Stavanger Bay i don't wanna be you

quite unexpectedly, dalia rounded on him, her exclamations decidedly good-natured beneath the glow of her seafoam eyes. lifting a fore-ankle to his muzzle, velen grinned mischievously at her, lips parting to snark back some tidbit —
— and then the girl dropped a bomb right on the mayfair-cairn’s head. it exploded between his ears, caused his eyes to bug a bit. what? what had she said? even as dalia finished her radiant little tirade, velen had stopped listening, helplessly suspended on the word “children.”
and, like a man who has received a long text message, one rife with important details and significant emotion, he chose to only address that part, the part reverberating in his brain like a bit of shrapnel.
”my ... children?” of course that’s what she’d said! why was he repeating it! what was that damned perfume? ”dalia,” he went on, fighting for composure, ”i ... i want them — too. but,” he was terrified ”are ... are you sure?” he himself didn’t know what to think, gripped by equal amounts of horror and delight. but she’d been planning this for months. didn’t that mean she was sure? still, velen wanted to hear it, needed to hear it.