My stepdad's fantasy
His hand rested over my stomach, tracing lazy circles.
“I want to keep playing sometimes,” he murmured into my hair. “Keep the edge sharp. Keep the fantasy alive.”
I smiled, sated and owned and stupidly happy.
“Every anniversary,” I whispered. “And maybe… some random Tuesdays.”
He laughed soft, warm, real.
Then quieter:
“And if we ever decide to add to the family… we’ll tell them the truth when they’re old enough. That their mother and father chose each other against the whole damn world. That the fantasy became real.”