35. Dean
DEAN
It starts with a cough.
Just a dry, harmless sound from across the library. I look up from my tablet, where I’ve been reviewing financial updates and debating whether it’s too early to order lunch, and I see her at the long table under the windows, surrounded by envelopes.
She’s sorting through applications—graduate programs from every coast and continent. She’s glowing with focus. She looks tired, but proud. Every few seconds, she writes something down or murmurs a thought to herself.
I smile. I love watching her think.
Then she coughs again. This one is sharper. She sets her pen down. She shifts in her seat, pressing her palm to her stomach. Her brows furrow. Then she exhales slowly.
“Dean?” she calls, voice too steady to be true calm.
I’m already standing. “Yes?”
Her eyes meet mine. “I think it’s time.”
There’s no chaos. Not at first.
We’ve trained for this, in our way—bags packed, hospital codes memorized, team briefed. The car is always gassed. Colin and Tic appear within seconds, already sliding into roles like we’re preparing for a mission instead of delivering children. Calm, practiced. We move like a machine.
But my heartbeat betrays me. It thunders.
Every part of me knows it’s early. Too early. Thirty-four weeks. Still in the danger zone. Still not full term. Still too many unknowns.
But when I look at her, it doesn’t register.
She’s calm. She’s focused. She grips my hand like it’s just another step, like we’re going to do this the same way we’ve done everything else. Together.
The drive is a blur. Tic takes the wheel. Colin calls ahead. I ride in the back with her, coaching breath, rubbing her back when she winces, and counting every second between contractions.
They’re five minutes apart.
Then four.
Then three.
By the time we reach the hospital, the staff is waiting. Her doctor is already in the building. We bypass triage completely and head straight to delivery.
It’s happening. This is real.
They hook her up to monitors, prep the room, and page the pediatric team. We suit up in scrubs. There’s a moment, a brief, haunting flicker, where I wonder what it will feel like if something goes wrong.
I see the fear etched on Tic’s face. He knows it’s too early. We all do. But then Thalassa turns her face toward me, her hand reaching out even in pain. “I’ve got this,” she says, teeth gritted. And I believe her.
The labor is fast. Too fast.
The doctor keeps saying things like “moving quickly” and “we’re progressing nicely,” but all I can think is that we’re out of time and I’m not ready. I’ve spent my life preparing for every possible variable. Except this one.
She clenches her jaw through every contraction. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t cry. She growls once—something primal, deep—and Colin winces and mutters something about wildcats. She laughs, right there in the middle of it.
And then she pushes.
Tic counts. Colin breathes with her. I stand frozen by the head of the bed, completely useless until someone barks, “Dad, come over here.”
I assume they mean someone else. But they don’t. They mean me.
I step closer. Just in time to hear the first cry. A girl. Small, flushed, red-faced, screaming. I thought I’d feel a slow, glowing warmth. Instead, it’s an explosion. Something inside me detonates, and I forget how to breathe.
She’s here. My daughter.
Then it happens again. The doctor turns back. “We’re ready for the second.”
No one moves. Then Thalassa pushes again. And the room disappears.
I see the second girl emerge with a shout even louder than her sister’s. And now there are two. Two girls. Two tiny, furious, real people.
And I’m their father. God help me.
God help them .
They place the first baby in my arms while the second is being cleaned and measured.
I hold her like she’s made of starlight and breath—weightless and burning all at once.
Her mouth is a perfect bow, when she’s not screaming.
Her nose is absurdly tiny. Her eyes are barely open, but I feel like she sees me anyway.
She doesn’t cry now. Not anymore. She just stares at me. Like she’s waiting.
I don’t speak right away. My throat closes around everything I thought I’d say. Hello, sweetheart. Welcome to the world. I’m your father.
But the words sit like stones behind my ribs. She’s so small. So new. And suddenly, all I want to do is live forever so I can see everything she becomes.
Tic appears at my side with her sister, freshly swaddled, eyes still squeezed shut. He hands her to Colin with the kind of reverence I’ve only ever seen at funerals or flag ceremonies. Colin looks down like he’s seeing God for the first time.
Thalassa exhales from the bed, damp curls stuck to her temples, cheeks flushed. She’s never looked more beautiful. “Are they okay? Why isn’t anyone saying anything?”
“They’re perfect,” I answer. “So are you.”
She smiles, soft and slow. Exhausted. “We’re six now.”
I nod. A family of six. Just like that.
An hour later, the room is warm with quiet joy. The twins sleep curled up in their clear cradles—one beside her, one closer to Tic and me. Colin has propped a blanket against the window to block out the worst of the afternoon sun. Thalassa is sipping apple juice through a bendy straw, dazed.
“They need names,” she says softly. “Real ones. For the paperwork.”
We all look at each other. We’ve talked about this.
Each of us will contribute a name. One first. One middle. “I’ll go first,” she says. “Middle name for baby one. James.”
Colin grins. “After your dad?”
She nods. “He deserves it.”
“I’ll take her first name then,” he says, still rocking the bassinet slightly with his foot. “Calla.”
Thalassa’s head turns. “Calla James?”
“Like the flower,” he says. “But sharp. Pretty but strong.”
She smiles. “Perfect.”
Tic clears his throat, then glances at the second twin. “Middle name for this one… Delphine. If that’s okay with you.”
Thalassa’s eyes soften. “Serena’s middle name?”
He nods. There’s a silence. Not heavy. Just full.
Then I speak. “Her first name… Aurelia.”
Thalassa repeats it slowly. “Aurelia Delphine.”
I don’t mean for my chest to tighten, but it does. I look away.
She says both names aloud again, as if to test how they sound when shouted from a hallway or whispered during bedtime. “Calla and Aurelia,” she murmurs. Then she hiccups a giggle. “We made people.”
Tic huffs softly. “You made them. We just panicked and offered snacks.”
She laughs, eyes crinkling. “Don’t minimize. You were there. Every second. All of you.”
“We were,” I say, “and we will always be.” With a new vegan diet and rigorous exercise plan, and maybe a trip to some guru who can teach me how to live forever, I might make that promise into a reality.
She reaches for my hand again. I take it, without hesitation. “We should sign the birth certificates,” she says. “Before I fall asleep.”
I nod and rise, helping her adjust her position in bed while the nurse wheels in the forms. Colin offers to fill in the details. I add the time of birth. Tic writes down the full names in his careful, deliberate script.
And just like that, they become real. Not just daughters. Not just twins.
They are ours.
After the paperwork is done, the nurses come and go in waves—checking vitals, recording feeds, gently adjusting Thalassa’s monitors. I remain at her side, helping where I can. I’ve never seen someone look so tired and still so radiant.
She dozes lightly. Not quite asleep. Not quite awake.
And I can’t stop looking at the babies. Aurelia and Calla. Two entirely new lives. Two voices, two sets of eyes, two futures curled in fleece blankets.
I’m their father.
I’ve said the word a hundred times in the past few months—usually in theory, often in planning. I’ve discussed co-parenting schedules, legal guardianship, installing new locks and baby monitors, and restructuring trust funds. I’ve even filled out paperwork marked “father.”
But this? This is different.
This is me holding a child in my arms and knowing, without hesitation, that I would give anything—everything—for her safety. That I’d take on fire or loss or pain if it meant she’d be okay. That I want to be there for every scraped knee, every nightmare, every crooked tooth and every graduation.
It’s easy to say you’d die for your children. Dying is easy. But living for them? That’s the hard thing. Dedicating your life to making sure you’re doing your damnedest to stay healthy and sane every single day, that’s the challenge of parenthood.
I will show up for the assignment every time. A sound escapes me—somewhere between a laugh and a breath and maybe even a sob. I don’t care. No one comments.
Colin is curled in the armchair with Calla, whispering something about calculus and pudding cups and server stations. Tic is quietly texting from the window bench, no doubt notifying a dozen departments of the birth in efficient, bullet-point style.
And me?
I just hold Aurelia and sway gently, like I’ve done this a thousand times. Somehow, I know already that it will never get old.
The sun starts to set, casting long bands of golden light across the floor. Eventually, the nurse returns to check Thalassa’s blood pressure. She blinks awake, squints at the clock, then at all of us. “You haven’t eaten,” she says groggily. “Any of you.”
“I’m fine,” I answer automatically.
She frowns. “That wasn’t a suggestion. Go get food.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
She gestures toward the tray beside her. “You’re going to pass out, and then I’ll have to raise three babies instead of two. We’ve had enough passing out in this family.”
Colin snorts. Tic looks up. “She’s not wrong.”
I sigh, shift Aurelia gently into the bassinet, and stretch. My back cracks in protest. I hadn’t even noticed how stiff I was until now.
“I’ll go get something,” I promise.
“And water,” Thalassa calls. “You guys are all dehydrated.”
“We should’ve made her a general,” Colin mutters. “Commanding entire battalions already.”
We leave her briefly, the three of us shuffling down to the cafeteria for something vaguely edible. I order two of everything, just in case, and bring it all back up in a paper bag balanced in one arm.
When we return, she’s asleep again. Both girls are sleeping too.
And the room is quiet. Not tense. Not strained. Just…soft.
I sit. Peel open a container. Force myself to eat. Halfway through the sandwich, I pause.
Look at them. Look at her. And let it land. This is my family.
A weird, wonderful, illogically constructed family that no one on paper would believe—but one that works. That thrives.
I’ve been many things. A brother. A strategist. A planner. A businessman. Now I get to be a father. And somehow, despite everything I feared, everything I doubted…it feels exactly right.