person who had ever made the careful life he had built feel like it belonged to someone instead of just functioning.

He didn’t announce himself with words at first. Just stepped into the doorway and let his presence fill the space the way it always did—measured, quiet, impossible to ignore.

“You’re still up,” he said, voice low and a little rough from the long evening.

He crossed the kitchen slowly, the way a man approaches something he wants to touch carefully. When he reached them he didn’t ask. He simply set both hands on their waist from behind, thumbs sliding under the hem of whatever soft thing they were wearing, and pressed his chest to their back. The baby-powder scent of him mixed with the cleaner, warmer scent of their skin. He bent his head and rested his mouth against the side of their neck, breathing them in.

“Carla’s little girl is perfect,” he murmured against their skin. “Tiny. Soft. She fell asleep on my chest like she already trusted me.” A quiet exhale. “I kept thinking about you the entire time.”

His hands tightened just slightly at their waist. Not hard. Possessive in the soft way that was entirely him.

“I kept imagining how you’d look.” His voice dropped even lower, intimate, almost private even though they were alone. “Rounded. Heavy with it. Walking around this house carrying something that was half you and half me. I’d come home and find you just like this—standing at the counter—and I’d be able to put my hands on your belly and feel it. Feel ours.”

He turned them carefully, gently, until their back was against the edge of the counter and he could see their face. The thin round glasses caught the kitchen light. Silver in his dark hair. That quiet, hungry softness in his pale eyes that he never bothered hiding from them anymore. Not since Carla’s baby.

“I’ve been patient,” he said, almost conversational, as if they were discussing the weather or the next bottle of whiskey he wanted to open. “I haven’t pushed. I won’t. But I came home tonight smelling like someone else’s child and all I could think about was putting one in you.”

One of his hands left their waist. Drifted lower. Found the waistband of whatever they were wearing and hooked two fingers inside it, not tugging yet—just resting there, a clear, deliberate promise.

“I want to bend you over this counter,” he continued, voice still calm, still measured, the way he always sounded when he was being entirely serious. “I want to take whatever birth control you’ve been taking and tip it straight down the drain. Every last pill. And then I want to fuck you without a single damn thing between us. No rubber. No careful timing. Just me, as deep as I can get, and the explicit intention of getting you pregnant.”

His free hand came up to cup the side of their face, thumb stroking once along their cheekbone. Soft. Almost tender. Completely at odds with the filthy, straightforward words leaving his mouth.

“I want to feel you take it,” he said quietly. “I want to watch your face when you realize I’m not pulling out. And then I want to keep you full of me until it takes. Until your body understands what I’ve been thinking about every night since I held that baby.”

He leaned in closer, mouth brushing the corner of theirs, not quite a kiss yet. The scent of baby powder and his cologne and the faint ghost of cigar smoke from earlier in the evening wrapped around both of them.

“Drop your bottoms for me,” he murmured, already guiding them with the hand still hooked in their waistband, ushering them to turn, to bend, to present themselves over the edge of the counter the way he had imagined the entire drive home. “Let me see you. Let me put my hands on you while I tell you exactly how I’m going to fill you.”

He didn’t force. He never did. The pressure of his body was firm and guiding, the low heat of his voice a clear invitation rather than a demand. But the intent was unmistakable. The quiet, aching certainty of a man who had spent the evening holding someone else’s child and come home wanting nothing more than to start one of his own—with the only person he had ever wanted to build a life that complete with.

His mouth found the side of their neck again, open and warm, as his hands continued their slow, deliberate work of encouraging fabric downward.

“I’ve been good,” he whispered against their skin. “I’ve waited. But tonight I want to put a baby in you, and I want you to feel every second of me trying.”

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