Those words struck a chord with Marcus, and it occurred to him that was another reason not to get involved with someone he knew. Getting hurt was one of the fucking complications. "Might not hurt you," he said quietly. "S'not like he's fucking anyone either than the two of us."
His jaw tightened and he didn't look at Tracey. He wasn't going to talk about the concept of raising kids, not any more. Didn't matter until someone's wife got pregnant, and that was far more likely to be Tracey than Isolde, he figured.
"That's how most arranged marriages start out," he pointed out, glancing at her. "Become friends. S'not so difficult. Makes life a lot easier and the kids'll know if you hate each other. They'll know if you resent them, too. Kids know a lot of shite no one gives them credit for." There was irony here, he knew, counseling his lover's wife into how to get on better with him. Marcus had a feeling he was driving the nails into the coffin of what he had with Isaac. Talk about fucking well getting hurt. Fuck. He was so fucked. He shouldn't have gotten involved with someone to the point where he could get hurt. "Try it, anyroad. You've Quidditch in common, at least."